He was early.
Well, earlier.
If it had been up to him, if it had been his choice, he would have been there even sooner. He would have left last night.
Fuck. Last night.
It was just text messages. Just talking. How many nights before an operation had he spent talking shit with Amity on the phone? Dozens. Hundreds. Over the years it had been a lot.
Last night, though...
Waiting for the elevator of their building seemed painful, seemed too long, like too much, so at the option of standing, standing, standing, or sprinting up a dozen flights of stairs. Well. Being a super soldier did have its benefits.
He may have been a little winded by the time he got to the top, may have been breathing a little harder, but nothing he couldn't deal with. A deep breath or two as he ran his fingers through his hair, shifting his duffle on his left arm as he walked down the hall to their door.
His hair was long, loose, clean. She seemed to like it, and he really liked that, so it was an easy decision. But even that, even the fact that it had been a point, a thought, a choice to let it brush his shoulders. A choice to pick the dark blue button-up he liked best. A choice to shave so carefully that morning.
He wasn't really sure that was a thing that was done anymore. It didn't seem like it. But it felt like it was necessary, felt like it was needed, he was going home, going home to her, and so he'd shaved.
It's what you did.
And christ if he didn't have what could only be called butterflies - a sissy, sissy thing to even consider - as he unlocked their door, as it swung open into their apartment. He was both giddy and terrified, unsure.
Just about how it would go.
Not about what was going to happen.
He'd decided, last night. He'd decided somewhere between the first text message and the last. He couldn't do this anymore.
Not anymore.
"Eavenson?" He called into the space, his voice echoing down the hall. There was no sound of her, though, and as he dropped his duffle on the counter, as he caught the faintest whiff of her having been there, Bucky was fairly certain their space was empty.
"Amity?" He asked again, voice less sure, less certain. The kitchen and the living room were right there, though, and nothing. Her room was empty, bathroom too, and that left only one place.
His room.
His cheeks burned at the idea of her there, of her curled up in there, of her on his pillows, skin against his sheets, and even though he knew she wasn't there, that the house was empty - part of him wondering where and when and soon it would be until she got back.
But she'd been there. They'd almost been there together because they had been connected all night no matter the miles that had separated them, each connected to one side of the line.
Technology was amazing.
What was more amazing, though, was the way the smell of her intensified when he opened the door.
A smile sliced across his features as he moved into his room, as he saw the state of his bed. Not quite a disaster, but there was proof she'd been there. With him. For him.
Toeing out of his shoes, leaving them haphazard on the floor, Bucky couldn't help himself as he climbed into those sheets, couldn't help the way he stretched out against them, almost as if he could feel the imprint of her there.
How long had she stayed? When had she woken? What would she look like, like that?
It didn't matter now, though. Those were thoughts he needed to think. He'd made his choice.
She'd be back, eventually.
For now, though, he pulled the pillow that smelled the most of her close, he buried his face in it, wrapped his body around the plush of the cool cotton. He couldn't have her.
But he could have this.
For now.
@shesnipes
