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You stare at the heavy, unyielding metal door, the finality of Bucky's words hanging in the freezing autumn air like a physical weight. The fire alarm inside the building has finally been silenced, leaving behind a ringing in your ears and the distant, chaotic hum of the city night. The adrenaline that had propelled you out of your apartment is rapidly evaporating, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling cold that seeps through the oversized leather jacket Bucky draped over you and bites at your bare legs.
Bucky tried to kick the drop ladder to go on the floor below, but it was stuck and you were pretty sure the rust filled ancient escape is not trustworthy to climb down.
“Okay, this is fine…” you say, your voice vibrating slightly as your teeth begin to chatter. “We live in the twenty-first century. We have technology. Call someone. Call the super. Call the fucking fire department to come back.”
“Motherfucker!” Bucky snarls, hitting the power button repeatedly with his thumb. Nothing happens. He lets out a harsh, frustrated breath, his breath pluming in the cold air. “Dead. Of fucking course it is. I meant to plug it in when I got home from the studio, but I crashed on the couch instead.”
He looks at you, his blue eyes intense and apologetic. “Tell me you have your phone, Doll.”
You quickly jam your hand into the pocket of your faded sweatpants, your fingers closing around your phone. You pull it out, waking the screen. “Yes,” you say, a wave of relief washing over you. “I’ve got it. I have sixty percent battery…”
Your relief dies a sudden, horrific death as you look at the top right corner of the screen.
“No service…” you whisper in disbelief. You hold the phone higher in the air, waving it around like a lunatic trying to catch an invisible butterfly. “Are you shitting me? How is there no service? We’re in the middle of a major city, not the fucking wilderness!”
“It's this building!” Bucky growls, leaning over your shoulder to look at your completely blank signal bars. He is so close you can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the deep, intoxicating musk of his cologne. “The exterior walls are solid, reinforced brick and God knows what else. It creates a total dead zone out here in the alley. I can never get a signal on the fire escape.”
You lower your phone, your hand trembling from the cold. “So we have no phones. And we're locked out. On a Tuesday night.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, running a hand through his dark, messy hair. “That pretty much sums it up.”
Bucky is already digging into the front pocket of his jeans. He pulls out his sleek, black smartphone, tapping the screen. The harsh white light illuminates his sharp features for exactly two seconds before the low-battery icon flashes on the screen. It blinks once, mocking him, and then the screen goes completely black.
Suddenly, a square of warm, yellow light spills out onto the iron grating a few yards to your left. You both turn your heads sharply. The window belongs to apartment 4A. Richard.
Richard is a miserable, sixty-something retired accountant who serves as the self-appointed tyrant of the co-op board. He has reported you for your television volume on a Saturday afternoon, he once threatened to tow your sister's car when she visited, and he constantly complains about Bucky’s irregular hours and “suspicious” guests.
You see Richard's silhouette through the glass. He is standing in his ridiculously plush, monogrammed bathrobe, peering out into the night to see what the commotion was about.
“Oh my God, Richard!” you scream, practically throwing yourself at the rusted railing that separates your landing from his window. “Richard! It's Y/n and Bucky! We're locked out! Open the hallway door!”
Bucky steps up right behind you, his broad chest almost brushing your back. “Hey! Richard! Open the fucking window!” he bellows, his deep voice easily carrying over the wind.
Through the glass, Richard squints. He clearly sees you. He sees you both shivering in the freezing cold. You watch as his mouth forms a tight, nasty little line of disapproval. He looks at Bucky, looks at you in your oversized sweats and Bucky's leather jacket, and his expression sours even further, as if he thinks you're out here having some kind of illicit, delinquent rendezvous.
Without an ounce of hesitation, Richard reaches up, grabs the drawstrings of his heavy, blackout curtains, and sharply yanks them shut. The light vanishes.
You stand there in stunned, vibrating silence. You blink, waiting for the curtain to twitch, waiting for the window to slide open. It doesn't.
“Did he... did that miserable son of a bitch just ignore us?” you ask, your voice dangerously quiet.
“He just closed the fucking curtains on us.” Bucky confirms, a dark, dangerous edge bleeding into his tone. He grips the iron railing with both hands, the metal groaning under his strength. “I'm going to kill him. I am literally going to end his life!”
“I will help you.” you state, turning to face Bucky, your eyes wide with homicidal outrage. “I will provide your alibi. We’ll say he slipped in the shower. Or better yet, we just push his miserable ass down the central staircase and say he tripped over his own bathrobe.”
Bucky lets out a harsh, bark-like laugh, his eyes flashing in the dim light. “Too fast. He needs to suffer, Doll. I have chemicals in my darkroom. Developing fluids. Silver nitrate. I can dissolve his body in a bathtub like a mob hit. Nobody would ever know.”
“We can forge a suicide note...” you continue, the absolute absurdity of the situation making you slightly hysterical. You’re shivering violently now, your teeth clicking together. “Say the guilt of being a complete and utter prick finally consumed him. We’ll take his apartment and knock down the wall to make a mega-loft.”
Bucky stares down at you, his anger briefly dissolving into a look of genuine, captivated amusement. “I like the way you think, Doll. You're completely ruthless when you're freezing.”
A violent gust of wind rips through the alley, slicing right through the thin cotton of your sweatpants. You let out an involuntary gasp, wrapping your arms tightly around your torso, trying to bury yourself entirely inside Bucky's massive leather jacket.
Bucky’s smile drops instantly. He assesses you, his gaze sweeping over your trembling frame. “You're freezing...” he murmurs, his voice softening entirely. “We can't just stand here in the wind. We need to get low, against the brick. It'll block the worst of the draft.”
He doesn't wait for your permission. He grabs your arm gently and guides you to the corner of the landing, furthest from the heavy metal door and shielded by the thick, jutting brickwork of the building's facade. He sits down first, crossing his long legs clad in dark jeans.
“Come here...” he orders softly, gesturing to the space right beside him.
You sink down onto the unforgiving, icy iron grating. As soon as you sit, Bucky reaches out, grabbing the heavy lapels of his leather jacket that is swallowing you whole, and pulls you firmly against his side. The shock of his solid, radiating heat makes you gasp again, but this time it has nothing to do with the cold.
You are pressed flush against him. His arm wraps securely around your shoulders, pulling you in so tightly that your thigh is resting heavy against his, your hip flush to his hip. He is a furnace in the middle of a tundra.
“Better?” he asks, his voice vibrating deep in his chest, right against your ear.
“Y...yeah,” you stammer, trying to control the uncontrollable shaking of your jaw. “A little.”
“We need to keep our minds occupied...” Bucky says, rubbing his large, warm hand up and down your arm through the thick leather. The friction feels like absolute heaven. “If we just sit here thinking about how cold we are, it's going to feel ten times worse. We need a distraction.”
“Like what?” you ask, leaning your head against his broad shoulder. It feels remarkably natural, as if you’ve spent your entire life fitting into the space beneath Bucky Barnes's chin.
“A game?” he suggests. “Something simple. Let's do the alphabet game. Movie titles. I'll start with A, you take B, we go back and forth. No repeats, no searching the internet, which we can't do anyway. Hesitate for more than ten seconds, you lose.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. His jaw is sharply defined in the shadows, his beautiful, messy hair blown back by the wind. “What does the winner get?” you challenge, a spark of competitive warmth finally thawing the ice in your veins.
Bucky looks down, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heavy, lingering second before snapping back up to your eyes. “Winner gets to decide exactly how we murder Richard tomorrow morning. I’m thinking blunt force trauma with a vintage camera tripod, but I’ll let you make the final call.”
You snort, a genuine smile breaking across your face. “You have yourself a deal, Barnes. Start us off.”
He shifts slightly, pulling you just a fraction closer, if that is even physically possible. “Alright. A. Apocalypse Now.”
“Good one,” you concede. “Okay, B. Basic Instinct.”
Bucky lets out a low, dark chuckle that sends a heavy shiver straight down your spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the wind. “Sharon Stone, huh? I didn't peg you for an erotic thriller kind of girl, Doll.”
“I am a woman of multitudes, Barnes...” you retort, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Your turn. C.”
“Easy. Casablanca!” he fires back smoothly.
“Classic. So you’re a romantic. Interesting.” You tap your chin in mock thought. “D. Die Hard.”
“That is a Christmas movie, babe, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise.”
“It is a cinematic masterpiece, you heathen,” you correct him. “E. Go.”
He pauses for a moment, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the fabric of his jacket covering your shoulder. “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”
You pause, looking up at him, genuinely surprised. “Wow. That is deeply depressing and beautiful.”
“I have depth,” he smirks. “F. Clock's ticking.”
“Fargo,” you counter instantly.
“Goodfellas,” he replies without missing a beat.
“Oh, pulling out the Scorsese. Okay, H. Heat.”
“Al Pacino screaming for absolutely no reason. A solid choice.” Bucky tilts his head back against the brick wall. “I. Inception.”
“Overrated,” you tease.
“You did not just call Christopher Nolan overrated!” Bucky gasps in mock offense, his arm tightening around you. “I might just throw you off this balcony.”
“I didn't understand the spinning top, okay?” you laugh. “J. Jaws.”
“Kill Bill,” he counters. “Volume one, obviously.”
“Obviously. L. Lethal Weapon.”
Bucky groans playfully. “You really like action movies with high body counts, don't you?”
“I work in fashion media, Bucky,” you say dryly. “I spend ten hours a day dealing with people debating the exact shade of cerulean blue. I need to see shit explode when I get home.”
He laughs, the sound rich and warm in the dark alley. “Fair enough. M. Matrix.”
“N. No Country for Old Men,” you say, shivering slightly as a fresh gust of wind hits you.
Bucky instantly notices. He shifts his weight, maneuvering his body so he is entirely blocking the wind, practically caging you against the brick wall with his large frame. His face is incredibly close to yours now, the banter fading into something much heavier, much more charged. The sharp smell of the cold city air is completely eclipsed by him.
“O,” he says, his voice dropping significantly, losing its playful edge. His eyes trace the line of your cheekbone. “Ocean's Eleven.”
You swallow hard, your breath catching in your throat. The heat radiating off him is making your skin flush. You can feel the heavy, steady thud of his heart against your arm. “P,” you whisper, struggling to remember the English language, let alone a movie title. “Um... Pulp Fiction.”
“Good,” he murmurs, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer. You can feel his breath ghosting over your lips. “Q. Your turn to judge. Quantum of Solace.”
“The absolute worst Daniel Craig Bond movie,” you manage to say, though your voice sounds breathless and weak.
“Agreed...” Bucky whispers softly. His hand moves from your shoulder, his rough fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your freezing cheek. His touch is searingly hot against your cold skin. “R.”
You stare into his eyes, completely lost in the electric blue depths of them. The world around you, the cold, the locked door, the miserable neighbor, the deafening city, completely melts away. There is only this rusted fire escape, the suffocatingly heavy tension, and James Buchanan Barnes staring at you like you are the only thing that matters.
“R,” you breathe out, your eyes dropping to his lips. “I... I can't think of one.”
Bucky’s gaze is heavy, dark, and utterly consuming. A slow, devastating smirk tugs at the corner of his beautiful mouth. “Ten seconds, darling. You lose.”
“I think...” you whisper, closing the agonizing gap between you by a millimeter, “I'm okay with losing.”
You stare at the heavy, unyielding metal door, the finality of Bucky's words hanging in the freezing autumn air like a physical weight. The fire alarm inside the building has finally been silenced, leaving behind a ringing in your ears and the distant, chaotic hum of the city night. The adrenaline that had propelled you out of your apartment is rapidly evaporating, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling cold that seeps through the oversized leather jacket Bucky draped over you and bites at your bare legs.
Bucky tried to kick the drop ladder to go on the floor below, but it was stuck and you were pretty sure the rust filled ancient escape is not trustworthy to climb down.
“Okay, this is fine…” you say, your voice vibrating slightly as your teeth begin to chatter. “We live in the twenty-first century. We have technology. Call someone. Call the super. Call the fucking fire department to come back.”
“Motherfucker!” Bucky snarls, hitting the power button repeatedly with his thumb. Nothing happens. He lets out a harsh, frustrated breath, his breath pluming in the cold air. “Dead. Of fucking course it is. I meant to plug it in when I got home from the studio, but I crashed on the couch instead.”
He looks at you, his blue eyes intense and apologetic. “Tell me you have your phone, Doll.”
You quickly jam your hand into the pocket of your faded sweatpants, your fingers closing around your phone. You pull it out, waking the screen. “Yes,” you say, a wave of relief washing over you. “I’ve got it. I have sixty percent battery…”
Your relief dies a sudden, horrific death as you look at the top right corner of the screen.
“No service…” you whisper in disbelief. You hold the phone higher in the air, waving it around like a lunatic trying to catch an invisible butterfly. “Are you shitting me? How is there no service? We’re in the middle of a major city, not the fucking wilderness!”
“It's this building!” Bucky growls, leaning over your shoulder to look at your completely blank signal bars. He is so close you can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the deep, intoxicating musk of his cologne. “The exterior walls are solid, reinforced brick and God knows what else. It creates a total dead zone out here in the alley. I can never get a signal on the fire escape.”
You lower your phone, your hand trembling from the cold. “So we have no phones. And we're locked out. On a Tuesday night.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, running a hand through his dark, messy hair. “That pretty much sums it up.”
Bucky is already digging into the front pocket of his jeans. He pulls out his sleek, black smartphone, tapping the screen. The harsh white light illuminates his sharp features for exactly two seconds before the low-battery icon flashes on the screen. It blinks once, mocking him, and then the screen goes completely black.
Suddenly, a square of warm, yellow light spills out onto the iron grating a few yards to your left. You both turn your heads sharply. The window belongs to apartment 4A. Richard.
Richard is a miserable, sixty-something retired accountant who serves as the self-appointed tyrant of the co-op board. He has reported you for your television volume on a Saturday afternoon, he once threatened to tow your sister's car when she visited, and he constantly complains about Bucky’s irregular hours and “suspicious” guests.
You see Richard's silhouette through the glass. He is standing in his ridiculously plush, monogrammed bathrobe, peering out into the night to see what the commotion was about.
“Oh my God, Richard!” you scream, practically throwing yourself at the rusted railing that separates your landing from his window. “Richard! It's Y/n and Bucky! We're locked out! Open the hallway door!”
Bucky steps up right behind you, his broad chest almost brushing your back. “Hey! Richard! Open the fucking window!” he bellows, his deep voice easily carrying over the wind.
Through the glass, Richard squints. He clearly sees you. He sees you both shivering in the freezing cold. You watch as his mouth forms a tight, nasty little line of disapproval. He looks at Bucky, looks at you in your oversized sweats and Bucky's leather jacket, and his expression sours even further, as if he thinks you're out here having some kind of illicit, delinquent rendezvous.
Without an ounce of hesitation, Richard reaches up, grabs the drawstrings of his heavy, blackout curtains, and sharply yanks them shut. The light vanishes.
You stand there in stunned, vibrating silence. You blink, waiting for the curtain to twitch, waiting for the window to slide open. It doesn't.
“Did he... did that miserable son of a bitch just ignore us?” you ask, your voice dangerously quiet.
“He just closed the fucking curtains on us.” Bucky confirms, a dark, dangerous edge bleeding into his tone. He grips the iron railing with both hands, the metal groaning under his strength. “I'm going to kill him. I am literally going to end his life!”
“I will help you.” you state, turning to face Bucky, your eyes wide with homicidal outrage. “I will provide your alibi. We’ll say he slipped in the shower. Or better yet, we just push his miserable ass down the central staircase and say he tripped over his own bathrobe.”
Bucky lets out a harsh, bark-like laugh, his eyes flashing in the dim light. “Too fast. He needs to suffer, Doll. I have chemicals in my darkroom. Developing fluids. Silver nitrate. I can dissolve his body in a bathtub like a mob hit. Nobody would ever know.”
“We can forge a suicide note...” you continue, the absolute absurdity of the situation making you slightly hysterical. You’re shivering violently now, your teeth clicking together. “Say the guilt of being a complete and utter prick finally consumed him. We’ll take his apartment and knock down the wall to make a mega-loft.”
Bucky stares down at you, his anger briefly dissolving into a look of genuine, captivated amusement. “I like the way you think, Doll. You're completely ruthless when you're freezing.”
A violent gust of wind rips through the alley, slicing right through the thin cotton of your sweatpants. You let out an involuntary gasp, wrapping your arms tightly around your torso, trying to bury yourself entirely inside Bucky's massive leather jacket.
Bucky’s smile drops instantly. He assesses you, his gaze sweeping over your trembling frame. “You're freezing...” he murmurs, his voice softening entirely. “We can't just stand here in the wind. We need to get low, against the brick. It'll block the worst of the draft.”
He doesn't wait for your permission. He grabs your arm gently and guides you to the corner of the landing, furthest from the heavy metal door and shielded by the thick, jutting brickwork of the building's facade. He sits down first, crossing his long legs clad in dark jeans.
“Come here...” he orders softly, gesturing to the space right beside him.
You sink down onto the unforgiving, icy iron grating. As soon as you sit, Bucky reaches out, grabbing the heavy lapels of his leather jacket that is swallowing you whole, and pulls you firmly against his side. The shock of his solid, radiating heat makes you gasp again, but this time it has nothing to do with the cold.
You are pressed flush against him. His arm wraps securely around your shoulders, pulling you in so tightly that your thigh is resting heavy against his, your hip flush to his hip. He is a furnace in the middle of a tundra.
“Better?” he asks, his voice vibrating deep in his chest, right against your ear.
“Y...yeah,” you stammer, trying to control the uncontrollable shaking of your jaw. “A little.”
“We need to keep our minds occupied...” Bucky says, rubbing his large, warm hand up and down your arm through the thick leather. The friction feels like absolute heaven. “If we just sit here thinking about how cold we are, it's going to feel ten times worse. We need a distraction.”
“Like what?” you ask, leaning your head against his broad shoulder. It feels remarkably natural, as if you’ve spent your entire life fitting into the space beneath Bucky Barnes's chin.
“A game?” he suggests. “Something simple. Let's do the alphabet game. Movie titles. I'll start with A, you take B, we go back and forth. No repeats, no searching the internet, which we can't do anyway. Hesitate for more than ten seconds, you lose.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. His jaw is sharply defined in the shadows, his beautiful, messy hair blown back by the wind. “What does the winner get?” you challenge, a spark of competitive warmth finally thawing the ice in your veins.
Bucky looks down, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heavy, lingering second before snapping back up to your eyes. “Winner gets to decide exactly how we murder Richard tomorrow morning. I’m thinking blunt force trauma with a vintage camera tripod, but I’ll let you make the final call.”
You snort, a genuine smile breaking across your face. “You have yourself a deal, Barnes. Start us off.”
He shifts slightly, pulling you just a fraction closer, if that is even physically possible. “Alright. A. Apocalypse Now.”
“Good one,” you concede. “Okay, B. Basic Instinct.”
Bucky lets out a low, dark chuckle that sends a heavy shiver straight down your spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the wind. “Sharon Stone, huh? I didn't peg you for an erotic thriller kind of girl, Doll.”
“I am a woman of multitudes, Barnes...” you retort, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Your turn. C.”
“Easy. Casablanca!” he fires back smoothly.
“Classic. So you’re a romantic. Interesting.” You tap your chin in mock thought. “D. Die Hard.”
“That is a Christmas movie, babe, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise.”
“It is a cinematic masterpiece, you heathen,” you correct him. “E. Go.”
He pauses for a moment, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the fabric of his jacket covering your shoulder. “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”
You pause, looking up at him, genuinely surprised. “Wow. That is deeply depressing and beautiful.”
“I have depth,” he smirks. “F. Clock's ticking.”
“Fargo,” you counter instantly.
“Goodfellas,” he replies without missing a beat.
“Oh, pulling out the Scorsese. Okay, H. Heat.”
“Al Pacino screaming for absolutely no reason. A solid choice.” Bucky tilts his head back against the brick wall. “I. Inception.”
“Overrated,” you tease.
“You did not just call Christopher Nolan overrated!” Bucky gasps in mock offense, his arm tightening around you. “I might just throw you off this balcony.”
“I didn't understand the spinning top, okay?” you laugh. “J. Jaws.”
“Kill Bill,” he counters. “Volume one, obviously.”
“Obviously. L. Lethal Weapon.”
Bucky groans playfully. “You really like action movies with high body counts, don't you?”
“I work in fashion media, Bucky,” you say dryly. “I spend ten hours a day dealing with people debating the exact shade of cerulean blue. I need to see shit explode when I get home.”
He laughs, the sound rich and warm in the dark alley. “Fair enough. M. Matrix.”
“N. No Country for Old Men,” you say, shivering slightly as a fresh gust of wind hits you.
Bucky instantly notices. He shifts his weight, maneuvering his body so he is entirely blocking the wind, practically caging you against the brick wall with his large frame. His face is incredibly close to yours now, the banter fading into something much heavier, much more charged. The sharp smell of the cold city air is completely eclipsed by him.
“O,” he says, his voice dropping significantly, losing its playful edge. His eyes trace the line of your cheekbone. “Ocean's Eleven.”
You swallow hard, your breath catching in your throat. The heat radiating off him is making your skin flush. You can feel the heavy, steady thud of his heart against your arm. “P,” you whisper, struggling to remember the English language, let alone a movie title. “Um... Pulp Fiction.”
“Good,” he murmurs, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer. You can feel his breath ghosting over your lips. “Q. Your turn to judge. Quantum of Solace.”
“The absolute worst Daniel Craig Bond movie,” you manage to say, though your voice sounds breathless and weak.
“Agreed...” Bucky whispers softly. His hand moves from your shoulder, his rough fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your freezing cheek. His touch is searingly hot against your cold skin. “R.”
You stare into his eyes, completely lost in the electric blue depths of them. The world around you, the cold, the locked door, the miserable neighbor, the deafening city, completely melts away. There is only this rusted fire escape, the suffocatingly heavy tension, and James Buchanan Barnes staring at you like you are the only thing that matters.
“R,” you breathe out, your eyes dropping to his lips. “I... I can't think of one.”
Bucky’s gaze is heavy, dark, and utterly consuming. A slow, devastating smirk tugs at the corner of his beautiful mouth. “Ten seconds, darling. You lose.”
“I think...” you whisper, closing the agonizing gap between you by a millimeter, “I'm okay with losing.”
You stare at the heavy, unyielding metal door, the finality of Bucky's words hanging in the freezing autumn air like a physical weight. The fire alarm inside the building has finally been silenced, leaving behind a ringing in your ears and the distant, chaotic hum of the city night. The adrenaline that had propelled you out of your apartment is rapidly evaporating, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling cold that seeps through the oversized leather jacket Bucky draped over you and bites at your bare legs.
Bucky tried to kick the drop ladder to go on the floor below, but it was stuck and you were pretty sure the rust filled ancient escape is not trustworthy to climb down.
“Okay, this is fine…” you say, your voice vibrating slightly as your teeth begin to chatter. “We live in the twenty-first century. We have technology. Call someone. Call the super. Call the fucking fire department to come back.”
“Motherfucker!” Bucky snarls, hitting the power button repeatedly with his thumb. Nothing happens. He lets out a harsh, frustrated breath, his breath pluming in the cold air. “Dead. Of fucking course it is. I meant to plug it in when I got home from the studio, but I crashed on the couch instead.”
He looks at you, his blue eyes intense and apologetic. “Tell me you have your phone, Doll.”
You quickly jam your hand into the pocket of your faded sweatpants, your fingers closing around your phone. You pull it out, waking the screen. “Yes,” you say, a wave of relief washing over you. “I’ve got it. I have sixty percent battery…”
Your relief dies a sudden, horrific death as you look at the top right corner of the screen.
“No service…” you whisper in disbelief. You hold the phone higher in the air, waving it around like a lunatic trying to catch an invisible butterfly. “Are you shitting me? How is there no service? We’re in the middle of a major city, not the fucking wilderness!”
“It's this building!” Bucky growls, leaning over your shoulder to look at your completely blank signal bars. He is so close you can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the deep, intoxicating musk of his cologne. “The exterior walls are solid, reinforced brick and God knows what else. It creates a total dead zone out here in the alley. I can never get a signal on the fire escape.”
You lower your phone, your hand trembling from the cold. “So we have no phones. And we're locked out. On a Tuesday night.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, running a hand through his dark, messy hair. “That pretty much sums it up.”
Bucky is already digging into the front pocket of his jeans. He pulls out his sleek, black smartphone, tapping the screen. The harsh white light illuminates his sharp features for exactly two seconds before the low-battery icon flashes on the screen. It blinks once, mocking him, and then the screen goes completely black.
Suddenly, a square of warm, yellow light spills out onto the iron grating a few yards to your left. You both turn your heads sharply. The window belongs to apartment 4A. Richard.
Richard is a miserable, sixty-something retired accountant who serves as the self-appointed tyrant of the co-op board. He has reported you for your television volume on a Saturday afternoon, he once threatened to tow your sister's car when she visited, and he constantly complains about Bucky’s irregular hours and “suspicious” guests.
You see Richard's silhouette through the glass. He is standing in his ridiculously plush, monogrammed bathrobe, peering out into the night to see what the commotion was about.
“Oh my God, Richard!” you scream, practically throwing yourself at the rusted railing that separates your landing from his window. “Richard! It's Y/n and Bucky! We're locked out! Open the hallway door!”
Bucky steps up right behind you, his broad chest almost brushing your back. “Hey! Richard! Open the fucking window!” he bellows, his deep voice easily carrying over the wind.
Through the glass, Richard squints. He clearly sees you. He sees you both shivering in the freezing cold. You watch as his mouth forms a tight, nasty little line of disapproval. He looks at Bucky, looks at you in your oversized sweats and Bucky's leather jacket, and his expression sours even further, as if he thinks you're out here having some kind of illicit, delinquent rendezvous.
Without an ounce of hesitation, Richard reaches up, grabs the drawstrings of his heavy, blackout curtains, and sharply yanks them shut. The light vanishes.
You stand there in stunned, vibrating silence. You blink, waiting for the curtain to twitch, waiting for the window to slide open. It doesn't.
“Did he... did that miserable son of a bitch just ignore us?” you ask, your voice dangerously quiet.
“He just closed the fucking curtains on us.” Bucky confirms, a dark, dangerous edge bleeding into his tone. He grips the iron railing with both hands, the metal groaning under his strength. “I'm going to kill him. I am literally going to end his life!”
“I will help you.” you state, turning to face Bucky, your eyes wide with homicidal outrage. “I will provide your alibi. We’ll say he slipped in the shower. Or better yet, we just push his miserable ass down the central staircase and say he tripped over his own bathrobe.”
Bucky lets out a harsh, bark-like laugh, his eyes flashing in the dim light. “Too fast. He needs to suffer, Doll. I have chemicals in my darkroom. Developing fluids. Silver nitrate. I can dissolve his body in a bathtub like a mob hit. Nobody would ever know.”
“We can forge a suicide note...” you continue, the absolute absurdity of the situation making you slightly hysterical. You’re shivering violently now, your teeth clicking together. “Say the guilt of being a complete and utter prick finally consumed him. We’ll take his apartment and knock down the wall to make a mega-loft.”
Bucky stares down at you, his anger briefly dissolving into a look of genuine, captivated amusement. “I like the way you think, Doll. You're completely ruthless when you're freezing.”
A violent gust of wind rips through the alley, slicing right through the thin cotton of your sweatpants. You let out an involuntary gasp, wrapping your arms tightly around your torso, trying to bury yourself entirely inside Bucky's massive leather jacket.
Bucky’s smile drops instantly. He assesses you, his gaze sweeping over your trembling frame. “You're freezing...” he murmurs, his voice softening entirely. “We can't just stand here in the wind. We need to get low, against the brick. It'll block the worst of the draft.”
He doesn't wait for your permission. He grabs your arm gently and guides you to the corner of the landing, furthest from the heavy metal door and shielded by the thick, jutting brickwork of the building's facade. He sits down first, crossing his long legs clad in dark jeans.
“Come here...” he orders softly, gesturing to the space right beside him.
You sink down onto the unforgiving, icy iron grating. As soon as you sit, Bucky reaches out, grabbing the heavy lapels of his leather jacket that is swallowing you whole, and pulls you firmly against his side. The shock of his solid, radiating heat makes you gasp again, but this time it has nothing to do with the cold.
You are pressed flush against him. His arm wraps securely around your shoulders, pulling you in so tightly that your thigh is resting heavy against his, your hip flush to his hip. He is a furnace in the middle of a tundra.
“Better?” he asks, his voice vibrating deep in his chest, right against your ear.
“Y...yeah,” you stammer, trying to control the uncontrollable shaking of your jaw. “A little.”
“We need to keep our minds occupied...” Bucky says, rubbing his large, warm hand up and down your arm through the thick leather. The friction feels like absolute heaven. “If we just sit here thinking about how cold we are, it's going to feel ten times worse. We need a distraction.”
“Like what?” you ask, leaning your head against his broad shoulder. It feels remarkably natural, as if you’ve spent your entire life fitting into the space beneath Bucky Barnes's chin.
“A game?” he suggests. “Something simple. Let's do the alphabet game. Movie titles. I'll start with A, you take B, we go back and forth. No repeats, no searching the internet, which we can't do anyway. Hesitate for more than ten seconds, you lose.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. His jaw is sharply defined in the shadows, his beautiful, messy hair blown back by the wind. “What does the winner get?” you challenge, a spark of competitive warmth finally thawing the ice in your veins.
Bucky looks down, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heavy, lingering second before snapping back up to your eyes. “Winner gets to decide exactly how we murder Richard tomorrow morning. I’m thinking blunt force trauma with a vintage camera tripod, but I’ll let you make the final call.”
You snort, a genuine smile breaking across your face. “You have yourself a deal, Barnes. Start us off.”
He shifts slightly, pulling you just a fraction closer, if that is even physically possible. “Alright. A. Apocalypse Now.”
“Good one,” you concede. “Okay, B. Basic Instinct.”
Bucky lets out a low, dark chuckle that sends a heavy shiver straight down your spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the wind. “Sharon Stone, huh? I didn't peg you for an erotic thriller kind of girl, Doll.”
“I am a woman of multitudes, Barnes...” you retort, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Your turn. C.”
“Easy. Casablanca!” he fires back smoothly.
“Classic. So you’re a romantic. Interesting.” You tap your chin in mock thought. “D. Die Hard.”
“That is a Christmas movie, babe, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise.”
“It is a cinematic masterpiece, you heathen,” you correct him. “E. Go.”
He pauses for a moment, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the fabric of his jacket covering your shoulder. “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”
You pause, looking up at him, genuinely surprised. “Wow. That is deeply depressing and beautiful.”
“I have depth,” he smirks. “F. Clock's ticking.”
“Fargo,” you counter instantly.
“Goodfellas,” he replies without missing a beat.
“Oh, pulling out the Scorsese. Okay, H. Heat.”
“Al Pacino screaming for absolutely no reason. A solid choice.” Bucky tilts his head back against the brick wall. “I. Inception.”
“Overrated,” you tease.
“You did not just call Christopher Nolan overrated!” Bucky gasps in mock offense, his arm tightening around you. “I might just throw you off this balcony.”
“I didn't understand the spinning top, okay?” you laugh. “J. Jaws.”
“Kill Bill,” he counters. “Volume one, obviously.”
“Obviously. L. Lethal Weapon.”
Bucky groans playfully. “You really like action movies with high body counts, don't you?”
“I work in fashion media, Bucky,” you say dryly. “I spend ten hours a day dealing with people debating the exact shade of cerulean blue. I need to see shit explode when I get home.”
He laughs, the sound rich and warm in the dark alley. “Fair enough. M. Matrix.”
“N. No Country for Old Men,” you say, shivering slightly as a fresh gust of wind hits you.
Bucky instantly notices. He shifts his weight, maneuvering his body so he is entirely blocking the wind, practically caging you against the brick wall with his large frame. His face is incredibly close to yours now, the banter fading into something much heavier, much more charged. The sharp smell of the cold city air is completely eclipsed by him.
“O,” he says, his voice dropping significantly, losing its playful edge. His eyes trace the line of your cheekbone. “Ocean's Eleven.”
You swallow hard, your breath catching in your throat. The heat radiating off him is making your skin flush. You can feel the heavy, steady thud of his heart against your arm. “P,” you whisper, struggling to remember the English language, let alone a movie title. “Um... Pulp Fiction.”
“Good,” he murmurs, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer. You can feel his breath ghosting over your lips. “Q. Your turn to judge. Quantum of Solace.”
“The absolute worst Daniel Craig Bond movie,” you manage to say, though your voice sounds breathless and weak.
“Agreed...” Bucky whispers softly. His hand moves from your shoulder, his rough fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your freezing cheek. His touch is searingly hot against your cold skin. “R.”
You stare into his eyes, completely lost in the electric blue depths of them. The world around you, the cold, the locked door, the miserable neighbor, the deafening city, completely melts away. There is only this rusted fire escape, the suffocatingly heavy tension, and James Buchanan Barnes staring at you like you are the only thing that matters.
“R,” you breathe out, your eyes dropping to his lips. “I... I can't think of one.”
Bucky’s gaze is heavy, dark, and utterly consuming. A slow, devastating smirk tugs at the corner of his beautiful mouth. “Ten seconds, darling. You lose.”
“I think...” you whisper, closing the agonizing gap between you by a millimeter, “I'm okay with losing.”
Warning- Fluff, neighbors trope, fire alarms- nothing serious.
You drop your keys onto the small ceramic bowl by the door, the sharp clatter echoing through the suffocating silence of your apartment.
Another grueling, soul-sucking Tuesday at the magazine has finally bled into Tuesday night.
As a senior features editor for one of the city's premier fashion publications, your life is a relentless cycle of impossible deadlines, neurotic art directors, and endless, soul-crushing pitch meetings. Today was particularly brutal. You spent four hours arguing with a tyrannical editor-in-chief who wanted to kill your ten-page exposé on sustainable supply chains in favor of another vapid, ghostwritten celebrity puff piece. You won, barely, but the victory left you drained of every ounce of serotonin you possessed.
You kick off your heels, your feet throbbing in rhythm with your budding headache, and aggressively peel off your tailored, restrictive office clothes. You are tired and all you want is comfort, a dangerously tall glass of wine, and twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep. You quickly strip down, have a quick shower and slip into your favorite, most worn-out pair of oversized comfy sweats and a thin, white ribbed tank top. It’s not a look meant for public consumption, but it’s heaven against your tired skin.
You pad into the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your bare feet. You live in a beautiful, historic brownstone, the kind with character, which is just a real estate euphemism for faulty plumbing, thin walls, and drafty windows. It’s a good building, though. Quiet, mostly.
Except for the fact that your immediate neighbor across the hall is James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky, to the people who actually know him. To you, he is just the impossibly attractive, enigmatic fashion photographer who occupies apartment 4B.
You rarely see him. Your schedules are entirely inverted. When you are leaving for the office at 7:00 AM, clutching a travel mug of espresso like a literal lifeline, he is usually stumbling in from a red-eye flight or a chaotic after-party, vintage camera bag slung over his broad shoulder, looking like walking sin. He shoots campaigns for the very designers you write about Prada, Tom Ford, Givenchy. He’s wildly successful, famously elusive, and infuriatingly gorgeous.
The few times you’ve bumped into each other by the mailboxes, the air between you has been thick and crackling, reduced to polite, breathless nods and low, rumbling “mornings” from him that send a shiver straight down your spine.
You pour a heavy, generous pour of Pinot Noir and make it exactly halfway to your plush sofa when the piercing, apocalyptic shriek of the building’s fire alarm shatters the quiet.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you groan aloud, nearly spilling your wine all over your expensive Moroccan rug.
The alarm doesn't stop. It wails with a violent, ear-splitting urgency that vibrates in your teeth. You slam the wine glass down on the counter, your heart kicking into a frantic, panicked rhythm against your ribs. You grab your phone, slide your bare feet into a pair of slip-on Converse sneakers, and bolt for the door. You don't even think to grab a coat, completely forgetting you are only wearing a thin tank top.
Throwing the heavy door open, you're immediately hit by the chaotic din of the hallway. Neighbors are spilling out of their apartments, eyes wide, voices overlapping in confused, sleepy panic. There’s no thick, suffocating smoke rolling down the ceiling, but there is a distinct, pungent odor wafting through the air, burnt plastic and cheap, stale weed.
You push through the milling crowd toward the end of the hallway where the heavy, reinforced fire escape door leads out to the iron stairwell. It’s supposed to be the fastest way out for the fourth floor, bypassing the narrow, claustrophobic central staircase that is already clogged with people from the upper floors.
You reach the heavy metal door, grasping the emergency push-bar. You shove your weight against it, but the mechanism is stubbornly jammed. The ancient hinges groan, resisting your effort. Panic flares hot in your chest as the alarm continues its deafening, relentless assault. You hit the bar again with the heel of your hand, swearing violently under your breath. “Come on, you piece of shit, fucking open!”
“Hey, back up. Let me get it.”
The voice is deep, calm, and immediately recognizable. A large, warm hand clamps down over your bare shoulder, gently but firmly pulling you back. The touch sends a jolt of electricity straight through your system. You stumble slightly, looking up to see Bucky Barnes stepping in front of you.
He looks like he threw his clothes on in a matter of seconds, but somehow he still looks effortlessly magnetic. He’s wearing a battered, heavy leather jacket zipped hastily over a dark grey hoodie, clearly his go-to “emergency” grab, paired with dark jeans. His dark hair is a messy, beautiful tangle falling into his striking, sharp blue eyes. He doesn't look panicked at all; he just looks mildly annoyed at the inconvenience.
Bucky places his hand, his knuckles dusted with faint scars, flat against the door. His other hand grips the heavy iron bar. With a sharp, sudden flex of his broad shoulders beneath the layers of leather and cotton, he shoves. There’s a loud, metallic crack as the rusted latch finally gives way, and the heavy door flies open, letting in a violent rush of crisp, freezing night air.
“Ladies first…” Bucky says, his voice a low, rough rumble over the screeching alarm. He throws you a quick, reassuring smirk that makes your stomach do a completely unhelpful flip.
“Thanks…” you breathe out, stepping past him onto the grated iron platform of the fire escape. The sudden, brutal drop in temperature immediately bites through your thin tank top, raising goosebumps all over your arms. You shiver instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. The city below is alive, a swirling mass of neon lights, honking cabs, and the distant, rapidly approaching wail of fire sirens.
Bucky steps out right behind you, his large frame blocking a bit of the wind. The platform isn't exactly spacious. You’re forced to stand close together, backed against the rough brick wall of the building as a few other neighbors push past, hurrying down the zigzagging iron stairs to the narrow alleyway below.
You stay put on the landing, the cold metal of the railing biting into your lower back. Bucky leans casually against the brickwork beside you, entirely unbothered by the frantic exodus of the rest of the floor. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, snapping a Zippo lighter open with his thumb. The flame illuminates the sharp, strong lines of his jaw and the relaxed, easy set of his mouth.
“You're not going down?” you ask, your teeth beginning to chatter slightly as the autumn wind whips around the building.
He takes a slow drag, blowing the smoke out into the chilled air, the plume mixing with his breath. He shakes his head, his blue eyes dropping to meet yours. “Nah. We’re on the fourth floor, Y/n. If the building was actually going up in flames, you'd feel the structural heat by now. Look down there.” He gestures lazily over the railing with his cigarette.
You uncross your arms for a second to peer over. The flashing red and white lights of a massive fire truck are already bouncing off the damp brick walls of the alley. Firefighters are piling out, moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no frantic shouting, no rushing of heavy water hoses. They look bored.
“It's that little shit, Tyler, from the third floor…” Bucky says, a lazy, amused grin spreading across his face. “The twenty-something kid with the terrible bleach job?”
You snort, leaning back against the wall next to him. “The one who constantly leaves his empty, greasy pizza boxes in the stairwell?”
“That’s the one!” Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich, settling warmly in your chest despite the freezing temperature. “Fucker bought some bad shit, got paranoid, and tried to hotbox his walk-in closet to hide the smell from his roommate. Dropped his lit joint into a pile of synthetic nylon gym bags. Smoked up the whole damn floor. Fucking idiot.”
You can't help it, you let out a loud, genuine laugh, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders. “Are you serious? God, I thought my night couldn't get any more ridiculous. I was exactly halfway to the sofa with a very necessary, very expensive glass of wine.”
Bucky’s eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, taking in your messy bun, your thin white tank top, the faded sweatpants, and your bare ankles above your sneakers. There’s a sudden, heavy shift in the air between you, the kind of charged, undeniable electricity that has always simmered beneath the surface during your brief hallway encounters, but amplified tenfold now that you are isolated above the city streets.
He notices you shivering, your shoulders hitched up to your ears. Without a word, he unzips his leather jacket, shrugs it off his broad shoulders, and drapes it heavily over yours. The jacket is massive on you, smelling incredibly of rich leather, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of darkroom chemicals. It’s wonderfully, instantly warm from his body heat.
“Shame to interrupt a good drink…” he murmurs, leaving him in just his dark grey hoodie. His voice drops an octave, rumbling low. “Especially after the week you've had. I saw the layout for the September issue you pushed through. You completely gutted the initial spread and rebuilt it. It’s sharp as hell, Y/n. Visceral. I liked it.”
You stare at him, genuinely shocked, pulling the lapels of his leather jacket tighter around your chest. “You read my editorials? I didn't think big-shot, high-fashion photographers cared about the text formatting or the written features.”
“I care when the text is actually worth reading.” he replies smoothly, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer, holding your gaze intently. “Most of the shit in that magazine is vapid, corporate garbage aimed at selling insecure women overpriced handbags. But you actually give a fuck. You write about the clothes like they’re armor. Like they matter to a person's identity. It's good. Fucking brilliant, actually.”
A flush that has absolutely nothing to do with the freezing wind creeps up your neck and colors your cheeks. You’ve worked your ass off for years to get to this position, battling rampant sexism and corporate greed, and hearing validation from someone whose artistic eye you deeply respect, someone who usually terrifies the industry’s top editors with his uncompromising, brilliant vision, feels incredibly intoxicating.
“Well…” you manage to say, fighting down a proud smile, “coming from the guy who shot the entire Milan campaign in a literal abandoned slaughterhouse just to prove a point about the brutality of fast fashion, I'll take that as a massive compliment.”
Bucky chuckles, tossing his cigarette over the edge and watching the glowing ember fall into the darkness. “It was a statement. And the creative director almost had a fucking aneurysm on set. It was hilarious. I thought the guy was going to actually weep when I brought the fake blood out.”
You spend the next forty-five minutes just talking. It’s remarkably, dangerously easy. The cold air bites at your exposed face, but wrapped in Bucky's heavy leather jacket, with the heat radiating from his large frame beside you, you feel perfectly anchored. You talk about the industry, tearing down the inflated egos of terrible designers, laughing at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the fashion world. He is completely unfiltered, swearing casually, his observations sharp, cynical, and ruthlessly funny. You find yourself matching his energy, completely dropping your polished professional mask. You let out your own frustrations about your boss, the agonizing late nights, the constant, draining pressure to be perfect in an industry that profits off imperfection.
It's liberating. Here on this rusted fire escape, suspended above the noisy, chaotic city, stripped of your titles and your pristine outfits, you are just you and Bucky. Two overworked, exhausted people finding a bizarre, unexpected sanctuary in a false alarm. You realize you haven't talked to anyone this easily in months. Maybe years. Every time he looks at you, his blue eyes are heavy with a quiet, intense interest that makes your pulse hammer in your throat.
Down below, the fire truck’s massive diesel engines roar to life, shaking the pavement. The firefighters have cleared the building, evidently dealing with Tyler and his melted nylon bags, and are slowly backing the massive rig out of the narrow street. The flashing red lights click off, plunging the alleyway back into its usual, shadowed dimness.
“Looks like the show's over…” you say, a strange, totally unexpected pang of disappointment tightening your chest. You don't want this bubble to pop. You don't want to go back to being just passing strangers in the hallway.
Bucky looks down at the departing truck, then back at you. His eyes linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer than is strictly polite before he offers a soft, entirely devastating smile. “Yeah. Suppose we should get back inside before you freeze to death, even with my jacket. I'll let you get back to your wine. Though, honestly, I've got a bottle of rare Kentucky bourbon in my place that easily beats whatever vintage you’re currently drinking.”
You raise an eyebrow, a bold, teasing smirk playing on your mouth. “Is that an invitation, Barnes? Are you trying to get me drunk on a Tuesday?”
“Maybe…” he says softly, turning toward the heavy metal door, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Depends entirely if you can handle your liquor. I don't drink with lightweights.”
He reaches out, his large hand grasping the iron handle of the fire escape door. He pulls.
Nothing happens.
He frowns, his jaw tightening. He grips the handle with both hands, planting his heavy boots firmly on the grated metal floor, and gives it a massive, violent yank. The door rattles loudly in its steel frame, echoing in the quiet night, but it doesn't budge even a fraction of an inch.
The quiet amusement instantly vanishes from Bucky's face. He drops his hands, staring at the thick, unyielding metal.
“What's wrong?” you ask, stepping closer, your heart skipping a nervous beat.
Bucky turns his head, looking over his shoulder at you. The easy, flirtatious energy has completely evaporated, replaced by a grim, deadpan expression that would be terrifying if it wasn't so incredibly hot.
“Some paranoid fucker closed the door behind us.” Bucky says, his voice completely flat.
“Okay, so... just push the bar from this side?” you suggest, your voice pitching up slightly in alarm.
“It's a one-way emergency exit…” Bucky sighs, dragging his hand heavily down his face in deep, profound aggravation. “It only opens from the inside. When the door shuts, the deadbolt drops automatically so people can't use the fire escape to break into the building from the alley.”
You stare at him, the reality of the situation slowly crashing down on you like a bucket of ice water. The freezing air suddenly feels ten times colder. The distant, mocking noise of the city seems to laugh at you.
“Are you... are you fucking kidding me right now?” you ask, your voice trembling between genuine panic and absolute disbelief.
Bucky leans back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, his grey hoodie pulling tight over his biceps. He lets out a long, heavy breath, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips as he runs a hand through his messy hair.
“Well, shit…” he mutters, looking at you with a mixture of apology and dark, undeniable amusement. “Looks like we’re officially locked out. Good thing you've got my jacket, doll, because it's going to be a long fucking night.”
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You stare at the heavy, unyielding metal door, the finality of Bucky's words hanging in the freezing autumn air like a physical weight. The fire alarm inside the building has finally been silenced, leaving behind a ringing in your ears and the distant, chaotic hum of the city night. The adrenaline that had propelled you out of your apartment is rapidly evaporating, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling cold that seeps through the oversized leather jacket Bucky draped over you and bites at your bare legs.
Bucky tried to kick the drop ladder to go on the floor below, but it was stuck and you were pretty sure the rust filled ancient escape is not trustworthy to climb down.
“Okay, this is fine…” you say, your voice vibrating slightly as your teeth begin to chatter. “We live in the twenty-first century. We have technology. Call someone. Call the super. Call the fucking fire department to come back.”
“Motherfucker!” Bucky snarls, hitting the power button repeatedly with his thumb. Nothing happens. He lets out a harsh, frustrated breath, his breath pluming in the cold air. “Dead. Of fucking course it is. I meant to plug it in when I got home from the studio, but I crashed on the couch instead.”
He looks at you, his blue eyes intense and apologetic. “Tell me you have your phone, Doll.”
You quickly jam your hand into the pocket of your faded sweatpants, your fingers closing around your phone. You pull it out, waking the screen. “Yes,” you say, a wave of relief washing over you. “I’ve got it. I have sixty percent battery…”
Your relief dies a sudden, horrific death as you look at the top right corner of the screen.
“No service…” you whisper in disbelief. You hold the phone higher in the air, waving it around like a lunatic trying to catch an invisible butterfly. “Are you shitting me? How is there no service? We’re in the middle of a major city, not the fucking wilderness!”
“It's this building!” Bucky growls, leaning over your shoulder to look at your completely blank signal bars. He is so close you can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the deep, intoxicating musk of his cologne. “The exterior walls are solid, reinforced brick and God knows what else. It creates a total dead zone out here in the alley. I can never get a signal on the fire escape.”
You lower your phone, your hand trembling from the cold. “So we have no phones. And we're locked out. On a Tuesday night.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, running a hand through his dark, messy hair. “That pretty much sums it up.”
Bucky is already digging into the front pocket of his jeans. He pulls out his sleek, black smartphone, tapping the screen. The harsh white light illuminates his sharp features for exactly two seconds before the low-battery icon flashes on the screen. It blinks once, mocking him, and then the screen goes completely black.
Suddenly, a square of warm, yellow light spills out onto the iron grating a few yards to your left. You both turn your heads sharply. The window belongs to apartment 4A. Richard.
Richard is a miserable, sixty-something retired accountant who serves as the self-appointed tyrant of the co-op board. He has reported you for your television volume on a Saturday afternoon, he once threatened to tow your sister's car when she visited, and he constantly complains about Bucky’s irregular hours and “suspicious” guests.
You see Richard's silhouette through the glass. He is standing in his ridiculously plush, monogrammed bathrobe, peering out into the night to see what the commotion was about.
“Oh my God, Richard!” you scream, practically throwing yourself at the rusted railing that separates your landing from his window. “Richard! It's Y/n and Bucky! We're locked out! Open the hallway door!”
Bucky steps up right behind you, his broad chest almost brushing your back. “Hey! Richard! Open the fucking window!” he bellows, his deep voice easily carrying over the wind.
Through the glass, Richard squints. He clearly sees you. He sees you both shivering in the freezing cold. You watch as his mouth forms a tight, nasty little line of disapproval. He looks at Bucky, looks at you in your oversized sweats and Bucky's leather jacket, and his expression sours even further, as if he thinks you're out here having some kind of illicit, delinquent rendezvous.
Without an ounce of hesitation, Richard reaches up, grabs the drawstrings of his heavy, blackout curtains, and sharply yanks them shut. The light vanishes.
You stand there in stunned, vibrating silence. You blink, waiting for the curtain to twitch, waiting for the window to slide open. It doesn't.
“Did he... did that miserable son of a bitch just ignore us?” you ask, your voice dangerously quiet.
“He just closed the fucking curtains on us.” Bucky confirms, a dark, dangerous edge bleeding into his tone. He grips the iron railing with both hands, the metal groaning under his strength. “I'm going to kill him. I am literally going to end his life!”
“I will help you.” you state, turning to face Bucky, your eyes wide with homicidal outrage. “I will provide your alibi. We’ll say he slipped in the shower. Or better yet, we just push his miserable ass down the central staircase and say he tripped over his own bathrobe.”
Bucky lets out a harsh, bark-like laugh, his eyes flashing in the dim light. “Too fast. He needs to suffer, Doll. I have chemicals in my darkroom. Developing fluids. Silver nitrate. I can dissolve his body in a bathtub like a mob hit. Nobody would ever know.”
“We can forge a suicide note...” you continue, the absolute absurdity of the situation making you slightly hysterical. You’re shivering violently now, your teeth clicking together. “Say the guilt of being a complete and utter prick finally consumed him. We’ll take his apartment and knock down the wall to make a mega-loft.”
Bucky stares down at you, his anger briefly dissolving into a look of genuine, captivated amusement. “I like the way you think, Doll. You're completely ruthless when you're freezing.”
A violent gust of wind rips through the alley, slicing right through the thin cotton of your sweatpants. You let out an involuntary gasp, wrapping your arms tightly around your torso, trying to bury yourself entirely inside Bucky's massive leather jacket.
Bucky’s smile drops instantly. He assesses you, his gaze sweeping over your trembling frame. “You're freezing...” he murmurs, his voice softening entirely. “We can't just stand here in the wind. We need to get low, against the brick. It'll block the worst of the draft.”
He doesn't wait for your permission. He grabs your arm gently and guides you to the corner of the landing, furthest from the heavy metal door and shielded by the thick, jutting brickwork of the building's facade. He sits down first, crossing his long legs clad in dark jeans.
“Come here...” he orders softly, gesturing to the space right beside him.
You sink down onto the unforgiving, icy iron grating. As soon as you sit, Bucky reaches out, grabbing the heavy lapels of his leather jacket that is swallowing you whole, and pulls you firmly against his side. The shock of his solid, radiating heat makes you gasp again, but this time it has nothing to do with the cold.
You are pressed flush against him. His arm wraps securely around your shoulders, pulling you in so tightly that your thigh is resting heavy against his, your hip flush to his hip. He is a furnace in the middle of a tundra.
“Better?” he asks, his voice vibrating deep in his chest, right against your ear.
“Y...yeah,” you stammer, trying to control the uncontrollable shaking of your jaw. “A little.”
“We need to keep our minds occupied...” Bucky says, rubbing his large, warm hand up and down your arm through the thick leather. The friction feels like absolute heaven. “If we just sit here thinking about how cold we are, it's going to feel ten times worse. We need a distraction.”
“Like what?” you ask, leaning your head against his broad shoulder. It feels remarkably natural, as if you’ve spent your entire life fitting into the space beneath Bucky Barnes's chin.
“A game?” he suggests. “Something simple. Let's do the alphabet game. Movie titles. I'll start with A, you take B, we go back and forth. No repeats, no searching the internet, which we can't do anyway. Hesitate for more than ten seconds, you lose.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. His jaw is sharply defined in the shadows, his beautiful, messy hair blown back by the wind. “What does the winner get?” you challenge, a spark of competitive warmth finally thawing the ice in your veins.
Bucky looks down, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heavy, lingering second before snapping back up to your eyes. “Winner gets to decide exactly how we murder Richard tomorrow morning. I’m thinking blunt force trauma with a vintage camera tripod, but I’ll let you make the final call.”
You snort, a genuine smile breaking across your face. “You have yourself a deal, Barnes. Start us off.”
He shifts slightly, pulling you just a fraction closer, if that is even physically possible. “Alright. A. Apocalypse Now.”
“Good one,” you concede. “Okay, B. Basic Instinct.”
Bucky lets out a low, dark chuckle that sends a heavy shiver straight down your spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the wind. “Sharon Stone, huh? I didn't peg you for an erotic thriller kind of girl, Doll.”
“I am a woman of multitudes, Barnes...” you retort, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Your turn. C.”
“Easy. Casablanca!” he fires back smoothly.
“Classic. So you’re a romantic. Interesting.” You tap your chin in mock thought. “D. Die Hard.”
“That is a Christmas movie, babe, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise.”
“It is a cinematic masterpiece, you heathen,” you correct him. “E. Go.”
He pauses for a moment, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the fabric of his jacket covering your shoulder. “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”
You pause, looking up at him, genuinely surprised. “Wow. That is deeply depressing and beautiful.”
“I have depth,” he smirks. “F. Clock's ticking.”
“Fargo,” you counter instantly.
“Goodfellas,” he replies without missing a beat.
“Oh, pulling out the Scorsese. Okay, H. Heat.”
“Al Pacino screaming for absolutely no reason. A solid choice.” Bucky tilts his head back against the brick wall. “I. Inception.”
“Overrated,” you tease.
“You did not just call Christopher Nolan overrated!” Bucky gasps in mock offense, his arm tightening around you. “I might just throw you off this balcony.”
“I didn't understand the spinning top, okay?” you laugh. “J. Jaws.”
“Kill Bill,” he counters. “Volume one, obviously.”
“Obviously. L. Lethal Weapon.”
Bucky groans playfully. “You really like action movies with high body counts, don't you?”
“I work in fashion media, Bucky,” you say dryly. “I spend ten hours a day dealing with people debating the exact shade of cerulean blue. I need to see shit explode when I get home.”
He laughs, the sound rich and warm in the dark alley. “Fair enough. M. Matrix.”
“N. No Country for Old Men,” you say, shivering slightly as a fresh gust of wind hits you.
Bucky instantly notices. He shifts his weight, maneuvering his body so he is entirely blocking the wind, practically caging you against the brick wall with his large frame. His face is incredibly close to yours now, the banter fading into something much heavier, much more charged. The sharp smell of the cold city air is completely eclipsed by him.
“O,” he says, his voice dropping significantly, losing its playful edge. His eyes trace the line of your cheekbone. “Ocean's Eleven.”
You swallow hard, your breath catching in your throat. The heat radiating off him is making your skin flush. You can feel the heavy, steady thud of his heart against your arm. “P,” you whisper, struggling to remember the English language, let alone a movie title. “Um... Pulp Fiction.”
“Good,” he murmurs, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer. You can feel his breath ghosting over your lips. “Q. Your turn to judge. Quantum of Solace.”
“The absolute worst Daniel Craig Bond movie,” you manage to say, though your voice sounds breathless and weak.
“Agreed...” Bucky whispers softly. His hand moves from your shoulder, his rough fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your freezing cheek. His touch is searingly hot against your cold skin. “R.”
You stare into his eyes, completely lost in the electric blue depths of them. The world around you, the cold, the locked door, the miserable neighbor, the deafening city, completely melts away. There is only this rusted fire escape, the suffocatingly heavy tension, and James Buchanan Barnes staring at you like you are the only thing that matters.
“R,” you breathe out, your eyes dropping to his lips. “I... I can't think of one.”
Bucky’s gaze is heavy, dark, and utterly consuming. A slow, devastating smirk tugs at the corner of his beautiful mouth. “Ten seconds, darling. You lose.”
“I think...” you whisper, closing the agonizing gap between you by a millimeter, “I'm okay with losing.”
You stare at the heavy, unyielding metal door, the finality of Bucky's words hanging in the freezing autumn air like a physical weight. The fire alarm inside the building has finally been silenced, leaving behind a ringing in your ears and the distant, chaotic hum of the city night. The adrenaline that had propelled you out of your apartment is rapidly evaporating, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling cold that seeps through the oversized leather jacket Bucky draped over you and bites at your bare legs.
Bucky tried to kick the drop ladder to go on the floor below, but it was stuck and you were pretty sure the rust filled ancient escape is not trustworthy to climb down.
“Okay, this is fine…” you say, your voice vibrating slightly as your teeth begin to chatter. “We live in the twenty-first century. We have technology. Call someone. Call the super. Call the fucking fire department to come back.”
“Motherfucker!” Bucky snarls, hitting the power button repeatedly with his thumb. Nothing happens. He lets out a harsh, frustrated breath, his breath pluming in the cold air. “Dead. Of fucking course it is. I meant to plug it in when I got home from the studio, but I crashed on the couch instead.”
He looks at you, his blue eyes intense and apologetic. “Tell me you have your phone, Doll.”
You quickly jam your hand into the pocket of your faded sweatpants, your fingers closing around your phone. You pull it out, waking the screen. “Yes,” you say, a wave of relief washing over you. “I’ve got it. I have sixty percent battery…”
Your relief dies a sudden, horrific death as you look at the top right corner of the screen.
“No service…” you whisper in disbelief. You hold the phone higher in the air, waving it around like a lunatic trying to catch an invisible butterfly. “Are you shitting me? How is there no service? We’re in the middle of a major city, not the fucking wilderness!”
“It's this building!” Bucky growls, leaning over your shoulder to look at your completely blank signal bars. He is so close you can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the deep, intoxicating musk of his cologne. “The exterior walls are solid, reinforced brick and God knows what else. It creates a total dead zone out here in the alley. I can never get a signal on the fire escape.”
You lower your phone, your hand trembling from the cold. “So we have no phones. And we're locked out. On a Tuesday night.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, running a hand through his dark, messy hair. “That pretty much sums it up.”
Bucky is already digging into the front pocket of his jeans. He pulls out his sleek, black smartphone, tapping the screen. The harsh white light illuminates his sharp features for exactly two seconds before the low-battery icon flashes on the screen. It blinks once, mocking him, and then the screen goes completely black.
Suddenly, a square of warm, yellow light spills out onto the iron grating a few yards to your left. You both turn your heads sharply. The window belongs to apartment 4A. Richard.
Richard is a miserable, sixty-something retired accountant who serves as the self-appointed tyrant of the co-op board. He has reported you for your television volume on a Saturday afternoon, he once threatened to tow your sister's car when she visited, and he constantly complains about Bucky’s irregular hours and “suspicious” guests.
You see Richard's silhouette through the glass. He is standing in his ridiculously plush, monogrammed bathrobe, peering out into the night to see what the commotion was about.
“Oh my God, Richard!” you scream, practically throwing yourself at the rusted railing that separates your landing from his window. “Richard! It's Y/n and Bucky! We're locked out! Open the hallway door!”
Bucky steps up right behind you, his broad chest almost brushing your back. “Hey! Richard! Open the fucking window!” he bellows, his deep voice easily carrying over the wind.
Through the glass, Richard squints. He clearly sees you. He sees you both shivering in the freezing cold. You watch as his mouth forms a tight, nasty little line of disapproval. He looks at Bucky, looks at you in your oversized sweats and Bucky's leather jacket, and his expression sours even further, as if he thinks you're out here having some kind of illicit, delinquent rendezvous.
Without an ounce of hesitation, Richard reaches up, grabs the drawstrings of his heavy, blackout curtains, and sharply yanks them shut. The light vanishes.
You stand there in stunned, vibrating silence. You blink, waiting for the curtain to twitch, waiting for the window to slide open. It doesn't.
“Did he... did that miserable son of a bitch just ignore us?” you ask, your voice dangerously quiet.
“He just closed the fucking curtains on us.” Bucky confirms, a dark, dangerous edge bleeding into his tone. He grips the iron railing with both hands, the metal groaning under his strength. “I'm going to kill him. I am literally going to end his life!”
“I will help you.” you state, turning to face Bucky, your eyes wide with homicidal outrage. “I will provide your alibi. We’ll say he slipped in the shower. Or better yet, we just push his miserable ass down the central staircase and say he tripped over his own bathrobe.”
Bucky lets out a harsh, bark-like laugh, his eyes flashing in the dim light. “Too fast. He needs to suffer, Doll. I have chemicals in my darkroom. Developing fluids. Silver nitrate. I can dissolve his body in a bathtub like a mob hit. Nobody would ever know.”
“We can forge a suicide note...” you continue, the absolute absurdity of the situation making you slightly hysterical. You’re shivering violently now, your teeth clicking together. “Say the guilt of being a complete and utter prick finally consumed him. We’ll take his apartment and knock down the wall to make a mega-loft.”
Bucky stares down at you, his anger briefly dissolving into a look of genuine, captivated amusement. “I like the way you think, Doll. You're completely ruthless when you're freezing.”
A violent gust of wind rips through the alley, slicing right through the thin cotton of your sweatpants. You let out an involuntary gasp, wrapping your arms tightly around your torso, trying to bury yourself entirely inside Bucky's massive leather jacket.
Bucky’s smile drops instantly. He assesses you, his gaze sweeping over your trembling frame. “You're freezing...” he murmurs, his voice softening entirely. “We can't just stand here in the wind. We need to get low, against the brick. It'll block the worst of the draft.”
He doesn't wait for your permission. He grabs your arm gently and guides you to the corner of the landing, furthest from the heavy metal door and shielded by the thick, jutting brickwork of the building's facade. He sits down first, crossing his long legs clad in dark jeans.
“Come here...” he orders softly, gesturing to the space right beside him.
You sink down onto the unforgiving, icy iron grating. As soon as you sit, Bucky reaches out, grabbing the heavy lapels of his leather jacket that is swallowing you whole, and pulls you firmly against his side. The shock of his solid, radiating heat makes you gasp again, but this time it has nothing to do with the cold.
You are pressed flush against him. His arm wraps securely around your shoulders, pulling you in so tightly that your thigh is resting heavy against his, your hip flush to his hip. He is a furnace in the middle of a tundra.
“Better?” he asks, his voice vibrating deep in his chest, right against your ear.
“Y...yeah,” you stammer, trying to control the uncontrollable shaking of your jaw. “A little.”
“We need to keep our minds occupied...” Bucky says, rubbing his large, warm hand up and down your arm through the thick leather. The friction feels like absolute heaven. “If we just sit here thinking about how cold we are, it's going to feel ten times worse. We need a distraction.”
“Like what?” you ask, leaning your head against his broad shoulder. It feels remarkably natural, as if you’ve spent your entire life fitting into the space beneath Bucky Barnes's chin.
“A game?” he suggests. “Something simple. Let's do the alphabet game. Movie titles. I'll start with A, you take B, we go back and forth. No repeats, no searching the internet, which we can't do anyway. Hesitate for more than ten seconds, you lose.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. His jaw is sharply defined in the shadows, his beautiful, messy hair blown back by the wind. “What does the winner get?” you challenge, a spark of competitive warmth finally thawing the ice in your veins.
Bucky looks down, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heavy, lingering second before snapping back up to your eyes. “Winner gets to decide exactly how we murder Richard tomorrow morning. I’m thinking blunt force trauma with a vintage camera tripod, but I’ll let you make the final call.”
You snort, a genuine smile breaking across your face. “You have yourself a deal, Barnes. Start us off.”
He shifts slightly, pulling you just a fraction closer, if that is even physically possible. “Alright. A. Apocalypse Now.”
“Good one,” you concede. “Okay, B. Basic Instinct.”
Bucky lets out a low, dark chuckle that sends a heavy shiver straight down your spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the wind. “Sharon Stone, huh? I didn't peg you for an erotic thriller kind of girl, Doll.”
“I am a woman of multitudes, Barnes...” you retort, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Your turn. C.”
“Easy. Casablanca!” he fires back smoothly.
“Classic. So you’re a romantic. Interesting.” You tap your chin in mock thought. “D. Die Hard.”
“That is a Christmas movie, babe, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise.”
“It is a cinematic masterpiece, you heathen,” you correct him. “E. Go.”
He pauses for a moment, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the fabric of his jacket covering your shoulder. “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”
You pause, looking up at him, genuinely surprised. “Wow. That is deeply depressing and beautiful.”
“I have depth,” he smirks. “F. Clock's ticking.”
“Fargo,” you counter instantly.
“Goodfellas,” he replies without missing a beat.
“Oh, pulling out the Scorsese. Okay, H. Heat.”
“Al Pacino screaming for absolutely no reason. A solid choice.” Bucky tilts his head back against the brick wall. “I. Inception.”
“Overrated,” you tease.
“You did not just call Christopher Nolan overrated!” Bucky gasps in mock offense, his arm tightening around you. “I might just throw you off this balcony.”
“I didn't understand the spinning top, okay?” you laugh. “J. Jaws.”
“Kill Bill,” he counters. “Volume one, obviously.”
“Obviously. L. Lethal Weapon.”
Bucky groans playfully. “You really like action movies with high body counts, don't you?”
“I work in fashion media, Bucky,” you say dryly. “I spend ten hours a day dealing with people debating the exact shade of cerulean blue. I need to see shit explode when I get home.”
He laughs, the sound rich and warm in the dark alley. “Fair enough. M. Matrix.”
“N. No Country for Old Men,” you say, shivering slightly as a fresh gust of wind hits you.
Bucky instantly notices. He shifts his weight, maneuvering his body so he is entirely blocking the wind, practically caging you against the brick wall with his large frame. His face is incredibly close to yours now, the banter fading into something much heavier, much more charged. The sharp smell of the cold city air is completely eclipsed by him.
“O,” he says, his voice dropping significantly, losing its playful edge. His eyes trace the line of your cheekbone. “Ocean's Eleven.”
You swallow hard, your breath catching in your throat. The heat radiating off him is making your skin flush. You can feel the heavy, steady thud of his heart against your arm. “P,” you whisper, struggling to remember the English language, let alone a movie title. “Um... Pulp Fiction.”
“Good,” he murmurs, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer. You can feel his breath ghosting over your lips. “Q. Your turn to judge. Quantum of Solace.”
“The absolute worst Daniel Craig Bond movie,” you manage to say, though your voice sounds breathless and weak.
“Agreed...” Bucky whispers softly. His hand moves from your shoulder, his rough fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your freezing cheek. His touch is searingly hot against your cold skin. “R.”
You stare into his eyes, completely lost in the electric blue depths of them. The world around you, the cold, the locked door, the miserable neighbor, the deafening city, completely melts away. There is only this rusted fire escape, the suffocatingly heavy tension, and James Buchanan Barnes staring at you like you are the only thing that matters.
“R,” you breathe out, your eyes dropping to his lips. “I... I can't think of one.”
Bucky’s gaze is heavy, dark, and utterly consuming. A slow, devastating smirk tugs at the corner of his beautiful mouth. “Ten seconds, darling. You lose.”
“I think...” you whisper, closing the agonizing gap between you by a millimeter, “I'm okay with losing.”
Warning- Fluff, neighbors trope, fire alarms- nothing serious.
You drop your keys onto the small ceramic bowl by the door, the sharp clatter echoing through the suffocating silence of your apartment.
Another grueling, soul-sucking Tuesday at the magazine has finally bled into Tuesday night.
As a senior features editor for one of the city's premier fashion publications, your life is a relentless cycle of impossible deadlines, neurotic art directors, and endless, soul-crushing pitch meetings. Today was particularly brutal. You spent four hours arguing with a tyrannical editor-in-chief who wanted to kill your ten-page exposé on sustainable supply chains in favor of another vapid, ghostwritten celebrity puff piece. You won, barely, but the victory left you drained of every ounce of serotonin you possessed.
You kick off your heels, your feet throbbing in rhythm with your budding headache, and aggressively peel off your tailored, restrictive office clothes. You are tired and all you want is comfort, a dangerously tall glass of wine, and twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep. You quickly strip down, have a quick shower and slip into your favorite, most worn-out pair of oversized comfy sweats and a thin, white ribbed tank top. It’s not a look meant for public consumption, but it’s heaven against your tired skin.
You pad into the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your bare feet. You live in a beautiful, historic brownstone, the kind with character, which is just a real estate euphemism for faulty plumbing, thin walls, and drafty windows. It’s a good building, though. Quiet, mostly.
Except for the fact that your immediate neighbor across the hall is James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky, to the people who actually know him. To you, he is just the impossibly attractive, enigmatic fashion photographer who occupies apartment 4B.
You rarely see him. Your schedules are entirely inverted. When you are leaving for the office at 7:00 AM, clutching a travel mug of espresso like a literal lifeline, he is usually stumbling in from a red-eye flight or a chaotic after-party, vintage camera bag slung over his broad shoulder, looking like walking sin. He shoots campaigns for the very designers you write about Prada, Tom Ford, Givenchy. He’s wildly successful, famously elusive, and infuriatingly gorgeous.
The few times you’ve bumped into each other by the mailboxes, the air between you has been thick and crackling, reduced to polite, breathless nods and low, rumbling “mornings” from him that send a shiver straight down your spine.
You pour a heavy, generous pour of Pinot Noir and make it exactly halfway to your plush sofa when the piercing, apocalyptic shriek of the building’s fire alarm shatters the quiet.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you groan aloud, nearly spilling your wine all over your expensive Moroccan rug.
The alarm doesn't stop. It wails with a violent, ear-splitting urgency that vibrates in your teeth. You slam the wine glass down on the counter, your heart kicking into a frantic, panicked rhythm against your ribs. You grab your phone, slide your bare feet into a pair of slip-on Converse sneakers, and bolt for the door. You don't even think to grab a coat, completely forgetting you are only wearing a thin tank top.
Throwing the heavy door open, you're immediately hit by the chaotic din of the hallway. Neighbors are spilling out of their apartments, eyes wide, voices overlapping in confused, sleepy panic. There’s no thick, suffocating smoke rolling down the ceiling, but there is a distinct, pungent odor wafting through the air, burnt plastic and cheap, stale weed.
You push through the milling crowd toward the end of the hallway where the heavy, reinforced fire escape door leads out to the iron stairwell. It’s supposed to be the fastest way out for the fourth floor, bypassing the narrow, claustrophobic central staircase that is already clogged with people from the upper floors.
You reach the heavy metal door, grasping the emergency push-bar. You shove your weight against it, but the mechanism is stubbornly jammed. The ancient hinges groan, resisting your effort. Panic flares hot in your chest as the alarm continues its deafening, relentless assault. You hit the bar again with the heel of your hand, swearing violently under your breath. “Come on, you piece of shit, fucking open!”
“Hey, back up. Let me get it.”
The voice is deep, calm, and immediately recognizable. A large, warm hand clamps down over your bare shoulder, gently but firmly pulling you back. The touch sends a jolt of electricity straight through your system. You stumble slightly, looking up to see Bucky Barnes stepping in front of you.
He looks like he threw his clothes on in a matter of seconds, but somehow he still looks effortlessly magnetic. He’s wearing a battered, heavy leather jacket zipped hastily over a dark grey hoodie, clearly his go-to “emergency” grab, paired with dark jeans. His dark hair is a messy, beautiful tangle falling into his striking, sharp blue eyes. He doesn't look panicked at all; he just looks mildly annoyed at the inconvenience.
Bucky places his hand, his knuckles dusted with faint scars, flat against the door. His other hand grips the heavy iron bar. With a sharp, sudden flex of his broad shoulders beneath the layers of leather and cotton, he shoves. There’s a loud, metallic crack as the rusted latch finally gives way, and the heavy door flies open, letting in a violent rush of crisp, freezing night air.
“Ladies first…” Bucky says, his voice a low, rough rumble over the screeching alarm. He throws you a quick, reassuring smirk that makes your stomach do a completely unhelpful flip.
“Thanks…” you breathe out, stepping past him onto the grated iron platform of the fire escape. The sudden, brutal drop in temperature immediately bites through your thin tank top, raising goosebumps all over your arms. You shiver instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. The city below is alive, a swirling mass of neon lights, honking cabs, and the distant, rapidly approaching wail of fire sirens.
Bucky steps out right behind you, his large frame blocking a bit of the wind. The platform isn't exactly spacious. You’re forced to stand close together, backed against the rough brick wall of the building as a few other neighbors push past, hurrying down the zigzagging iron stairs to the narrow alleyway below.
You stay put on the landing, the cold metal of the railing biting into your lower back. Bucky leans casually against the brickwork beside you, entirely unbothered by the frantic exodus of the rest of the floor. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, snapping a Zippo lighter open with his thumb. The flame illuminates the sharp, strong lines of his jaw and the relaxed, easy set of his mouth.
“You're not going down?” you ask, your teeth beginning to chatter slightly as the autumn wind whips around the building.
He takes a slow drag, blowing the smoke out into the chilled air, the plume mixing with his breath. He shakes his head, his blue eyes dropping to meet yours. “Nah. We’re on the fourth floor, Y/n. If the building was actually going up in flames, you'd feel the structural heat by now. Look down there.” He gestures lazily over the railing with his cigarette.
You uncross your arms for a second to peer over. The flashing red and white lights of a massive fire truck are already bouncing off the damp brick walls of the alley. Firefighters are piling out, moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no frantic shouting, no rushing of heavy water hoses. They look bored.
“It's that little shit, Tyler, from the third floor…” Bucky says, a lazy, amused grin spreading across his face. “The twenty-something kid with the terrible bleach job?”
You snort, leaning back against the wall next to him. “The one who constantly leaves his empty, greasy pizza boxes in the stairwell?”
“That’s the one!” Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich, settling warmly in your chest despite the freezing temperature. “Fucker bought some bad shit, got paranoid, and tried to hotbox his walk-in closet to hide the smell from his roommate. Dropped his lit joint into a pile of synthetic nylon gym bags. Smoked up the whole damn floor. Fucking idiot.”
You can't help it, you let out a loud, genuine laugh, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders. “Are you serious? God, I thought my night couldn't get any more ridiculous. I was exactly halfway to the sofa with a very necessary, very expensive glass of wine.”
Bucky’s eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, taking in your messy bun, your thin white tank top, the faded sweatpants, and your bare ankles above your sneakers. There’s a sudden, heavy shift in the air between you, the kind of charged, undeniable electricity that has always simmered beneath the surface during your brief hallway encounters, but amplified tenfold now that you are isolated above the city streets.
He notices you shivering, your shoulders hitched up to your ears. Without a word, he unzips his leather jacket, shrugs it off his broad shoulders, and drapes it heavily over yours. The jacket is massive on you, smelling incredibly of rich leather, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of darkroom chemicals. It’s wonderfully, instantly warm from his body heat.
“Shame to interrupt a good drink…” he murmurs, leaving him in just his dark grey hoodie. His voice drops an octave, rumbling low. “Especially after the week you've had. I saw the layout for the September issue you pushed through. You completely gutted the initial spread and rebuilt it. It’s sharp as hell, Y/n. Visceral. I liked it.”
You stare at him, genuinely shocked, pulling the lapels of his leather jacket tighter around your chest. “You read my editorials? I didn't think big-shot, high-fashion photographers cared about the text formatting or the written features.”
“I care when the text is actually worth reading.” he replies smoothly, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer, holding your gaze intently. “Most of the shit in that magazine is vapid, corporate garbage aimed at selling insecure women overpriced handbags. But you actually give a fuck. You write about the clothes like they’re armor. Like they matter to a person's identity. It's good. Fucking brilliant, actually.”
A flush that has absolutely nothing to do with the freezing wind creeps up your neck and colors your cheeks. You’ve worked your ass off for years to get to this position, battling rampant sexism and corporate greed, and hearing validation from someone whose artistic eye you deeply respect, someone who usually terrifies the industry’s top editors with his uncompromising, brilliant vision, feels incredibly intoxicating.
“Well…” you manage to say, fighting down a proud smile, “coming from the guy who shot the entire Milan campaign in a literal abandoned slaughterhouse just to prove a point about the brutality of fast fashion, I'll take that as a massive compliment.”
Bucky chuckles, tossing his cigarette over the edge and watching the glowing ember fall into the darkness. “It was a statement. And the creative director almost had a fucking aneurysm on set. It was hilarious. I thought the guy was going to actually weep when I brought the fake blood out.”
You spend the next forty-five minutes just talking. It’s remarkably, dangerously easy. The cold air bites at your exposed face, but wrapped in Bucky's heavy leather jacket, with the heat radiating from his large frame beside you, you feel perfectly anchored. You talk about the industry, tearing down the inflated egos of terrible designers, laughing at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the fashion world. He is completely unfiltered, swearing casually, his observations sharp, cynical, and ruthlessly funny. You find yourself matching his energy, completely dropping your polished professional mask. You let out your own frustrations about your boss, the agonizing late nights, the constant, draining pressure to be perfect in an industry that profits off imperfection.
It's liberating. Here on this rusted fire escape, suspended above the noisy, chaotic city, stripped of your titles and your pristine outfits, you are just you and Bucky. Two overworked, exhausted people finding a bizarre, unexpected sanctuary in a false alarm. You realize you haven't talked to anyone this easily in months. Maybe years. Every time he looks at you, his blue eyes are heavy with a quiet, intense interest that makes your pulse hammer in your throat.
Down below, the fire truck’s massive diesel engines roar to life, shaking the pavement. The firefighters have cleared the building, evidently dealing with Tyler and his melted nylon bags, and are slowly backing the massive rig out of the narrow street. The flashing red lights click off, plunging the alleyway back into its usual, shadowed dimness.
“Looks like the show's over…” you say, a strange, totally unexpected pang of disappointment tightening your chest. You don't want this bubble to pop. You don't want to go back to being just passing strangers in the hallway.
Bucky looks down at the departing truck, then back at you. His eyes linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer than is strictly polite before he offers a soft, entirely devastating smile. “Yeah. Suppose we should get back inside before you freeze to death, even with my jacket. I'll let you get back to your wine. Though, honestly, I've got a bottle of rare Kentucky bourbon in my place that easily beats whatever vintage you’re currently drinking.”
You raise an eyebrow, a bold, teasing smirk playing on your mouth. “Is that an invitation, Barnes? Are you trying to get me drunk on a Tuesday?”
“Maybe…” he says softly, turning toward the heavy metal door, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Depends entirely if you can handle your liquor. I don't drink with lightweights.”
He reaches out, his large hand grasping the iron handle of the fire escape door. He pulls.
Nothing happens.
He frowns, his jaw tightening. He grips the handle with both hands, planting his heavy boots firmly on the grated metal floor, and gives it a massive, violent yank. The door rattles loudly in its steel frame, echoing in the quiet night, but it doesn't budge even a fraction of an inch.
The quiet amusement instantly vanishes from Bucky's face. He drops his hands, staring at the thick, unyielding metal.
“What's wrong?” you ask, stepping closer, your heart skipping a nervous beat.
Bucky turns his head, looking over his shoulder at you. The easy, flirtatious energy has completely evaporated, replaced by a grim, deadpan expression that would be terrifying if it wasn't so incredibly hot.
“Some paranoid fucker closed the door behind us.” Bucky says, his voice completely flat.
“Okay, so... just push the bar from this side?” you suggest, your voice pitching up slightly in alarm.
“It's a one-way emergency exit…” Bucky sighs, dragging his hand heavily down his face in deep, profound aggravation. “It only opens from the inside. When the door shuts, the deadbolt drops automatically so people can't use the fire escape to break into the building from the alley.”
You stare at him, the reality of the situation slowly crashing down on you like a bucket of ice water. The freezing air suddenly feels ten times colder. The distant, mocking noise of the city seems to laugh at you.
“Are you... are you fucking kidding me right now?” you ask, your voice trembling between genuine panic and absolute disbelief.
Bucky leans back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, his grey hoodie pulling tight over his biceps. He lets out a long, heavy breath, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips as he runs a hand through his messy hair.
“Well, shit…” he mutters, looking at you with a mixture of apology and dark, undeniable amusement. “Looks like we’re officially locked out. Good thing you've got my jacket, doll, because it's going to be a long fucking night.”
Warning- Fluff, neighbors trope, fire alarms- nothing serious.
You drop your keys onto the small ceramic bowl by the door, the sharp clatter echoing through the suffocating silence of your apartment.
Another grueling, soul-sucking Tuesday at the magazine has finally bled into Tuesday night.
As a senior features editor for one of the city's premier fashion publications, your life is a relentless cycle of impossible deadlines, neurotic art directors, and endless, soul-crushing pitch meetings. Today was particularly brutal. You spent four hours arguing with a tyrannical editor-in-chief who wanted to kill your ten-page exposé on sustainable supply chains in favor of another vapid, ghostwritten celebrity puff piece. You won, barely, but the victory left you drained of every ounce of serotonin you possessed.
You kick off your heels, your feet throbbing in rhythm with your budding headache, and aggressively peel off your tailored, restrictive office clothes. You are tired and all you want is comfort, a dangerously tall glass of wine, and twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep. You quickly strip down, have a quick shower and slip into your favorite, most worn-out pair of oversized comfy sweats and a thin, white ribbed tank top. It’s not a look meant for public consumption, but it’s heaven against your tired skin.
You pad into the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your bare feet. You live in a beautiful, historic brownstone, the kind with character, which is just a real estate euphemism for faulty plumbing, thin walls, and drafty windows. It’s a good building, though. Quiet, mostly.
Except for the fact that your immediate neighbor across the hall is James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky, to the people who actually know him. To you, he is just the impossibly attractive, enigmatic fashion photographer who occupies apartment 4B.
You rarely see him. Your schedules are entirely inverted. When you are leaving for the office at 7:00 AM, clutching a travel mug of espresso like a literal lifeline, he is usually stumbling in from a red-eye flight or a chaotic after-party, vintage camera bag slung over his broad shoulder, looking like walking sin. He shoots campaigns for the very designers you write about Prada, Tom Ford, Givenchy. He’s wildly successful, famously elusive, and infuriatingly gorgeous.
The few times you’ve bumped into each other by the mailboxes, the air between you has been thick and crackling, reduced to polite, breathless nods and low, rumbling “mornings” from him that send a shiver straight down your spine.
You pour a heavy, generous pour of Pinot Noir and make it exactly halfway to your plush sofa when the piercing, apocalyptic shriek of the building’s fire alarm shatters the quiet.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you groan aloud, nearly spilling your wine all over your expensive Moroccan rug.
The alarm doesn't stop. It wails with a violent, ear-splitting urgency that vibrates in your teeth. You slam the wine glass down on the counter, your heart kicking into a frantic, panicked rhythm against your ribs. You grab your phone, slide your bare feet into a pair of slip-on Converse sneakers, and bolt for the door. You don't even think to grab a coat, completely forgetting you are only wearing a thin tank top.
Throwing the heavy door open, you're immediately hit by the chaotic din of the hallway. Neighbors are spilling out of their apartments, eyes wide, voices overlapping in confused, sleepy panic. There’s no thick, suffocating smoke rolling down the ceiling, but there is a distinct, pungent odor wafting through the air, burnt plastic and cheap, stale weed.
You push through the milling crowd toward the end of the hallway where the heavy, reinforced fire escape door leads out to the iron stairwell. It’s supposed to be the fastest way out for the fourth floor, bypassing the narrow, claustrophobic central staircase that is already clogged with people from the upper floors.
You reach the heavy metal door, grasping the emergency push-bar. You shove your weight against it, but the mechanism is stubbornly jammed. The ancient hinges groan, resisting your effort. Panic flares hot in your chest as the alarm continues its deafening, relentless assault. You hit the bar again with the heel of your hand, swearing violently under your breath. “Come on, you piece of shit, fucking open!”
“Hey, back up. Let me get it.”
The voice is deep, calm, and immediately recognizable. A large, warm hand clamps down over your bare shoulder, gently but firmly pulling you back. The touch sends a jolt of electricity straight through your system. You stumble slightly, looking up to see Bucky Barnes stepping in front of you.
He looks like he threw his clothes on in a matter of seconds, but somehow he still looks effortlessly magnetic. He’s wearing a battered, heavy leather jacket zipped hastily over a dark grey hoodie, clearly his go-to “emergency” grab, paired with dark jeans. His dark hair is a messy, beautiful tangle falling into his striking, sharp blue eyes. He doesn't look panicked at all; he just looks mildly annoyed at the inconvenience.
Bucky places his hand, his knuckles dusted with faint scars, flat against the door. His other hand grips the heavy iron bar. With a sharp, sudden flex of his broad shoulders beneath the layers of leather and cotton, he shoves. There’s a loud, metallic crack as the rusted latch finally gives way, and the heavy door flies open, letting in a violent rush of crisp, freezing night air.
“Ladies first…” Bucky says, his voice a low, rough rumble over the screeching alarm. He throws you a quick, reassuring smirk that makes your stomach do a completely unhelpful flip.
“Thanks…” you breathe out, stepping past him onto the grated iron platform of the fire escape. The sudden, brutal drop in temperature immediately bites through your thin tank top, raising goosebumps all over your arms. You shiver instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. The city below is alive, a swirling mass of neon lights, honking cabs, and the distant, rapidly approaching wail of fire sirens.
Bucky steps out right behind you, his large frame blocking a bit of the wind. The platform isn't exactly spacious. You’re forced to stand close together, backed against the rough brick wall of the building as a few other neighbors push past, hurrying down the zigzagging iron stairs to the narrow alleyway below.
You stay put on the landing, the cold metal of the railing biting into your lower back. Bucky leans casually against the brickwork beside you, entirely unbothered by the frantic exodus of the rest of the floor. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, snapping a Zippo lighter open with his thumb. The flame illuminates the sharp, strong lines of his jaw and the relaxed, easy set of his mouth.
“You're not going down?” you ask, your teeth beginning to chatter slightly as the autumn wind whips around the building.
He takes a slow drag, blowing the smoke out into the chilled air, the plume mixing with his breath. He shakes his head, his blue eyes dropping to meet yours. “Nah. We’re on the fourth floor, Y/n. If the building was actually going up in flames, you'd feel the structural heat by now. Look down there.” He gestures lazily over the railing with his cigarette.
You uncross your arms for a second to peer over. The flashing red and white lights of a massive fire truck are already bouncing off the damp brick walls of the alley. Firefighters are piling out, moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no frantic shouting, no rushing of heavy water hoses. They look bored.
“It's that little shit, Tyler, from the third floor…” Bucky says, a lazy, amused grin spreading across his face. “The twenty-something kid with the terrible bleach job?”
You snort, leaning back against the wall next to him. “The one who constantly leaves his empty, greasy pizza boxes in the stairwell?”
“That’s the one!” Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich, settling warmly in your chest despite the freezing temperature. “Fucker bought some bad shit, got paranoid, and tried to hotbox his walk-in closet to hide the smell from his roommate. Dropped his lit joint into a pile of synthetic nylon gym bags. Smoked up the whole damn floor. Fucking idiot.”
You can't help it, you let out a loud, genuine laugh, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders. “Are you serious? God, I thought my night couldn't get any more ridiculous. I was exactly halfway to the sofa with a very necessary, very expensive glass of wine.”
Bucky’s eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, taking in your messy bun, your thin white tank top, the faded sweatpants, and your bare ankles above your sneakers. There’s a sudden, heavy shift in the air between you, the kind of charged, undeniable electricity that has always simmered beneath the surface during your brief hallway encounters, but amplified tenfold now that you are isolated above the city streets.
He notices you shivering, your shoulders hitched up to your ears. Without a word, he unzips his leather jacket, shrugs it off his broad shoulders, and drapes it heavily over yours. The jacket is massive on you, smelling incredibly of rich leather, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of darkroom chemicals. It’s wonderfully, instantly warm from his body heat.
“Shame to interrupt a good drink…” he murmurs, leaving him in just his dark grey hoodie. His voice drops an octave, rumbling low. “Especially after the week you've had. I saw the layout for the September issue you pushed through. You completely gutted the initial spread and rebuilt it. It’s sharp as hell, Y/n. Visceral. I liked it.”
You stare at him, genuinely shocked, pulling the lapels of his leather jacket tighter around your chest. “You read my editorials? I didn't think big-shot, high-fashion photographers cared about the text formatting or the written features.”
“I care when the text is actually worth reading.” he replies smoothly, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer, holding your gaze intently. “Most of the shit in that magazine is vapid, corporate garbage aimed at selling insecure women overpriced handbags. But you actually give a fuck. You write about the clothes like they’re armor. Like they matter to a person's identity. It's good. Fucking brilliant, actually.”
A flush that has absolutely nothing to do with the freezing wind creeps up your neck and colors your cheeks. You’ve worked your ass off for years to get to this position, battling rampant sexism and corporate greed, and hearing validation from someone whose artistic eye you deeply respect, someone who usually terrifies the industry’s top editors with his uncompromising, brilliant vision, feels incredibly intoxicating.
“Well…” you manage to say, fighting down a proud smile, “coming from the guy who shot the entire Milan campaign in a literal abandoned slaughterhouse just to prove a point about the brutality of fast fashion, I'll take that as a massive compliment.”
Bucky chuckles, tossing his cigarette over the edge and watching the glowing ember fall into the darkness. “It was a statement. And the creative director almost had a fucking aneurysm on set. It was hilarious. I thought the guy was going to actually weep when I brought the fake blood out.”
You spend the next forty-five minutes just talking. It’s remarkably, dangerously easy. The cold air bites at your exposed face, but wrapped in Bucky's heavy leather jacket, with the heat radiating from his large frame beside you, you feel perfectly anchored. You talk about the industry, tearing down the inflated egos of terrible designers, laughing at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the fashion world. He is completely unfiltered, swearing casually, his observations sharp, cynical, and ruthlessly funny. You find yourself matching his energy, completely dropping your polished professional mask. You let out your own frustrations about your boss, the agonizing late nights, the constant, draining pressure to be perfect in an industry that profits off imperfection.
It's liberating. Here on this rusted fire escape, suspended above the noisy, chaotic city, stripped of your titles and your pristine outfits, you are just you and Bucky. Two overworked, exhausted people finding a bizarre, unexpected sanctuary in a false alarm. You realize you haven't talked to anyone this easily in months. Maybe years. Every time he looks at you, his blue eyes are heavy with a quiet, intense interest that makes your pulse hammer in your throat.
Down below, the fire truck’s massive diesel engines roar to life, shaking the pavement. The firefighters have cleared the building, evidently dealing with Tyler and his melted nylon bags, and are slowly backing the massive rig out of the narrow street. The flashing red lights click off, plunging the alleyway back into its usual, shadowed dimness.
“Looks like the show's over…” you say, a strange, totally unexpected pang of disappointment tightening your chest. You don't want this bubble to pop. You don't want to go back to being just passing strangers in the hallway.
Bucky looks down at the departing truck, then back at you. His eyes linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer than is strictly polite before he offers a soft, entirely devastating smile. “Yeah. Suppose we should get back inside before you freeze to death, even with my jacket. I'll let you get back to your wine. Though, honestly, I've got a bottle of rare Kentucky bourbon in my place that easily beats whatever vintage you’re currently drinking.”
You raise an eyebrow, a bold, teasing smirk playing on your mouth. “Is that an invitation, Barnes? Are you trying to get me drunk on a Tuesday?”
“Maybe…” he says softly, turning toward the heavy metal door, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Depends entirely if you can handle your liquor. I don't drink with lightweights.”
He reaches out, his large hand grasping the iron handle of the fire escape door. He pulls.
Nothing happens.
He frowns, his jaw tightening. He grips the handle with both hands, planting his heavy boots firmly on the grated metal floor, and gives it a massive, violent yank. The door rattles loudly in its steel frame, echoing in the quiet night, but it doesn't budge even a fraction of an inch.
The quiet amusement instantly vanishes from Bucky's face. He drops his hands, staring at the thick, unyielding metal.
“What's wrong?” you ask, stepping closer, your heart skipping a nervous beat.
Bucky turns his head, looking over his shoulder at you. The easy, flirtatious energy has completely evaporated, replaced by a grim, deadpan expression that would be terrifying if it wasn't so incredibly hot.
“Some paranoid fucker closed the door behind us.” Bucky says, his voice completely flat.
“Okay, so... just push the bar from this side?” you suggest, your voice pitching up slightly in alarm.
“It's a one-way emergency exit…” Bucky sighs, dragging his hand heavily down his face in deep, profound aggravation. “It only opens from the inside. When the door shuts, the deadbolt drops automatically so people can't use the fire escape to break into the building from the alley.”
You stare at him, the reality of the situation slowly crashing down on you like a bucket of ice water. The freezing air suddenly feels ten times colder. The distant, mocking noise of the city seems to laugh at you.
“Are you... are you fucking kidding me right now?” you ask, your voice trembling between genuine panic and absolute disbelief.
Bucky leans back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, his grey hoodie pulling tight over his biceps. He lets out a long, heavy breath, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips as he runs a hand through his messy hair.
“Well, shit…” he mutters, looking at you with a mixture of apology and dark, undeniable amusement. “Looks like we’re officially locked out. Good thing you've got my jacket, doll, because it's going to be a long fucking night.”
Warning- Fluff, neighbors trope, fire alarms- nothing serious.
You drop your keys onto the small ceramic bowl by the door, the sharp clatter echoing through the suffocating silence of your apartment.
Another grueling, soul-sucking Tuesday at the magazine has finally bled into Tuesday night.
As a senior features editor for one of the city's premier fashion publications, your life is a relentless cycle of impossible deadlines, neurotic art directors, and endless, soul-crushing pitch meetings. Today was particularly brutal. You spent four hours arguing with a tyrannical editor-in-chief who wanted to kill your ten-page exposé on sustainable supply chains in favor of another vapid, ghostwritten celebrity puff piece. You won, barely, but the victory left you drained of every ounce of serotonin you possessed.
You kick off your heels, your feet throbbing in rhythm with your budding headache, and aggressively peel off your tailored, restrictive office clothes. You are tired and all you want is comfort, a dangerously tall glass of wine, and twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep. You quickly strip down, have a quick shower and slip into your favorite, most worn-out pair of oversized comfy sweats and a thin, white ribbed tank top. It’s not a look meant for public consumption, but it’s heaven against your tired skin.
You pad into the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your bare feet. You live in a beautiful, historic brownstone, the kind with character, which is just a real estate euphemism for faulty plumbing, thin walls, and drafty windows. It’s a good building, though. Quiet, mostly.
Except for the fact that your immediate neighbor across the hall is James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky, to the people who actually know him. To you, he is just the impossibly attractive, enigmatic fashion photographer who occupies apartment 4B.
You rarely see him. Your schedules are entirely inverted. When you are leaving for the office at 7:00 AM, clutching a travel mug of espresso like a literal lifeline, he is usually stumbling in from a red-eye flight or a chaotic after-party, vintage camera bag slung over his broad shoulder, looking like walking sin. He shoots campaigns for the very designers you write about Prada, Tom Ford, Givenchy. He’s wildly successful, famously elusive, and infuriatingly gorgeous.
The few times you’ve bumped into each other by the mailboxes, the air between you has been thick and crackling, reduced to polite, breathless nods and low, rumbling “mornings” from him that send a shiver straight down your spine.
You pour a heavy, generous pour of Pinot Noir and make it exactly halfway to your plush sofa when the piercing, apocalyptic shriek of the building’s fire alarm shatters the quiet.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you groan aloud, nearly spilling your wine all over your expensive Moroccan rug.
The alarm doesn't stop. It wails with a violent, ear-splitting urgency that vibrates in your teeth. You slam the wine glass down on the counter, your heart kicking into a frantic, panicked rhythm against your ribs. You grab your phone, slide your bare feet into a pair of slip-on Converse sneakers, and bolt for the door. You don't even think to grab a coat, completely forgetting you are only wearing a thin tank top.
Throwing the heavy door open, you're immediately hit by the chaotic din of the hallway. Neighbors are spilling out of their apartments, eyes wide, voices overlapping in confused, sleepy panic. There’s no thick, suffocating smoke rolling down the ceiling, but there is a distinct, pungent odor wafting through the air, burnt plastic and cheap, stale weed.
You push through the milling crowd toward the end of the hallway where the heavy, reinforced fire escape door leads out to the iron stairwell. It’s supposed to be the fastest way out for the fourth floor, bypassing the narrow, claustrophobic central staircase that is already clogged with people from the upper floors.
You reach the heavy metal door, grasping the emergency push-bar. You shove your weight against it, but the mechanism is stubbornly jammed. The ancient hinges groan, resisting your effort. Panic flares hot in your chest as the alarm continues its deafening, relentless assault. You hit the bar again with the heel of your hand, swearing violently under your breath. “Come on, you piece of shit, fucking open!”
“Hey, back up. Let me get it.”
The voice is deep, calm, and immediately recognizable. A large, warm hand clamps down over your bare shoulder, gently but firmly pulling you back. The touch sends a jolt of electricity straight through your system. You stumble slightly, looking up to see Bucky Barnes stepping in front of you.
He looks like he threw his clothes on in a matter of seconds, but somehow he still looks effortlessly magnetic. He’s wearing a battered, heavy leather jacket zipped hastily over a dark grey hoodie, clearly his go-to “emergency” grab, paired with dark jeans. His dark hair is a messy, beautiful tangle falling into his striking, sharp blue eyes. He doesn't look panicked at all; he just looks mildly annoyed at the inconvenience.
Bucky places his hand, his knuckles dusted with faint scars, flat against the door. His other hand grips the heavy iron bar. With a sharp, sudden flex of his broad shoulders beneath the layers of leather and cotton, he shoves. There’s a loud, metallic crack as the rusted latch finally gives way, and the heavy door flies open, letting in a violent rush of crisp, freezing night air.
“Ladies first…” Bucky says, his voice a low, rough rumble over the screeching alarm. He throws you a quick, reassuring smirk that makes your stomach do a completely unhelpful flip.
“Thanks…” you breathe out, stepping past him onto the grated iron platform of the fire escape. The sudden, brutal drop in temperature immediately bites through your thin tank top, raising goosebumps all over your arms. You shiver instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. The city below is alive, a swirling mass of neon lights, honking cabs, and the distant, rapidly approaching wail of fire sirens.
Bucky steps out right behind you, his large frame blocking a bit of the wind. The platform isn't exactly spacious. You’re forced to stand close together, backed against the rough brick wall of the building as a few other neighbors push past, hurrying down the zigzagging iron stairs to the narrow alleyway below.
You stay put on the landing, the cold metal of the railing biting into your lower back. Bucky leans casually against the brickwork beside you, entirely unbothered by the frantic exodus of the rest of the floor. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, snapping a Zippo lighter open with his thumb. The flame illuminates the sharp, strong lines of his jaw and the relaxed, easy set of his mouth.
“You're not going down?” you ask, your teeth beginning to chatter slightly as the autumn wind whips around the building.
He takes a slow drag, blowing the smoke out into the chilled air, the plume mixing with his breath. He shakes his head, his blue eyes dropping to meet yours. “Nah. We’re on the fourth floor, Y/n. If the building was actually going up in flames, you'd feel the structural heat by now. Look down there.” He gestures lazily over the railing with his cigarette.
You uncross your arms for a second to peer over. The flashing red and white lights of a massive fire truck are already bouncing off the damp brick walls of the alley. Firefighters are piling out, moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no frantic shouting, no rushing of heavy water hoses. They look bored.
“It's that little shit, Tyler, from the third floor…” Bucky says, a lazy, amused grin spreading across his face. “The twenty-something kid with the terrible bleach job?”
You snort, leaning back against the wall next to him. “The one who constantly leaves his empty, greasy pizza boxes in the stairwell?”
“That’s the one!” Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich, settling warmly in your chest despite the freezing temperature. “Fucker bought some bad shit, got paranoid, and tried to hotbox his walk-in closet to hide the smell from his roommate. Dropped his lit joint into a pile of synthetic nylon gym bags. Smoked up the whole damn floor. Fucking idiot.”
You can't help it, you let out a loud, genuine laugh, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders. “Are you serious? God, I thought my night couldn't get any more ridiculous. I was exactly halfway to the sofa with a very necessary, very expensive glass of wine.”
Bucky’s eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, taking in your messy bun, your thin white tank top, the faded sweatpants, and your bare ankles above your sneakers. There’s a sudden, heavy shift in the air between you, the kind of charged, undeniable electricity that has always simmered beneath the surface during your brief hallway encounters, but amplified tenfold now that you are isolated above the city streets.
He notices you shivering, your shoulders hitched up to your ears. Without a word, he unzips his leather jacket, shrugs it off his broad shoulders, and drapes it heavily over yours. The jacket is massive on you, smelling incredibly of rich leather, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of darkroom chemicals. It’s wonderfully, instantly warm from his body heat.
“Shame to interrupt a good drink…” he murmurs, leaving him in just his dark grey hoodie. His voice drops an octave, rumbling low. “Especially after the week you've had. I saw the layout for the September issue you pushed through. You completely gutted the initial spread and rebuilt it. It’s sharp as hell, Y/n. Visceral. I liked it.”
You stare at him, genuinely shocked, pulling the lapels of his leather jacket tighter around your chest. “You read my editorials? I didn't think big-shot, high-fashion photographers cared about the text formatting or the written features.”
“I care when the text is actually worth reading.” he replies smoothly, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer, holding your gaze intently. “Most of the shit in that magazine is vapid, corporate garbage aimed at selling insecure women overpriced handbags. But you actually give a fuck. You write about the clothes like they’re armor. Like they matter to a person's identity. It's good. Fucking brilliant, actually.”
A flush that has absolutely nothing to do with the freezing wind creeps up your neck and colors your cheeks. You’ve worked your ass off for years to get to this position, battling rampant sexism and corporate greed, and hearing validation from someone whose artistic eye you deeply respect, someone who usually terrifies the industry’s top editors with his uncompromising, brilliant vision, feels incredibly intoxicating.
“Well…” you manage to say, fighting down a proud smile, “coming from the guy who shot the entire Milan campaign in a literal abandoned slaughterhouse just to prove a point about the brutality of fast fashion, I'll take that as a massive compliment.”
Bucky chuckles, tossing his cigarette over the edge and watching the glowing ember fall into the darkness. “It was a statement. And the creative director almost had a fucking aneurysm on set. It was hilarious. I thought the guy was going to actually weep when I brought the fake blood out.”
You spend the next forty-five minutes just talking. It’s remarkably, dangerously easy. The cold air bites at your exposed face, but wrapped in Bucky's heavy leather jacket, with the heat radiating from his large frame beside you, you feel perfectly anchored. You talk about the industry, tearing down the inflated egos of terrible designers, laughing at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the fashion world. He is completely unfiltered, swearing casually, his observations sharp, cynical, and ruthlessly funny. You find yourself matching his energy, completely dropping your polished professional mask. You let out your own frustrations about your boss, the agonizing late nights, the constant, draining pressure to be perfect in an industry that profits off imperfection.
It's liberating. Here on this rusted fire escape, suspended above the noisy, chaotic city, stripped of your titles and your pristine outfits, you are just you and Bucky. Two overworked, exhausted people finding a bizarre, unexpected sanctuary in a false alarm. You realize you haven't talked to anyone this easily in months. Maybe years. Every time he looks at you, his blue eyes are heavy with a quiet, intense interest that makes your pulse hammer in your throat.
Down below, the fire truck’s massive diesel engines roar to life, shaking the pavement. The firefighters have cleared the building, evidently dealing with Tyler and his melted nylon bags, and are slowly backing the massive rig out of the narrow street. The flashing red lights click off, plunging the alleyway back into its usual, shadowed dimness.
“Looks like the show's over…” you say, a strange, totally unexpected pang of disappointment tightening your chest. You don't want this bubble to pop. You don't want to go back to being just passing strangers in the hallway.
Bucky looks down at the departing truck, then back at you. His eyes linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer than is strictly polite before he offers a soft, entirely devastating smile. “Yeah. Suppose we should get back inside before you freeze to death, even with my jacket. I'll let you get back to your wine. Though, honestly, I've got a bottle of rare Kentucky bourbon in my place that easily beats whatever vintage you’re currently drinking.”
You raise an eyebrow, a bold, teasing smirk playing on your mouth. “Is that an invitation, Barnes? Are you trying to get me drunk on a Tuesday?”
“Maybe…” he says softly, turning toward the heavy metal door, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Depends entirely if you can handle your liquor. I don't drink with lightweights.”
He reaches out, his large hand grasping the iron handle of the fire escape door. He pulls.
Nothing happens.
He frowns, his jaw tightening. He grips the handle with both hands, planting his heavy boots firmly on the grated metal floor, and gives it a massive, violent yank. The door rattles loudly in its steel frame, echoing in the quiet night, but it doesn't budge even a fraction of an inch.
The quiet amusement instantly vanishes from Bucky's face. He drops his hands, staring at the thick, unyielding metal.
“What's wrong?” you ask, stepping closer, your heart skipping a nervous beat.
Bucky turns his head, looking over his shoulder at you. The easy, flirtatious energy has completely evaporated, replaced by a grim, deadpan expression that would be terrifying if it wasn't so incredibly hot.
“Some paranoid fucker closed the door behind us.” Bucky says, his voice completely flat.
“Okay, so... just push the bar from this side?” you suggest, your voice pitching up slightly in alarm.
“It's a one-way emergency exit…” Bucky sighs, dragging his hand heavily down his face in deep, profound aggravation. “It only opens from the inside. When the door shuts, the deadbolt drops automatically so people can't use the fire escape to break into the building from the alley.”
You stare at him, the reality of the situation slowly crashing down on you like a bucket of ice water. The freezing air suddenly feels ten times colder. The distant, mocking noise of the city seems to laugh at you.
“Are you... are you fucking kidding me right now?” you ask, your voice trembling between genuine panic and absolute disbelief.
Bucky leans back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, his grey hoodie pulling tight over his biceps. He lets out a long, heavy breath, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips as he runs a hand through his messy hair.
“Well, shit…” he mutters, looking at you with a mixture of apology and dark, undeniable amusement. “Looks like we’re officially locked out. Good thing you've got my jacket, doll, because it's going to be a long fucking night.”
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Warning- Fluff, neighbors trope, fire alarms- nothing serious.
You drop your keys onto the small ceramic bowl by the door, the sharp clatter echoing through the suffocating silence of your apartment.
Another grueling, soul-sucking Tuesday at the magazine has finally bled into Tuesday night.
As a senior features editor for one of the city's premier fashion publications, your life is a relentless cycle of impossible deadlines, neurotic art directors, and endless, soul-crushing pitch meetings. Today was particularly brutal. You spent four hours arguing with a tyrannical editor-in-chief who wanted to kill your ten-page exposé on sustainable supply chains in favor of another vapid, ghostwritten celebrity puff piece. You won, barely, but the victory left you drained of every ounce of serotonin you possessed.
You kick off your heels, your feet throbbing in rhythm with your budding headache, and aggressively peel off your tailored, restrictive office clothes. You are tired and all you want is comfort, a dangerously tall glass of wine, and twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep. You quickly strip down, have a quick shower and slip into your favorite, most worn-out pair of oversized comfy sweats and a thin, white ribbed tank top. It’s not a look meant for public consumption, but it’s heaven against your tired skin.
You pad into the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your bare feet. You live in a beautiful, historic brownstone, the kind with character, which is just a real estate euphemism for faulty plumbing, thin walls, and drafty windows. It’s a good building, though. Quiet, mostly.
Except for the fact that your immediate neighbor across the hall is James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky, to the people who actually know him. To you, he is just the impossibly attractive, enigmatic fashion photographer who occupies apartment 4B.
You rarely see him. Your schedules are entirely inverted. When you are leaving for the office at 7:00 AM, clutching a travel mug of espresso like a literal lifeline, he is usually stumbling in from a red-eye flight or a chaotic after-party, vintage camera bag slung over his broad shoulder, looking like walking sin. He shoots campaigns for the very designers you write about Prada, Tom Ford, Givenchy. He’s wildly successful, famously elusive, and infuriatingly gorgeous.
The few times you’ve bumped into each other by the mailboxes, the air between you has been thick and crackling, reduced to polite, breathless nods and low, rumbling “mornings” from him that send a shiver straight down your spine.
You pour a heavy, generous pour of Pinot Noir and make it exactly halfway to your plush sofa when the piercing, apocalyptic shriek of the building’s fire alarm shatters the quiet.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you groan aloud, nearly spilling your wine all over your expensive Moroccan rug.
The alarm doesn't stop. It wails with a violent, ear-splitting urgency that vibrates in your teeth. You slam the wine glass down on the counter, your heart kicking into a frantic, panicked rhythm against your ribs. You grab your phone, slide your bare feet into a pair of slip-on Converse sneakers, and bolt for the door. You don't even think to grab a coat, completely forgetting you are only wearing a thin tank top.
Throwing the heavy door open, you're immediately hit by the chaotic din of the hallway. Neighbors are spilling out of their apartments, eyes wide, voices overlapping in confused, sleepy panic. There’s no thick, suffocating smoke rolling down the ceiling, but there is a distinct, pungent odor wafting through the air, burnt plastic and cheap, stale weed.
You push through the milling crowd toward the end of the hallway where the heavy, reinforced fire escape door leads out to the iron stairwell. It’s supposed to be the fastest way out for the fourth floor, bypassing the narrow, claustrophobic central staircase that is already clogged with people from the upper floors.
You reach the heavy metal door, grasping the emergency push-bar. You shove your weight against it, but the mechanism is stubbornly jammed. The ancient hinges groan, resisting your effort. Panic flares hot in your chest as the alarm continues its deafening, relentless assault. You hit the bar again with the heel of your hand, swearing violently under your breath. “Come on, you piece of shit, fucking open!”
“Hey, back up. Let me get it.”
The voice is deep, calm, and immediately recognizable. A large, warm hand clamps down over your bare shoulder, gently but firmly pulling you back. The touch sends a jolt of electricity straight through your system. You stumble slightly, looking up to see Bucky Barnes stepping in front of you.
He looks like he threw his clothes on in a matter of seconds, but somehow he still looks effortlessly magnetic. He’s wearing a battered, heavy leather jacket zipped hastily over a dark grey hoodie, clearly his go-to “emergency” grab, paired with dark jeans. His dark hair is a messy, beautiful tangle falling into his striking, sharp blue eyes. He doesn't look panicked at all; he just looks mildly annoyed at the inconvenience.
Bucky places his hand, his knuckles dusted with faint scars, flat against the door. His other hand grips the heavy iron bar. With a sharp, sudden flex of his broad shoulders beneath the layers of leather and cotton, he shoves. There’s a loud, metallic crack as the rusted latch finally gives way, and the heavy door flies open, letting in a violent rush of crisp, freezing night air.
“Ladies first…” Bucky says, his voice a low, rough rumble over the screeching alarm. He throws you a quick, reassuring smirk that makes your stomach do a completely unhelpful flip.
“Thanks…” you breathe out, stepping past him onto the grated iron platform of the fire escape. The sudden, brutal drop in temperature immediately bites through your thin tank top, raising goosebumps all over your arms. You shiver instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. The city below is alive, a swirling mass of neon lights, honking cabs, and the distant, rapidly approaching wail of fire sirens.
Bucky steps out right behind you, his large frame blocking a bit of the wind. The platform isn't exactly spacious. You’re forced to stand close together, backed against the rough brick wall of the building as a few other neighbors push past, hurrying down the zigzagging iron stairs to the narrow alleyway below.
You stay put on the landing, the cold metal of the railing biting into your lower back. Bucky leans casually against the brickwork beside you, entirely unbothered by the frantic exodus of the rest of the floor. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, snapping a Zippo lighter open with his thumb. The flame illuminates the sharp, strong lines of his jaw and the relaxed, easy set of his mouth.
“You're not going down?” you ask, your teeth beginning to chatter slightly as the autumn wind whips around the building.
He takes a slow drag, blowing the smoke out into the chilled air, the plume mixing with his breath. He shakes his head, his blue eyes dropping to meet yours. “Nah. We’re on the fourth floor, Y/n. If the building was actually going up in flames, you'd feel the structural heat by now. Look down there.” He gestures lazily over the railing with his cigarette.
You uncross your arms for a second to peer over. The flashing red and white lights of a massive fire truck are already bouncing off the damp brick walls of the alley. Firefighters are piling out, moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no frantic shouting, no rushing of heavy water hoses. They look bored.
“It's that little shit, Tyler, from the third floor…” Bucky says, a lazy, amused grin spreading across his face. “The twenty-something kid with the terrible bleach job?”
You snort, leaning back against the wall next to him. “The one who constantly leaves his empty, greasy pizza boxes in the stairwell?”
“That’s the one!” Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich, settling warmly in your chest despite the freezing temperature. “Fucker bought some bad shit, got paranoid, and tried to hotbox his walk-in closet to hide the smell from his roommate. Dropped his lit joint into a pile of synthetic nylon gym bags. Smoked up the whole damn floor. Fucking idiot.”
You can't help it, you let out a loud, genuine laugh, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders. “Are you serious? God, I thought my night couldn't get any more ridiculous. I was exactly halfway to the sofa with a very necessary, very expensive glass of wine.”
Bucky’s eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, taking in your messy bun, your thin white tank top, the faded sweatpants, and your bare ankles above your sneakers. There’s a sudden, heavy shift in the air between you, the kind of charged, undeniable electricity that has always simmered beneath the surface during your brief hallway encounters, but amplified tenfold now that you are isolated above the city streets.
He notices you shivering, your shoulders hitched up to your ears. Without a word, he unzips his leather jacket, shrugs it off his broad shoulders, and drapes it heavily over yours. The jacket is massive on you, smelling incredibly of rich leather, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of darkroom chemicals. It’s wonderfully, instantly warm from his body heat.
“Shame to interrupt a good drink…” he murmurs, leaving him in just his dark grey hoodie. His voice drops an octave, rumbling low. “Especially after the week you've had. I saw the layout for the September issue you pushed through. You completely gutted the initial spread and rebuilt it. It’s sharp as hell, Y/n. Visceral. I liked it.”
You stare at him, genuinely shocked, pulling the lapels of his leather jacket tighter around your chest. “You read my editorials? I didn't think big-shot, high-fashion photographers cared about the text formatting or the written features.”
“I care when the text is actually worth reading.” he replies smoothly, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer, holding your gaze intently. “Most of the shit in that magazine is vapid, corporate garbage aimed at selling insecure women overpriced handbags. But you actually give a fuck. You write about the clothes like they’re armor. Like they matter to a person's identity. It's good. Fucking brilliant, actually.”
A flush that has absolutely nothing to do with the freezing wind creeps up your neck and colors your cheeks. You’ve worked your ass off for years to get to this position, battling rampant sexism and corporate greed, and hearing validation from someone whose artistic eye you deeply respect, someone who usually terrifies the industry’s top editors with his uncompromising, brilliant vision, feels incredibly intoxicating.
“Well…” you manage to say, fighting down a proud smile, “coming from the guy who shot the entire Milan campaign in a literal abandoned slaughterhouse just to prove a point about the brutality of fast fashion, I'll take that as a massive compliment.”
Bucky chuckles, tossing his cigarette over the edge and watching the glowing ember fall into the darkness. “It was a statement. And the creative director almost had a fucking aneurysm on set. It was hilarious. I thought the guy was going to actually weep when I brought the fake blood out.”
You spend the next forty-five minutes just talking. It’s remarkably, dangerously easy. The cold air bites at your exposed face, but wrapped in Bucky's heavy leather jacket, with the heat radiating from his large frame beside you, you feel perfectly anchored. You talk about the industry, tearing down the inflated egos of terrible designers, laughing at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the fashion world. He is completely unfiltered, swearing casually, his observations sharp, cynical, and ruthlessly funny. You find yourself matching his energy, completely dropping your polished professional mask. You let out your own frustrations about your boss, the agonizing late nights, the constant, draining pressure to be perfect in an industry that profits off imperfection.
It's liberating. Here on this rusted fire escape, suspended above the noisy, chaotic city, stripped of your titles and your pristine outfits, you are just you and Bucky. Two overworked, exhausted people finding a bizarre, unexpected sanctuary in a false alarm. You realize you haven't talked to anyone this easily in months. Maybe years. Every time he looks at you, his blue eyes are heavy with a quiet, intense interest that makes your pulse hammer in your throat.
Down below, the fire truck’s massive diesel engines roar to life, shaking the pavement. The firefighters have cleared the building, evidently dealing with Tyler and his melted nylon bags, and are slowly backing the massive rig out of the narrow street. The flashing red lights click off, plunging the alleyway back into its usual, shadowed dimness.
“Looks like the show's over…” you say, a strange, totally unexpected pang of disappointment tightening your chest. You don't want this bubble to pop. You don't want to go back to being just passing strangers in the hallway.
Bucky looks down at the departing truck, then back at you. His eyes linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer than is strictly polite before he offers a soft, entirely devastating smile. “Yeah. Suppose we should get back inside before you freeze to death, even with my jacket. I'll let you get back to your wine. Though, honestly, I've got a bottle of rare Kentucky bourbon in my place that easily beats whatever vintage you’re currently drinking.”
You raise an eyebrow, a bold, teasing smirk playing on your mouth. “Is that an invitation, Barnes? Are you trying to get me drunk on a Tuesday?”
“Maybe…” he says softly, turning toward the heavy metal door, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Depends entirely if you can handle your liquor. I don't drink with lightweights.”
He reaches out, his large hand grasping the iron handle of the fire escape door. He pulls.
Nothing happens.
He frowns, his jaw tightening. He grips the handle with both hands, planting his heavy boots firmly on the grated metal floor, and gives it a massive, violent yank. The door rattles loudly in its steel frame, echoing in the quiet night, but it doesn't budge even a fraction of an inch.
The quiet amusement instantly vanishes from Bucky's face. He drops his hands, staring at the thick, unyielding metal.
“What's wrong?” you ask, stepping closer, your heart skipping a nervous beat.
Bucky turns his head, looking over his shoulder at you. The easy, flirtatious energy has completely evaporated, replaced by a grim, deadpan expression that would be terrifying if it wasn't so incredibly hot.
“Some paranoid fucker closed the door behind us.” Bucky says, his voice completely flat.
“Okay, so... just push the bar from this side?” you suggest, your voice pitching up slightly in alarm.
“It's a one-way emergency exit…” Bucky sighs, dragging his hand heavily down his face in deep, profound aggravation. “It only opens from the inside. When the door shuts, the deadbolt drops automatically so people can't use the fire escape to break into the building from the alley.”
You stare at him, the reality of the situation slowly crashing down on you like a bucket of ice water. The freezing air suddenly feels ten times colder. The distant, mocking noise of the city seems to laugh at you.
“Are you... are you fucking kidding me right now?” you ask, your voice trembling between genuine panic and absolute disbelief.
Bucky leans back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, his grey hoodie pulling tight over his biceps. He lets out a long, heavy breath, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips as he runs a hand through his messy hair.
“Well, shit…” he mutters, looking at you with a mixture of apology and dark, undeniable amusement. “Looks like we’re officially locked out. Good thing you've got my jacket, doll, because it's going to be a long fucking night.”
Warning- Fluff, neighbors trope, fire alarms- nothing serious.
You drop your keys onto the small ceramic bowl by the door, the sharp clatter echoing through the suffocating silence of your apartment.
Another grueling, soul-sucking Tuesday at the magazine has finally bled into Tuesday night.
As a senior features editor for one of the city's premier fashion publications, your life is a relentless cycle of impossible deadlines, neurotic art directors, and endless, soul-crushing pitch meetings. Today was particularly brutal. You spent four hours arguing with a tyrannical editor-in-chief who wanted to kill your ten-page exposé on sustainable supply chains in favor of another vapid, ghostwritten celebrity puff piece. You won, barely, but the victory left you drained of every ounce of serotonin you possessed.
You kick off your heels, your feet throbbing in rhythm with your budding headache, and aggressively peel off your tailored, restrictive office clothes. You are tired and all you want is comfort, a dangerously tall glass of wine, and twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep. You quickly strip down, have a quick shower and slip into your favorite, most worn-out pair of oversized comfy sweats and a thin, white ribbed tank top. It’s not a look meant for public consumption, but it’s heaven against your tired skin.
You pad into the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your bare feet. You live in a beautiful, historic brownstone, the kind with character, which is just a real estate euphemism for faulty plumbing, thin walls, and drafty windows. It’s a good building, though. Quiet, mostly.
Except for the fact that your immediate neighbor across the hall is James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky, to the people who actually know him. To you, he is just the impossibly attractive, enigmatic fashion photographer who occupies apartment 4B.
You rarely see him. Your schedules are entirely inverted. When you are leaving for the office at 7:00 AM, clutching a travel mug of espresso like a literal lifeline, he is usually stumbling in from a red-eye flight or a chaotic after-party, vintage camera bag slung over his broad shoulder, looking like walking sin. He shoots campaigns for the very designers you write about Prada, Tom Ford, Givenchy. He’s wildly successful, famously elusive, and infuriatingly gorgeous.
The few times you’ve bumped into each other by the mailboxes, the air between you has been thick and crackling, reduced to polite, breathless nods and low, rumbling “mornings” from him that send a shiver straight down your spine.
You pour a heavy, generous pour of Pinot Noir and make it exactly halfway to your plush sofa when the piercing, apocalyptic shriek of the building’s fire alarm shatters the quiet.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you groan aloud, nearly spilling your wine all over your expensive Moroccan rug.
The alarm doesn't stop. It wails with a violent, ear-splitting urgency that vibrates in your teeth. You slam the wine glass down on the counter, your heart kicking into a frantic, panicked rhythm against your ribs. You grab your phone, slide your bare feet into a pair of slip-on Converse sneakers, and bolt for the door. You don't even think to grab a coat, completely forgetting you are only wearing a thin tank top.
Throwing the heavy door open, you're immediately hit by the chaotic din of the hallway. Neighbors are spilling out of their apartments, eyes wide, voices overlapping in confused, sleepy panic. There’s no thick, suffocating smoke rolling down the ceiling, but there is a distinct, pungent odor wafting through the air, burnt plastic and cheap, stale weed.
You push through the milling crowd toward the end of the hallway where the heavy, reinforced fire escape door leads out to the iron stairwell. It’s supposed to be the fastest way out for the fourth floor, bypassing the narrow, claustrophobic central staircase that is already clogged with people from the upper floors.
You reach the heavy metal door, grasping the emergency push-bar. You shove your weight against it, but the mechanism is stubbornly jammed. The ancient hinges groan, resisting your effort. Panic flares hot in your chest as the alarm continues its deafening, relentless assault. You hit the bar again with the heel of your hand, swearing violently under your breath. “Come on, you piece of shit, fucking open!”
“Hey, back up. Let me get it.”
The voice is deep, calm, and immediately recognizable. A large, warm hand clamps down over your bare shoulder, gently but firmly pulling you back. The touch sends a jolt of electricity straight through your system. You stumble slightly, looking up to see Bucky Barnes stepping in front of you.
He looks like he threw his clothes on in a matter of seconds, but somehow he still looks effortlessly magnetic. He’s wearing a battered, heavy leather jacket zipped hastily over a dark grey hoodie, clearly his go-to “emergency” grab, paired with dark jeans. His dark hair is a messy, beautiful tangle falling into his striking, sharp blue eyes. He doesn't look panicked at all; he just looks mildly annoyed at the inconvenience.
Bucky places his hand, his knuckles dusted with faint scars, flat against the door. His other hand grips the heavy iron bar. With a sharp, sudden flex of his broad shoulders beneath the layers of leather and cotton, he shoves. There’s a loud, metallic crack as the rusted latch finally gives way, and the heavy door flies open, letting in a violent rush of crisp, freezing night air.
“Ladies first…” Bucky says, his voice a low, rough rumble over the screeching alarm. He throws you a quick, reassuring smirk that makes your stomach do a completely unhelpful flip.
“Thanks…” you breathe out, stepping past him onto the grated iron platform of the fire escape. The sudden, brutal drop in temperature immediately bites through your thin tank top, raising goosebumps all over your arms. You shiver instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. The city below is alive, a swirling mass of neon lights, honking cabs, and the distant, rapidly approaching wail of fire sirens.
Bucky steps out right behind you, his large frame blocking a bit of the wind. The platform isn't exactly spacious. You’re forced to stand close together, backed against the rough brick wall of the building as a few other neighbors push past, hurrying down the zigzagging iron stairs to the narrow alleyway below.
You stay put on the landing, the cold metal of the railing biting into your lower back. Bucky leans casually against the brickwork beside you, entirely unbothered by the frantic exodus of the rest of the floor. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, snapping a Zippo lighter open with his thumb. The flame illuminates the sharp, strong lines of his jaw and the relaxed, easy set of his mouth.
“You're not going down?” you ask, your teeth beginning to chatter slightly as the autumn wind whips around the building.
He takes a slow drag, blowing the smoke out into the chilled air, the plume mixing with his breath. He shakes his head, his blue eyes dropping to meet yours. “Nah. We’re on the fourth floor, Y/n. If the building was actually going up in flames, you'd feel the structural heat by now. Look down there.” He gestures lazily over the railing with his cigarette.
You uncross your arms for a second to peer over. The flashing red and white lights of a massive fire truck are already bouncing off the damp brick walls of the alley. Firefighters are piling out, moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no frantic shouting, no rushing of heavy water hoses. They look bored.
“It's that little shit, Tyler, from the third floor…” Bucky says, a lazy, amused grin spreading across his face. “The twenty-something kid with the terrible bleach job?”
You snort, leaning back against the wall next to him. “The one who constantly leaves his empty, greasy pizza boxes in the stairwell?”
“That’s the one!” Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich, settling warmly in your chest despite the freezing temperature. “Fucker bought some bad shit, got paranoid, and tried to hotbox his walk-in closet to hide the smell from his roommate. Dropped his lit joint into a pile of synthetic nylon gym bags. Smoked up the whole damn floor. Fucking idiot.”
You can't help it, you let out a loud, genuine laugh, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders. “Are you serious? God, I thought my night couldn't get any more ridiculous. I was exactly halfway to the sofa with a very necessary, very expensive glass of wine.”
Bucky’s eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, taking in your messy bun, your thin white tank top, the faded sweatpants, and your bare ankles above your sneakers. There’s a sudden, heavy shift in the air between you, the kind of charged, undeniable electricity that has always simmered beneath the surface during your brief hallway encounters, but amplified tenfold now that you are isolated above the city streets.
He notices you shivering, your shoulders hitched up to your ears. Without a word, he unzips his leather jacket, shrugs it off his broad shoulders, and drapes it heavily over yours. The jacket is massive on you, smelling incredibly of rich leather, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of darkroom chemicals. It’s wonderfully, instantly warm from his body heat.
“Shame to interrupt a good drink…” he murmurs, leaving him in just his dark grey hoodie. His voice drops an octave, rumbling low. “Especially after the week you've had. I saw the layout for the September issue you pushed through. You completely gutted the initial spread and rebuilt it. It’s sharp as hell, Y/n. Visceral. I liked it.”
You stare at him, genuinely shocked, pulling the lapels of his leather jacket tighter around your chest. “You read my editorials? I didn't think big-shot, high-fashion photographers cared about the text formatting or the written features.”
“I care when the text is actually worth reading.” he replies smoothly, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer, holding your gaze intently. “Most of the shit in that magazine is vapid, corporate garbage aimed at selling insecure women overpriced handbags. But you actually give a fuck. You write about the clothes like they’re armor. Like they matter to a person's identity. It's good. Fucking brilliant, actually.”
A flush that has absolutely nothing to do with the freezing wind creeps up your neck and colors your cheeks. You’ve worked your ass off for years to get to this position, battling rampant sexism and corporate greed, and hearing validation from someone whose artistic eye you deeply respect, someone who usually terrifies the industry’s top editors with his uncompromising, brilliant vision, feels incredibly intoxicating.
“Well…” you manage to say, fighting down a proud smile, “coming from the guy who shot the entire Milan campaign in a literal abandoned slaughterhouse just to prove a point about the brutality of fast fashion, I'll take that as a massive compliment.”
Bucky chuckles, tossing his cigarette over the edge and watching the glowing ember fall into the darkness. “It was a statement. And the creative director almost had a fucking aneurysm on set. It was hilarious. I thought the guy was going to actually weep when I brought the fake blood out.”
You spend the next forty-five minutes just talking. It’s remarkably, dangerously easy. The cold air bites at your exposed face, but wrapped in Bucky's heavy leather jacket, with the heat radiating from his large frame beside you, you feel perfectly anchored. You talk about the industry, tearing down the inflated egos of terrible designers, laughing at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the fashion world. He is completely unfiltered, swearing casually, his observations sharp, cynical, and ruthlessly funny. You find yourself matching his energy, completely dropping your polished professional mask. You let out your own frustrations about your boss, the agonizing late nights, the constant, draining pressure to be perfect in an industry that profits off imperfection.
It's liberating. Here on this rusted fire escape, suspended above the noisy, chaotic city, stripped of your titles and your pristine outfits, you are just you and Bucky. Two overworked, exhausted people finding a bizarre, unexpected sanctuary in a false alarm. You realize you haven't talked to anyone this easily in months. Maybe years. Every time he looks at you, his blue eyes are heavy with a quiet, intense interest that makes your pulse hammer in your throat.
Down below, the fire truck’s massive diesel engines roar to life, shaking the pavement. The firefighters have cleared the building, evidently dealing with Tyler and his melted nylon bags, and are slowly backing the massive rig out of the narrow street. The flashing red lights click off, plunging the alleyway back into its usual, shadowed dimness.
“Looks like the show's over…” you say, a strange, totally unexpected pang of disappointment tightening your chest. You don't want this bubble to pop. You don't want to go back to being just passing strangers in the hallway.
Bucky looks down at the departing truck, then back at you. His eyes linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer than is strictly polite before he offers a soft, entirely devastating smile. “Yeah. Suppose we should get back inside before you freeze to death, even with my jacket. I'll let you get back to your wine. Though, honestly, I've got a bottle of rare Kentucky bourbon in my place that easily beats whatever vintage you’re currently drinking.”
You raise an eyebrow, a bold, teasing smirk playing on your mouth. “Is that an invitation, Barnes? Are you trying to get me drunk on a Tuesday?”
“Maybe…” he says softly, turning toward the heavy metal door, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Depends entirely if you can handle your liquor. I don't drink with lightweights.”
He reaches out, his large hand grasping the iron handle of the fire escape door. He pulls.
Nothing happens.
He frowns, his jaw tightening. He grips the handle with both hands, planting his heavy boots firmly on the grated metal floor, and gives it a massive, violent yank. The door rattles loudly in its steel frame, echoing in the quiet night, but it doesn't budge even a fraction of an inch.
The quiet amusement instantly vanishes from Bucky's face. He drops his hands, staring at the thick, unyielding metal.
“What's wrong?” you ask, stepping closer, your heart skipping a nervous beat.
Bucky turns his head, looking over his shoulder at you. The easy, flirtatious energy has completely evaporated, replaced by a grim, deadpan expression that would be terrifying if it wasn't so incredibly hot.
“Some paranoid fucker closed the door behind us.” Bucky says, his voice completely flat.
“Okay, so... just push the bar from this side?” you suggest, your voice pitching up slightly in alarm.
“It's a one-way emergency exit…” Bucky sighs, dragging his hand heavily down his face in deep, profound aggravation. “It only opens from the inside. When the door shuts, the deadbolt drops automatically so people can't use the fire escape to break into the building from the alley.”
You stare at him, the reality of the situation slowly crashing down on you like a bucket of ice water. The freezing air suddenly feels ten times colder. The distant, mocking noise of the city seems to laugh at you.
“Are you... are you fucking kidding me right now?” you ask, your voice trembling between genuine panic and absolute disbelief.
Bucky leans back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, his grey hoodie pulling tight over his biceps. He lets out a long, heavy breath, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips as he runs a hand through his messy hair.
“Well, shit…” he mutters, looking at you with a mixture of apology and dark, undeniable amusement. “Looks like we’re officially locked out. Good thing you've got my jacket, doll, because it's going to be a long fucking night.”
Warning- Fluff, neighbors trope, fire alarms- nothing serious.
You drop your keys onto the small ceramic bowl by the door, the sharp clatter echoing through the suffocating silence of your apartment.
Another grueling, soul-sucking Tuesday at the magazine has finally bled into Tuesday night.
As a senior features editor for one of the city's premier fashion publications, your life is a relentless cycle of impossible deadlines, neurotic art directors, and endless, soul-crushing pitch meetings. Today was particularly brutal. You spent four hours arguing with a tyrannical editor-in-chief who wanted to kill your ten-page exposé on sustainable supply chains in favor of another vapid, ghostwritten celebrity puff piece. You won, barely, but the victory left you drained of every ounce of serotonin you possessed.
You kick off your heels, your feet throbbing in rhythm with your budding headache, and aggressively peel off your tailored, restrictive office clothes. You are tired and all you want is comfort, a dangerously tall glass of wine, and twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep. You quickly strip down, have a quick shower and slip into your favorite, most worn-out pair of oversized comfy sweats and a thin, white ribbed tank top. It’s not a look meant for public consumption, but it’s heaven against your tired skin.
You pad into the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your bare feet. You live in a beautiful, historic brownstone, the kind with character, which is just a real estate euphemism for faulty plumbing, thin walls, and drafty windows. It’s a good building, though. Quiet, mostly.
Except for the fact that your immediate neighbor across the hall is James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky, to the people who actually know him. To you, he is just the impossibly attractive, enigmatic fashion photographer who occupies apartment 4B.
You rarely see him. Your schedules are entirely inverted. When you are leaving for the office at 7:00 AM, clutching a travel mug of espresso like a literal lifeline, he is usually stumbling in from a red-eye flight or a chaotic after-party, vintage camera bag slung over his broad shoulder, looking like walking sin. He shoots campaigns for the very designers you write about Prada, Tom Ford, Givenchy. He’s wildly successful, famously elusive, and infuriatingly gorgeous.
The few times you’ve bumped into each other by the mailboxes, the air between you has been thick and crackling, reduced to polite, breathless nods and low, rumbling “mornings” from him that send a shiver straight down your spine.
You pour a heavy, generous pour of Pinot Noir and make it exactly halfway to your plush sofa when the piercing, apocalyptic shriek of the building’s fire alarm shatters the quiet.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you groan aloud, nearly spilling your wine all over your expensive Moroccan rug.
The alarm doesn't stop. It wails with a violent, ear-splitting urgency that vibrates in your teeth. You slam the wine glass down on the counter, your heart kicking into a frantic, panicked rhythm against your ribs. You grab your phone, slide your bare feet into a pair of slip-on Converse sneakers, and bolt for the door. You don't even think to grab a coat, completely forgetting you are only wearing a thin tank top.
Throwing the heavy door open, you're immediately hit by the chaotic din of the hallway. Neighbors are spilling out of their apartments, eyes wide, voices overlapping in confused, sleepy panic. There’s no thick, suffocating smoke rolling down the ceiling, but there is a distinct, pungent odor wafting through the air, burnt plastic and cheap, stale weed.
You push through the milling crowd toward the end of the hallway where the heavy, reinforced fire escape door leads out to the iron stairwell. It’s supposed to be the fastest way out for the fourth floor, bypassing the narrow, claustrophobic central staircase that is already clogged with people from the upper floors.
You reach the heavy metal door, grasping the emergency push-bar. You shove your weight against it, but the mechanism is stubbornly jammed. The ancient hinges groan, resisting your effort. Panic flares hot in your chest as the alarm continues its deafening, relentless assault. You hit the bar again with the heel of your hand, swearing violently under your breath. “Come on, you piece of shit, fucking open!”
“Hey, back up. Let me get it.”
The voice is deep, calm, and immediately recognizable. A large, warm hand clamps down over your bare shoulder, gently but firmly pulling you back. The touch sends a jolt of electricity straight through your system. You stumble slightly, looking up to see Bucky Barnes stepping in front of you.
He looks like he threw his clothes on in a matter of seconds, but somehow he still looks effortlessly magnetic. He’s wearing a battered, heavy leather jacket zipped hastily over a dark grey hoodie, clearly his go-to “emergency” grab, paired with dark jeans. His dark hair is a messy, beautiful tangle falling into his striking, sharp blue eyes. He doesn't look panicked at all; he just looks mildly annoyed at the inconvenience.
Bucky places his hand, his knuckles dusted with faint scars, flat against the door. His other hand grips the heavy iron bar. With a sharp, sudden flex of his broad shoulders beneath the layers of leather and cotton, he shoves. There’s a loud, metallic crack as the rusted latch finally gives way, and the heavy door flies open, letting in a violent rush of crisp, freezing night air.
“Ladies first…” Bucky says, his voice a low, rough rumble over the screeching alarm. He throws you a quick, reassuring smirk that makes your stomach do a completely unhelpful flip.
“Thanks…” you breathe out, stepping past him onto the grated iron platform of the fire escape. The sudden, brutal drop in temperature immediately bites through your thin tank top, raising goosebumps all over your arms. You shiver instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. The city below is alive, a swirling mass of neon lights, honking cabs, and the distant, rapidly approaching wail of fire sirens.
Bucky steps out right behind you, his large frame blocking a bit of the wind. The platform isn't exactly spacious. You’re forced to stand close together, backed against the rough brick wall of the building as a few other neighbors push past, hurrying down the zigzagging iron stairs to the narrow alleyway below.
You stay put on the landing, the cold metal of the railing biting into your lower back. Bucky leans casually against the brickwork beside you, entirely unbothered by the frantic exodus of the rest of the floor. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, snapping a Zippo lighter open with his thumb. The flame illuminates the sharp, strong lines of his jaw and the relaxed, easy set of his mouth.
“You're not going down?” you ask, your teeth beginning to chatter slightly as the autumn wind whips around the building.
He takes a slow drag, blowing the smoke out into the chilled air, the plume mixing with his breath. He shakes his head, his blue eyes dropping to meet yours. “Nah. We’re on the fourth floor, Y/n. If the building was actually going up in flames, you'd feel the structural heat by now. Look down there.” He gestures lazily over the railing with his cigarette.
You uncross your arms for a second to peer over. The flashing red and white lights of a massive fire truck are already bouncing off the damp brick walls of the alley. Firefighters are piling out, moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no frantic shouting, no rushing of heavy water hoses. They look bored.
“It's that little shit, Tyler, from the third floor…” Bucky says, a lazy, amused grin spreading across his face. “The twenty-something kid with the terrible bleach job?”
You snort, leaning back against the wall next to him. “The one who constantly leaves his empty, greasy pizza boxes in the stairwell?”
“That’s the one!” Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich, settling warmly in your chest despite the freezing temperature. “Fucker bought some bad shit, got paranoid, and tried to hotbox his walk-in closet to hide the smell from his roommate. Dropped his lit joint into a pile of synthetic nylon gym bags. Smoked up the whole damn floor. Fucking idiot.”
You can't help it, you let out a loud, genuine laugh, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders. “Are you serious? God, I thought my night couldn't get any more ridiculous. I was exactly halfway to the sofa with a very necessary, very expensive glass of wine.”
Bucky’s eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, taking in your messy bun, your thin white tank top, the faded sweatpants, and your bare ankles above your sneakers. There’s a sudden, heavy shift in the air between you, the kind of charged, undeniable electricity that has always simmered beneath the surface during your brief hallway encounters, but amplified tenfold now that you are isolated above the city streets.
He notices you shivering, your shoulders hitched up to your ears. Without a word, he unzips his leather jacket, shrugs it off his broad shoulders, and drapes it heavily over yours. The jacket is massive on you, smelling incredibly of rich leather, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of darkroom chemicals. It’s wonderfully, instantly warm from his body heat.
“Shame to interrupt a good drink…” he murmurs, leaving him in just his dark grey hoodie. His voice drops an octave, rumbling low. “Especially after the week you've had. I saw the layout for the September issue you pushed through. You completely gutted the initial spread and rebuilt it. It’s sharp as hell, Y/n. Visceral. I liked it.”
You stare at him, genuinely shocked, pulling the lapels of his leather jacket tighter around your chest. “You read my editorials? I didn't think big-shot, high-fashion photographers cared about the text formatting or the written features.”
“I care when the text is actually worth reading.” he replies smoothly, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer, holding your gaze intently. “Most of the shit in that magazine is vapid, corporate garbage aimed at selling insecure women overpriced handbags. But you actually give a fuck. You write about the clothes like they’re armor. Like they matter to a person's identity. It's good. Fucking brilliant, actually.”
A flush that has absolutely nothing to do with the freezing wind creeps up your neck and colors your cheeks. You’ve worked your ass off for years to get to this position, battling rampant sexism and corporate greed, and hearing validation from someone whose artistic eye you deeply respect, someone who usually terrifies the industry’s top editors with his uncompromising, brilliant vision, feels incredibly intoxicating.
“Well…” you manage to say, fighting down a proud smile, “coming from the guy who shot the entire Milan campaign in a literal abandoned slaughterhouse just to prove a point about the brutality of fast fashion, I'll take that as a massive compliment.”
Bucky chuckles, tossing his cigarette over the edge and watching the glowing ember fall into the darkness. “It was a statement. And the creative director almost had a fucking aneurysm on set. It was hilarious. I thought the guy was going to actually weep when I brought the fake blood out.”
You spend the next forty-five minutes just talking. It’s remarkably, dangerously easy. The cold air bites at your exposed face, but wrapped in Bucky's heavy leather jacket, with the heat radiating from his large frame beside you, you feel perfectly anchored. You talk about the industry, tearing down the inflated egos of terrible designers, laughing at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the fashion world. He is completely unfiltered, swearing casually, his observations sharp, cynical, and ruthlessly funny. You find yourself matching his energy, completely dropping your polished professional mask. You let out your own frustrations about your boss, the agonizing late nights, the constant, draining pressure to be perfect in an industry that profits off imperfection.
It's liberating. Here on this rusted fire escape, suspended above the noisy, chaotic city, stripped of your titles and your pristine outfits, you are just you and Bucky. Two overworked, exhausted people finding a bizarre, unexpected sanctuary in a false alarm. You realize you haven't talked to anyone this easily in months. Maybe years. Every time he looks at you, his blue eyes are heavy with a quiet, intense interest that makes your pulse hammer in your throat.
Down below, the fire truck’s massive diesel engines roar to life, shaking the pavement. The firefighters have cleared the building, evidently dealing with Tyler and his melted nylon bags, and are slowly backing the massive rig out of the narrow street. The flashing red lights click off, plunging the alleyway back into its usual, shadowed dimness.
“Looks like the show's over…” you say, a strange, totally unexpected pang of disappointment tightening your chest. You don't want this bubble to pop. You don't want to go back to being just passing strangers in the hallway.
Bucky looks down at the departing truck, then back at you. His eyes linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer than is strictly polite before he offers a soft, entirely devastating smile. “Yeah. Suppose we should get back inside before you freeze to death, even with my jacket. I'll let you get back to your wine. Though, honestly, I've got a bottle of rare Kentucky bourbon in my place that easily beats whatever vintage you’re currently drinking.”
You raise an eyebrow, a bold, teasing smirk playing on your mouth. “Is that an invitation, Barnes? Are you trying to get me drunk on a Tuesday?”
“Maybe…” he says softly, turning toward the heavy metal door, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Depends entirely if you can handle your liquor. I don't drink with lightweights.”
He reaches out, his large hand grasping the iron handle of the fire escape door. He pulls.
Nothing happens.
He frowns, his jaw tightening. He grips the handle with both hands, planting his heavy boots firmly on the grated metal floor, and gives it a massive, violent yank. The door rattles loudly in its steel frame, echoing in the quiet night, but it doesn't budge even a fraction of an inch.
The quiet amusement instantly vanishes from Bucky's face. He drops his hands, staring at the thick, unyielding metal.
“What's wrong?” you ask, stepping closer, your heart skipping a nervous beat.
Bucky turns his head, looking over his shoulder at you. The easy, flirtatious energy has completely evaporated, replaced by a grim, deadpan expression that would be terrifying if it wasn't so incredibly hot.
“Some paranoid fucker closed the door behind us.” Bucky says, his voice completely flat.
“Okay, so... just push the bar from this side?” you suggest, your voice pitching up slightly in alarm.
“It's a one-way emergency exit…” Bucky sighs, dragging his hand heavily down his face in deep, profound aggravation. “It only opens from the inside. When the door shuts, the deadbolt drops automatically so people can't use the fire escape to break into the building from the alley.”
You stare at him, the reality of the situation slowly crashing down on you like a bucket of ice water. The freezing air suddenly feels ten times colder. The distant, mocking noise of the city seems to laugh at you.
“Are you... are you fucking kidding me right now?” you ask, your voice trembling between genuine panic and absolute disbelief.
Bucky leans back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, his grey hoodie pulling tight over his biceps. He lets out a long, heavy breath, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips as he runs a hand through his messy hair.
“Well, shit…” he mutters, looking at you with a mixture of apology and dark, undeniable amusement. “Looks like we’re officially locked out. Good thing you've got my jacket, doll, because it's going to be a long fucking night.”
Warning- Fluff, neighbors trope, fire alarms- nothing serious.
You drop your keys onto the small ceramic bowl by the door, the sharp clatter echoing through the suffocating silence of your apartment.
Another grueling, soul-sucking Tuesday at the magazine has finally bled into Tuesday night.
As a senior features editor for one of the city's premier fashion publications, your life is a relentless cycle of impossible deadlines, neurotic art directors, and endless, soul-crushing pitch meetings. Today was particularly brutal. You spent four hours arguing with a tyrannical editor-in-chief who wanted to kill your ten-page exposé on sustainable supply chains in favor of another vapid, ghostwritten celebrity puff piece. You won, barely, but the victory left you drained of every ounce of serotonin you possessed.
You kick off your heels, your feet throbbing in rhythm with your budding headache, and aggressively peel off your tailored, restrictive office clothes. You are tired and all you want is comfort, a dangerously tall glass of wine, and twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep. You quickly strip down, have a quick shower and slip into your favorite, most worn-out pair of oversized comfy sweats and a thin, white ribbed tank top. It’s not a look meant for public consumption, but it’s heaven against your tired skin.
You pad into the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your bare feet. You live in a beautiful, historic brownstone, the kind with character, which is just a real estate euphemism for faulty plumbing, thin walls, and drafty windows. It’s a good building, though. Quiet, mostly.
Except for the fact that your immediate neighbor across the hall is James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky, to the people who actually know him. To you, he is just the impossibly attractive, enigmatic fashion photographer who occupies apartment 4B.
You rarely see him. Your schedules are entirely inverted. When you are leaving for the office at 7:00 AM, clutching a travel mug of espresso like a literal lifeline, he is usually stumbling in from a red-eye flight or a chaotic after-party, vintage camera bag slung over his broad shoulder, looking like walking sin. He shoots campaigns for the very designers you write about Prada, Tom Ford, Givenchy. He’s wildly successful, famously elusive, and infuriatingly gorgeous.
The few times you’ve bumped into each other by the mailboxes, the air between you has been thick and crackling, reduced to polite, breathless nods and low, rumbling “mornings” from him that send a shiver straight down your spine.
You pour a heavy, generous pour of Pinot Noir and make it exactly halfway to your plush sofa when the piercing, apocalyptic shriek of the building’s fire alarm shatters the quiet.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you groan aloud, nearly spilling your wine all over your expensive Moroccan rug.
The alarm doesn't stop. It wails with a violent, ear-splitting urgency that vibrates in your teeth. You slam the wine glass down on the counter, your heart kicking into a frantic, panicked rhythm against your ribs. You grab your phone, slide your bare feet into a pair of slip-on Converse sneakers, and bolt for the door. You don't even think to grab a coat, completely forgetting you are only wearing a thin tank top.
Throwing the heavy door open, you're immediately hit by the chaotic din of the hallway. Neighbors are spilling out of their apartments, eyes wide, voices overlapping in confused, sleepy panic. There’s no thick, suffocating smoke rolling down the ceiling, but there is a distinct, pungent odor wafting through the air, burnt plastic and cheap, stale weed.
You push through the milling crowd toward the end of the hallway where the heavy, reinforced fire escape door leads out to the iron stairwell. It’s supposed to be the fastest way out for the fourth floor, bypassing the narrow, claustrophobic central staircase that is already clogged with people from the upper floors.
You reach the heavy metal door, grasping the emergency push-bar. You shove your weight against it, but the mechanism is stubbornly jammed. The ancient hinges groan, resisting your effort. Panic flares hot in your chest as the alarm continues its deafening, relentless assault. You hit the bar again with the heel of your hand, swearing violently under your breath. “Come on, you piece of shit, fucking open!”
“Hey, back up. Let me get it.”
The voice is deep, calm, and immediately recognizable. A large, warm hand clamps down over your bare shoulder, gently but firmly pulling you back. The touch sends a jolt of electricity straight through your system. You stumble slightly, looking up to see Bucky Barnes stepping in front of you.
He looks like he threw his clothes on in a matter of seconds, but somehow he still looks effortlessly magnetic. He’s wearing a battered, heavy leather jacket zipped hastily over a dark grey hoodie, clearly his go-to “emergency” grab, paired with dark jeans. His dark hair is a messy, beautiful tangle falling into his striking, sharp blue eyes. He doesn't look panicked at all; he just looks mildly annoyed at the inconvenience.
Bucky places his hand, his knuckles dusted with faint scars, flat against the door. His other hand grips the heavy iron bar. With a sharp, sudden flex of his broad shoulders beneath the layers of leather and cotton, he shoves. There’s a loud, metallic crack as the rusted latch finally gives way, and the heavy door flies open, letting in a violent rush of crisp, freezing night air.
“Ladies first…” Bucky says, his voice a low, rough rumble over the screeching alarm. He throws you a quick, reassuring smirk that makes your stomach do a completely unhelpful flip.
“Thanks…” you breathe out, stepping past him onto the grated iron platform of the fire escape. The sudden, brutal drop in temperature immediately bites through your thin tank top, raising goosebumps all over your arms. You shiver instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. The city below is alive, a swirling mass of neon lights, honking cabs, and the distant, rapidly approaching wail of fire sirens.
Bucky steps out right behind you, his large frame blocking a bit of the wind. The platform isn't exactly spacious. You’re forced to stand close together, backed against the rough brick wall of the building as a few other neighbors push past, hurrying down the zigzagging iron stairs to the narrow alleyway below.
You stay put on the landing, the cold metal of the railing biting into your lower back. Bucky leans casually against the brickwork beside you, entirely unbothered by the frantic exodus of the rest of the floor. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, snapping a Zippo lighter open with his thumb. The flame illuminates the sharp, strong lines of his jaw and the relaxed, easy set of his mouth.
“You're not going down?” you ask, your teeth beginning to chatter slightly as the autumn wind whips around the building.
He takes a slow drag, blowing the smoke out into the chilled air, the plume mixing with his breath. He shakes his head, his blue eyes dropping to meet yours. “Nah. We’re on the fourth floor, Y/n. If the building was actually going up in flames, you'd feel the structural heat by now. Look down there.” He gestures lazily over the railing with his cigarette.
You uncross your arms for a second to peer over. The flashing red and white lights of a massive fire truck are already bouncing off the damp brick walls of the alley. Firefighters are piling out, moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no frantic shouting, no rushing of heavy water hoses. They look bored.
“It's that little shit, Tyler, from the third floor…” Bucky says, a lazy, amused grin spreading across his face. “The twenty-something kid with the terrible bleach job?”
You snort, leaning back against the wall next to him. “The one who constantly leaves his empty, greasy pizza boxes in the stairwell?”
“That’s the one!” Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich, settling warmly in your chest despite the freezing temperature. “Fucker bought some bad shit, got paranoid, and tried to hotbox his walk-in closet to hide the smell from his roommate. Dropped his lit joint into a pile of synthetic nylon gym bags. Smoked up the whole damn floor. Fucking idiot.”
You can't help it, you let out a loud, genuine laugh, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders. “Are you serious? God, I thought my night couldn't get any more ridiculous. I was exactly halfway to the sofa with a very necessary, very expensive glass of wine.”
Bucky’s eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, taking in your messy bun, your thin white tank top, the faded sweatpants, and your bare ankles above your sneakers. There’s a sudden, heavy shift in the air between you, the kind of charged, undeniable electricity that has always simmered beneath the surface during your brief hallway encounters, but amplified tenfold now that you are isolated above the city streets.
He notices you shivering, your shoulders hitched up to your ears. Without a word, he unzips his leather jacket, shrugs it off his broad shoulders, and drapes it heavily over yours. The jacket is massive on you, smelling incredibly of rich leather, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of darkroom chemicals. It’s wonderfully, instantly warm from his body heat.
“Shame to interrupt a good drink…” he murmurs, leaving him in just his dark grey hoodie. His voice drops an octave, rumbling low. “Especially after the week you've had. I saw the layout for the September issue you pushed through. You completely gutted the initial spread and rebuilt it. It’s sharp as hell, Y/n. Visceral. I liked it.”
You stare at him, genuinely shocked, pulling the lapels of his leather jacket tighter around your chest. “You read my editorials? I didn't think big-shot, high-fashion photographers cared about the text formatting or the written features.”
“I care when the text is actually worth reading.” he replies smoothly, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer, holding your gaze intently. “Most of the shit in that magazine is vapid, corporate garbage aimed at selling insecure women overpriced handbags. But you actually give a fuck. You write about the clothes like they’re armor. Like they matter to a person's identity. It's good. Fucking brilliant, actually.”
A flush that has absolutely nothing to do with the freezing wind creeps up your neck and colors your cheeks. You’ve worked your ass off for years to get to this position, battling rampant sexism and corporate greed, and hearing validation from someone whose artistic eye you deeply respect, someone who usually terrifies the industry’s top editors with his uncompromising, brilliant vision, feels incredibly intoxicating.
“Well…” you manage to say, fighting down a proud smile, “coming from the guy who shot the entire Milan campaign in a literal abandoned slaughterhouse just to prove a point about the brutality of fast fashion, I'll take that as a massive compliment.”
Bucky chuckles, tossing his cigarette over the edge and watching the glowing ember fall into the darkness. “It was a statement. And the creative director almost had a fucking aneurysm on set. It was hilarious. I thought the guy was going to actually weep when I brought the fake blood out.”
You spend the next forty-five minutes just talking. It’s remarkably, dangerously easy. The cold air bites at your exposed face, but wrapped in Bucky's heavy leather jacket, with the heat radiating from his large frame beside you, you feel perfectly anchored. You talk about the industry, tearing down the inflated egos of terrible designers, laughing at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the fashion world. He is completely unfiltered, swearing casually, his observations sharp, cynical, and ruthlessly funny. You find yourself matching his energy, completely dropping your polished professional mask. You let out your own frustrations about your boss, the agonizing late nights, the constant, draining pressure to be perfect in an industry that profits off imperfection.
It's liberating. Here on this rusted fire escape, suspended above the noisy, chaotic city, stripped of your titles and your pristine outfits, you are just you and Bucky. Two overworked, exhausted people finding a bizarre, unexpected sanctuary in a false alarm. You realize you haven't talked to anyone this easily in months. Maybe years. Every time he looks at you, his blue eyes are heavy with a quiet, intense interest that makes your pulse hammer in your throat.
Down below, the fire truck’s massive diesel engines roar to life, shaking the pavement. The firefighters have cleared the building, evidently dealing with Tyler and his melted nylon bags, and are slowly backing the massive rig out of the narrow street. The flashing red lights click off, plunging the alleyway back into its usual, shadowed dimness.
“Looks like the show's over…” you say, a strange, totally unexpected pang of disappointment tightening your chest. You don't want this bubble to pop. You don't want to go back to being just passing strangers in the hallway.
Bucky looks down at the departing truck, then back at you. His eyes linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer than is strictly polite before he offers a soft, entirely devastating smile. “Yeah. Suppose we should get back inside before you freeze to death, even with my jacket. I'll let you get back to your wine. Though, honestly, I've got a bottle of rare Kentucky bourbon in my place that easily beats whatever vintage you’re currently drinking.”
You raise an eyebrow, a bold, teasing smirk playing on your mouth. “Is that an invitation, Barnes? Are you trying to get me drunk on a Tuesday?”
“Maybe…” he says softly, turning toward the heavy metal door, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Depends entirely if you can handle your liquor. I don't drink with lightweights.”
He reaches out, his large hand grasping the iron handle of the fire escape door. He pulls.
Nothing happens.
He frowns, his jaw tightening. He grips the handle with both hands, planting his heavy boots firmly on the grated metal floor, and gives it a massive, violent yank. The door rattles loudly in its steel frame, echoing in the quiet night, but it doesn't budge even a fraction of an inch.
The quiet amusement instantly vanishes from Bucky's face. He drops his hands, staring at the thick, unyielding metal.
“What's wrong?” you ask, stepping closer, your heart skipping a nervous beat.
Bucky turns his head, looking over his shoulder at you. The easy, flirtatious energy has completely evaporated, replaced by a grim, deadpan expression that would be terrifying if it wasn't so incredibly hot.
“Some paranoid fucker closed the door behind us.” Bucky says, his voice completely flat.
“Okay, so... just push the bar from this side?” you suggest, your voice pitching up slightly in alarm.
“It's a one-way emergency exit…” Bucky sighs, dragging his hand heavily down his face in deep, profound aggravation. “It only opens from the inside. When the door shuts, the deadbolt drops automatically so people can't use the fire escape to break into the building from the alley.”
You stare at him, the reality of the situation slowly crashing down on you like a bucket of ice water. The freezing air suddenly feels ten times colder. The distant, mocking noise of the city seems to laugh at you.
“Are you... are you fucking kidding me right now?” you ask, your voice trembling between genuine panic and absolute disbelief.
Bucky leans back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, his grey hoodie pulling tight over his biceps. He lets out a long, heavy breath, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips as he runs a hand through his messy hair.
“Well, shit…” he mutters, looking at you with a mixture of apology and dark, undeniable amusement. “Looks like we’re officially locked out. Good thing you've got my jacket, doll, because it's going to be a long fucking night.”
Warning- Fluff, neighbors trope, fire alarms- nothing serious.
You drop your keys onto the small ceramic bowl by the door, the sharp clatter echoing through the suffocating silence of your apartment.
Another grueling, soul-sucking Tuesday at the magazine has finally bled into Tuesday night.
As a senior features editor for one of the city's premier fashion publications, your life is a relentless cycle of impossible deadlines, neurotic art directors, and endless, soul-crushing pitch meetings. Today was particularly brutal. You spent four hours arguing with a tyrannical editor-in-chief who wanted to kill your ten-page exposé on sustainable supply chains in favor of another vapid, ghostwritten celebrity puff piece. You won, barely, but the victory left you drained of every ounce of serotonin you possessed.
You kick off your heels, your feet throbbing in rhythm with your budding headache, and aggressively peel off your tailored, restrictive office clothes. You are tired and all you want is comfort, a dangerously tall glass of wine, and twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep. You quickly strip down, have a quick shower and slip into your favorite, most worn-out pair of oversized comfy sweats and a thin, white ribbed tank top. It’s not a look meant for public consumption, but it’s heaven against your tired skin.
You pad into the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your bare feet. You live in a beautiful, historic brownstone, the kind with character, which is just a real estate euphemism for faulty plumbing, thin walls, and drafty windows. It’s a good building, though. Quiet, mostly.
Except for the fact that your immediate neighbor across the hall is James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky, to the people who actually know him. To you, he is just the impossibly attractive, enigmatic fashion photographer who occupies apartment 4B.
You rarely see him. Your schedules are entirely inverted. When you are leaving for the office at 7:00 AM, clutching a travel mug of espresso like a literal lifeline, he is usually stumbling in from a red-eye flight or a chaotic after-party, vintage camera bag slung over his broad shoulder, looking like walking sin. He shoots campaigns for the very designers you write about Prada, Tom Ford, Givenchy. He’s wildly successful, famously elusive, and infuriatingly gorgeous.
The few times you’ve bumped into each other by the mailboxes, the air between you has been thick and crackling, reduced to polite, breathless nods and low, rumbling “mornings” from him that send a shiver straight down your spine.
You pour a heavy, generous pour of Pinot Noir and make it exactly halfway to your plush sofa when the piercing, apocalyptic shriek of the building’s fire alarm shatters the quiet.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you groan aloud, nearly spilling your wine all over your expensive Moroccan rug.
The alarm doesn't stop. It wails with a violent, ear-splitting urgency that vibrates in your teeth. You slam the wine glass down on the counter, your heart kicking into a frantic, panicked rhythm against your ribs. You grab your phone, slide your bare feet into a pair of slip-on Converse sneakers, and bolt for the door. You don't even think to grab a coat, completely forgetting you are only wearing a thin tank top.
Throwing the heavy door open, you're immediately hit by the chaotic din of the hallway. Neighbors are spilling out of their apartments, eyes wide, voices overlapping in confused, sleepy panic. There’s no thick, suffocating smoke rolling down the ceiling, but there is a distinct, pungent odor wafting through the air, burnt plastic and cheap, stale weed.
You push through the milling crowd toward the end of the hallway where the heavy, reinforced fire escape door leads out to the iron stairwell. It’s supposed to be the fastest way out for the fourth floor, bypassing the narrow, claustrophobic central staircase that is already clogged with people from the upper floors.
You reach the heavy metal door, grasping the emergency push-bar. You shove your weight against it, but the mechanism is stubbornly jammed. The ancient hinges groan, resisting your effort. Panic flares hot in your chest as the alarm continues its deafening, relentless assault. You hit the bar again with the heel of your hand, swearing violently under your breath. “Come on, you piece of shit, fucking open!”
“Hey, back up. Let me get it.”
The voice is deep, calm, and immediately recognizable. A large, warm hand clamps down over your bare shoulder, gently but firmly pulling you back. The touch sends a jolt of electricity straight through your system. You stumble slightly, looking up to see Bucky Barnes stepping in front of you.
He looks like he threw his clothes on in a matter of seconds, but somehow he still looks effortlessly magnetic. He’s wearing a battered, heavy leather jacket zipped hastily over a dark grey hoodie, clearly his go-to “emergency” grab, paired with dark jeans. His dark hair is a messy, beautiful tangle falling into his striking, sharp blue eyes. He doesn't look panicked at all; he just looks mildly annoyed at the inconvenience.
Bucky places his hand, his knuckles dusted with faint scars, flat against the door. His other hand grips the heavy iron bar. With a sharp, sudden flex of his broad shoulders beneath the layers of leather and cotton, he shoves. There’s a loud, metallic crack as the rusted latch finally gives way, and the heavy door flies open, letting in a violent rush of crisp, freezing night air.
“Ladies first…” Bucky says, his voice a low, rough rumble over the screeching alarm. He throws you a quick, reassuring smirk that makes your stomach do a completely unhelpful flip.
“Thanks…” you breathe out, stepping past him onto the grated iron platform of the fire escape. The sudden, brutal drop in temperature immediately bites through your thin tank top, raising goosebumps all over your arms. You shiver instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. The city below is alive, a swirling mass of neon lights, honking cabs, and the distant, rapidly approaching wail of fire sirens.
Bucky steps out right behind you, his large frame blocking a bit of the wind. The platform isn't exactly spacious. You’re forced to stand close together, backed against the rough brick wall of the building as a few other neighbors push past, hurrying down the zigzagging iron stairs to the narrow alleyway below.
You stay put on the landing, the cold metal of the railing biting into your lower back. Bucky leans casually against the brickwork beside you, entirely unbothered by the frantic exodus of the rest of the floor. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, snapping a Zippo lighter open with his thumb. The flame illuminates the sharp, strong lines of his jaw and the relaxed, easy set of his mouth.
“You're not going down?” you ask, your teeth beginning to chatter slightly as the autumn wind whips around the building.
He takes a slow drag, blowing the smoke out into the chilled air, the plume mixing with his breath. He shakes his head, his blue eyes dropping to meet yours. “Nah. We’re on the fourth floor, Y/n. If the building was actually going up in flames, you'd feel the structural heat by now. Look down there.” He gestures lazily over the railing with his cigarette.
You uncross your arms for a second to peer over. The flashing red and white lights of a massive fire truck are already bouncing off the damp brick walls of the alley. Firefighters are piling out, moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no frantic shouting, no rushing of heavy water hoses. They look bored.
“It's that little shit, Tyler, from the third floor…” Bucky says, a lazy, amused grin spreading across his face. “The twenty-something kid with the terrible bleach job?”
You snort, leaning back against the wall next to him. “The one who constantly leaves his empty, greasy pizza boxes in the stairwell?”
“That’s the one!” Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich, settling warmly in your chest despite the freezing temperature. “Fucker bought some bad shit, got paranoid, and tried to hotbox his walk-in closet to hide the smell from his roommate. Dropped his lit joint into a pile of synthetic nylon gym bags. Smoked up the whole damn floor. Fucking idiot.”
You can't help it, you let out a loud, genuine laugh, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders. “Are you serious? God, I thought my night couldn't get any more ridiculous. I was exactly halfway to the sofa with a very necessary, very expensive glass of wine.”
Bucky’s eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, taking in your messy bun, your thin white tank top, the faded sweatpants, and your bare ankles above your sneakers. There’s a sudden, heavy shift in the air between you, the kind of charged, undeniable electricity that has always simmered beneath the surface during your brief hallway encounters, but amplified tenfold now that you are isolated above the city streets.
He notices you shivering, your shoulders hitched up to your ears. Without a word, he unzips his leather jacket, shrugs it off his broad shoulders, and drapes it heavily over yours. The jacket is massive on you, smelling incredibly of rich leather, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of darkroom chemicals. It’s wonderfully, instantly warm from his body heat.
“Shame to interrupt a good drink…” he murmurs, leaving him in just his dark grey hoodie. His voice drops an octave, rumbling low. “Especially after the week you've had. I saw the layout for the September issue you pushed through. You completely gutted the initial spread and rebuilt it. It’s sharp as hell, Y/n. Visceral. I liked it.”
You stare at him, genuinely shocked, pulling the lapels of his leather jacket tighter around your chest. “You read my editorials? I didn't think big-shot, high-fashion photographers cared about the text formatting or the written features.”
“I care when the text is actually worth reading.” he replies smoothly, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer, holding your gaze intently. “Most of the shit in that magazine is vapid, corporate garbage aimed at selling insecure women overpriced handbags. But you actually give a fuck. You write about the clothes like they’re armor. Like they matter to a person's identity. It's good. Fucking brilliant, actually.”
A flush that has absolutely nothing to do with the freezing wind creeps up your neck and colors your cheeks. You’ve worked your ass off for years to get to this position, battling rampant sexism and corporate greed, and hearing validation from someone whose artistic eye you deeply respect, someone who usually terrifies the industry’s top editors with his uncompromising, brilliant vision, feels incredibly intoxicating.
“Well…” you manage to say, fighting down a proud smile, “coming from the guy who shot the entire Milan campaign in a literal abandoned slaughterhouse just to prove a point about the brutality of fast fashion, I'll take that as a massive compliment.”
Bucky chuckles, tossing his cigarette over the edge and watching the glowing ember fall into the darkness. “It was a statement. And the creative director almost had a fucking aneurysm on set. It was hilarious. I thought the guy was going to actually weep when I brought the fake blood out.”
You spend the next forty-five minutes just talking. It’s remarkably, dangerously easy. The cold air bites at your exposed face, but wrapped in Bucky's heavy leather jacket, with the heat radiating from his large frame beside you, you feel perfectly anchored. You talk about the industry, tearing down the inflated egos of terrible designers, laughing at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the fashion world. He is completely unfiltered, swearing casually, his observations sharp, cynical, and ruthlessly funny. You find yourself matching his energy, completely dropping your polished professional mask. You let out your own frustrations about your boss, the agonizing late nights, the constant, draining pressure to be perfect in an industry that profits off imperfection.
It's liberating. Here on this rusted fire escape, suspended above the noisy, chaotic city, stripped of your titles and your pristine outfits, you are just you and Bucky. Two overworked, exhausted people finding a bizarre, unexpected sanctuary in a false alarm. You realize you haven't talked to anyone this easily in months. Maybe years. Every time he looks at you, his blue eyes are heavy with a quiet, intense interest that makes your pulse hammer in your throat.
Down below, the fire truck’s massive diesel engines roar to life, shaking the pavement. The firefighters have cleared the building, evidently dealing with Tyler and his melted nylon bags, and are slowly backing the massive rig out of the narrow street. The flashing red lights click off, plunging the alleyway back into its usual, shadowed dimness.
“Looks like the show's over…” you say, a strange, totally unexpected pang of disappointment tightening your chest. You don't want this bubble to pop. You don't want to go back to being just passing strangers in the hallway.
Bucky looks down at the departing truck, then back at you. His eyes linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer than is strictly polite before he offers a soft, entirely devastating smile. “Yeah. Suppose we should get back inside before you freeze to death, even with my jacket. I'll let you get back to your wine. Though, honestly, I've got a bottle of rare Kentucky bourbon in my place that easily beats whatever vintage you’re currently drinking.”
You raise an eyebrow, a bold, teasing smirk playing on your mouth. “Is that an invitation, Barnes? Are you trying to get me drunk on a Tuesday?”
“Maybe…” he says softly, turning toward the heavy metal door, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Depends entirely if you can handle your liquor. I don't drink with lightweights.”
He reaches out, his large hand grasping the iron handle of the fire escape door. He pulls.
Nothing happens.
He frowns, his jaw tightening. He grips the handle with both hands, planting his heavy boots firmly on the grated metal floor, and gives it a massive, violent yank. The door rattles loudly in its steel frame, echoing in the quiet night, but it doesn't budge even a fraction of an inch.
The quiet amusement instantly vanishes from Bucky's face. He drops his hands, staring at the thick, unyielding metal.
“What's wrong?” you ask, stepping closer, your heart skipping a nervous beat.
Bucky turns his head, looking over his shoulder at you. The easy, flirtatious energy has completely evaporated, replaced by a grim, deadpan expression that would be terrifying if it wasn't so incredibly hot.
“Some paranoid fucker closed the door behind us.” Bucky says, his voice completely flat.
“Okay, so... just push the bar from this side?” you suggest, your voice pitching up slightly in alarm.
“It's a one-way emergency exit…” Bucky sighs, dragging his hand heavily down his face in deep, profound aggravation. “It only opens from the inside. When the door shuts, the deadbolt drops automatically so people can't use the fire escape to break into the building from the alley.”
You stare at him, the reality of the situation slowly crashing down on you like a bucket of ice water. The freezing air suddenly feels ten times colder. The distant, mocking noise of the city seems to laugh at you.
“Are you... are you fucking kidding me right now?” you ask, your voice trembling between genuine panic and absolute disbelief.
Bucky leans back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, his grey hoodie pulling tight over his biceps. He lets out a long, heavy breath, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips as he runs a hand through his messy hair.
“Well, shit…” he mutters, looking at you with a mixture of apology and dark, undeniable amusement. “Looks like we’re officially locked out. Good thing you've got my jacket, doll, because it's going to be a long fucking night.”
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Warning- Fluff, neighbors trope, fire alarms- nothing serious.
You drop your keys onto the small ceramic bowl by the door, the sharp clatter echoing through the suffocating silence of your apartment.
Another grueling, soul-sucking Tuesday at the magazine has finally bled into Tuesday night.
As a senior features editor for one of the city's premier fashion publications, your life is a relentless cycle of impossible deadlines, neurotic art directors, and endless, soul-crushing pitch meetings. Today was particularly brutal. You spent four hours arguing with a tyrannical editor-in-chief who wanted to kill your ten-page exposé on sustainable supply chains in favor of another vapid, ghostwritten celebrity puff piece. You won, barely, but the victory left you drained of every ounce of serotonin you possessed.
You kick off your heels, your feet throbbing in rhythm with your budding headache, and aggressively peel off your tailored, restrictive office clothes. You are tired and all you want is comfort, a dangerously tall glass of wine, and twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep. You quickly strip down, have a quick shower and slip into your favorite, most worn-out pair of oversized comfy sweats and a thin, white ribbed tank top. It’s not a look meant for public consumption, but it’s heaven against your tired skin.
You pad into the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your bare feet. You live in a beautiful, historic brownstone, the kind with character, which is just a real estate euphemism for faulty plumbing, thin walls, and drafty windows. It’s a good building, though. Quiet, mostly.
Except for the fact that your immediate neighbor across the hall is James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky, to the people who actually know him. To you, he is just the impossibly attractive, enigmatic fashion photographer who occupies apartment 4B.
You rarely see him. Your schedules are entirely inverted. When you are leaving for the office at 7:00 AM, clutching a travel mug of espresso like a literal lifeline, he is usually stumbling in from a red-eye flight or a chaotic after-party, vintage camera bag slung over his broad shoulder, looking like walking sin. He shoots campaigns for the very designers you write about Prada, Tom Ford, Givenchy. He’s wildly successful, famously elusive, and infuriatingly gorgeous.
The few times you’ve bumped into each other by the mailboxes, the air between you has been thick and crackling, reduced to polite, breathless nods and low, rumbling “mornings” from him that send a shiver straight down your spine.
You pour a heavy, generous pour of Pinot Noir and make it exactly halfway to your plush sofa when the piercing, apocalyptic shriek of the building’s fire alarm shatters the quiet.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you groan aloud, nearly spilling your wine all over your expensive Moroccan rug.
The alarm doesn't stop. It wails with a violent, ear-splitting urgency that vibrates in your teeth. You slam the wine glass down on the counter, your heart kicking into a frantic, panicked rhythm against your ribs. You grab your phone, slide your bare feet into a pair of slip-on Converse sneakers, and bolt for the door. You don't even think to grab a coat, completely forgetting you are only wearing a thin tank top.
Throwing the heavy door open, you're immediately hit by the chaotic din of the hallway. Neighbors are spilling out of their apartments, eyes wide, voices overlapping in confused, sleepy panic. There’s no thick, suffocating smoke rolling down the ceiling, but there is a distinct, pungent odor wafting through the air, burnt plastic and cheap, stale weed.
You push through the milling crowd toward the end of the hallway where the heavy, reinforced fire escape door leads out to the iron stairwell. It’s supposed to be the fastest way out for the fourth floor, bypassing the narrow, claustrophobic central staircase that is already clogged with people from the upper floors.
You reach the heavy metal door, grasping the emergency push-bar. You shove your weight against it, but the mechanism is stubbornly jammed. The ancient hinges groan, resisting your effort. Panic flares hot in your chest as the alarm continues its deafening, relentless assault. You hit the bar again with the heel of your hand, swearing violently under your breath. “Come on, you piece of shit, fucking open!”
“Hey, back up. Let me get it.”
The voice is deep, calm, and immediately recognizable. A large, warm hand clamps down over your bare shoulder, gently but firmly pulling you back. The touch sends a jolt of electricity straight through your system. You stumble slightly, looking up to see Bucky Barnes stepping in front of you.
He looks like he threw his clothes on in a matter of seconds, but somehow he still looks effortlessly magnetic. He’s wearing a battered, heavy leather jacket zipped hastily over a dark grey hoodie, clearly his go-to “emergency” grab, paired with dark jeans. His dark hair is a messy, beautiful tangle falling into his striking, sharp blue eyes. He doesn't look panicked at all; he just looks mildly annoyed at the inconvenience.
Bucky places his hand, his knuckles dusted with faint scars, flat against the door. His other hand grips the heavy iron bar. With a sharp, sudden flex of his broad shoulders beneath the layers of leather and cotton, he shoves. There’s a loud, metallic crack as the rusted latch finally gives way, and the heavy door flies open, letting in a violent rush of crisp, freezing night air.
“Ladies first…” Bucky says, his voice a low, rough rumble over the screeching alarm. He throws you a quick, reassuring smirk that makes your stomach do a completely unhelpful flip.
“Thanks…” you breathe out, stepping past him onto the grated iron platform of the fire escape. The sudden, brutal drop in temperature immediately bites through your thin tank top, raising goosebumps all over your arms. You shiver instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. The city below is alive, a swirling mass of neon lights, honking cabs, and the distant, rapidly approaching wail of fire sirens.
Bucky steps out right behind you, his large frame blocking a bit of the wind. The platform isn't exactly spacious. You’re forced to stand close together, backed against the rough brick wall of the building as a few other neighbors push past, hurrying down the zigzagging iron stairs to the narrow alleyway below.
You stay put on the landing, the cold metal of the railing biting into your lower back. Bucky leans casually against the brickwork beside you, entirely unbothered by the frantic exodus of the rest of the floor. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, snapping a Zippo lighter open with his thumb. The flame illuminates the sharp, strong lines of his jaw and the relaxed, easy set of his mouth.
“You're not going down?” you ask, your teeth beginning to chatter slightly as the autumn wind whips around the building.
He takes a slow drag, blowing the smoke out into the chilled air, the plume mixing with his breath. He shakes his head, his blue eyes dropping to meet yours. “Nah. We’re on the fourth floor, Y/n. If the building was actually going up in flames, you'd feel the structural heat by now. Look down there.” He gestures lazily over the railing with his cigarette.
You uncross your arms for a second to peer over. The flashing red and white lights of a massive fire truck are already bouncing off the damp brick walls of the alley. Firefighters are piling out, moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no frantic shouting, no rushing of heavy water hoses. They look bored.
“It's that little shit, Tyler, from the third floor…” Bucky says, a lazy, amused grin spreading across his face. “The twenty-something kid with the terrible bleach job?”
You snort, leaning back against the wall next to him. “The one who constantly leaves his empty, greasy pizza boxes in the stairwell?”
“That’s the one!” Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich, settling warmly in your chest despite the freezing temperature. “Fucker bought some bad shit, got paranoid, and tried to hotbox his walk-in closet to hide the smell from his roommate. Dropped his lit joint into a pile of synthetic nylon gym bags. Smoked up the whole damn floor. Fucking idiot.”
You can't help it, you let out a loud, genuine laugh, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders. “Are you serious? God, I thought my night couldn't get any more ridiculous. I was exactly halfway to the sofa with a very necessary, very expensive glass of wine.”
Bucky’s eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, taking in your messy bun, your thin white tank top, the faded sweatpants, and your bare ankles above your sneakers. There’s a sudden, heavy shift in the air between you, the kind of charged, undeniable electricity that has always simmered beneath the surface during your brief hallway encounters, but amplified tenfold now that you are isolated above the city streets.
He notices you shivering, your shoulders hitched up to your ears. Without a word, he unzips his leather jacket, shrugs it off his broad shoulders, and drapes it heavily over yours. The jacket is massive on you, smelling incredibly of rich leather, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of darkroom chemicals. It’s wonderfully, instantly warm from his body heat.
“Shame to interrupt a good drink…” he murmurs, leaving him in just his dark grey hoodie. His voice drops an octave, rumbling low. “Especially after the week you've had. I saw the layout for the September issue you pushed through. You completely gutted the initial spread and rebuilt it. It’s sharp as hell, Y/n. Visceral. I liked it.”
You stare at him, genuinely shocked, pulling the lapels of his leather jacket tighter around your chest. “You read my editorials? I didn't think big-shot, high-fashion photographers cared about the text formatting or the written features.”
“I care when the text is actually worth reading.” he replies smoothly, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer, holding your gaze intently. “Most of the shit in that magazine is vapid, corporate garbage aimed at selling insecure women overpriced handbags. But you actually give a fuck. You write about the clothes like they’re armor. Like they matter to a person's identity. It's good. Fucking brilliant, actually.”
A flush that has absolutely nothing to do with the freezing wind creeps up your neck and colors your cheeks. You’ve worked your ass off for years to get to this position, battling rampant sexism and corporate greed, and hearing validation from someone whose artistic eye you deeply respect, someone who usually terrifies the industry’s top editors with his uncompromising, brilliant vision, feels incredibly intoxicating.
“Well…” you manage to say, fighting down a proud smile, “coming from the guy who shot the entire Milan campaign in a literal abandoned slaughterhouse just to prove a point about the brutality of fast fashion, I'll take that as a massive compliment.”
Bucky chuckles, tossing his cigarette over the edge and watching the glowing ember fall into the darkness. “It was a statement. And the creative director almost had a fucking aneurysm on set. It was hilarious. I thought the guy was going to actually weep when I brought the fake blood out.”
You spend the next forty-five minutes just talking. It’s remarkably, dangerously easy. The cold air bites at your exposed face, but wrapped in Bucky's heavy leather jacket, with the heat radiating from his large frame beside you, you feel perfectly anchored. You talk about the industry, tearing down the inflated egos of terrible designers, laughing at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the fashion world. He is completely unfiltered, swearing casually, his observations sharp, cynical, and ruthlessly funny. You find yourself matching his energy, completely dropping your polished professional mask. You let out your own frustrations about your boss, the agonizing late nights, the constant, draining pressure to be perfect in an industry that profits off imperfection.
It's liberating. Here on this rusted fire escape, suspended above the noisy, chaotic city, stripped of your titles and your pristine outfits, you are just you and Bucky. Two overworked, exhausted people finding a bizarre, unexpected sanctuary in a false alarm. You realize you haven't talked to anyone this easily in months. Maybe years. Every time he looks at you, his blue eyes are heavy with a quiet, intense interest that makes your pulse hammer in your throat.
Down below, the fire truck’s massive diesel engines roar to life, shaking the pavement. The firefighters have cleared the building, evidently dealing with Tyler and his melted nylon bags, and are slowly backing the massive rig out of the narrow street. The flashing red lights click off, plunging the alleyway back into its usual, shadowed dimness.
“Looks like the show's over…” you say, a strange, totally unexpected pang of disappointment tightening your chest. You don't want this bubble to pop. You don't want to go back to being just passing strangers in the hallway.
Bucky looks down at the departing truck, then back at you. His eyes linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer than is strictly polite before he offers a soft, entirely devastating smile. “Yeah. Suppose we should get back inside before you freeze to death, even with my jacket. I'll let you get back to your wine. Though, honestly, I've got a bottle of rare Kentucky bourbon in my place that easily beats whatever vintage you’re currently drinking.”
You raise an eyebrow, a bold, teasing smirk playing on your mouth. “Is that an invitation, Barnes? Are you trying to get me drunk on a Tuesday?”
“Maybe…” he says softly, turning toward the heavy metal door, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Depends entirely if you can handle your liquor. I don't drink with lightweights.”
He reaches out, his large hand grasping the iron handle of the fire escape door. He pulls.
Nothing happens.
He frowns, his jaw tightening. He grips the handle with both hands, planting his heavy boots firmly on the grated metal floor, and gives it a massive, violent yank. The door rattles loudly in its steel frame, echoing in the quiet night, but it doesn't budge even a fraction of an inch.
The quiet amusement instantly vanishes from Bucky's face. He drops his hands, staring at the thick, unyielding metal.
“What's wrong?” you ask, stepping closer, your heart skipping a nervous beat.
Bucky turns his head, looking over his shoulder at you. The easy, flirtatious energy has completely evaporated, replaced by a grim, deadpan expression that would be terrifying if it wasn't so incredibly hot.
“Some paranoid fucker closed the door behind us.” Bucky says, his voice completely flat.
“Okay, so... just push the bar from this side?” you suggest, your voice pitching up slightly in alarm.
“It's a one-way emergency exit…” Bucky sighs, dragging his hand heavily down his face in deep, profound aggravation. “It only opens from the inside. When the door shuts, the deadbolt drops automatically so people can't use the fire escape to break into the building from the alley.”
You stare at him, the reality of the situation slowly crashing down on you like a bucket of ice water. The freezing air suddenly feels ten times colder. The distant, mocking noise of the city seems to laugh at you.
“Are you... are you fucking kidding me right now?” you ask, your voice trembling between genuine panic and absolute disbelief.
Bucky leans back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, his grey hoodie pulling tight over his biceps. He lets out a long, heavy breath, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips as he runs a hand through his messy hair.
“Well, shit…” he mutters, looking at you with a mixture of apology and dark, undeniable amusement. “Looks like we’re officially locked out. Good thing you've got my jacket, doll, because it's going to be a long fucking night.”
You just wanted a heavy pour of Pinot Noir and twelve hours of sleep. Instead, you got locked on a freezing fire escape with your infuriatingly gorgeous neighbor, James Buchanan Barnes.
