#buckyx reader

“Baby,” Bucky said holding his arms out, “Come on. We gotta go.” He managed it after a moment but you don’t look at him. Your eyes don’t move from the body on the floor. His head practically seperated from his shoulders. 

Steve trades looks with Bucky and they both swallow hard. And Bucky nods. They’re gonna have to carry you out but first they have got to get the knife. Not that they think you’ll hurt them. Or that any Judge ever would convict you for killing Rumlow. But. It’s best not to take the chance. Bucky reaches forward slowly, “Ma’s waiting,” he coaxes softly, “She’s cooking dinner... and you know she doesn’t like it when we’re late.” 

Encouraged when you don’t flinch away and a flicker of recognition flashes in your eyes, he very gently captures your wrist in one hand, “That’s good baby. We gotta get going okay? You did real good. But it’s time to come home.”

Slowly, he reaches for the knife and stops when your fingers twitch on the handle. He knows. He knows he could just take it from you. Take it and clean it up. Take it and hurl it into the nearest lake. He could rip it away from you and haul you out of here. But. He’s afraid. Very afraid. Because you look so fragile. So dead inside. Hollow. “Come on, pretty baby,” he coaxes, gently tilting your face away from staring at Rumlow. “Look at me,” he pleads softly, “I’m gonna keep you safe. But you gotta come with me.”

“Bucky-” you murmur, lip trembling.

“I’m here,” he said softly, “Baby I’m right here, okay?” He slides his hand from your wrist to your hand and gently takes the knife from your hand. “You don’t need this anymore, baby,” he praises, “You did so good. But we’re gonna take over now, okay?”

When you nod, very cautiously, Bucky feels his chest unclench slightly. He passes the knife to Steve, trusting him to take it and know what to do with it. “Come on baby,” he says softly, lifting you off your feet gently. Time is running out. When you whimper in pain he kisses your head, “I know,” he hummed, “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. I’m gonna get you fixed up, okay?”

He cradles you close and nods at Steve. Steve doesn’t need any more encouragement. It’s taking just minutes for Bucky to be steadily covered in your blood. And they’re gonna have to drive like hell. Like the devil is gonna drag them off, if they’re  gonna get you to medical care in time.

Steve listens to Bucky whispering soothing little bits of nonsense. Anything to keep you calm. And still. “Natasha,” Steve said, “Call Colin and Winnifred. Tell them we’re coming.”

Nat’s eyes widen as she watches Bucky carry your limp body out of the warehouse. And Steve pulls her against his side to keep her from running over, “Nat,” he murmured, “Let him do this.”

“But-”

“She killed him,” Steve said quietly, “Damn near cut his head off.”

Natasha slapped a hand over her mouth and glanced towards you. “No,” she said.

Steve nodded. No one blamed you for killing him. But it was the violence of it. From you. Their sensitive little artist. The empath. The free spirit. That’s what had them shocked. Steve pulled her close and kissed her head, “Let Bucky do it,” Steve said softly. 

____________

Winnifred hung up her phone and Colin felt his body tense, “Get ready,” she said softly, “They’re coming.”

“What happened?” Colin asked, getting to his feet. 

“She killed him,” the older woman said softly. “He tried to skin her alive. And she killed him.”

Colin nodded. Trying to digest that. Trying to put pieces together. But he couldn’t breathe. All his training in managing a crisis was gone. You were hurt. You’d killed a man. And you were coming home.

“We’re gonna have to lay her on the table,” Winnifred said, starting to clear it. “And we’re going to need a sheet. Preferably one you don’t mind having to burn when we’re done.”

“Right,” okay,” Colin said exhaling slowly, “Okay.”

“Good man,” She said, “One foot in front of the other.”

Colin nodded. Mouth dry and turned to go find a sheet. And medical supplies. He could hear Winnifred out front, prepping and scrubbing, running to her car for more supplies and he tried. He tried very hard to focus on calming down. 

You needed him calm. Calm and able to work on your wounds. You deserved that much. And that might be the only way. The one thing that could help him get you away from Bucky. That thought made him mentally slap the back of his hand. That should be the least of his worries. 

Bucky tossed his phone away from him, and Steve frowned, “So instead of being just friends, you’re gonna let your ego get in the way, huh?”

“She wouldn’t talk to me,” Bucky reminded, “Not at the party and not now.”

“Buck, she had a kid with her. It’s not like she had time to discuss your one-night stand and her feelings about things,” Steve snorted. 

Bucky nodded, scowling at his phone. He hoped, whoever this new guy was, he’d bother to find that little spot on the inside of your thigh that made you giggle. Or the little spot just below your right ear that made you melt into a puddle. A needy puddle. Putty in his hands. The thought made his lips twitch a little, involuntarily. He knew you’d been tipsy, just a little. But he didn’t doubt you’d be just as exciting without a bottle of wine. 

He doubted this was love. 

It couldn’t be love. Not really. But it was something. And his heart twisted viciously. He hated that he hurt you, Maybe it wasn’t love, but he cared about you. You looked at him like he was anyone else on the street. No fear of his reputation. Not fear of what he could do. You’d let him into your house and offered to make him a cake. It had been cute. It was comfortable.

Steve watched the expressions that crossed Bucky’s face. And for a moment, he looked like his old self. Reminiscing about the girl he’d been with the night before. Details he’d never given to Steve but kept to himself. Things Steve actually knew about now. Things he’d not ever dreamed of before. He left the table and left Bucky to it. He left him to think and hoped that his current train of thought would lead to him being less stupid. 

________

Bucky walked into the shop and took a deep breath. It smelled so good. It was soothing. But seeing you had set his heart to racing. Nerves jangled his hands, and he swallowed hard. 

It was almost closing time. And he knew you weren’t expecting anyone to come through the door as you loaded the day-old pastry into the boxes. Your head jerked up, looking towards the door, and Bucky froze. Like a deer in the headlights. You’d gone from your polite “customer service” face to just. Shut down. No emotion whatsoever. 

“What can I do for you, Bucky?” you ask quietly. 

“I just wanna talk,” Bucky said, holding his hands out placatingly, “I thought going to your house was a step too far. But you won’t answer your phone so... This was. This was all I could think of.”

You sigh and turn back to your work, “Talk about what? You made your intentions pretty clear when you lied to me.”

“Lie-” he starts, but you cut him off with a gesture. 

“You promised you’d call,” you remind him, “And you said you had to go to work... Well, if that’s the case, it was a short fucking mission given that literally, everyone had you in the background of their Snapchat I got sent.”

Bucky winced, “I- I’m sorry.”

“What I don’t understand,” you continue, “Is why. If you just wanted a one night stand, all you had to do was say something. It could have ended there, and I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“Y/N,” he said, cringing, “I- I didn’t want just the one night. I still. I mean.” he felt his cheeks color, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I really- I meant to make you breakfast.”

“So what happened?” you ask. 

“I-” Bucky took a deep breath, “I was trying to protect you.”

“From what?” you snort.

“From me,” he said softly, “From people that would hurt you because of me.”

“Why would anyone give a shit about me?” you ask. 

“Because you’d be a weakness. Someone to use to hurt me... Someone they could exploit to make me be... what I was.”

“By that logic, you shouldn’t talk to anyone ever because with a martyr complex that size, they could use anyone to hurt you,” you tell him, handing him a cookie and the last of the coffee. 

“Probably true,” Bucky said nodding, “But if someone hurt you...”

“If someone hurt me, I’m a big girl who knew what I was getting into,” you tell him.

“My life is dangerous,” he said.

“And I could be mugged on the train home for the money out of the tip jar,” you sigh, “Look. Everything is dangerous. I could burn my face off on a pot tomorrow. My shop could burn down. I could get hit by a bus. I could die at least 18 different ways just from here to my house. And none of them would have anything to do with you.” You stop and smile a little, “It’s a little egotistical of you to assume I don’t have enemies of my own.”

“Is that so?” he said. He can’t help but smile a little, “You steal someone’s recipe?”

“And maybe a boyfriend or two,” you snort.

“That I believe,” he teased, “A real homewrecker you are.” It felt right, teasing you. Eating a cookie and just being in this space. Comfortable. He liked it and was even more irritated at himself for not doing this sooner. He watches as you hand off the pastry you didn’t sell today and sips his coffee. 

“Y/N?” he asks.

“Yeah?” you answer, not looking up from where you’re putting things in your safe to take care of in the morning. 

“Can I walk you home? It’d be a shame if you died before I got a chance to make it up to you.” He holds his breath. He expects you to tease him. To look up at him and say something snarky. But you don’t. Instead you shift uncomfortably. Like he just caught you doing something you shouldn’t.

“Bucky I-” You break off and exhale slowly, “That’d be really sweet of you but I can’t... I have a date. He’s going to be here any minute.”

“Oh,” he says, forcing himself to smile, “Well. That’s cool.”

“I’m sorry-” He shakes his head and you stop. His chest hurts, but it isn’t your fault. You thought he wasn’t interested and moved on. Like a normal person. 

“No,” he said, “It’s fine... I should probably get going anyway. Steve is going to have a lot of lecturing to do.” He smiles and leans over the counter to kiss your cheek, “Call me sometime,” he said, “We’ll get some coffee you didn’t have to make me.”

You don’t say a word. Not a sound, despite the pain. You disappear down a short hallway and a door opens and shuts quickly. Bucky pulls out a chair and sinks into it slowly. He can hear the shower running. He wonders if it’s hot water or cold. He wonders what makes it feel better.  If anything can make that feel better. 

When you make your way back out of the bathroom in clean clothes. Things that touch as little of your skin as possible and still leave you decent. A sports bra. Some sleep shorts. Bucky winces. Your skin looks raw. The glowing red lines are no longer glowing but they’re red. Very red. 

Bucky winces in sympathy and offers you tea, pushing it slowly across the table towards you. “You okay?” he asks again. 

You sigh and nod. “Got a whiteboard?” he asked, guessing you weren’t able to speak or didn’t trust your voice.

You shake your head again and stand, getting up to rummage through a drawer for a notebook and a pen.

“Can’t talk right now. Not if you’re attached to your hearing,” you scribble, sliding it to him gently so he can read it.

“I figured,” he said after a moment, “You screaming at me the other day was a clue. That’s not a human sound.”

“Wasn’t screaming at you... Just. Screaming. It hurts,” you say with an apologetic look. Bucky nodded, “It looks like it hurts,” he said softly, “How long has that happened?”

“Since I was 16,” you answer. You let him read it and scribble for a second longer, “I figured nothing happened. That whatever they tried to do failed. Til my foster mom was trying to take a belt to my ass for being late home from school. TL;DR, that house isn’t standing anymore. The official story is a gas leak. They couldn’t find another explanation.”

Bucky whistled softly, “They got you all jacked up, huh?”

You sigh and nod, taking a sip of tea.

“So... what were they trying to do?” he asked.

You shrug and glance down at the backs of your hands, flexing your fingers slowly. 

“What starts all that?” he asked, gesturing to the fading lines.

“Intense emotion,” you scrawl, sliding the paperback across the table. He frowns, “How the fuck did you hide that from a husband?” he asked.

You shrug, “It’s pretty easy when they don’t care about you to start with,” you answer. Things heat up on your skin again and he holds out his hand, “It’s okay,” he tries, “Hey. Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay. He’s a fucking prick. About 10 minutes after he marries that girl he’s gonna miss having a decent conversation.” Your fingers curl around his metal hand and you rest your head on the table, taking a deep breath. You make a soft pained noise and he reaches over and pets your hair, “I’m sorry,” he soothes gently, “Is there anything that helps?”

“No,” you whisper. Even at that soft volume, Bucky feels the hair rise on the back of his neck and he forces himself to stay still. To not recoil away from you. 

He doesn’t doubt that if you wanted to hurt him, you would have already done it. You’re trying. Really hard. You were vulnerable right now. Hurting and emotionally distressed. Bucky just wants to make it stop. He wants you to look up at him and be snarky. He wants you to be okay. 

“You don’t deserve this,” He said softly, “I’m sorry.” 

“I’m okay,” you whisper, sitting up slowly. Bucky nods and gently wraps your hands around your mug. 

“So. If you do scream,” he asked, “Is it... Like. How loud does it get?”

You snort, “Loud,” you whisper, “Ears bleed. Tech shorts out... made it really easy to steal cars and shit.”

“Steal cars?” he asked amused.

“Right frequency. Broken police car. No tail.” you say, still keeping things succinct.

Bucky whistled softly, “Steal anything else?” he asked.

“Ran guns sometimes. Kept me fed,” you tell him. He smiled a little. He could see it. You’d not want to be in the system. You would have done anything to have a safe place to hide. That’s probably how you wound up on SHIELD’s radar. They would have seen potential in you. Organized. Smart. Driven. Good qualities in an Agent.  “You look tired,” he tries.

You nod, “Long day,” you answer as quietly as you can.

“I should go,” he said, “Let you get some rest.”

You nod and look up at him. The red glow of your eyes is gone and you only have Angry welts left on your skin. You look like you again. Like the you he knows. He wants to play with your hair until you sleep. To keep you safe against his chest. He wonders if you loved your husband or if it was an arrangement of convenience. He does know better than to ask. In the back of his mind, he knows you loved him. Even if he didn’t love you. Not the way you deserve. If he loved you the way you deserved he never would have cheated on you. Never would have left. 

He brushes hair out of your eyes and pulls a card out of his pocket, “Look. I know... I know you’re not wanting to be a hero. I get it. Just. If you ever want to talk. I know how it feels to get tortured by Nazis.”

You nod and take the card. Bucky nods and doesn’t say another word. There isn’t anything he can say after that. Not now. Not while your heart is broken. 

They’d heard rumors. That he kept his best girl for himself. You were his prize. Jealously guarded. 

He’d killed men for looking at you too long. Soft curls in a short bob, big doe eyes, and skin so flawless you looked carved. A doll of a girl. More half grown kid than a woman. But heartstoppingly beautiful. 

Tommy kept a hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the car. You looked a little anxious. Your smile was trembling as you looked at him. Bucky wasn’t sure but on the inside of your arm, as you reached up to adjust his bow tie, he thought he saw bruises. He glanced at Steve and took a deep breath, “We need to get to the Girl,” he said.

Steve nodded, “That’s our in... But how? He never lets her out alone.” Bucky sighed, “How else? We need a man on the inside to get in close.” Steve smirked, “You volunteering, Buck?” The brunette gave Steve a level look, “You’re too clean cut and anyone else on the force I wouldn’t trust within 100 yards of a little dame like that.” Steve sobered, “You saw it too, huh?” Bucky nodded, “She’s caught between a rock and the muzzle of a gun.”

During the war, he and Steve had seen a lot of shit spying for their country. Atrocities that governments on both sides had decided should never see the light of day.  So many girls with big scared eyes, trapped without options just trying to survive. Desperate people doing desperate things. Steve shook his head as the car peeled away from the curb. You were the Sparrow. 

A rumor. A myth becoming a legend. 

Steve nodded, turning the car towards headquarters. They didn’t have much choice. Bucky was right. Steve was bad at undercover work. He was terrible at lying and worse at being someone else. That was Bucky’s specialty. Steve was his handler during the war. His Follow car. Their official face. The good boy. Bucky did the dirty work. This was another mission. One more dirtbag. One more nasty son of a bitch. One more time.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bucky stood guard, hands behind his back at Parade rest. You were in your dressing room. He could hear the soft rustle of fabric and the clink of makeup brushes being rearranged. Tommy only let you out to sing and when he did you drew a crowd. Bucky’s job was to keep people away. A job that the smell of whiskey, 5 o’clock shadow, and his scowl did admirably well. 

He tapped on your door, “Miss Y/N? Curtain’s up in 5.” he said. He heard a sigh and he expected petulant complaining. Not quiet resignation and a thank you. It only confirmed to him his first assessment of you. When the door opened, you were dressed in white. A vision of sultry innocence. Red lips and an angel’s face in a white dress dripping with fringe. You turn and smile at him, “You’re not Alexei...” you say your smile faltering. You recover quickly but that smile was different from the one you’re wearing now.  The one you gave someone you were fond of. Bucky made a mental note to keep aloof around Tommy. Alexei clearly had not and was probably wearing some lead shoes in the Hudson.

“No Ma’am,” he says offering a curt nod, “Name’s James. James Cole.” You nod and offer him your hand which he doesn’t take, “Pleased to meet you, James.” Your voice is quiet. Your accent is hard to place. A little Irish. Properly Irish. Like you’d come over as a tiny kid. Well, he thought reassessing, A tinier kid. You were somehow smaller up close. Elfin features and dainty frame. Probably spent a nice chunk of time underfed as a tyke. You withdraw your hand and turn away. You know the backstage like the back of your hand and Bucky loses you for a moment in the hubbub. 

But only a moment. The crowd parts for you like Moses parting the red sea. No one will look you in the eye. Let alone touch you. You’re an island unto yourself. Adrift and alone. Tommy played a good game. Kept you under guard. Kept you isolated. Bucky was willing to bet that if you had a mother, she thought you were dead. From the wings, he watched as you took the stage. The audience held it’s breath.

The air changed in the room as the first notes flowed from your throat. It charged. And everyone, Bucky included was eating from the palm of your pretty little hand. 

The Sparrow.

A nickname that was well deserved. And honestly. Upon hearing you; an understatement. 

You sang, you entertained Tommy’s friends. You flirted with Tommy and sat daintily on the piano. You were a natural. At least to a casual observer. There were tells. Tiny tells that Bucky saw. Trembling in your hands when you were too casual with your accompanist. The fact that despite you taking three small sips from your glass of champagne, the level of liquid in the glass never changed. The way you watched Tommy for cues. Careful to appease the man who was footing your bills. 

Good to know. You weren’t oblivious. You knew what happened to men who got too close. You knew and you weren’t callous enough to toy with them. A good girl in a bad situation. No one really knew Where Tommy had found you but Bucky was willing to bet that it looked harder to you than this. 

After your show, Tommy escorted you off the stage and waved Bucky over. “James,” he hollered, “Isn’t my girl amazing?” He said pulling you close possessively. “Her voice is beautiful,” he said politely. The gangster’s eyes were challenging. This was a test to see if he was going to follow orders. To see if he was going to fall for you. His passive tone and neutral compliment did the trick.

“What do a schmuck like you know about good art, huh?” he said laughing, smacking you on the ass as he roared. And then roared harder at your blushing and stammering. Bucky let it pass, chuckling at the bosses joke. He was a bodyguard. A lunkhead. Hired muscle in a cheap suit. It didn’t matter how bad he wanted to haul you out of that place and burn it to the ground. 

It didn’t matter that when you turned away, he saw you blink away tears and turn on a blinding smile through obvious pain. You were an asset. 

An Asset.

An informant. 

A whore with a pretty voice.

You nod and pull him down for a good morning kiss, you taste like coffee and he sighs, “You taste like heaven,” he says huskily, “is there any more coffee?” You nod, “In the kitchen next to the fridge.” Bucky kisses you one last time and brushes hair out of your eyes. You look so beautiful all sleep rumpled and rosy-cheeked. He leaves you to your work and heads downstairs. Your house is cozy. He didn’t spend too long sightseeing last night but now as he sips his coffee, he’s curious. He looks at the framed photos. You with various teams. One where you have a lab coat. One where you’re lighting a cigarette with a torch with grease on your face. You look too young to even be smoking in this century but it suits you somehow. You look half feral. He wonders what you studied. He wonders why pictures seem to be missing, there’s a gap noticeable only by the length of your hair. He wants to know why you’re a writer that doesn’t seem to have spent much time writing before recently. He hears your feet on the stairs and he tried to look nonchalant but you’re smiling and it’s knowing. It makes him blush. 

“You’ll never in a million years guess what I studied in college,” you tease. You smile at him over a fresh cup of coffee and he cocks his head, looking from you to the pictures, “Something with grease,” he guessed? You smile, “Next-gen mechanical engineering.” you tell him. Bucky quirks an eyebrow, “No shit?” You laugh, “Nope,” you say, “Been working on a proper solar sailor out in the barn for the last 5 years... it helps break up the writer’s block.” The look on his face, trying to play it cool but internally screaming makes you giggle. “Gimme a minute to put on pants... and some shoes. I’ll show you.” Bucky doesn’t know what a solar sailor is. He doesn’t really care. But he wants to see it. He wants to put together your puzzle. 

He follows you upstairs, watching as you pull on clothes. Torn jeans and a black t-shirt. Sturdy work boots. He pulls on his own clothes and pulls you into a slow kiss, “I always liked smart girls,” he says smiling. You grin, “You ain’t seen nothing yet, handsome.” You take his hand and lead him to the barn. It’s unassuming. Bucky had thought it was just a storage shed. A place where you kept a lawn mower and maybe some old junk. He didn’t expect what he saw when you rolled the doors open.

It was a fully functional workshop. Nearly on par with Stark’s. You pull levers and counterweights release, lowering the skeleton of your Solar sailor to the work table. It looks like a surfboard with a sail on it. The fabric of the sail glitters with tiny golden sequin looking things and he looks at you in askance. “I really loved the movie treasure planet as a kid,” you say shrugging. Bucky smiles a little, he doesn’t know what that is either but you’re looking at your creation with pride. “What does it do?” he asks. You smile up at him with a look that just screams “trouble”. “It flies,” you say, “Or at least it will. Maybe another 300 odd hours of fabrication.” 

Bucky tilts your chin up and kisses you, “So, this all begs the question... How do you go from Next Gen Mechanics to Young Adult Author.” He’s smiling until he notices a flicker of uncertainty in your face. The woman who spills neuroses and insecurities on paper as characters in a story is hesitating to tell him. He waits patiently. God knows there are things in his past he doesn’t want to tell you. 

“That is a very long story,” you say softly. “I got time, baby,” he says, kissing your forehead. You nod, turning away from him, going to your work table. The soldier pulls up a stool and folds his arms, watching your hands. They’re aimless, seeking distraction. But he waits until you find your voice. “I always loved science,” you say. “I was fascinated by it. By the idea that we put a man on the moon with less technology than I had in my gameboy. That I could make those things if I had the plans... I started with shop classes and shit. Moved on to robotics. Studied everything I could get my hands on.” Bucky smiled a little. He could see that. A cute little girl in a baseball cap covered in grease under a car, gleefully tearing it apart to see how it worked. 

“I skipped a couple grades, and my high school trig teacher slipped me a flyer one day. Something for a bot battle. So I put a crew together, me and a couple dumb asses from my shop class you know? I just needed them to lift shit really. Lift shit and look scary. I was all of 5ft tall and about 100 pounds with a backpack on... And 15. Having some muscle on my team didn’t seem like a bad idea.” That made Bucky chuckle. You were still small but there was about a decade of lean lithe muscle packed onto your frame. He’d felt it when he’d carried you to bed. “So we went. And we won... And we kept winning. Scored me a full ride to MIT. At least in theory.” You reflexively grind your teeth, “My funding got pulled about halfway through but I stayed the course. I pulled out loans. A lot of loans.”

“So when the government think tank offered me a job, I said fuck yeah.” you snort. “First thing they did was pay off my loans. All 150,000 worth. Like that. I should have known better.” You sigh and glance at Bucky, “I was barely 21. They offered me money, good money. More money than I was gonna make anywhere else. More money than I knew what to do with after growing up on welfare and free school lunches.” Bucky wants to wrap his arms around you but he doesn’t. He stays still and waits. The story is about to take a turn, he can feel it. It hurts already and he doesn’t want to know. 

“They wanted results. Weapons. Defense tech. Anything they could get. Anything we could make. It was merciless. Endless. And I couldn’t take it. What they didn’t know... What I didn’t know. Was that the mood shifts I’d been self-medicating with Adderall and nicotine gum weren’t just a personality quirk. It was an unchecked bipolar disorder with a dash of ADHD and generalized anxiety thrown in for fun. When I dropped my basket I didn’t just drop it... I lit that shit on fire and laughed.” You chuckle darkly, “I’d been awake so long I hallucinated a giant purple weasel named Terry... That fucker still owes me $50 for surviving jumping off the catwalk railing.” Bucky tenses, an old instinct to kill rising. They’d trapped you and drove you to insanity. The fucking bastards. 

“Turns out, unbreakable contracts break pretty easy when you lose your mind,” you say shrugging, “And I’m not the only one... I spent two years getting put back together. Some of my team is still locked up.” You swallow hard and take a deep breath. “The books came later. Shit I hallucinated. Shit I wanted to read. Anything to keep my mind occupied when I couldn’t sleep. An old teacher of mine sent some of the stuff I’d written to a publisher after I talked to her about it and here we are.” You smile a little and look up at him uncertain and shy. Scared. “If you want to run, I wouldn’t blame you. My life is a mess.”