#firefighter!bucky

Sam’s the first one over, of course. “If these are anything like last week’s lemon bars, I’m declaring you honorary station chef,” he says, already stealing one. You laugh, shaking your head, sliding the foil aside. The sound makes Bucky glance up from his coffee. Just a glance—barely half a second—but it catches you. His gaze is steady, unreadable, the color of blue steel and morning smoke. You smile at him out of habit, soft and polite. He looks away like he didn’t see you at all.

You tell yourself you imagined it—the way his jaw moved like he was fighting back a smile. Maybe you want to imagine it. Maybe that’s why you keep coming back, tray after tray.

The station is quieter today, a rare lazy Saturday afternoon. Someone’s got the radio humming low, a classic rock station playing something worn and comfortable. You pour coffee for whoever’s around and settle by the counter, chatting with Sam about the upcoming charity event for the school. The talk is light, easy—exactly the kind of thing you love about this place. Then you catch Bucky’s reflection in the glass cabinet door across the room; he’s watching the tray.

It’s subtle, barely there, but his eyes linger. Not on you—on the food. You hold your breath, pretending not to notice, but Sam does notice. You can tell because he suddenly stops talking mid-sentence, and his grin grows almost mischievous. “Hey, Buck,” he says casually, “you sure you don’t want to try one? These got your name written all over them.”

“Don’t trust other people’s cooking,” comes the same gruff answer, quiet but final. You don’t miss the faint flush at the top of his ears though, and it’s enough to make something warm unfurl in your chest.

“Suit yourself,” Sam shrugs, but when he turns back to you, his eyes sparkle. You both know that was progress.

After a while, you find yourself leaning against the counter beside the coffee pot. Bucky’s still there, half in shadow, flipping through a newspaper that hasn’t been printed in years. You don’t try to talk to him—you’ve learned not to force conversation. Instead, you slide one brownie from the tray and wrap it in a napkin, setting it on the table near him without a word. It’s not an offering, not really, just a quiet, small gesture.

You’re halfway through cleaning up when you hear the softest sound—a fork scraping across foil. You look up without meaning to. Bucky’s still reading, still silent, but the brownie’s gone from the napkin. His shoulders are looser now, the tiniest bit of tension drained from his posture, and you swear, just for a second, his lips twitch like the start of a smile.

You don’t say anything. You just pack up the empty containers and hum under your breath, the tune quiet and content. The song fades into the murmur of the radio, into the hum of the refrigerator, into the rhythm of a place that, for all its noise and steel, suddenly feels a little softer around the edges.

When you finally head toward the door, Sam calls after you. “See you next week, sunshine!” You grin and wave. You expect Bucky to ignore you—he usually does, but as you step outside, his voice follows, low and gruff.

“Thanks for the… whatever that was.”

You turn, surprise flickering through you. “Brownies,” you say, smiling. “And you’re welcome.”

He nods once, barely meeting your eyes, and then goes back to pretending he didn’t say anything at all. But you see it—the faintest smudge of chocolate on the corner of his thumb.

And maybe, just maybe, next Saturday, you’ll make something just for him.

By the next Saturday, you’ve talked yourself out of caring. You told yourself you wouldn’t overthink it—that the brownie probably just looked good, that he might’ve been hungry, that it didn’t mean anything. But when you catch yourself checking the oven timer more times than necessary while your new batch of blondies bakes, you already know you’re lying to yourself.

You tell yourself you’re doing it for everyone. For Sam, who’ll inhale anything with sugar; for Joaquín, who always pretends to ration his desserts but ends up sneaking seconds; and for Natasha, who’s too polite to take one until you practically shove the container toward her. You’re doing it because you like baking, because the kids at school drive you to the edge by Friday, and this has become your calm. But somewhere in the middle of folding in the white chocolate chips, you add a pinch more brown sugar, just in case someone else decides to try one again.

The air outside carries that quiet, late-autumn chill that makes the world feel still. When you step into the station, the warmth hits instantly—coffee brewing, the faint scent of detergent and pine cleaner. You hear laughter before you even see anyone. Sam’s voice, low and teasing, followed by Steve’s steady calm trying to reel him in.

“Morning, teacher,” Sam greets as soon as he spots you, grinning like always. “You’re about to save our Saturday again, I hope.”

You hold up the container. “Blondies. And I brought apple muffins too, for breakfast since you people apparently eat nothing but caffeine.”

Natasha snorts from the couch. “That’s an exaggeration. Sometimes we eat protein bars.”

You laugh, and the sound fills the kitchen easily. You catch a glimpse of Bucky at the back table, leaning against the counter with a coffee mug that looks practically welded to his hand. He doesn’t speak, but you feel his attention like static in the air—muted, cautious, curious. You smile at him and keep moving, setting out plates, napkins, and paper cups. He watches every motion, pretending he isn’t.

Steve ambles closer, taking a muffin and murmuring his thanks, and then, as he’s biting into it, says casually, “Bucky told me your brownies were good.”

You nearly drop the lid. “He what?”

Steve’s eyes crinkle in quiet amusement. “He didn’t say it exactly like that, but I’ve known the man long enough to translate. You made an impression.”

You glance over again, Bucky’s pretending to read something on his phone, and there’s no chance he can’t hear you, but the faint color on his ears tells you he absolutely can. You bite back a smile, warmth blooming under your ribs.

It’s a calm day again, paperwork and banter, the radio humming. Joaquín’s sitting at the kitchen table fiddling with some gadget; Natasha’s nursing a mug of coffee while half-listening to Sam’s story about a neighborhood dog that keeps chasing their truck down the street. You take the seat beside her, listening, laughing, and slowly you notice the smallest thing—Bucky doesn’t leave. The last few weeks, he’d always disappear to the garage or the supply room when the noise started. But today, he lingers.

He doesn’t say much, just throws Sam a deadpan look when the man starts exaggerating, or mutters a dry comment that makes Steve choke on his drink. And somehow, those tiny, reluctant pieces of his personality make you grin more than you mean to.

Eventually, when the laughter quiets and the others drift toward chores or calls, you find yourself cleaning up the kitchen. You hum a little tune under your breath as you stack plates and rinse cups. The sound feels at home here now, tucked under the low buzz of fluorescent light.

Behind you, there’s a shuffle of movement. “You don’t have to clean all that,” Bucky says, voice low but clear enough to make you turn. He’s standing a few feet away, drying his hands on a towel, expression unreadable but not cold.

You smile, shaking your head. “I don’t mind. I made the mess.”

He hesitates, then steps closer. “You make a mess every week.”

The words might sound gruff, but his tone isn’t sharp. It’s teasing in the smallest, clumsiest way, like he’s trying it on for size. You laugh quietly. “You keep inviting me back.”

“That’s Sam.”

“I don’t remember him being the one who ate a brownie last week.”

That earns you a look—one brow slightly raised, the hint of embarrassment tightening his jaw. He doesn’t deny it. He just exhales through his nose and mutters, “you caught that, huh?”

You shrug lightly, rinsing another cup. “It was hard to miss.”

There’s a beat of silence. You can hear the creak of the building settling, the hum of the fridge, the soft tap of his mug setting down beside the sink. And then, unexpectedly, he starts helping. Drying dishes beside you, movements neat, efficient. You glance up, and for a moment, the light hits his face just right—soft edges, tired eyes that look less guarded, mouth relaxed. “You bake every week?” he asks.

You nod, setting another cup in the rack. “Usually. It’s how I unwind after teaching. My kids are… a lot. It’s nice to do something that doesn’t talk back.”

He huffs out a short laugh—barely a sound, but genuine. “Can’t argue with that.”

The air between you shifts. Not heavy, not awkward, just quiet and comfortable. When you reach for the towel he’s holding, your fingers brush his. It’s nothing—just the lightest contact—but his hand goes completely still. You feel it immediately, the static between skin and skin. He doesn’t pull back right away, his eyes flick up to yours, and for half a heartbeat, neither of you move.

Then you take the towel, pretending not to notice the way his shoulders straighten again. “Thanks,” you say softly.

He nods once. “Sure.”

When you finish, he walks you to the door. It’s unnecessary, but he does it anyway, holding the door open with a quiet sort of courtesy that feels almost shy. You turn back before stepping out, smiling at him again. “See you next Saturday?”

He leans against the frame, eyes flicking to your container. “You bring those blondies again, maybe.” It’s the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen on him yet.

And as you step out into the crisp afternoon air, the thought sticks with you the whole walk home—that maybe this time, you’re not the only one waiting for Saturday.

The third Saturday starts gray and cool, the kind of morning that feels like it’s been steeped in fog. You pull your sweater tighter around your arms as you balance two containers in your hands—one with your usual dessert, the other with something new. You’d made cinnamon rolls this time, because Sam had mentioned missing his mom’s recipe, and because you’d caught yourself wondering if Bucky liked cinnamon. You’re not sure why that thought stuck with you all week, but it did.

When you walk into the station, the smell of coffee is already there to greet you, warm and grounding. The radio hums somewhere in the background, and you can hear Sam’s voice echoing down the hall—loud, teasing, familiar. You smile before you even see them. “Morning, sunshine!” Sam calls, appearing around the corner. “Tell me you brought somethin’ good.”

“Always do,” you say, lifting the containers. “Cinnamon rolls and some kind of experiment involving brown butter and chocolate chips. No guarantees.”

“Brown butter’s never a mistake,” Natasha says from the couch, flipping a page of her magazine. She glances up, offers one of her rare, knowing smiles. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” you echo, setting the boxes down on the counter.

Steve’s at the stove making another pot of coffee—he always makes the second one too strong—and Joaquín is balancing on a chair trying to fix the overhead light again. Bucky’s there too, sitting at the table near the back, sleeves rolled up, forearms braced against the wood as he scrolls through his phone. He looks up once when you arrive, just once, then goes right back to whatever he was doing.

You pretend not to notice, but you do.

You start plating the cinnamon rolls, their warm scent filling the kitchen. Sam is the first to steal one, no surprise there. Joaquín jumps down from the chair, swiping his own before Sam can hog them all, and Steve gives you that gentle, polite “thank you” that always makes you feel like you brought something meaningful instead of just sugar and flour. Natasha takes one, too—eventually—and hums quietly after the first bite, which feels like a glowing five-star review coming from her.

Bucky doesn’t move. He never does, not right away. But he’s watching.

You can feel it in the way his gaze lingers just past you, pretending to be indifferent but landing too often on the tray. You could call him out on it, tease him the way Sam would, but you don’t. Instead, you just slide one of the rolls onto a small plate and set it at the corner of the table near him, like always. He glances at it, then at you. “What’s the trick this time?” he asks, voice low, almost cautious.

“Brown butter in the icing,” you say, smiling a little. “And extra cinnamon.”

He studies the plate for a moment, then his fingers curl around the fork. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a show of it—just cuts off a piece and takes a bite. The world doesn’t stop, the room doesn’t go silent, but you swear you feel it. Like something subtle and quiet shifting.

He chews slowly, expression unreadable, and then—barely, almost imperceptibly—his mouth twitches.

You keep your smile to yourself, pretending to busy your hands with cleaning up a bit of icing from the counter. Natasha sees it though, the faint curve of your lips, and you catch her smirk from across the room.

“Good?” you ask, when you can’t take the silence anymore.

Bucky’s gaze flicks up to yours. “Not bad.” It’s the gruffest possible compliment, but it makes your heart skip anyway. He finishes the rest without another word, and when he’s done, he stands, rinses his plate, and sets it neatly in the drying rack. You’re pretty sure that’s the closest thing to a thank you you’re ever going to get, but then he hesitates by the door, mug in hand. “You teach third grade, right?” he asks suddenly, eyes still on the floor.

You blink, caught off guard. “Yeah. I do.”

He nods once, still not looking at you. “That’s… brave.”

You laugh, startled. “Brave?”

He looks up then, just a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I couldn’t handle that many eight-year-olds. One of ‘em would start talkin’ back, and I’d lose my job before lunch.”

“Occupational hazard,” you say, grinning. “You get used to it.”

“I don’t think I would.”

There’s a hint of amusement in his voice now, something warmer threading through the usual gravel. He takes a sip of his coffee, leans against the counter, and you realize this is the first time you’ve actually seen him stay in a conversation. Not just endure it, stay.

The others drift in and out of the kitchen as the day stretches lazily on. Joaquín heads out to run errands, Natasha disappears into the office, and Steve starts sorting some equipment by the back door. Sam’s napping on the couch, his snores filling the otherwise calm space. And still, Bucky’s there.

You find yourself sitting across from him with your own mug of coffee, talking about small, ordinary things. The town fair that’s coming up. The school’s bake sale. His very strong opinions about the superiority of homemade coffee over anything from a café. It’s not deep conversation—it’s easy, simple. But for Bucky, it’s a start.

You watch the way he relaxes as he talks, his voice softening, hands moving just slightly when he describes something. He still avoids too much eye contact, still glances down often, but his walls are lower today. You can feel it.

Eventually, Steve calls something from across the room about checking a delivery in the garage, and Bucky pushes his chair back with a low grunt. You gather your empty mug, standing too. When he reaches to take it from you, your fingers brush for a second, not even a full second—but long enough.

His touch is rough, calloused, but careful. You notice the way his hand pauses, the faint inhale that catches in his chest. It’s nothing, really, just contact, but it’s the first real one, and you both feel it. He clears his throat softly, taking the mug from you like it’s fragile. “Got it.”

You murmur thanks and smile—gentle, easy. “See you next week?”

“Yeah,” he says, almost before he can stop himself. Then, quieter, “bring those rolls again.”

You walk out of the station with that small sentence echoing in your head. It shouldn’t feel like anything. But it does. It feels like the first crack in the armor. And when you glance back through the door before leaving, you catch him watching you go, a faint, unguarded look in his eyes that tells you exactly what you hoped—it wasn’t just about the food anymore.

You wake early the next Saturday with a kind of energy you pretend is just normal weekend motivation, but you know better. You replay that moment—bring those rolls again—more times than you’d ever admit. You tell yourself not to romanticize it, not to interpret it like something bigger, but your hands are already moving before you’re even fully awake, kneading dough, rolling butter and cinnamon into spirals, letting the house fill with that warm, sweet smell that feels like comfort itself.

These rolls aren’t for the whole station this time. They’re for him.

You still make a second dessert, because you don’t want anyone calling him out, not yet. Sam would tease him into hiding, and Natasha would smirk and Bucky would retreat behind a wall so fast you’d never climb over it again. So you make blondies for the group—easy, reliable, a crowd favorite, and definitely not something Bucky also liked—and you pack the cinnamon rolls in a smaller container, frosting separate so they won’t get soggy. Bucky deserves them really good, better than the first time. You don’t want to mess up the first thing he actually asked you for.

When you walk into the station, a wave of warmth and familiar noise greets you immediately. The TV is on, Sam and Joaquín are arguing about who should get credit for winning last week’s pool game, and Natasha is leaning back in her chair looking like she has already judged both of them twice before breakfast. Steve’s by the coffee machine again, he’s always by the coffee machine.

They all greet you, except Bucky. He’s there—but he doesn’t look up right away. He’s sitting at the table cleaning his gloves, movements precise, meticulous. You set the blondies on the main counter first, letting Sam pounce like he always does. Natasha takes one too, slow and deliberate. You laugh with them, talk lightly, and the dynamic is familiar and effortless.

But there’s a second moment happening under that. You move to Bucky’s table. He finally looks up when you stop in front of him, eyebrows lifting just slightly—not irritated, not cautious, but expectant.

You set the smaller container down in front of him. You don’t open it, you just slide it across the table gently, giving him space to choose. He glances at the way it’s packaged—different container than the blondies—like he knows immediately.

“These are the rolls,” you say softly.

He holds your gaze for a slow, solid second, then he closes his cleaning kit, pushes it aside, and pulls the container toward him. He opens it with careful fingers, like he wants to savor this. You hand him the small jar of frosting without even thinking and he takes that too, almost gently. “You made extra icing,” he says, tone unreadable.

“You asked for them again,” you answer, smiling. “Felt right to get it perfect.”

He doesn’t comment on that. But he coats the top of one roll and takes a bite, in front of everyone this time. No hiding, no pretending. The room keeps going around you, Sam still talking, Joaquín still pretending he’s above stealing another blondie, Natasha sipping her coffee—but it feels like time pauses around that single bite.

Bucky closes his eyes just barely for half a heartbeat. Then he exhales like that first taste knocked some weight off his ribs. “This is…” he starts, then stops. You wait, heart thudding quietly against your ribs. He tries again, voice lower. “It’s really good.”

You don’t tease him. You don’t downplay it. “Thank you,” you say. “I’m glad you like them.”

He eats another bite before speaking again. “You didn’t have to make these just for me.”

There’s no accusation in it. Just quiet, vulnerable acknowledgement. You soften a little, leaning a hand on the back of the chair across from him. “You asked me to. That was enough.”

His throat works like he wants to say something else—like he wants to say a dozen things—but instead he just nods. Then he gestures at the seat beside him with the smallest tilt of his head, like an invitation. You sit next to him easily, not making a big deal of it, and he doesn’t move away. His knee stays close to yours, his arm resting comfortably where it is instead of shifting away to protect some kind of invisible line.

The others absolutely notice. Steve glances once over the rim of his mug, faint amusement playing at the edge of his mouth. Sam looks confused for a second, then like he’s silently screaming in victory. Joaquín smirks, nudging Natasha, who simply lifts an eyebrow like she called this three Saturdays ago.

But they don’t say anything out loud, they let him have this moment.

You and Bucky sit there together, legs nearly touching, sharing quiet conversation while he eats something you made, openly, without hesitation, like a small ritual that belongs only to the two of you.

It starts with the smallest things. It isn’t cinematic. It isn’t some dramatic shift. It’s quiet. It’s domestic. It’s the kind of change that sneaks up on both of you without either realizing it until it’s already inside the ribcage, forcing breath to come different.

You start noticing it because he sits closer now, not directly next to you every time, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him. When you speak, he leans in slightly like the world between you is somehow always shorter than it appears. His attention isn’t lazy anymore—it’s tuned in, like he’s cataloguing you the way he does storms and weather patterns he trusts from decades of instinct. He doesn’t look away when you talk now. He actually listens.

And for Bucky, the noticing becomes almost unbearable in a way that’s brand new.

The first time it happens, you don’t even think about it. You were reaching behind him for the sugar jar in the station kitchenette because it somehow always ends up behind his mug, and your fingers brush briefly over his forearm. Just a soft, passing graze of your fingertips to warm skin through fabric. Nothing intentional, nothing suggestive, but Bucky goes still like something hit him point blank. The sensation lingers under his skin like heat that won’t dissipate. He stands there after you’ve already moved away, hand flexing unconsciously at his side, eyes a little distant.

That touch lives rent-free in his head all week.

He tries to ignore it, pretend it meant nothing, pretend it didn’t short-circuit something in him to feel such uncomplicated, gentle contact for no reason beyond necessity. He tries to move on, but it’s the only thing he thinks about when he’s lying in bed at night staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time someone touched him without expectation, without noise, without motive. The memory of your fingers feels soft enough to unspool him.

By the next Saturday, something shifts in how he moves around you. It’s small, almost invisible, but you feel it.

When you hand him a container lid, his fingers brush yours intentionally this time. Barely. Just enough that you feel the ghost of contact. When you walk past him in the hallway, he steps a little closer so your shoulders graze. When you sit beside him at the table with your coffee, his knee rests against yours for a breath too long before shifting like he’s convincing himself it was an accident.

You don’t call attention to it. You just quietly validate it by not pulling away. And that choice… that tiny, shared permission… is how the fixation begins.

One afternoon, you’re leaning in to show Natasha a little video clip your student sent you of their class hamster “learning math,” which is basically the hamster running across number tiles. You’re laughing, shoulder slightly turned, and Bucky stands behind you to look over your shoulder. His hand—hesitant yet pulled by instinct—settles lightly on your upper arm to balance himself for just a moment.

It should be nothing, it should be casual, it should be something people don’t think twice about. Except Bucky feels everything about it. The softness of your cardigan, the warmth beneath it, the way you didn’t flinch or stiffen or look uncomfortable. You just kept laughing with Natasha, leaning back into the space without even thinking.

He withdraws a second later, but he spends the next hour replaying that single point of contact in his head like a song loop. Sam tries to get him into a debate about which action movie trilogy is superior, and Bucky answers all wrong because he’s barely registered actual words. Steve gives him a suspicious side-eye when he zones out while cleaning equipment.

He is a grown man knocked absolutely senseless by a hand on an arm. You don’t see that happening inside him, but you feel the aftereffects slowly appear. He starts finding reasons to stand beside you rather than across. When passing you utensils or napkins or tupperware, his fingers linger those fractions longer than needed. When you take a seat at the table, he takes the chair next to yours without hesitation now, casual like it’s obvious that’s where he belongs.

And every single touch is feather light, polite, testing, non-assuming, but dripping with meaning. He never demands, he never grabs, he never rushes. He just lets himself slowly relearn the language of contact.

The station doesn’t tease him about it. Somehow, collective unspoken agreement settles that nobody should scare him back inside his armor. Not when he’s finally stepping out piece by piece. Natasha catches a few moments between you two, her eyes sharper than anyone else’s, but she simply smirks to herself because she sees the blessing of quiet healing when it’s right in front of her.

And you… you find yourself anticipating those small touches as much as he does. You don’t chase them, you don’t force them, you just gently meet them halfway every time he reaches.

And in the slow, silent corners of the station, where coffee steam curls in the low kitchen light and cinnamon and sugar linger in the air from last week’s rolls, you watch a man rediscover something he hasn’t allowed himself to want in years, the simple luxury of being touched without fear.

And Bucky learns—one soft brush of skin at a time—that he wants more.

The next two Saturdays become this quiet study of small proximity—like the space between you is its own gravity field and Bucky’s learning the pull of it in real time. It never happens in big gestures, never anything dramatic that would make the guys at the station crack jokes or ruin the fragile pace the two of you have found.

One Saturday you bring blueberry crumble bars. Natasha eats two, Sam tries to pick at the entire tray before Steve smacks his hand away like a disappointed parent. And Bucky sits next to you like that is the most natural place in the world to sit.

He doesn’t even think about choosing another chair anymore. His body makes the decision before his mind can get in the way. His arm rests on the back of your chair—not wrapped around you, but behind you.

He doesn’t even seem aware he’s doing it until halfway through your story about one of your students making up a conspiracy theory about why pencils exist, which was unhinged and adorable and your favorite thing all week, and then you see him slowly realize how close he actually is.

He should move, he knows he should move, but he doesn’t.

You feel the warmth of him at your back, the way his presence curls lightly around your spine like a secret he forgot to keep hidden. You don’t call it out, you don’t flinch or shy away. You just stay exactly where you are—and you watch the moment he realizes you’re not pulling from him. His shoulders settle like a slow exhale.

Later, when Steve asks you to grab something from the supply closet, Bucky follows without thinking. He insists he needs to get new gloves too, though you’re almost positive every glove in that closet is alphabetized by size and condition like his personal religion. But he’s there, standing behind you as you reach for the plastic bin on the second shelf. You stretch a little further and lose your balance by just a degree—not even enough to cause chaos—just enough for your feet to shift.

Bucky catches your elbow. Not a reflex of panic, but a reflex of instinct. His palm slides warm and steady around the bend of your arm, fingers wrapping gently just above your wrist, grounding you with more tenderness than pressure. The touch is nothing more than support—but the gentleness in it makes your breath catch mid-inhale. “You good?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you say, turning toward him slightly with the bin held against your chest. Your arm is still in his hand. “Just misjudged how far back they shoved this.”

He doesn’t drop your arm right away. His thumb shifts—just once—in a tiny, unconscious sweep. It’s barely movement, but it feels like a full sentence. And Bucky looks like he realizes in that exact millisecond that he’s gotten used to touching you. That he wants more of it.

He clears his throat and drops his hand, stepping back a respectable amount—but the air between you stays charged. You don’t push it, you just smile at him and head back out into the kitchen like nothing monumental happened, even though both of you are now thinking about nothing but that touch.

When you leave that evening, Bucky walks you to the door again. He always does now. No one calls attention to it. It’s just routine. Your routine. At the door, you shift your bag higher on your shoulder and his hand rises automatically—like he’s going to take it from you—like he’s ready to help you carry it without thinking—but he catches himself halfway and lets his hand fall back down. It’s so small. So ordinary. So charged. You give a soft smile, almost teasing, but not quite. “See you next week?”

There’s no hesitation anymore. “Yeah,” he says, eyes warm in a way that’s new, edges less sharp. “I’ll save you a seat.”

You don’t know if he realizes how much more intimate that sounds compared to anything else you’ve shared—but you leave with that sentence echoing through you the entire walk home.

By the next Saturday, Bucky starts waiting for the sound of your footsteps before you’ve even parked your car outside. He doesn’t tell anyone that, of course—he sits at the kitchen table with his mug like always, pretending he’s been there all morning, pretending he doesn’t check the clock every five minutes. Sam catches him glancing toward the door once and smirks, but he doesn’t say a word. No one does anymore. The teasing stopped the moment they realized something was happening quietly between the two of you—something delicate and steady that didn’t need noise.

You always come in the same way: soft knock on the frame, a smile first, your voice warm with that teacher-bright tone that seems to filter out the station’s gray edges. The kitchen fills with you as soon as you enter, like you bring your own weather with you. Today, your hair smells faintly like sugar and butter, and Bucky feels that scent settle somewhere low and calm inside him.

He greets you now, which still surprises you a little every time. “Hey,” he says, voice still rough but softer around the vowels. He stands up when you walk in—not because he means to, but because it feels wrong to stay seated while you’re carrying something heavy. You hold up your containers and he reaches automatically, taking them from your hands before you can protest. The brush of fingers is so casual now that neither of you pause, but the quiet electricity is still there, pulsing underneath everything.

“Got your favorite,” you tell him, pointing to the smaller container. “Cinnamon rolls. The others get the cookies this time.”

He gives a small nod, lips twitching at the corner. “You really don’t have to—”

“You said to bring them again,” you interrupt, teasing. “You can’t take it back now.”

“Didn’t say I was takin’ it back,” he mutters, and you catch the faintest ghost of a smile. It’s there and gone in an instant, but it’s real.

You unload the cookies while Bucky takes the rolls to the far counter. He doesn’t let anyone else near them until you’ve had your share. Sam groans dramatically when he notices. “Oh, so the rolls are exclusive now? Is that it?” Sam says, eyeing the container like he’s preparing for a heist.

“Yeah,” Bucky says simply, not even looking up. “They are.”

The room falls into a stunned silence for half a beat before Sam bursts out laughing, shaking his head. Natasha smirks from her corner with a knowing hum, and Steve hides his grin behind his coffee mug. You’re half-laughing, half-embarrassed, warmth spreading through your chest like sunlight. Bucky doesn’t even seem embarrassed about claiming them—or you—in that small, quiet way. He just sits down, pulls the lid off, and starts spreading frosting over one like it’s his ritual.

When you join him at the table, he slides the second roll toward you without looking, like it’s already decided. “Made sure I saved you one before Wilson tried to steal it.”

You take it with a small laugh. “Thank you.”

The rest of the morning unfolds gently, the rhythm familiar now. You all linger in the kitchen longer than necessary, talking about nothing important—school stories, local events, the fair coming up in a few weeks. Natasha mentions volunteering for the kids’ safety booth, and Bucky glances up when you say you’ll be helping there too. He doesn’t comment, but you see the flicker in his eyes—interest, curiosity, something softer you can’t quite name yet.

After a while, Sam and Steve head out to check equipment, and Joaquín leaves to run errands, leaving just you, Bucky, and Natasha in the kitchen. She excuses herself after a few minutes, mumbling something about needing peace before the chaos returns. That leaves the two of you alone at the table, the low hum of the fridge filling the quiet between sentences.

You start to stand to wash a few dishes, but Bucky’s hand finds your forearm before you can move. It’s the lightest touch—barely there—but his thumb brushes once against your sleeve. “Leave it,” he says. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”

You freeze for half a second, not at the words, but at how naturally he touched you. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s done it until you look at him. His fingers stay there a second longer than they need to, warm and steady, before he lets go and reaches for the plates instead. You sit back down, quiet, watching him.

He’s methodical when he cleans—careful and exact. You catch the way he hums softly under his breath, a habit you’ve never heard from him before. It’s low and tuneless, but peaceful. When he turns to grab a towel, you stand and move beside him to help, not saying anything. The two of you move around each other easily, unspoken choreography. At one point, your hand reaches for the same mug he’s drying, and your fingers brush again. He doesn’t freeze this time; he looks at you instead, his eyes flicking up, blue and tired and open.

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking the mug.

“Anytime,” he says quietly.

You finish cleaning in silence, but it’s comfortable—the kind of silence that feels shared rather than empty. When you finally pack up to leave, he’s leaning against the counter again, towel slung over his shoulder, hair a little damp from running his wet hands through his hair. He looks at you for a long moment before speaking. “You always bring something,” he says, almost like he’s thinking out loud. “Even when you’ve got a long week. Even when you look tired.”

You shrug, smiling a little. “It’s my way of winding down. And you all appreciate it. Mostly Sam,” you add with a laugh.

He huffs a laugh too, short but genuine. “I appreciate it more than I say.”

That catches you off guard, but you meet his eyes and see that he means it, completely. “I know,” you say softly. “I can tell.”

He nods once, then takes a breath like he’s going to add something else but decides against it. Instead, he steps closer and opens the door for you. You pass him on the way out, the scent of soap and cinnamon filling the small space between you. He doesn’t move right away. The side of his arm brushes yours, just a whisper of contact, but the simplicity of it makes the moment feel big. “See you next Saturday?” you ask, tilting your head slightly toward him.

His mouth quirks, barely a smile but enough to feel like one. “Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it.”

As you walk away, he lingers by the doorway for a moment, watching you until you turn the corner. When you’re gone, he looks back at the kitchen—the empty mugs, the faint traces of cinnamon on the counter, the chair you always sit in—and for the first time in a long while, he realizes the week ahead feels like the wait between good things instead of the grind toward the next shift.

Saturday used to be just another day in the rotation. Now it feels like the only one that matters.

You show up to the station one Saturday and the kitchen is already… set up. Someone went and made space on the counter, like they’d been expecting you and your containers. Someone laid out the cutting board, the butter knife, the napkins. Someone rinsed out the carafe and made a fresh batch of coffee thirty minutes before you arrived, just to make sure it would be hot when you walked in.

It’s Bucky. Obviously.

He pretends he didn’t. Pretends that’s just how the kitchen always is. But Sam catches your eye and mouths you did this to him the moment Bucky walks away to grab mugs.

You hide your smile in your sleeve.

When you open your container today, you notice Bucky doesn’t wait. He doesn’t hang back like he needs to “pretend to think about it.” He comes to the counter first. He claims his plate first. He doesn’t bother letting anyone else investigate what you brought before he does. He scoops icing and spreads it over his cinnamon roll with the same careful concentration you’ve come to adore—like food is a language too, and slow is how he honors it.

No flashy commentary. No teasing. Just soft ownership. He bites in, eyes shuttering, jaw going slack for a millisecond before he pulls it back under control. You see his shoulders drop a fraction, like sweetness somehow releases tension in his spine. And then… he actually speaks before anyone else does. “These are even better than last week.”

Sam nearly chokes on his coffee, Natasha quietly grins behind her cup like she just saw a planet finally rotate into alignment, and Steve pretends he’s not impressed, but he looks away to hide the way he’s smiling too hard.

And you just stand there, your heart doing something absurd, gentle, and painfully tender in your chest. Because he didn’t say it begrudgingly. He didn’t say it like he was forced or pushed, he offered praise—volunteer level, willingly.

You hand him a fork but he doesn’t take it the regular way anymore. He takes it from your fingers directly, brushing skin intentionally this time. That subtle slide of his fingertip across yours is deliberate. It lingers a half beat longer than necessary. He could easily avoid contact but he chooses not to.

You sit beside him with your own roll, and for a good twenty minutes the room just fills with quiet chatter and slow chewing and contentment. It feels absurdly domestic, like a messy little chosen weekend breakfast you don’t want to end. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t armor himself from the world. He doesn’t isolate from the noise of his friends. He sits with you—like this is where he fits.

At one point you’re telling him a story about a field trip your class is taking to the petting zoo and how you’re worried about one particular child trying to smuggle out a goat. He listens, leaning his chin into his palm, eyes on you the entire time like nothing else competes for his attention. Every few sentences he makes these tiny reactions—lips pursing when you mention chaos, eyes softening when you describe their excitement, a quiet huff laugh when you mention bribes in the form of stickers.

It’s this subtle emotional matching that sneaks up on you.

He isn’t just listening. He’s attuning.

When your plates are empty, he takes them from you automatically to rinse and dry. You don’t even have to ask. You don’t even have to offer. That’s just the role he takes now, unspoken. You cook. He cleans. It’s the smallest domestic ecosystem that somehow feels like the most intimate thing you’ve ever built with someone.

On your way out hours later, Steve and Joaquín are arguing about grill season, Natasha’s flipping through her paper, and Sam is half-dozing on the couch. It’s loud but warm. Familiar but safe.

Bucky walks you out like always.

And this time, when you turn to say goodbye, he doesn’t hover awkwardly or shove his hands into his pockets to protect himself. He stands a little closer and his eyes find yours without darting away. And in that space between breath and reason, his fingers catch the strap of your bag gently—just hooking it in place as if helping settle it on your shoulder is second nature now. It’s nothing dramatic. It doesn’t send shockwaves. It’s just… soft. “You drive safe, alright?” he says, quiet but earnest.

You nod once, smiling. “I will.”

He lets his fingers slide away slowly. Not rushed. Not nervous. Because somewhere between cinnamon and quiet mornings, you’ve become part of his weekend. You’ve become the only break in his routine he actually looks forward to.

And when the door closes behind you, the entire station sees the way he lets out a breath like holding himself together took effort he didn’t want to spend anymore. Sam doesn’t tease, Natasha doesn’t smirk, and Steve just claps him once on the shoulder on his way past.

Bucky doesn’t say it out loud, but everyone knows. Saturday is no longer just the day he endures. It has become the day he lives for.

By the time the school fair starts creeping closer on your calendar, you’ve gotten comfortable in the routine. Saturdays are Bucky days now. They’re warm and easy and slow in a way that feels almost sacred—like everything else in the week exists just to lead toward them. You don’t say this out loud to anyone, obviously, not even Wanda, even though she definitely sees something changing. She sees it before you are ready to claim it.

It’s Wednesday afternoon and you’re both in your classroom after dismissal. Wanda is perched on your desk, sipping from her tea, grading spelling tests and occasionally laughing under her breath at some of the answers. You’re organizing your materials for the spring fair games, sorting little giveaway bags, taping up the poster that says “FOLLOW THE FOOTPRINTS FOR PRIZES”—all glitter marker and 3rd grade chaos charm.

You think about the fair and immediately think about Bucky.

It pops into your head so naturally that it catches you off guard. Before, it would’ve felt like a stretch… like worlds couldn’t possibly overlap. But now, your worlds have already started to bleed into each other. He knows about your classroom, he knows your kids’ nicknames, he knows your habit of stress-baking. And more importantly, he listens. That’s the part you can’t let go of. The part where this man, who trusts almost nothing outside his own hands, trusts you.

Wanda glances over and catches that particular expression on your face—that soft internal conflict hovering at the edges of possibility. “You’re thinking about something,” she says knowingly.

You blink. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been staring at the same sticker sheet for two full minutes,” she says with a little smirk. “And you only do that when you’re overthinking something.”

You look down and yeah, you are literally holding the same sheet of star stickers, frozen mid-air like your brain has been suspended in amber. You try to look casual, not suspicious. “I was just thinking… maybe I should ask someone to come. You know. Just for moral support. It’s going to be chaos and—”

Wanda doesn’t even let you finish. “You should invite Bucky.”

You inhale sharply. “I didn’t say it was Bucky.”

“You didn’t need to.” She laughs softly, finishing her tea before setting the mug down. “Every time you talk about him you smile like someone just lit a candle inside you.”

You open your mouth to deny it, but she raises an eyebrow. The kind of eyebrow that says don’t insult both of us by pretending. You sigh then, leaning back against the wall beside the glitter poster. “It’s different with him,” you admit quietly. “I don’t… want to push him. He’s slow. He’s careful with everything.”

“And you already match him there,” Wanda says gently. “You’re not rushing him. You’re just… letting something grow.”

You chew your lip for a moment. “Do you think he’d even want to go? It’s a school event. Loud kids, small town noise, crowds.”

“Maybe that’s exactly the kind of trust bridge this kind of thing needs,” she counters, eyes soft. “It’s safe, it’s you. And he likes spending time with you, he lights up on Saturdays. I’ve literally seen it happen.” You flush, warm, because hearing it aloud makes your chest ache in a good way. Wanda leans closer, lowering her voice like this is a secret spell she’s whispering just for you. “Invite him out of his world… and into yours.”

You look down at your glitter poster again, the little stars catching the classroom lights. You imagine him here, awkward but warm, secretly charmed by the kids, maybe helping you hold things or laughing at their terrible knock-knock jokes. You imagine his hand brushing your wrist as he hands you a prize bag. You imagine just… existing with him outside stainless steel tables and cinnamon rolls.

And suddenly it doesn’t feel impossible. It feels… right. You exhale, steadying your voice. “Okay,” you say quietly. “I’ll ask him on Saturday.”

Wanda smiles like she already knew you were going to say that. She reaches for her grading stack again, finalizing her last test. “Good. Because I think he needs to see that he belongs somewhere outside that station. And I think he deserves to see where you shine.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You let those words sink deep. And for the rest of the afternoon, while you staple more posters and prep game bins, your heart feels different. Lighter. Braver. The idea of inviting him doesn’t feel terrifying anymore.

It feels hopeful. It feels like the next natural step in the slow burn you’ve been building together—one cinnamon roll at a time.

Saturday comes, and you spend the morning trying not to overthink the invitation. It’s ridiculous, really—you’ve spent months in the same room with Bucky, talking, laughing, baking, brushing hands and pretending it’s casual. You’ve built a rhythm. But this feels different. Asking him to the fair means stepping out of that familiar bubble. It means letting your two worlds touch. It means giving him a window into the life you built before he was part of it.

You bake early to keep yourself busy. Chocolate chip muffins this time—simple, comforting, impossible to mess up. You tell yourself you’ll just see how the day goes. If it feels right, you’ll ask. If not, no harm done. But even as you think it, you’re already choosing which words to use, rehearsing them under your breath while the muffins rise.

The station hums like always when you walk in—low music, the sound of someone sweeping, laughter echoing from the common room. You’re met with the same warmth that’s become ritual, the same voices calling your name, the same easy energy that makes you feel like you belong.

But Bucky’s the first person you see. He’s standing at the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour. He’s cooking—actually cooking—something in a skillet. The sight freezes you in place for a second. It’s not because he’s cooking, though that’s impressive enough, but because it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him share that space the way you do. “Morning,” he says, glancing up from the pan. His voice is rougher than usual, but softer somehow. “You’re early.”

“So are you,” you tease, smiling. “Didn’t peg you as the Saturday morning pancake type.”

He smirks faintly. “I’m not, but Sam’s been bragging about his cooking all week, so I thought I’d remind him what good actually tastes like.”

From the table, Sam yells, “you’re using my recipe!”

Bucky’s smirk grows. “And somehow still making it better.”

You laugh, moving to set down your container of muffins. He looks at it, then at you, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Those for us?”

“Always,” you say. “Figured you might need something to go with your… culinary competition.”

He takes one of the muffins without hesitation. It’s something you’ll never stop noticing—that small act of trust, how it still feels like a quiet miracle each time. He breaks it in half, steam curling up, and nods in quiet approval. “Good,” he says simply, like it’s law.

You help with the dishes while he finishes cooking, falling into that easy rhythm again. You hand him a towel, he hands you a spatula, the two of you brushing against each other in that familiar, subtle orbit you’ve built. Every accidental touch feels intentional now. Every small space between you feels electric.

When everyone sits down to eat, you slide into the chair beside him automatically. It’s become your seat; no one questions it. Bucky makes a show of setting your plate in front of you first, then his own. You catch Natasha watching him, her smirk small and secret, and you fight the urge to hide your smile behind your fork.

The conversation flows as it always does—banter, teasing, casual updates. You wait for the right moment, the right lull in the noise. When Steve gets up to grab more coffee and Sam starts talking about a neighborhood dog that won’t stop following their truck, you finally look toward Bucky. “Hey,” you say quietly, just enough for him to hear over the chatter.

He glances at you, eyes steady. “Yeah?”

“So, my school’s having its spring fair next weekend,” you start, picking at your napkin. “It’s kind of a big thing for the kids. Games, food, chaos—good chaos. I usually work one of the booths, but it’s a lot of running around.”

He listens closely, nodding a little. You can tell he’s trying to picture it.

You take a breath, deciding to just jump. “I was thinking… maybe you could come? You don’t have to stay long, I just thought you might like to see it. Wanda’s volunteering too—you’d like her, she’s great.”

Bucky’s brow furrows slightly. “You want me to come to a school event?”

There’s no teasing in it—just genuine surprise, a soft disbelief that someone would want him there. “I do,” you say simply. “You’re good with people, even if you think you’re not. And I think you’d enjoy it. Plus, you’ve heard about these kids for months, feels only fair you meet the legends.”

His mouth curves, small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up at you. “You really want me there?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”

He studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to make sure this isn’t pity or obligation. When he finally nods, it’s slow, thoughtful. “Alright,” he says. “If you’re sure, I’ll come.”

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “Good. I’ll save you some cotton candy.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Not sure I trust fairground food.”

“Then I’ll bring snacks,” you counter easily. “My snacks. You trust those.”

His eyes linger on you, and something flickers there—something softer, something that looks dangerously close to fond. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

The rest of the day passes like it always does, filled with chatter and work and the easy rhythm of routine. But beneath it, something new hums. You can feel it every time he looks at you, every time his hand brushes yours as you move around the kitchen.

And later, when you leave, he walks you to your car like he always does. The afternoon sun is soft on the pavement, the world unhurried. You turn to him before getting in, hand resting lightly on the door. “Thanks for saying yes,” you say quietly.

He shrugs, but his voice is warm when he answers. “Couldn’t let the kids down, could I?”

You grin. “Or me?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just gives a small, almost shy smile. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Or you.”

When you drive away, you see him still standing there in the rearview mirror, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he’s still watching you go. And as you turn the corner, your chest feels full in a way that’s new and familiar all at once.

He’s coming into your world next week.

The fair day dawns bright and loud, the kind of spring morning that feels like sugar in the air—kids’ laughter already echoing down the main street, vendors setting up booths, music floating from the community speakers. The smell of kettle corn and fried dough hangs over the whole town like a promise. You arrive early, wearing one of the school T-shirts with your name on the back, arms already full of poster boards and tickets. It’s chaos, and you love it.

You help Wanda set up the game booth—ring toss, bean bags, a giant jar of jellybeans for kids to guess at. She’s wearing sunglasses, sipping tea, looking like she owns the place, and occasionally humming in amusement every time a student runs up to greet you like you’re a celebrity. “They worship you,” she says, adjusting the rings on her table. “You know that, right?”

“They’re eight,” you laugh. “They worship whoever gives them stickers and sugar.”

Still, the affection warms you. You love your kids, the energy, the noise, the chaos. But as the crowd thickens, a part of you can’t stop flicking toward the street, scanning faces as if you’re expecting someone—hoping, really. Wanda catches the motion. “You’re looking for him,” she says without even pretending it’s a question.

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “He said he’d come. He doesn’t have to, though. I wouldn’t blame him if—”

Wanda interrupts you with a small smile. “He’ll come. He’s a quiet one, not a liar.”

You try not to overanalyze it, you focus on your booth, the crowd, the small joys of the morning. You laugh with your students, cheer when they win prizes, and help clean up spilled lemonade. It’s easy to get lost in the noise, the blur of color and movement.

And then—there he is.

You don’t see him approach right away. You feel him first, a subtle shift in the air behind you, the quiet weight of someone standing close but not too close. You turn, and Bucky’s there at the edge of the booth, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other holding a small brown paper bag. He’s dressed differently than usual—still simple, still him, but softer somehow. Jeans, a plain gray henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows. The sunlight catches in his hair, a faint breeze teasing it.

You freeze for a beat, because something about seeing him here, in your world, out of uniform and duty, hits deeper than you expected. “You came,” you manage finally, voice caught between surprise and warmth.

He gives a small, lopsided smile. “Told you I would.” He holds up the paper bag. “Brought backup snacks, just in case fair food’s as bad as I think it is.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you too easily. “You really didn’t trust my cotton candy plan?”

“Didn’t say I don’t trust you,” he counters, and the way he says it—steady, quiet, completely earnest—makes your chest tighten.

Wanda materializes beside you like smoke, smiling at Bucky with that curious teacher’s-eye look she gives to every new person she meets. “So you’re the infamous firefighter,” she says, extending her hand. “She’s told me about you.”

Bucky shakes her hand politely, shooting you a look that’s equal parts suspicion and amusement. “All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly,” Wanda says, smiling. “You’re taller than I pictured.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I get that a lot.”

You glare at her playfully, but she just waves and says, “I’ll go check the dunk tank before the kids decide to flood it early,” before wandering off.

The two of you stand there, momentarily caught between laughter and quiet. Around you, the fair buzzes—kids running past, someone yelling about funnel cake, the smell of caramel apples thick in the air. But somehow, it feels like it’s just the two of you. “Want me to show you around?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Lead the way.”

You walk through the fair together. He doesn’t talk much at first—he doesn’t need to. He listens, hands in his pockets, occasionally making some dry comment that makes you laugh. You take him past the art booths, where your students’ projects hang in rows of color, and he stops in front of one labeled with your name. It’s a collage your class made—a field of handprints in paint, each signed by a child, surrounded by cut-out letters that spell The Best Teacher Ever! It’s uneven and smudged and perfect.

Bucky studies it longer than you expect him to, a faint softness pulling at his mouth. “They really love you,” he says quietly.

You shrug, embarrassed. “They’re good kids.”

He glances down at you, something thoughtful in his eyes. “You’re good with them,” he says simply. “It shows.”

The compliment lands heavier than he probably intended. It isn’t the words—it’s the way he says them, steady and sincere, like it’s not even a question, like it’s a fact.

You move on, showing him everything—your favorite stall for handmade candles, the game where the kids always cheat, the bake sale Wanda and the PTA moms are running. At one point, you find yourself next to him in front of the cotton candy machine, and you laugh as a gust of wind blows sugar threads into your hair. Without thinking, he reaches out and brushes them away.

The touch is brief, featherlight, but his fingers linger at your temple for half a second before dropping. His breath catches. Yours does too. “You’ve got, uh,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “Sugar in your hair.”

“Tragic,” you say, your voice a little too soft.

“Catastrophic,” he agrees, mouth twitching.

You both laugh, a little shy, a little stunned, and move on. But the touch stays, and it hangs there like a memory neither of you wants to disturb.

Later, as the afternoon fades and the crowd begins to thin, you sit on the curb with a paper cup of lemonade, your knees almost touching. The air smells like sun and sugar and pavement. You don’t talk much, you don’t have to, the silence feels full instead of empty.

“You were right,” Bucky says finally, nodding toward the fairgrounds. “Wasn’t so bad.”

You smile at him, eyes squinting against the last bit of light. “Told you.”

He looks at you then—not the quick glances he used to give, not the cautious observation from behind a wall, but openly, with quiet awe. Like he’s finally seeing how you look in your own world. Surrounded by color, laughter, tiny sticky hands tugging your sleeves, your voice still warm even after hours of talking.

For Bucky, something settles deep in his chest that he can’t name. It’s not attraction—he’s already been living in that. It’s something deeper, more domestic. It’s the feeling of home.

You notice the look but don’t name it either. You just smile back, soft and unguarded. “Thanks for coming,” you say quietly. “It meant a lot.”

He shrugs, but there’s no deflection in it this time. “Anytime,” he says, voice low. “I liked seeing your world.”

You sit there a little longer, until the lights start flickering on and the first stars slip out behind the clouds. And when you finally stand to leave, he offers his hand—not out of obligation, not because it’s polite, but because it’s instinct now. You take it without hesitation. His palm is warm, steady, a little calloused. You hold on just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

And when you walk back through the fairgrounds, side by side, your hands brush again and again until they finally stay that way. Fingers linked loosely, not claiming, not rushing. Just… together.

The crowd hums around you, the night growing soft, and Bucky realizes something simple and terrifying all at once:

He doesn’t just like your Saturdays anymore. He likes you everywhere.

He starts showing up in small ways outside Saturdays. You’ll be in your classroom after school prepping next week’s math centers and there will be a knock at the door. You look up and he’s leaning in the doorway, one hand tucked in his jacket, holding a thermos of coffee like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He pretends he’s dropping it off because Steve accidentally made too much at the station—not because he just wanted to see you.

But the second he steps into your room and sees your kids’ artwork taped to the walls and your desk covered in glitter glue and fidget toys and half laminated name tags, he looks around like he’s inside something he never imagined existed: harmless chaos. “You deal with this every day?” he murmurs, stunned but not mocking, eyes darting around like he’s trying to translate children in their natural terrain.

“And willingly,” you tease, passing him a marker so he has something to do with his hands before he overloads. “Some people like adrenaline. I like sticker negotiations and ‘please stop licking the book’ diplomacy.”

He huffs out that tiny almost laugh he does—the one at the edge of softness—and helps you hang up a few more student drawings without saying anything else. And it’s the way he stands next to you, shoulder brushing yours every so often, that tells you he didn’t come here because of extra coffee at the station at all. He came because he wanted to be here. Because being near you doesn’t drain him—it restores something.

He starts noticing when you’re tired now, too. Not in a pitying way—he doesn’t talk to you like you need fixing. He just quietly slides a container of his meal prep toward you when you mention skipping lunch. He brings extra apples one day and tosses one to you without even looking up from the newspaper. He casually hands you his jacket when you shiver taking trash out to the dumpster behind the station, acting like it’s not a big deal while his eyes track you the entire way back inside.

And you start to see how much he craves small, steady connection—even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it. When you walk beside him now, he reaches for your arm lightly—not tight, not possessive, just guiding. When you laugh, he leans in closer, almost subconsciously. When you hand him a napkin or utensil or anything at all, he always touches your fingers first before taking it from you. Like contact is becoming a language.

Sam notices before you do. One afternoon at the station, you reach across the table to pass Bucky a spoon and his hand slides along yours like muscle memory, like instinct, and Sam chokes mid swallow until Steve kicks his ankle under the table with military precision. Natasha doesn’t say a word—she watches with narrowed amusement like she always knew this was exactly where the slow burn was heading.

And Bucky? He just keeps doing it. Little touches. Little claims disguised as casual nothing gestures. He doesn’t call attention to them and neither do you. You just lean in gently, matching his pace, letting him guide in the small quiet ways he’s comfortable with.

The first time you walk outside together after a long Saturday shift and the night air settles cool against your skin, he reaches out and hooks his hand lightly behind your elbow—barely pressure at all—but you can feel how deliberate it is. You can feel that he wanted that contact. That he wanted you closer. “You okay?” you ask softly, turning toward him.

He takes a slow breath before answering, looking almost surprised at himself. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet, steady-sincere. “Just… making sure you don’t get lost on the sidewalk.”

The excuse is thin. Laughable. Ridiculous. And when you look up at him with that sunshine softness he pretends doesn’t undo him, he tries to scowl and fails. You don’t call him out, you don’t burst his cover. You just lean closer and bump your shoulder into his gently. “Guess I’m lucky you’re here to keep me on track,” you say.

And he breathes in slow like your words went somewhere deeper than lungs. Because that’s the part that’s melting him the most. Not the baking, not the quiet weekends, not the familiar routine. It’s the fact that when he reaches for you—however small, however hesitant—you reach back without fear. And that kind of safety is something he hasn’t let himself want in a very, very long time.

The kids were wild because it’s almost spring break, you spilled half your coffee down your front before first bell, and someone tried to feed the classroom fish a Cheez-It. Upstairs chaos and glitter. But you got lucky—this week the lunch schedule shifted because of standardized testing, so you have a full, rare, unheard-of long lunch break. Wanda gives you a lazy little smirk and a sing-song “use it wisely” before disappearing to the teacher’s lounge.

You’re sitting at your desk when you hear the soft knock on your door. You don’t even look up at first—expecting a student who forgot a water bottle or who needs a pencil sharpened even though class ended twenty minutes ago.

Then his voice fills the doorway, that calm, low, gravelly voice that already lives in your body now. “You free?”

You look up so fast your neck might actually crack. Bucky stands just inside the threshold, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket, the other holding his helmet. A motorcycle helmet. He looks like the kind of trouble that’s good for a soul no matter how you try to reason yourself out of it. You blink at the helmet, then at him. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most normal thing in the world that a stoic firefighter has just casually appeared in your classroom like he belongs there. “Natasha said you had a long lunch today. Thought I’d steal you.”

You stare for a second and it’s embarrassing how warm your face gets. “Steal me?”

“Borrow,” he corrects, pushing off the doorframe and stepping deeper into the room. His eyes scan the chaos—markers everywhere, spelling posters half laminated, glitter flakes stuck to the tile floor, handprint art drying on the window sills. He takes it all in like he always does, curiosity softening him around the edges. “Lunch?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, still a little startled. “Yeah, I’m free.”

He walks toward your desk slowly, eyes holding yours the entire time. “I brought the bike,” he says, lifting the helmet slightly so the light catches on the visor. “Hope you’re not scared of motorcycles.”

You don’t even hesitate. “I’m not.”

Something flickers across his face then—something predatory but soft, like he just discovered a shared secret before it’s spoken. He holds out the helmet. You step around your desk and take it from him, fingers brushing over his as you do. His hand lingers against yours a second longer—small, steady contact—and your pulse kicks up instantly. “You ready?” he asks, voice lower now. Warmer.

You grab your sweater, turn off your overhead lights, and slip out the door beside him. He rests his hand at the small of your back as you exit the building, guiding you gently—not pushy, not claiming, but protective in a way that feels instinctive and natural.

The bike is parked right outside the staff lot. Sleek, black, and intimidating in a beautiful way. You put the helmet on and he adjusts the strap for you—careful thumbs brushing your jawline as he tightens it. His fingers tremble just slightly, barely there. “Trust me?” he asks.

You don’t look away. “Yeah. I do.”

The answer lands between you like something more binding than a promise.

He swings on first and you climb behind him, your hands hovering awkwardly for a half second before he reaches back and taps your thigh. “Hold on,” he says quietly. You slide your arms around his waist, fitting against his back, cheek brushing between his shoulder blades. His muscles go taut, breath catching like that single contact might overload him. Then he settles, breathing you in slowly.

And then you’re moving.

The wind hits your body, the speed curling around your legs, your arms tightening instinctively around him, your cheek pressing into the soft worn cotton of his shirt. You feel the rumble of the bike beneath you, the warmth of his torso under your palms, the faint scent of woodsmoke and soap and something inherently him. It feels like flying through something you’ve been waiting for without knowing it.

He takes you to a small diner on the edge of town—quiet, low key, with mismatched mugs and the best grilled cheese on the planet. He orders for both of you, gently nudging your knee under the table like he’s testing another version of contact he’s still learning he can have.

You talk about the fair again. You talk about his last call where nothing big happened and how Sam nearly got into a verbal duel with a neighborhood terrier. You tell him about a kid in your class who keeps trying to prove he can talk to worms. He listens like he’s cataloguing every detail, like your words are safely being stacked and labeled inside him.

When the check comes, you try to grab it but he gives you a look that says don’t. You let him. And when you climb back onto the bike, he doesn’t need to say hold on this time—you just do, arms sliding around him naturally.

The ride back is slower. He’s not showing off this time—he’s savoring the closeness. Back at the school parking lot, he helps unbuckle your helmet, fingers brushing your cheek, eyes locked on yours like the world shrank to three inches of space between you.

“That was nice,” you say quietly.

He nods, voice low and certain. “Yeah, we should do that again sometime.” A beat. “Not just Saturday.”

You feel it settle warm in your chest—this gentle shift into something that looks and feels dangerously real. You smile. “I’d like that.”

He steps back reluctantly, like he doesn’t actually want to put space back between you yet. But he does. Slowly. Respectfully. He tilts his head toward the school doors. “Go teach the tiny chaos gremlins,” he says, almost smiling. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

You watch him leave on the bike, wind whipping his hair as he pulls away. And as he disappears down the street, you press your palm to your sternum and realize something with bone-deep certainty, he didn’t steal you from school for lunch. He brought you into his world and let himself into yours again. And these small worlds are starting to not feel so separate anymore.

He doesn’t tell Sam, or Steve, or anyone really. But little shifts start to happen when you’re not around. One day he shows up to the station with a different creamer in his bag—one he’d seen you use in your coffee at the diner. He puts it in the fridge under the guise of “someone left it at the store cheap” but Sam wasn’t born yesterday.

Another day, he spends an hour quietly fixing the hinge on the supply cabinet at your classroom when he stops by after a run—not because it was broken in any way that mattered functionally, but because you were frustrated with how it squealed every time you opened it. He doesn’t tell you until you open it and it swings smoothly and you’re staring at him, dumbfounded.

“Oh,” he says, shrugging like he didn’t just spend his entire break doing it. “Just needed tightening.”

You start realizing he shows up when you need someone without you ever asking. And he doesn’t make a spectacle of solving problems. He doesn’t announce his presence or his help like some kind of performative hero thing, he just does it. And that quiet reliability begins to sink into you in a way that feels deeper than just comfort.

One afternoon after school, you’re sitting on the floor of your classroom grading math quizzes. Wanda is stapling a bulletin board. You’re telling her about the lunch day with Bucky—the motorcycle, the diner—and you’re trying to say it calmly, rationally, like it’s not burning itself into your skin in the fondest way possible. Wanda just smiles a little, shaking her head as she aligns the border at the corner of the board. “You’re already in it,” she says.

“Already in what?” you ask, though your pulse spikes because you know. You absolutely know.

“The middle of it,” Wanda says. “Whatever this is with him. You’re already there.”

You want to deflect. Or joke. Or hide behind sarcasm. But instead, you sit back on your palms, expression softening. There’s no dramatic “aha moment.” It’s just the quiet acknowledgment that she’s right. You’re already in it.

Later that week, Bucky ends up at the station kitchen with Steve late at night—quiet, low music humming through the empty room. He sits with a mug between his hands, thumb brushing the rim in slow thought. Steve washing out a pot stops and just regards him for a moment. “You really like her,” Steve says suddenly, not unkind, just observant.

Bucky doesn’t look up right away. He stares down at the mug like it holds the answer. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t deflect. He doesn’t growl his way out of it. He just breathes once through his nose and lets the truth exist between them. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

Steve smiles faintly, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen you this relaxed with anyone in years.”

“It’s different,” Bucky says, still not meeting his eyes. “She’s… soft. And steady. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t expect anything from me I can’t give.”

Steve leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “She’s good for you.”

Bucky’s jaw works for a second. He finally looks up, blue eyes tired and open. “I think I want to be good for her too.”

Steve doesn’t tease him for it. He doesn’t smirk or make a comment about feelings. He just nods once. “Then let it happen. Don’t think your way out of it.”

Bucky sits there long after Steve heads to bed—hands cupped around warm ceramic, staring into nothing—realizing there was no wall left to pretend to hide behind. Because somewhere between cinnamon rolls and motorcycle rides and tiny classroom repairs… he already stepped out of it.

And on the other side of town, you lay in bed later that night under the soft glow of your bedside lamp, re-reading your lesson plan, unable to fight the quiet smile that keeps pulling at your mouth every time you remember how he looked at you today. How he stood closer. How he listened with that focus of his like you were the only thing he wanted to absorb in the room.

This isn’t an almost-crush anymore. This isn’t “something’s maybe happening.” This is real. This is slow and gentle and certain. And both of you—without ever saying it out loud—finally understand it.

One Saturday morning at the station, you’re helping Sam chop fruit for some post-cleaning brunch and Bucky walks in, hair still wet from his shower. You smell the cedar shampoo on him before he even speaks. Without hesitating, he comes to stand beside you at the counter, close enough that his arm presses firmly against your side. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t pretend he didn’t notice. His shoulder stays flush with yours while you slice strawberries, like touching you is now his default starting point instead of a privilege that surprises him.

Sam glances at the way your bodies align and mutters something dramatic about “the universe shifting” before Bucky casually kicks his shin under the island counter, not even looking up from the fruit bowl. Sam hobbles away laughing to himself and Natasha smirks from the corner because she’s been waiting for this exact evolution.

Later, when you and Bucky take a break outside, you’re leaning against the front of the firetruck, sipping iced tea from a plastic cup. The early spring sun is warm against your skin. Bucky stands close—close enough that when the breeze hits, your sleeve brushes his forearm. He doesn’t shift away like he used to; instead, he rests his hand lightly against the small of your back.

Your breath catches—not because you weren’t expecting it, but because it feels so wonderfully normal. Instinctive. You don’t even look at his hand; you just lean gently into the contact, letting your body melt into that simple warmth like it belongs. “You got any plans later?” he asks, voice rough from the cool air.

“Just grading and laundry,” you answer. “Not exciting.”

He hums, thumb stroking the back waistband seam of your jeans in a small unconscious arc. “I could come by after shift. Fix that shelf you said was wobbly. We could order something in.”

You turn your head toward him, heart thudding slow and heavy. “I’d like that.”

He nods, eyes soft. No tease, no guard, just quiet meaning sitting heavy in the air between you. When you part ways later, his fingers trail gently along your wrist before letting go. It’s not accidental. It’s not subtle. And the feeling stays in your skin the entire drive home.

A few days later, it happens again—this time in your classroom when he stops by with coffee. You’re busy sorting folders and he leans against your desk, watching with that soft, observant attention he’s only ever given you. When you reach for the stack beside him, his hand covers yours and he holds it there—not just a brush of fingertips, but a slow, deliberate press. “Take a break,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, pulse fluttering under his palm. You don’t pull away and he doesn’t either. The stare lasts longer than it ever has—no one darting their eyes away this time. He lifts your hand slightly, thumb brushing small circles into your skin, almost reverent in how gentle it is. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you by touch alone.

And then, one night after dinner at your place—he’s fixing that shelf just like he said he would—you end up sitting on the floor organizing books and he ends up sitting beside you. The shelf is done, but neither of you move. His knees are bent, long legs stretched out in front of him, and your hip leans against his thigh where you sit shoulder to shoulder.

At one point, you shift to reach for a new stack of books… and he catches your hand again. But this time he doesn’t release it. This time his fingers slide slowly, intentionally between yours, interlacing like it’s the most natural progression in the world. Both of you freeze—not in panic or shock—but in sudden, quiet awareness.

The world goes gentle around the edges. His thumb strokes the inside of your hand again, slow and almost absent-minded like this is something he’s been wanting to do for weeks. You watch his eyes drop to your joined hands before lifting back to yours—open, calm, quiet.

No one speaks first because this moment doesn’t need narration. It is already declaration. Your head tilts slightly into his shoulder, and he exhales slow against your hair—like every tension he used as armor for years is starting to melt.

This isn’t guiding. This isn’t accidental. This isn’t helping. This is wanting. And for the first time, Bucky isn’t afraid to show that he wants you.

It’s a Tuesday. The school is hosting a district-wide teacher workshop, and you’re surrounded by colleagues you only see a few times a year. There’s a lunch spread in the library—half sandwiches, fruit, and cookies that look far better than they taste. Bucky had texted you that morning to tell you he was swinging by later with a container of stew, “real food,” he called it, so you’re in good spirits.

That’s when Adam—the new P.E. teacher—walks in. He’s all easy smiles and too much cologne, with that comfortable charm that gets him volunteered for every fundraiser and assembly. You know him in passing; he’s nice enough, good with the kids, harmless in the way men who haven’t been hurt often are. He waves when he sees you and walks right over.

You chat politely—just small talk about class schedules, the fair last month, his new after-school soccer program. It’s perfectly innocent. But when he leans closer to joke about your third graders and the “mystery glitter epidemic,” his hand brushes your elbow in a way that’s friendly but too familiar. You don’t think twice about it, laughing it off.

Except that’s the exact moment Bucky walks into the library.

You spot him over Adam’s shoulder instantly—dark jacket, thermos in one hand, that quiet confidence he wears like second nature. He was supposed to wait in your room, but of course he found you first. He always does. His expression is unreadable at first, all neutral and calm, but then his gaze dips to where Adam’s hand lingers near your arm before you move away.

It’s barely a flicker—a tightening of his jaw, a small stillness in his body—but you feel it. You know him well enough now to recognize the quiet current under the surface.

You excuse yourself from Adam politely and cross the room to meet Bucky halfway. His eyes soften as soon as you’re close, like the act of you coming to him defuses whatever sparked that flash of heat in his chest. “Hey,” you say gently, smiling. “You found me.”

He nods, voice low. “Yeah. Library wasn’t hard to guess.”

You glance down at the thermos and laugh. “You brought lunch.”

“Stew,” he says simply. “Didn’t want you living off whatever those are.” He nods toward the sad sandwiches, and you grin.

“You’re my hero.”

He tries to hide the faintest twitch of a smile, but it’s there. The jealousy isn’t ugly in him—it’s quiet, protective, edged in something vulnerable. You see it in the way he stands slightly closer to you than usual, the way his hand finds the small of your back while you walk toward an empty table, a small gesture that says you’re mine, right? without words.

You sit together, sharing his stew from the same thermos, and the world narrows until it’s just you and him. He doesn’t bring up Adam, doesn’t say a word about what he saw, but it’s in the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you the spoon, lingering a little longer than necessary. It’s in the way he looks at you when you laugh, softer now, calmer.

“Thanks for this,” you say, blowing on your spoon. “I’d be starving without you.”

“Can’t have that,” he mutters.

The silence after that isn’t awkward—it’s thick with unspoken things. You can practically feel what he’s thinking. Later, when the workshop ends and you’re walking him out to the parking lot, you bump his arm lightly. “You okay?” you ask.

He glances at you, startled by the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been quiet.”

He exhales through his nose, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Just… didn’t like seeing that guy touch you, that’s all.”

You stop walking, blinking up at him. His tone isn’t sharp—it’s hesitant, almost sheepish, as if he’s embarrassed by his own honesty. You step a little closer, voice gentle. “It wasn’t anything. He’s just friendly.”

“I know.” He shrugs, half-smiling but not looking at you. “Still. Didn’t like it.”

You study him for a moment—this big, careful man who’s spent years keeping everything locked up tight—and your heart squeezes. You reach out, curling your fingers around his wrist until his hand relaxes in yours. “You can tell me stuff like that,” you say softly. “You don’t have to swallow it.”

His gaze lifts slowly to meet yours. “You don’t think it’s… too much?”

You shake your head. “I think it’s kind of sweet, actually.”

That earns a small, reluctant grin from him—half relief, half self-deprecation. He looks down at your joined hands, turning them slightly so his palm faces up and your fingers slide together more naturally. “Guess I’m bad at playing it cool,” he admits.

You smile. “I like you better when you’re not trying to.”

Something warm flickers in his eyes at that, something unguarded and bright. He squeezes your hand once, firm and sure, and you both start walking again. And later that evening, when he drops you off at home, he doesn’t just walk you to the door. He hesitates there, hand still in yours, thumb tracing your skin like he’s memorizing it. “Just so you know,” he says, voice quiet but steady, “I’m not going anywhere. Even if there’s a line of guys waiting to bring you sandwiches.”

You laugh, soft and easy, leaning into him slightly. “I think I’ll stick with the guy who brings real food.”

That earns you his real smile—the one that breaks slow and a little shy before it settles into something sure. He bends just enough to press a light kiss to your forehead, lingering there for one heartbeat longer than he should. And when he pulls back, his voice drops to a whisper meant only for you. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t plan on sharing.”

It’s not possessive, not sharp. It’s gentle, warm, threaded with affection that’s been waiting months to breathe. And as you stand there with his hand still holding yours and the faint smell of stew and smoke between you, you realize something simple and certain—Bucky Barnes may not know how to be loud about his feelings, but when he loves, he does it with his whole, careful, deliberate heart.

His place is small, warm, and lived-in in a way that feels startlingly intimate without being messy. You notice instantly that the kitchen is the heart. Sharp knives hung neatly, cast iron pans seasoned black from years of use, spice jars lined and labeled by hand.

He hands you a wine glass the moment you shrug your coat off and hangs your cardigan himself—casual, like he’s always done that. The steady domesticness of it hits you like a soft weight in the chest.

“What’re we making?” you ask, leaning against his counter, watching the way he moves around his kitchen.

“Something simple,” he says, pulling out vegetables like it’s second nature. “Roasted chicken thighs, potatoes, salad. Nothing fancy.” Then a tiny ghost of a smirk. “Don’t wanna scar you with my seasoning ratio math first round.”

You laugh, take a sip of the wine, and step beside him. “You seriously think I’d be scared?”

“You saw Sam try to replicate my marinade,” he says dryly. “It traumatized him.”

Cooking together becomes its own language. When he hands you ingredients, his fingers linger along yours instinctively. When you reach for a bowl beside him, his arm brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away. You chop alongside him at the butcher block and there’s something about the quiet, rhythmic slide of the knife and the way he nudges your hip lightly with his own that feels almost like dancing.

He moves around you with this ease that tells you he memorized your presence already—adjusting without thinking, making space for your elbows, brushing his knuckles against your arm occasionally as if grounding himself. The silence isn’t empty. It’s that warm kind that fills the walls with comfort.

Halfway through seasoning the chicken, you catch him watching you. Not intensely like he does sometimes when he studies you… but soft. Affection written plain across his face. He realizes he’s staring and blinks, looking down like he’s embarrassed, but you reach out and touch his wrist gently.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

When the food goes into the oven, he pours you both fresh wine and you settle on the couch while the kitchen timer ticks quietly in the background. The moment you sit down, he hesitates only a second before sitting beside you—not at the other end like he might’ve weeks ago. He sits close. Knee against your thigh. Shoulder brushing yours.

The TV hums some sitcom rerun neither of you actually watch. You talk about small things—your terrible indoor plant survival rate, his disdain for store bought marinades, a kid from your class who insisted Jupiter is a portal to a toy dimension. He listens, relaxed and open, eyes slipping lower and lower the longer you talk.

Then, not suddenly but naturally, he lets his head rest against the back of the couch closer to you. He’s angled toward you, body soft, guard down. His hair brushes your shoulder and you feel this tug—this impulse that you’ve been resisting for months.

You lift your hand and brush a stray strand behind his ear and he goes still immediately. You pause. “Okay?”

He swallows once, nods once, slow. “More than okay.”

So you let your fingers slowly slide through his hair—soft, deliberate, carding through it gently. He exhales like it pulled breath from somewhere deep inside his sternum. His eyes flutter shut, jaw slackening, posture melting deeper into the couch as if his body doesn’t remember how to hold tension with you touching him like this.

He leans into your touch. Not subtly. Fully. His head tips closer to your shoulder, his hand finds your knee lightly—just resting there, warm and steady. There’s this magnetic, quiet honesty in the way he seeks contact now. He’s not shy about wanting more time in your hands. “This feels… good,” he murmurs, voice rough with something vulnerable, something unused. “Haven’t had someone touch me like that in… I don’t even know.”

You slow your fingers slightly, cupping the back of his head gently. “I like doing it,” you whisper. “You can ask for this anytime.”

His hand tightens a fraction on your knee. He turns his head a little toward you—not kissing you, not rushing anything—but close enough that you feel his breath soft against your collarbone. And when he opens his eyes again, the softness in them is so intense it makes your heart stutter.

The oven timer breaks the moment—but even when he stands to go check the food, he does it reluctantly, like he’s leaving something warm and important behind on that couch.

Dinner is cozy and quiet and shared from the same side of the table like that closeness is the new normal. And afterwards, when he walks you to the door and helps you into your coat, his fingers slide up your arms, gentle and warm and slow—like he’s memorizing the shape of you again before you step away. “You coming by Saturday?” he asks softly, thumb brushing your wrist one last time before he lets go.

You nod, leaning a little closer because you don’t want to leave that softness behind yet. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

He opens the door, but before you step out, he brushed his knuckles lightly across your cheek. The smallest gesture. But it feels like he just placed something inside your ribs that’s going to keep burning all week until you see him again.

The station usually rotates who does the big supply run for the week—mostly because Sam buys random snacks he wants, Steve buys everything organic like a betrayed suburban mom, Joaquín buys the weird cereal no adult should ever want, and Bucky considers grocery ingredients sacred resources not to be compromised by chaos.

This week, Sam insisted it was a “team building group outing” and for reasons unknown to humanity… they all agreed. And you ended up coming along because Natasha texted you casually that morning: bring Bucky snacks and come entertain me, I don’t want to shop with these idiots alone.

You show up to the station first, in soft jeans and a sweater that Bucky immediately notices because he looks up from tying his boots and does a slow blink like his brain took a picture of you before he remembered to breathe. He doesn’t say anything—he just gives a barely-there smile and murmurs, “hey,” like the word feels different when it’s directed at you.

The grocery store is busy the way Saturday late morning always is—families, couples, old women with coupon binders, teenagers attempting independence with energy drinks and frozen pizza.

Natasha pairs off with Joaquín because she doesn’t trust him not to buy “experimental spicy cereal” and Steve and Sam argue over protein shakes. Which leaves you and Bucky in produce.

You’re holding the list Sam scribbled and reading out loud, “two bags spinach, bell peppers, potatoes, berries, sourdough—” He’s already grabbing things methodically, moving with quiet focus. And you follow along beside him, gently teasing him about being aggressively efficient. “You plan grocery trips like tactical missions,” you comment, watching him inspect potatoes like they might carry classified intel.

“Bad produce ruins meals,” he says simply, shrugging as he rolls a potato in his palm. “Can’t risk it.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re such a snob.”

His eyes flick toward yours and warm slightly. “You like that I’m picky with food.” Your heart does that absurd jump again. Because he’s right—you absolutely do.

At one point, you reach up to grab something from a higher shelf, coffee beans that Sam wrote three underlines under, and Bucky steps behind you automatically—not hovering, not crowding—but close enough you feel his presence like a shield. His hand settles briefly at your waist as if steadying you. Just a moment. But long enough for warmth to spread through your body.

You don’t rush away from the contact this time, you lean back slightly into it, and he doesn’t pull his hand away as fast as he used to. Instead, he lets it linger. His thumb brushes, deliberately gentle, like a silent word.

When you turn toward him again there’s something new in his face—soft certainty. You move further down the aisle together, the list half done, and somewhere between yogurt and granola bars, a toddler in a dinosaur hoodie barrels past you both and nearly knocks into you. Bucky’s reflex is instant—he reaches out, steadying your elbow, guiding you smoothly aside before the tiny chaos tornado continues screeching toward frozen waffles.

You laugh, a little breathless. “Wow. Good reflex.”

He hums, unconsciously stroking your arm once before letting go. “Years of dealing with Sam.”

You start walking again, your fingers brushing his at your side. And this time when they touch… he turns his hand palm-up.

Offering.

Not an accident, not a hesitant brush disguised as movement. He wants you to take it.

And you do.

You slide your fingers into his slowly, threading them together, palm against palm, skin warm and certain. His grip tightens—not forceful, but firm. Intentional. Claiming in the quietest, softest way. He looks down briefly, as if memorizing the sight of your hands together, then looks forward again like he’s grounding himself in this moment.

There’s no panic in his breathing. No tension in his shoulders. Just that gentle steadiness he’s slowly letting himself have with you.

And he doesn’t let go the entire rest of the store trip.

Not while you check out. Not while you help load groceries in the cart. Not even when Sam comes back and does a double take so dramatic Steve smacks him in the back of the head and says, “don’t scare it, let it happen naturally.”

Natasha doesn’t even react. She just gives you this tiny knowing smirk when she sees your joined hands like she’s been waiting for this exact beat for weeks. When you all walk out of the store, Bucky carries the heavier bags and keeps your hand in his free one like it’s just what his body does now. Like this is a new base state.

When you get to the cars, before anyone else climbs in, he shifts closer, thumb brushing along your knuckles as the morning sun warms the pavement between you. “That alright?” he asks quietly, nodding toward your hand in his. “This?”

You squeeze his hand once, soft and certain. “Yeah. More than alright.”

And the look he gives you then—open, relieved, a little overwhelmed and entirely devoted—tells you everything you need to know, hand holding wasn’t a milestone for him. It was him choosing you openly, without fear.

It’s late, the station’s been busier than usual that week, and Bucky’s more tired than you’ve ever seen him. You’d stopped by with dinner—homemade soup, still warm in the container—and stayed to help clean up after the team’s shift meal. The others trickled out one by one, voices fading upstairs or into the night until it was just you and him left in the kitchen.

The lights are low, humming quiet. The sink runs with a steady rhythm while he dries a pan, towel slung over his shoulder, sleeves rolled to his forearms. You’re leaning against the counter beside him, sipping tea from one of the chipped mugs they all use. It’s comfortable, easy silence—the kind that fills up a room instead of emptying it.

He glances sideways at you occasionally, eyes softer than the dim light should allow. “You didn’t have to stay,” he says finally, setting the pan on the rack.

You shrug, smiling into your cup. “Didn’t want you cleaning up alone.”

He hums in quiet agreement, folds the towel carefully. “You always stay.”

“Guess I do,” you murmur. “You mind?”

Bucky turns toward you then, leaning against the counter with his hip, one arm resting loosely over the edge. “No,” he says. Then, after a beat, “I think I’ve started counting on it.”

The air thickens—not heavy, but aware. You set your mug down, fingers curling around the edge of the counter to keep them busy. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat off him, the faint smell of cedar and smoke that always clings to him. Your heart beats a little too loud for the quiet in the room.

His gaze drops briefly—to your hands, then to your mouth—and that’s when something in your chest breaks open. He doesn’t move closer yet, but you feel the intent in him. The restraint, the quiet question that’s been there for months.

You don’t answer with words. You step forward, just a fraction, until you’re standing directly in front of him. His hand, resting on the counter, twitches once. His throat works in a slow swallow. “Bucky,” you whisper, voice barely carrying.

“Yeah?” he answers, the word soft and hoarse, like it’s dragged up from somewhere deep.

“I think I’ve started counting on it too.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you move. The air feels like it’s holding its breath with you. Then his hand lifts—hesitant but deliberate—fingers brushing along your jaw, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth. It’s reverent, almost uncertain. You can feel him trembling faintly, not from nerves but from the sheer weight of wanting and the fear of breaking the moment.

You lean into his touch, just enough to let him know it’s okay.

That’s all it takes.

He leans forward, slow, eyes flicking between your eyes and lips until the space between you collapses. The first touch of his mouth is so soft it barely registers as a kiss—more like an exhale, a testing of pressure, a question whispered against your skin. He starts to pull back, unsure, but you chase him forward, catching his bottom lip between yours and answering the question he didn’t dare ask.

The second kiss isn’t hesitant.

It’s slow, yes, but sure—like something he’s been building toward for months. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck. Your hands find his shirt, gripping lightly at his chest as if to steady yourself against the quiet, dizzying rush of it all. He tastes faintly like coffee and something darker, something entirely him. He kisses like he touches—gentle but grounding, all patience and careful strength.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. You stay like that, neither of you ready to break the fragile stillness. He’s the first to speak, voice low and rough at the edges. “Been wantin’ to do that for a while.”

You smile, still breathless. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating where his chest meets yours. His thumb traces a slow path along your jaw, memorizing. “Didn’t think I’d get here. Not really.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes—those tired, storm-blue eyes that have softened into something that feels like home. “You’re here now,” you say softly. “That’s what matters.”

He nods once, eyes still locked on yours, and you can see the truth settle into him. Whatever walls he’s spent years holding up, they’ve finally stopped being barriers between you. Now they’re just background—the ruins of something that doesn’t need rebuilding because what you’re creating together is better.

He leans in again, kissing you slower this time, longer, his hand splayed against your back, anchoring you both in that quiet, golden kind of certainty that doesn’t need words. And when you finally part, the clock ticks softly in the background, the world outside the station hushed and distant.

He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip, voice barely more than a whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

You nod, heart full enough to hurt. “Then you’ve got me.”

He doesn’t say thank you, he doesn’t need to. He just smiles—small, real, a little dazed—and presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth before pulling you gently against his chest.

And for the first time in years, Bucky lets himself simply exist in the quiet peace of being held.

One Year Later

The first thing Bucky notices when he wakes is the space beside him. It’s warm but empty, the sheets folded back, the soft indentation still in the pillow where you’d been. His hand finds that spot instinctively, fingers brushing over the cotton like maybe you’d only just left. He breathes in once—slow, easy—and the faint smell of something buttery and sweet reaches him before he even opens his eyes.

He knows where you are. He always does on Saturdays.

The clock on the nightstand reads a little past seven, sunlight already spilling through the curtains in pale ribbons. He stretches, lazy and slow, rubbing at the back of his neck before swinging his legs off the bed. The floorboards creak softly under his bare feet as he stands, tugging on the flannel pants he left draped over the chair last night. The air smells like sugar and pastry, something faintly tart beneath it—raspberry, he realizes—as he heads down the short hallway toward the kitchen.

You’re there, exactly where he expected, standing at the counter in one of his old shirts, with the sleeves rolled up. The radio hums softly from the windowsill, some old song you probably found in one of those “weekend morning” playlists you love. The kitchen is alive with the sound of it—metal trays clinking, the gentle hum of the oven, your quiet hum matching the music as you drizzle chocolate over neat, golden pastries cooling on a wire rack.

He stops in the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the frame. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, watches the way your body moves so easily in this space that used to be only his. The way the light catches on your hair and the corner of your smile when you hum along to the song. The way this apartment smells like home now, like you.

“Smells dangerous,” he finally says, voice still gravelly from sleep.

You turn, eyes lighting up instantly when you see him. “You’re up.”

“Couldn’t sleep through that.” He gestures toward the pastries, walking over until he’s close enough to rest a hand on the small of your back. “You’re making the station spoiled.”

“They asked for raspberry this time,” you say, grinning up at him. “And I couldn’t say no.”

“You never do.” His thumb brushes along your spine, slow and absent, a quiet kind of affection that’s become as natural as breathing.

You lift one of the pastries carefully from the tray, holding it toward him. “Quality control,” you offer.

He leans in to take it but stops halfway, eyes glinting as he murmurs, “you sure this isn’t bribery?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit.

He huffs a laugh, low and warm, and takes a bite. The pastry flakes against his lips, sweet and tart, the chocolate melting just enough to coat his tongue. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, voice thoughtful. “That’ll do.”

You roll your eyes, laughing softly as you turn back to the tray. “High praise, chef.”

Bucky steps closer behind you, hands sliding around your waist until his chest presses lightly against your back. You let yourself lean into him, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours as he rests his chin on your shoulder. He smells like sleep and warmth, and his voice when he speaks next is soft enough that it feels like part of the morning air. “You gonna take all these to the guys?”

You nod. “Most of them. I promised Natasha a box but I thought I’d save a couple for us.”

He hums approvingly, lips brushing against your temple. “Good plan. Joaquín’ll inhale his before you even park.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “That’s why I make extras.”

For a while, neither of you speak. The oven ticks as it cools, the radio shifts to another song, and his hands stay splayed comfortably against your stomach, fingers tracing small, slow circles through the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing. When you finally turn in his arms, your palms slide up his chest until they rest against his shoulders.

He looks down at you, eyes half-lidded, the kind of soft he only ever gets with you. You rise onto your toes and kiss him—nothing rushed or desperate, just the familiar, grounding kind of kiss that feels like a language you both invented together. When you pull back, he follows slightly, just enough that your noses brush. “Morning,” you whisper.

“Morning,” he echoes, voice low, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. “You got flour on your face.”

You laugh, rubbing at your cheek. “Do I?”

He leans in and kisses the spot instead, the faintest graze of lips against skin. “Got it,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, grinning, and reach up to ruffle his hair—something you do every time he gets too serious. He catches your wrist gently before you pull away, turning your palm so he can press a kiss into the center of it. Then he lets go, stepping back just enough to look around the kitchen. “Need help packing these?”

“Yeah, actually,” you say, reaching for the containers. “If you can box up the ones for the guys, I’ll do Nat’s.”

He nods, already moving toward the counter. “You sure you trust me not to eat ‘em?”

“I’ll count them before we leave,” you tease, bumping his hip with yours.

He chuckles, grabbing a pastry anyway and taking another bite before you can protest. “You didn’t count this one,” he says around a mouthful.

You swat at him with the edge of a towel and he laughs—really laughs, the sound filling the whole apartment until it feels like the walls themselves are smiling. It’s easy, this life with him. Easy in the way mornings like this feel endless. The light through the window. The smell of raspberries and coffee. His hand brushing yours as you both reach for the same pastry box.

When everything’s packed and you’re slipping your shoes on by the door, he comes up behind you again, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, chin resting in the crook of your neck. “You sure you don’t wanna stay here?” he asks softly. “We could keep the raspberry ones hostage.”

You tilt your head just enough to brush your cheek against his. “Tempting,” you say. “But I already promised. And besides—” you turn, smiling up at him, “—I like bringing them something sweet.”

He smirks, kissing your forehead before letting go. “Yeah. They’re lucky to have you.”

You pick up the pastry box, glancing back at him. “You ready?”

“Always,” he says, and means it. He takes the keys from the counter, holds the door open for you, and when you step out into the hallway, he reaches for your hand without even thinking—his fingers finding yours like they always do.

And as the door closes behind you both, the scent of raspberry and sugar lingers in the air, curling softly through the quiet apartment that’s no longer just his, and never will be again.

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

You took large, quick steps to the E.R. front desk, light blue colored walls and a matching rubber flooring making your sneakers squeak, stopping by it and taking a big whiff out of the air. Antiseptic, blood, and autoclaved instruments. “Ah, the pit. What do we got today?”

“How do you even manage to have this much energy after a forty-eight hour shift and a twelve-hour surgery? Are you smoking crack?” Cecelia Bishop, your best friend in the whole entire world and also colleague in residency spoke up, grumpy little wrinkle between her brows when she frowned at you in question.

She only got a chuckle in response. “The E.R. happens to be my happy place. You should know my body is a temple and I’m careful of what I put in it.” You grabbed a chip from the bag of Lays' Cece was holding and put it in your mouth, grinning at the crunch as you chewed.

“I know your ex, baby. You don’t.” She said, making you fake an offended expression. 

“That was cold, Cece. I’m wounded.” You put a hand on your chest, wiping fake tears from your eyes with the other. "Ya fuck the wrong guy once and that's all you're known for. Deplorable."

She put her tongue between her teeth, “Yeah? I’ll stitch you up, come on.” She laughed.

When you opened your mouth to answer, the phone rang and dispatch let you know ambulances were making their way to New York Presbyterian, three with civilians and one with an injured firefighter.

Both of you looked at each other and gloved up, with latex covering your hands and the yellow trauma scrub over their light blue scrubs, running to the emergency area and ready to get to the victims.

"I told you he gave me the creeps, I'm so glad you didn't go for that weekend getaway with him." Cece rubbed her hands together like an evil little fly, waiting for action to start in the ambulance bay.

You just shrugged. "I don't see what was so terrible about him."

"He looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive." Cece deadpanned, the sound of sirens getting closer now.

You sighed. "Well, only one Steve in my life now, and you're pining after him so-" The first ambulance with civilians made its way into the ambulance bay, and both women went to assess the patient. Lights flashing over both of your faces.

“Female, twenty, broken tibia and possible head injury. BP is 140/105 and heart rate in the high 90s.” The paramedic that was with the girl explained to them, and you saw Cece’s eyes twinkle with the prospect of an ortho surgery.

“All yours, babe.” You smirked, and went for the next ambulance which had just parked while Cece took the first patient inside.

“Female, eighteen, shortness of breath, head lac, BP 117/59, possible hemothorax and free fluid in the stomach.” Lynn, the other paramedic, explained.

“Okay, get her to trauma one.” You followed the gurney into the E.R. and turned to one of the nurses. “Page Parker, he’ll want to see this.” You ran into the trauma room to treat your patient.

A gas leak in a university gym led to a whole group of cheerleaders to have all kinds of injuries ranging from a sprained ankle to a brain bleed. Which made the E.R. a little more more chaotic than usual, in addition, one firefighter got hurt when a pillar fell, making him fall to the ground and break his hand in the process.

“Okay, Parker, get me a chest tube and a portable ultrasound. Someone, page general, please.” You ordered your interns around, in the nicest but most pressing way possible. You turned to the patient, seeing the girl out cold, intubated on the field. Checking the girl’s pupil and grabbing betadine, you squirted some from the bottle onto the girl’s ribs, taking the sterile scalpel and cutting through right after.

Once the chest tube was in place and the patient’s vitals were stable and better, you told Peter and the other intern to take her to the O.R. and meet the general attending there, freeing up a trauma room in the process.

You came out of the room snapping your bloody gloves of and throwing them in the first biohazard bin you could find. The nurses had set one of the girls, Kathryn from what you heard the other girls saying, in bed 9. The girl was surrounded by frantic teammates whining and crying and bitching and having zero empathy.

“Okay, Kathryn. How are we today? Can you tell me what hurts?” You put on the sweet voice you had for patients, very different from the demanding tone when your attending left you in charge of the E.R., or when a patient's welcome party was less than civil. You grabbed your penlight and checked the girls pupils.

“My wrist. I fell straight onto it from the top of our pyramid.” The girl explained, hissing in pain when you touched her arm.

“Did you hit your head at all?" She shook her head no. "Okay, from what I can feel nothing’s broken. I wanna get an X-Ray just to be sure. But we’ll do that and keep and eye on you for a bit and then you can go home, okay? Sound good?” You waited for the girl to give a tiny smile and nod and nodded back.

You turned back to the patient’s chart on the iPad, writing down what the course of treatment would be and putting in the imaging orders.

XRAY WRIST: AP., LAT, OBLIQUE.

Between the cheerleaders, the firefighters and the usual patients the E.R. had, the one thing you didn’t need was teens being bitchy teens.

You leaned onto the front desk again, checking the board for patient statuses when five firefighters and two paramedics came into the E.R., one of the firefighters strapped onto the gurney. That’s when you realized which fire station responded to that fire. 

Station 54.

“Steve?!” Your voice raised in surprise, not really taking in the patient — Lang — immobilized on the gurney, but your best friend (tied in first place with Cecelia, of course) right beside him. “What the hell happened?" 

"The explosion threw him off the ladder, he fell straight onto his hip, might be broken.” Steve said, the EMT training coming in handy. “No loss of consciousness, BP is 152/112, breath sounds are good.” With soot smudged on his face, his eyes sparkled even more.

You could smell the smoke coming from their suits, and you recognized some faces — Sam, Kate, Sharon — and only one was new.

You don’t mean to look twice, but the new lieutenant carries the kind of weight you feel across a room—shoulders broad enough to cast shade, turnout pants ash-dusted at the knee, a slice of soot along his jaw he hasn’t noticed. The tag says Lt. Barnes, but the eyes say something else entirely: steady, unblinking, blue like winter sky on a clear day. He doesn’t move when you take the gurney. A man built for action going perfectly still. He was new. he had to be, right?

You'd have noticed a guy with a build like that. Same height as Steve, a little more muscle on him, scruffy short beard and a medium length but on his brown hair that just made his eyes pop.

Or maybe you wouldn't have. Given you don't date firefighters. Only guys that give serial killer vibes if you ask Cece.

“Okay, I’m gonna take him to trauma 3 and you all are welcome to hang around, but please don’t get in the way with your gear. We got it from here.” You turned around and got the gurney to the trauma room with the help of one of the EMTs, letting the door fall closed on your way in.

Steve clasped his hand around his friend’s shoulder and him, Sharon and Sam went to the waiting room to wait for news on Scott.

Bucky couldn’t move though.

Bucky wouldn’t say he’s easily wowed. It takes a bit, with everything he’s seen and experienced. But he’d be damned if you didn’t become fifty times more beautiful when running a trauma like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Steve snapped his fingers in front of Bucky’s eyes, trying to get him to move and go wait with the rest of the team in the waiting room, and once they were all settled it took less than a minute for Bucky to ask about you.

“So.. Is that the doc you got a crush on?” Bucky said to Steve, back leaned onto his seat.

“What? No! Ew!” Steve gagged dramatically and Sam snorted from his seat. Ah… New guy. “That’s Y/N. She’s been my best friend for years.”

“See, Barnes, she’s his best friend.” Sam teased.

“Oh, shut up, Wilson.” He narrowed his eyes at Sam and turned back to Steve, a much less annoyed expression on his face. “So… you’re not into her?”

“Is this your way of canvassing territory and asking if she’s single?” Sharon asked from her place beside Sam, across from Bucky, smirk dancing on her lips.

“What? No…” He grumbled, waiting a whole thirty seconds to speak up again. “But is she?”

Sam’s laugh boomed through the waiting room, earning death glares from other patients’ family members, and Steve joined, but in a much less attention-earing way.

Steve shrugged. “She is, pal.”

“But she’s out of your league.” Sam sing-songed, teasing, certain smile on his face.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” Bucky challenged.

“She’s crazy smart, hilarious, girl’s got a good heart, she saves lives—” Sam listed her qualities. You had tagged along in enough bar and trivia nights to become close friends with him. Like the little sister he never wanted.

Steve rolled his eyes at Sam kicking Bucky’s hopes down for the wrong reasons. “And she doesn’t date firefighters.” He explained, interrupting his co-worker.

Bucky’s demeanor deflated.

Why wouldn’t you want to date a firefighter? They save lives? They look hot in uniforms? Suspenders? 

“Why?” Now he was curious.

“Not my place to tell, Buck.” Steve held his hands up and got comfortable in his chair. 

Meanwhile, trauma 3 was surprisingly the least hectic one.

“Scott, I’m gonna have Montgomery take you to x-ray, but you’re okay, alright? Worst case scenario you broke your hip, but I’m gonna call Hope and she’ll be here by the time you get to the O.R. if you need to.” You explained to Scott while examining him, assuring that the worst had already passed.

The snap of your gloves once you swung the door open alerted the firefighters sitting right beside the trauma room, and you stopped by the nurse’s station to ask Jordan to call Scott’s wife and made her way back, Steve and the others already standing waiting for an update.

“He’s going up to x-ray now, very likely he’s gonna need surgery, but he’s out of the woods.” You explained, looking between each member of their team. Then, you turned to Steve. “You guys did good today, good job, Cap.”

“Thanks, Y/N.” He smiled at you, cute little dimple in his cheek that would've made Cecelia gush if she wasn't setting a tibia right now. “Will you let us know when he gets into surgery?”

You nodded. “I’ll be in there but I’ll have someone give you hourly updates.” Steve looked worried and you gave him a soft smile. “He’s gonna be okay, Steve.”

The moment got interrupted by the trauma attending, Dr. White, calling out for you to help with another incoming patient, and you gave Steve a reassuring squeeze to the bicep and a soft look to the rest of the crew before leaving. Steve turned around, but quickly turned back to ask you a question.

“You still coming for game night?” Your eyes never left the patient you were intubating, but a smirk made its way to your lips.

“I got SMARTish and wine!” Steve shook his head and went to sit back down with the crew, calling their station to see if they were needed somewhere else or if they were good to wait for Scott. 

“Oh, my God! That’s cheating!” You spoke loudly to Sam from your spot sitting on the floor beside the coffee table on Steve's rug, the man only faked an offended expression.

Everyone was gathered around the blonde's living room, like every Thursday night. Steve nursed a beer sitting on the edge chair of his dining table, Cece was on the leather couch behind you, Nat by your side.

“I’m hurt that you think I’d have to resort to such efforts, Y/L/N.” Sam gasped, making Sharon laugh leaning on Maria’s shoulder in the beanbag they were both sharing. Why Steve spent so much money on something called a Lovesac, you'll never understand.

“To beat me at this? You’d have to cheat all your life, Wilson.” You laughed and took a sip of her glass of wine. Cece, your turn.” You turned to her and pulled a card out of the stack. “Pick a category." 

"Reality TV & Talk Shows.” The response came easy, making you smirk at the question in your hand. She had this down.

“Name the late night host who starred with Queen Latifah in the movie Taxi.” As soon as you said it, and Steve got up to get the door when they heard a knock. 

“Jimmy Fallon.” Cece replied and you cheered, you were playing teams of two and winning so far. The cheer was loud. If Steve didn't know it was pizza, he'd think the cops came to shut all of you guys up.

Steve opened the door to find Bucky holding a bottle of red wine, dark jeans and a white shirt under his black leather jacket. “Buck?” So it was not the pizza guy, it was his best friend who hated game nights (just cause he sucked at them).

“Hey, hope red’s okay?” Bucky took Steve moving to the side as a cue to go in, he put his wine on the kitchen isle and shrugged his jacket off, putting it over one of the stools.

“I thought you hated game night.” Steve eyed him suspiciously.

Bucky huffed. “What? No, I love game night.” Steve followed his gaze and instantly knew what this was all about. Bucky, as it turns out, could be very charming without even trying. To Steve, he was about as difficult to see through as a glass of water from a pure glacier.

“Right.” Steve furrowed his brows, “Sure, let me introduce you then.” He clasped his hand on Bucky’s shoulder and led him to the living room with a smile. “Guys, this is my friend James, he just transferred to 54 from 22. James, you know Sam and Sharon, these are Maria, Natasha, Cece and Y/N.” Steve gestured to each of them as he spoke. “They work at NYP, but I’m sure you figured that out.” He winked. 

Bucky gave them all a salute with his hand, “Pleased to meet you all.” But extended his hand for you to shake. Nat smirked and Steve rolled his eyes.

“Likewise, James.” You answered, shaking his hand. “Now you can help Steve get out of Sam’s team,” Turning to Sam with a smirk. “he sucks.”

“Hey!” Sam faked offence. 

You snorted at the same tine Nat did. “You do! I’m sorry! You beat me at darts, I beat you at this, I don’t make the rules." 

"Next time we all go to Emerald, you’re buying.” Sam gave you a tight lipped smile and scooted over to make space back for Steve while Bucky sat on the carpet, everyone forming a weird rectangle around the wooden coffee table.

You just shrugged and gave him the dice, “Yeah, yeah. Shut up and play, Wilson.”

Didn’t take long for SMARTish to turn into the usual card game with a deck, and the actual pizza got there just in time. You, as you were, were already too competitive for your own good. When you were hungry? Oh, boy, your true colors came out.

“I feel sorry for your fellow residents, Y/L/N.” Sam joked and Steve snorted.

You sighed. “You know, with all this teasing, I’d think it’s me you’re in love with.” You eyed Nat with a smirk on your face and Sam made a motion to zip his lips. “Yeah, good call.” laughter followed and you made a motion to stand up, asking anyone if they wanted more pizza or more drinks.

Everyone did, so Bucky, ever the gentleman, offered to help. Both you and Cece exchanged knowing looks and you went to Steve’s kitchen with Bucky, who didn’t take long at all to start making conversation.

“So, how long have you known Steve?” He was putting slices of pizza on top of each other on a plate while you refilled people’s wine and beer. 

Only taking your eyes off of the glasses for a second your responded and smiled to yourself. “Since my intern year, so… five years.”

Bucky let out a hum of understatement. “I saw you on the ER, you’re going for trauma?”

“Yep.” You smiled at him and he smiled back. There was a beat of silence only filled by faint conversation in the background and the sound of air making bubbles in a wine glass as you poured generously for Maria. “You known that dork long?” You jutted your chin and pointed at Steve, and Bucky chuckled.

“Since always, pretty much.” He shrugged.

“Ah, so you’re the one who’s been saving his ass all this time.”

“Just off duty, I leave Sam to be his work husband.” Bucky laughed and you joined him. God, he had a pretty laugh. It was manly and low and warm and it just made his smile all the brighter. He was about to say something else when Sam hollered at you because you were ‘taking too long’.

You winked at Bucky and you both went back to your hungry friends and their card games.

How you ended up with a sick and twisted version of truth or drink, your guess is as good as Sergio's, the bodega guy.

Sam leaned forward with his cards, eyebrows arched like he was about to deliver gospel. “Name three reasons firefighters are irresistible,” he declared.

You snorted, not even glancing up from your hand. “Pass.”

“Wrong,” Sam announced, pointing at you with way too much confidence. “One: hero complex. Two: arm veins. Three: suspenders.” His finger landed squarely on Bucky’s chest like he was presenting Exhibit A to a jury.

The table erupted—Nat snorted into her wine, Sharon coughed into Maria’s shoulder, Cece cackled like she’d been waiting for this exact moment.

You, however, only arched a brow. “Two out of three are medical conditions.” You slid a card into the pile, unimpressed. “And the suspenders are purely OSHA. Nothing sexy about fire-retardant elastic.”

Sam gasped, scandalized. “Lies. Pure lies. Suspenders are the lingerie of firefighting.”

“That is the dumbest sentence ever spoken,” you shot back, shaking your head. “And I work in an ER. I hear dumb things every single day.”

Across from you, Bucky shifted like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or clear his throat. His hand brushed the hem of his shirt. He smirked, slow and sideways, like maybe he knew how much heat a simple accessory could carry.

“Don’t tell me you agree with him,” you said, catching the flicker of his mouth before you could stop yourself.

Bucky tilted his head, eyes bright with quiet mischief. “I mean… suspenders do the job. Strong. Reliable.” He let the words hang a beat, then added softly, “Looks aren’t a flaw.”

Your stomach flipped before you could roll your eyes. “You’re all insufferable,” you muttered, reaching for your wine. But you felt the blush creeping up anyway, hot against your cheeks.

Nat leaned in with a smirk only you could see. “Mmhmm. Keep telling yourself that.”

Cece giggled from her perch on the couch. 

It took you nine days until you saw each other again. Not that anyone was counting.

“Do you ever get tired?” Sharon quipped from her spot sitting on one of the pilates balls, snacking on candy, in the gym that the firefighters had at the station. “Or is your ass plugged into a power outlet 24/7?”

Bucky was doing pull ups in one of the bars, probably getting to his 100th. Sweat was dripping down his forehead and temples, soaking the hair on the back of his neck that wasn’t pulled into a low bun, and keeping the track down his neck until it found the collar of his t-shirt to cling onto.

He had an old New York Fire Department shirt and black gym shorts on, “You know what, Carter?” His muscles bulged every time he pulled his bodyweight up again. “Kiss my ass.” His voice was strained as he got to the top of the pull up again.

Sharon mused the option for a second. “Mmm, you're not my type. Thanks for the offer though.” She smirked.

“You know, all that energy has a name.” Sam piped up from his place in the boxing ring where he was practicing with T'Challa.

Bucky let go of the pull up bar and walked to sit down to do some reps on the barbell. “Oh, please, enlighten us with your wisdom.” A roll of his eyes only enticed Sam that much more.

“You gotta get laid, dude.” T'Challa let out a loud laugh at Bucky’s offended face.

He scoffed. “I get laid.” He lifted the weights again, “I get the laidest.” He muttered out before setting the bar down with a loud clank.

“That’s not a word.” Sharon teased.

“Oh, shove it, gummy bears.” Bucky threw a towel over his shoulder and went to get wraps for his hands when the call alarm went off.

“You know, I like your toys.” You sat in a MEG machine while Dr. Foster and Dr. Strange talked on the radiology room with Wanda, their star resident. 

“Okay, we’re gonna show you some pictures and start the scan.” Dr. Foster spoke into the microphone. “First picture up.” They put up a picture of a beach, and were surprised when the scan showed a negative reaction. “Not a fan of beaches?”

“Hate ‘em. Sand is sneakier than glitter, gets into too many places.” You justified. Next, the picture of a shark, a negative reaction as they expected. “Are you guys just showing me things I hate?” None of the doctors had time to answer though, your pager going off about incoming in the E.R., to that, the scan showed a massively positive response, making the machine beep.

Your voice was unusually chirpy. “Bus crash!” You looked at the doctors and they had a reprimanding look on their faces, to which you adjusted your reaction to be a little less… Happy. “Bus crash, bad.” Wanda shook her head with a small smile on her face.

“You’re kinda crazy, you know that?” Wanda spoke into the microphone while you unhooked yourself from the scan, only shrugging.

“Define crazy.” You had a giddy swing in her step, like a kid running into a candy store. The high pitched squeak of your shoes announcing your departure from that room and into the hallways.

Looked like the New York Presbyterian E.R. was a magnet for disasters. Sure, they had their usual, but its not everyday that a school bus on a field trip crashed, flipped over, and was loaded to capacity, right across the street. If someone just happened to wander into the E.R., they’d think it was a zoo.

Wanda walked down to the pit with you, and you both met Cece there. “Did you know she gets a little high when she gets paged for a massive trauma?”

“Yeah, she’s married to the E.R.” The girl shrugged, making you roll your eyes. All three of you went to assess a patient that was coming in on a gurney. “This is her turn on.”

You faked offense. “This might make me extremely happy but I’m not married.” You turned to get to the patient from putting on the yellow trauma gown, only to be met with the ocean blue eyes of a certain charming firefighter with a sly smile on his lips.

“Cool. Me neither.” Bucky shuffled from one foot to the other. “Wanna grab a bite sometime?” You rolled your eyes again, with a shy smile on your face this time, blush creeping up your cheeks, and before you could respond, a woman came in, gash on her forehead screaming about a kid being trapped by the seatbelt at the end of the bus.

Bucky ran out of the E.R. and to the bus, crawling in the best he could with all his gear. He could see the kid, but all the protective gear he had on made the fit between the spaces just right.

You ran after him, trauma gown swaying in the slight breeze as you stood outside, gloves on your hands, hair in a messy low bun and stethoscope around your neck. “Do you smell this?” You muttered more to yourself than to your intern who was right beside you. It clicked right when you turned to look at the bus again. “It’s gas.”

You ran up to Sam, who was in charge of the ladder to take any fire out, and got his attention the best you could. “Sam! It’s leaking! There’s a kid in there!”

“There’s a what?!" 

"A kid! James went in to get him but-” You got rudely interrupted by a deafening explosion. No one had much time to think, they weren’t close enough to the bus that they’d be hit by the explosion, but a bus exploding on the street was bound to bring more chaos than ever to the E.R.

They weren’t close enough to be swept off of their feet, but he was. 

Wasn’t until you heard a groan from your right that your body unfroze. Bucky had the kid in his arms, thirteen year old male, and he was coughing. “Parker! Get the gurney here!” Peter shuffled on his feet and almost tripped on thin air but got the gurney in front of Bucky. “Get this kid to a free trauma room and do a workup, page me if you need anything.”

You turned to Bucky next, while he clutched his shoulder. “We’re gonna get you checked out, come on.” Your left arm wrapped around his waist, walking him back to the inside of the E.R. and giving him a free bed. “Do you have normal clothes under all,” You motioned to the gear with your hands. “that?" 

"Yeah, why?” He answered, groaning when he shuffled on the bed to get more comfortable. 

“I’m gonna need you to strip down to those, the x-ray won’t get past your gear without interference." You closed the curtain around the E.R. bed and Bucky smirked, ready to flirt his pretty little ass off.

"Well, darling, at least buy me dinner first.” He sat up again, flashing his signature smirk, to which you responded with a shy smile and a narrowing of your eyes, but he still took his jacket off, groaning in the process.

“You’re really full of yourself, anyone ever tell you that?” You scribbled something onto a chart and took the stethoscope out and put it on so you could listen to his lungs.

“Fake modesty is a sin.” Bucky chuckled, still looking up at your focused face, taking in the way your brows furrowed in concentration. “But if you’re gonna help me strip, then maybe-”

At that, you clicked your tongue. Time for payback. “I think I’ll let Thor do it.” You didn’t miss the way his eyes widened in surprise. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell him to be real gentle with you, you know, because of your shoulder and all.” You winked and left the little makeshift room/curtain situation to find Thor and to call the Xray tech to tell him you should be up with a patient in ten-ish minutes.

“Are you always the one who plays the hero?” You asked when all of you were in the X-ray room, and the tech was positioning the machine.

“Only when I got a pretty girl to impress.” The smirk never left Bucky’s lips, it was kind of stupid. And you could feel a blush creeping up your neck beneath the blue scrubs, dusting your chest and throat a faint pink.

“You’re insufferable, James.” You muttered, without meaning it, as the X-ray tech pushed the buttons and the machine buzzed. 

You brought Bucky back to his spot on the E.R. with Thot’s help, and explained that while he wouldn’t need anything other than a sling for four to seven days, he’d have to lay off for the next week or two.

“Two weeks? Are you kidding?" 

You gave him a sympathetic smile. "I’m afraid not. You really risk worse injury if you keep it up, so just take it slow, okay?”

“Y/L/N, I need an extra hand here!” Alex White, the trauma attending called out your name. Your head snapped up and you stood up, asking Thor to help him get discharged while you assisted Dr. White. “He needs a chest tube, I’m intubating right now but can visualize the cords.”

“I got it.” The way you handled yourself and the situation you were in was mesmerizing to Bucky, you got pulled from patient to patient, being thrown in the deep and ugly end of trauma and still, you never failed to be calm and on top of it.

You knew every bed in the E.R., knew how to treat people, and if you were nervous you never let it show, you calmed patients’ families down and reassured them.

At least that’s what Bucky got to see in the half hour it took for his discharge papers to be ready.

Emerald was always full. If it wasn’t stuffed with people from the hospital, it was the firefighters from 54, or the police officers from the 17th or 19th precinct. That night, it was a mixture of everyone.

Rookies from all three lines of work and some of the OG customers as well. Sam, Steve, Cece, Wanda and Nat were playing darts, Sam’s team beating yours by six points.

You were ready to throw your dart when Sam startled your out of your zone, making you lose focus and score a bad one. “Hey! There he is! Hero of the day!” He teased Bucky, who had just walked into the bar, leather jacket thrown over his shoulders, covering his sling. Sam clasped a hand on the shoulder that wasn’t injured. “How’re you feelin’?”

“Not too bad, doc gave me a five star treatment.” He looked at you with his stupid sparkling blue eyes. Did they get lighter since six hours ago?

“I’ll get us some more drinks.” You smiled at the group, and Bucky offered to help.

Both of you got to the bar and ordered drinks, waiting for the bartender to hand them out. “Thanks for getting me checked out so quick today, by the way.” Bucky mentioned above the noise of background conversation and the sound of pool balls knocking against each other.

“Always a pleasure to let the Fire Department cut line.” You gave him a beaming smile that was meant to look exaggerated. “You saved that kid today, James.” Your eyes and voice got softer. “Without you, best case scenario, he’d be in the burnt unit until he turned fifteen. Good job today.”

You stood in comfortable silence, and Bucky opened his mouth to say something when you heard a slap.

Well, he heard a slap. You felt one. To your ass.

Your eyes widened in shock and your brows furrowed, now you were mad. Turning around you saw a guy with a shirt that gave away he was from the Police Academy standing in front of you, obviously drunk off his ass. 

“What the fuck?!” There were no words, really. Sure, you got the occasional catcall, but no harassment ever got to being physical.

“Sorry, sweet cheeks, that ass was just beggin’ for a slapping.” His breath smelled like a mix of bad tequila and Sam Adams beer. “Whaddya say we get out of here-”

“What do you say you get the fuck out of here before you get your teeth punched in?” Bucky was pissed, was that dude for real?

“What are you? Her boyfriend?” The soon-to-be officer got angry at the prospect of that.

“Does it matter?” Bucky narrowed his eyes and squared his shoulders at the guy. “She’s not interested.”

“Bro, don’t stick your nose where it ain’t your business.” The blonde pushed Bucky out of the way forcefully by his injured shoulder, and Bucky didn't even wince. Before he could say another word, your hands thought faster than your brain and you only realized what you did when you heard the crack of your fist against his note and the gasp from your friends, followed by an 'oh, damn!’ from Sam.

You instantly shook your hand, the pain spreading through your knuckles, and the rest of the academy rookies had to drag their intoxicated friend away from you. Clint, the bartender, brought you an ice pack to put on your knuckles almost instantly.

“You okay?” You nodded. “Good punch, doc.” Bucky said, inspecting your knuckles himself. “But next time you hold your thumb out.” He shower you how with his own hand. “Then you won’t risk breaking your pretty life-saving hands." 

If he got a penny for every time he flashed you that million-dollar smile, he’d be filthy rich by now. You only looked down and smiled. "I’ll try to remember that, sensei.”

Bucky thought for a second before speaking up again. “You should stop by the station sometime, we got a gym, I could teach you some moves.”

You met his gaze and smiled in return. “I’d like that.”

“Show up anytime." 

The rest of the crew came to check on you, and the night quickly resumed to the usual drinking and dart playing. Bucky joined your team, and you were happy with the end score.

Wilson 243 x 321 Y/L/N

A/N: If this is well received, I'll do the other parts and make a series masterlist. If you hate it don't perceive me. if you want to be in the series masterlist send me an ask!

💌 permanent taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @opheliabbarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @heldbybarnes @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover

Knowing you would have said so if you were in immediate danger, Bucky sifts through the multitude of possibilities that await him on the other side of the ring tone; none of which ease the butterflies in his stomach.

He walks to his kitchen, phone in hand, to get a glass of orange juice. Pulling up your contact page, he presses ‘call’ and grabs the carton of juice from the fridge door.

You answer after just one ring, eager to hear his voice.

“Hey, Barnes!” God, Bucky loves your voice.

“Doll.” His voice is soft, tone rising at the end with curiosity. “You asked me to call, what’s up?”

The firefighter swoons at the adorable giggle you let out, the sound distant from the mic as though you’ve tried to hide it. “I was worried you didn’t see my text.” You admit.

Bucky pictures you biting your lip anxiously, an accurate prediction for your current state.

“What are you doing right now?”

Glancing down at the yet-to-be-filled glass in front of him, Bucky leans a hand against the kitchen island. “Just about to get a drink, what are-“

“Don’t!” You cut in. “Don’t get a drink, I need you to come over.”

“What, now? What’s wrong?”

“Nothings wrong, James. Just come knock, okay? I’ll see you in a minute!”

And with that, the call cuts off with a dull beep; Bucky brings the phone down from his ear and stares at it in confusion. You’re being weird, never having hung up on him like that before.

Alpine meows from above the fridge, drawing her owner’s attention away from the phone, only to tilt her head at him.

Even Alps is confused.

Deciding to just do what you told, Bucky slips his phone into the pocket of his dark jeans, returns the orange juice to the fridge and sets off for the front door. He finds himself checking over his appearance in the entry way mirror, eyes scanning over his outfit before he smooths out his hair.

Although he won’t admit it, Bucky’s spent a lot more time in front of that mirror lately; checking his collar isn’t twisted, his hair isn’t too messy and there’s nothing stuck in his teeth. The need to look good, to look good for you, hasn’t gone unnoticed by his colleagues.

He considers using the spare key you gave him and letting himself into your apartment but shakes the thought away.

She asked you to knock, Bucky. Not break in.

With one final nod in the mirror, Bucky leaves his apartment, stepping into the hallway he’s spent so many mornings and nights in with you.

Old jazz music greets his ears when he approaches your door, the soft melody sneaking through the cracks of the door frame. Bucky smiles to himself at the thought of you dancing in your kitchen, heart warming when he notices your humming.

Knocking thrice, the firefighter steps back and nervously stuffs his hands into his pockets. You always make him nervous, those darn butterflies stirring in his stomach whenever he’s about to see you. And when he does see you. Actually, they’re there even when he imagines seeing you.

He takes a breath when he hears you shuffling up to the door, but nothing could prepare him for the sight when it swings open.

Rusty red fabric flows from your neckline to the middle of your thighs, small flowers dotted over the slightly orange colour. Two thin straps perched on your shoulders leave plenty of skin on show as your usual sun-pendant necklace sits between the v-neck of your dress. Which, by the way, perfectly presents the soft swell of your breasts.

It takes everything Bucky has to not drool at his breathtaking neighbour, but it takes even more to not dive on you and finally taste those pink lips.

Your skin is ablaze beneath his eyes and you revel in his reaction, the exact response you wanted when you pulled on the dress two hours ago.

“We’re matching.” You grin, taking a moment to enjoy Bucky’s red henley.

“It’s almost like we planned it.” A chuckle escapes him, eyes trailing up from your thighs to meet yours.

“Speaking of plans,” You reach out to pull Bucky closer, tugging his forearms until he pulls his hands out of his pockets, “I have a surprise for you.”

Is it letting me look at you in that dress all evening? Your neighbour thinks - hopes - as you lead him into your apartment.

Closing the door behind him, you take his hand in yours once more to guide him to your little kitchen/diner area. If you weren’t looking ahead, you’d see Bucky’s cheeks flushed pink at your touch. Seeing your hand encompassed with his own will never fail to drive him crazy.

When he eventually looks up from your joined hands, he’s stunned to a halt. You turn back to him when you feel him plant his feet and your features twist into a nervous expression.

“I- Doll, what is all this?” The firefighters eyes are wide at your ‘surprise’.

Your small dining table is set up for two; cream place mats lay beneath charcoal gray pasta dishes with wine glasses sitting at their corners. There’s even a little vase with pink and yellow tulips in between the two spaces.

“Well, remember that time when you told me you haven’t had a proper home cooked meal in years?” You watch Bucky closely as you speak, waiting for some sign of approval.

“You mean this morning?” He turns to you in wonder, thinking back to your conversation as he gave you a lift to the cafe. “I don’t know what to say, doll.”

You roll back on your heels, hands scrunching your dress at your sides. “Is it okay? I know it’s a little cheesy and it’s last minute but I thought it would be a nice surprise for you after working all day. I mean, it’s not exactly at your home but it’s pretty cl-“

Bucky takes two long strides towards you and brings his hands to cup your cheeks; your words die on your tongue when he looks down at you with tender eyes.

“It’s perfect, Y/n.” He smiles, stroking his thumb over your cheek bone. “You could feed me Alpine’s food and i’d still bow at your feet, sweets.”

Now you’re the one blushing. You heart skips when Bucky’s eyes drop to your lips with hunger in his gaze.

“Always so good to me, aren’t ya?” His words tempt a whimper from deep within you, a submissive whine held back by the last of your restraint.

“Well-“

The oven beeps, its sharp tone darting between your bodies and making you step back from Bucky’s hold.

“Uhh” Your mind is all over the place as the firefighter watches you with amusement, “I- I should, I mean- the pasta must be-“

“Go, doll.” Bucky shakes his head laughing quietly.

Your dress sways as you spin away to the stove, stirring various pots and tidying up the counters. Your neighbour watches you in awe, unashamedly enjoying the view; you just look so goddamn sexy in that cute little dress while you cook for him. He wishes he could come home to this every night.

“You need a hand with anything, doll?” Bucky’s voice sounds from behind you.

“Actually, yeah!” You glance over your shoulder. “Come here.”

If you keep bossing him about, Bucky’s gonna struggle not to tear that sweet little sundress right off you.

Settling in at your side, Bucky cocks his head. “What d’ya need?”

You scoop some of the creamy tomato sauce onto a spoon and bring it to Bucky’s lips. “Try this for me.”

With bated breath, you watch his full lips wrap around the end of the spoon, his eyes bearing into yours as he drags the sauce into his mouth.

Bucky has no business looking as dirty as he does in this moment; you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows before his tongue juts out to catch a few missed drops. And just when you thought your panties would survive the sight, a moan ripples from his throat and you clench around nothing at the sound.

“Good?” You murmur, hoping he doesn’t notice when you cross your legs.

He notices.

“Delicious,” Bucky takes the spoon from your hand and stretches across you to place it back in the pan, his right hand brushing against the small of your back, “you did great, sweets.”

Fuck. Me.

You regather your composure and ask Bucky to get the wine from the fridge. He pours you both a glass, setting them back on the dining table gently before returning the bottle to its home.

“Hey, could you bring the bowls over, please?” You call over your shoulder.

You plate up the sauce coated pasta while Bucky places the dirty pans in the sink, both working around each other like a fine tuned machine.

Before you can do it yourself, Bucky is picking up the bowls and laying them on the place mats, winking at you as he does so. He pulls your chair out for you, nodding for you to join him.

“For you, Madame.” He jokes, allowing you to sit down while tucking you in.

You watch him round the table and take his own seat. “And they say chivalry is dead.”

Bucky grins at you. The orange glow of sunset shines through your windows, catching your features with grace. Your eyes shine beneath the light and Bucky can’t help but find you angelic.

“You’re beautiful, doll. I don’t know if I said that earlier but, god, you look stunning tonight.”

Dropping your head, you play with the hem of your dress shyly. Your hair falls into your face, forcing you to push it behind your ears, though Bucky wishes he was close enough to do it himself.

With rose tinted cheeks, you look up at Bucky through your lashes. “You say that to all your neighbours, Barnes?” You raise a brow with your teasing voice.

Bucky throws his head back and laughs heartily, a sound you’ve come to adore.

“Only the ones who cook for me.” He winks.

“Doesn’t Ms Scott bring you pies every couple weeks?”

“And I tell her she looks ravishing every time.”

You giggle and tell Bucky to dig in, though you could happily sit and talk all night. While you both stop every now and then for a forkful of food, conversation bounces between you as it always does.

Tonight isn’t much different to a typical evening with the firefighter next door; usually you share some snacks and beers, cozying up on the couch as you watch tv. It’s become ritual for you to send Bucky a video of you playing the piano each evening, his phone playing the video on loop as he sleeps. It’s strange, but the music creeps into his dreams and keeps them peaceful, keeps him away from that burning building.

It’s been a few weeks since the night he was sent home early. Both you and Bucky felt a shift that night; waking up in his arms left you craving more, though you’ve yet to tell him as much. You left him sleeping peacefully that morning when you left for work with only a couple hours of sleep under your belt.

Bucky hated waking up to find the other side of his bed empty, no longer feeling your heat. The note you left him eased the disappointment slightly, your neat handwriting promising to come back in your breaks. Neither of you have addressed how right it felt to sleep beside each other that night, despite spending all of your free time together with unspoken words hanging over you.

Instead, you dance around each other like two ghosts doomed to never touch. The bond between you is stronger than any you’ve ever had, the magnetic lure undeniable for you both.

Your glasses have been emptied and refilled twice now - dinner long since been finished - and you’re starting to feel the buzz; those butterflies in your stomach have turned into a swarm of confidence, your brain taking a backseat from its usual overthinking.

“You expect me to believe that you broke down the door before Sam could? The same guy who beat you at your physical a few weeks back?” You tease the brunette, a challenging brow raised at his rather unimpressed face.

“What are you trying to say there, doll?”

Bucky’s jaw clenches when you tilt your head slightly, eyes shining with amusement beneath the exposed hanging light bulbs.

“Nothing to worry your cute little head about.” You watch Bucky relax into his chair slightly as you reach for your glass with a smirk. “Just that I doubt Sam has any difficulty kicking a door down, not with the way he’s built.”

The scoff to end all scoffs ripples from your neighbours throat; his bright blue orbs glare into you and his features twist into a scowl. Oh if looks could kill…

Bucky’s tone is flat, “Didn’t know you were such an admirer of Wilson’s build, Y/n.”

The lack of a pet name sends your confidence wavering, but not enough to keep you from having a little fun.

“Well, you know,” You bring the glass to your lips, “he’s hardly difficult to miss.”

Watching the deep ruby liquid pass over your lips, Bucky fights to hide the fury that’s flooding his veins, forced to look away from your smug grin.

He knows, he knows, that you’re lying through your teeth, trying to get a rise out of his usually impenetrable facade, and yet he can’t help but feel jealous.

Bucky’s painfully aware that he has no right to feel so possessive, not when he lays no claim to you. But the twist of his stomach is proof that he doesn’t much care.

“Maybe I should just give you his number and you can cook him a meal next time.” Bucky grumbles.

“Oh, that’s alright, I already have his number.”

You’ve never seen Bucky’s head snap up as quickly as it just did, his gaze pinning you to your spot.

“You what?”

Gently, you place your glass back on the table. “Yeah, Steve gave him my number last week so he could get in touch.”

The fire in those blue eyes burns brighter with each word, his body so still that his chest is barely moving when he breathes. In fact, you’re not even sure if he is breathing. Hell, he’s not even sure if he’s breathing.

“Is that right?” Bucky’s gruff voice is laced with possessiveness, the low tone travelling straight to your panties till you swear you feel yourself throb. You wonder briefly if you have a jealousy kink and the sweet arousal dripping from your cunt only confirms your suspicions.

“Mhm.” You hum in response, “In fact, i’m going out for coffee with him next week.”

“Huh.”

Bucky’s chair screeches against the hardwood floor as he pushes himself back. You follow his movements with amused eyes when he stands up and grabs your plates before storming to the kitchen. You twist in your chair, watching him place the dishes in the sink and flick on the tap.

“James, what are you doing?” You ask.

“What does it look like i’m doing?” Oh he’s grumpy, grumpy.

Bucky’s shoulders are tense beneath his tight henley, his sleeves now rolled up as he starts scrubbing at the plates. It’s quiet while he concentrates on his work, only accompanied by the music still flowing from your speaker.

From the corner of his eye, the firefighter sees you rise from your chair, ears honed in on the sound of your feet pattering towards him.

It’s now hard for Bucky to focus on anything but your breath on his neck, goosebumps littered across his skin like a rash. You stand right behind him, tracing your fingers up from the small of his back; Bucky’s muscles tense momentarily before melting at your touch, just like always.

“Ask me why i’m seeing Sam next week.” You order, hands still roaming the taut fabric on Bucky’s back. The command makes him pause and clench his eyes shut. Why are you making him talk about this when it’s tearing him apart?

The brunette turns in your hold but you don’t release him, instead settling your hands on his waist.

“Why are you seeing him, doll?” Bucky sounds despondent, brows furrowed in confusion as he looks down at you.

“He asked me to teach his nephews to play the piano, Buck. I’m meeting him and the boys on Wednesday, Sarah too.”

A shocked ‘What’ tumbles from his lips as the information sinks in, his frown slowly falling away as he processes your words.

“Yeah…” You grin, though it’s more like a smirk, content with yourself proving he was jealous.

In a desperate attempt to save his ego, Bucky rolls his eyes playfully. “I knew you weren’t really attracted to that dumbass.”

You scoff and pat his chest lightly. “Sure you did, Barnes. Now scoot, you wash ‘em, i’ll dry ‘em.”

With his hands on his hips, he stays still as you nudge your way to his side, stretching to the window sill where your dish towels lay. Bucky’s never been in this position before, it’s always him who’s teasing you; this is new territory for him and it irks him that you riled him up so easily.

Once he shakes his head clear, the firefighter returns to face the sink and starts washing the dishes again. You wait patiently while he works, humming along to whichever song is playing.

“You like the old stuff, huh doll?” Bucky grins warmly at the slight sway of your hips, your radiance beaming like a lantern.

You giggle sheepishly and bite your lip, unknowingly sending Bucky spiralling. “I thought it was fitting for tonight, really leaning into the whole ‘housewife’ role.”

He raises a brow, “Does that make me your doting husband then, sweets?”

Realising what you said, your cheeks heat up instantly and your eyes widen. You attempt to backtrack but your words stumble over one another as though you’re a little school girl.

Bucky, however, is basking in the familiarity of control; your rosy cheeks never fail to bring a smile to his face, and boy is he beaming right now.

“I meant- It’s- You know what I meant, James.” You shoot daggers at him, though the idea of being married to your neighbour sends your heart into overdrive.

That swoon-worthy laugh greets your ears with haste, Bucky’s eyes crinkled at the corners as his chest reverberates with its force. It’s impossible to bite back the grin that’s fighting its way onto your lips.

Small tendrils of chestnut hair tumble from behind his ears, begging to be pushed back, but the buzz from the wine has dulled and you can’t find the confidence to do it, no matter how much Bucky’s eyes are pleading you to.

“You know, it’s sweet of you to teach the boys how to play.” He looks at you in adoration, the image of you spending time with Sam’s nephews triggering a warmth to spread in his chest.

A breathy laugh escapes you as your gaze falls to the kitchen counter. You blush at the compliment and slowly start drying the dishes again.

“Do you spend much time with them?” You ask with a brief glance his way.

Bucky shrugs, “Yeah, Sarah is always throwing barbecues for the squad. They’re good kids, and I bet they’ll love you!”

“Oh God, I hope so. I’ve never taught before and i’m scared they’ll hate me and i’ll destroy their dreams and-” You ramble away without noticing the frown tugging at your neighbours brows.

“Teach me.”

Huh?

“What?” You freeze.

“You said you’ve never taught before,” Bucky steps closer to you, his cologne swarming around you like a warm hug, “so practise on me. Teach me something.”

You almost laugh at his words, mind immediately jumping to the conclusion that he’s joking. But Bucky doesn’t move, his blue eyes study your own, body so still that you fail to conjure a laugh. He’s not joking.

Hesitation is written across your features, drawing a single shake of Bucky’s head. “Come on, sweets. Please? For me?” He pleads.

“Okay.”

It’s scary how quickly you succumb to Bucky’s wishes; you fear you’d do awful things if only he asked and you’d even do it with a smile. You’re so doomed.

With a triumphant grin, Bucky plucks the dish cloth and plate from your grasp and carefully places them on the sink’s edge, before taking your hand in his and guiding you to your piano.

Nerves prickling beneath your skin, you trail behind him and silently revel in his touch. It’s hard to not stare at his perfect body as you stumble around furniture, the sharp muscles of his shoulders rippling as he tugs you with him. Flicking off the speaker on the way, you fall onto the small piano stool beside Bucky, and with such little room, your left thigh is pressed up against his. The solid curve of his muscles prod into your flesh and yet despite the fluttering it causes in your stomach, you’re far more focused on his hands.

From the bulge of his toned biceps to the trail of prominent veins in his forearms, your eyes drag down Bucky’s arms till you pause at the sight of his large hands. They lay spread across the span of his thighs, his right pinky finger mere atoms away from your exposed skin where your dress has ridden up. You find yourself craving the sparks that alight with his touch, so you adjust your position to make sure your leg brushes against his hand.

It certainly hasn’t gone amiss to the firefighter that you’ve taken a liking to his hands. Sure, he’s caught you staring at them before, but the hunger in your gaze right now is greater than ever.

The corner of Bucky’s lip turns up into a smirk as he reaches for your hands once more, lifting them to rest on the ivory keys of your piano.

“Wanna hear you play me something before you give me a lesson.” He admits, his words more of a demand than a question.

When you fail to respond, still caught up in scanning the crevices of his calloused hands, Bucky nudges your shoulder.

You shake your head with a dazed frown, “Huh?”

A playful chuckle falls from his pink lips, “I said play me something, sweets, before you start teachin’ me.”

You giggle sheepishly, sighing an ‘Oh’ before you gather your thoughts. Bucky returns his hands to his lap - a movement you struggle to ignore - giving you free rein of the instrument.

Running through some songs you could teach him, you settle for one of your favourites, or more accurately, one of Bucky’s favourites. The cool surface of the keys is harsh beneath your fingertips, a stark contrast to the Bucky-induced-heat flushing through your veins, hands stretching into place as you prepare the opening chords.

Rhythmic tones swarm around the two of you as you begin playing, masterfully dancing across the keys like it’s a second language. Your graceful motions always bring Bucky to a halt as you entrap him in your art.

He recognises the song straight away, lips turning up at the sweet melody. You didn’t even have to ask to know what he wanted to hear, you just knew. Bucky’s head feels light at the sight before him. A knowing grin has settled on your soft lips, your body ever so lightly swaying to the music, clearly getting lost the sounds.

It’s impossible not to feel the adoring stare of your neighbour, no matter how hard you try to ignore it. Warmth is pooling in the depths of your heart where it feels like you’re bleeding out, your love for Bucky forcing out the blood till the only thing circulating through your veins is him. No longer able to cope with the feelings swarming within you, your fingers abruptly stop mid song before you turn to look up at the firefighter.

“Okay, your go.” You state, but when Bucky raises a bemused brow your way, you continue to instruct him. “Come on. You’re gonna do the left hand, I’ll do the right.”

“Yes Ma’am!” Bucky chimes with a mock salute, earning him a glare.

It takes a few tries to move his fingers into the correct positions, both because he’s apparently wholeheartedly incapable of doing what you say but also because you may or may not zone out every time the veins of his hands stick out as he moves. But it’s still entirely his fault though. Entirely. ‘Maybe like 98% his fault. That’s seems fair.’ You think.

“There you go!” You cheer when the firefighter successfully plays the right notes in tandem.

“Would you look at that, not so useless after all.” Bucky winks at you and you blush lightly.

Glancing at him hopefully, you ask him to play the first chord you taught him.

“Oh, umm-“ He stutters, fingers flailing about and pressing random keys in search of the right pattern.

“Here, let me…” You chuckle sweetly at how utterly lost he looks and move to help him.

Leaning forward, you drag Bucky’s fingers over the ridges of ivorite, slowly placing them on the correct keys. You feel his lust-filled eyes trained on your face while you work, though it’s getting harder and harder to focus under his stare.

A frown tugs at your brows when your mind goes blank as to where Bucky needs to put his left hand, his still-wandering gaze burning into you and spreading to your cunt faster than you care to admit.

Of course, Bucky notices your breath quickening, chest stumbling up and down with shaky pants. His proximity is intoxicating and the will to fight it is slowly slipping past you, fingers itching to trace up Bucky’s thick arms to his neck so you can finally pull his lips to yours.

Bucky reads every inch of your skin like he’s studying for an exam. From the clench of your jaw to your eyes fluttering shut, he knows that he’s winning this tussle for control.

“Bucky…” You breathe, the wavering sigh rolling from your tongue like a stray secret.

“Yes, doll?” Bucky smirks with glinting eyes and you bite back a whimper.

Opening your eyes, you keep them trained on where yours rest on his. “I can’t focus with you looking at me like that.”

Bucky knows exactly what you mean but he can’t help but toy with you. “Like what?” He cocks his head with faux innocence that fools no one.

You turn to look up at the firefighter, eyes meeting his half lidded ones, the blue of his eyes barely visible behind his lust-blown pupils but the blue you can see is so impossible dark that you wonder if they were ever light in the first place.

Taking a breath, you wet your lips so briefly that Bucky nearly misses it. Nearly. “Like you want to kiss me.” You say, barely above a whisper.

“Oh,” Bucky sighs, leaning in closer, “I want to do much more than that.”

Your body is alight with need. Craving his touch, a breach of the barrier between you, you practically whine your reply. “Then why are you just staring?”

“Well, I wanna remember you like this; sweet, angelic, so perfect in your little sundress.“

With the back of his hand, Bucky nudges the hem of your dress higher till his whole hand is spread against your thigh. You quash the aching desire to glance at where your bodies meet and lock your eyes on Bucky’s, whose lips are turned into a knowing smirk.

“Gotta savour it while I can.” He says as he pushes his palm further to your inner thigh, his pinky finger mere inches from your heat.

“Why?” You ask, heart racing.

It dawns on you that you may actually pass out when the firefighter leans in close to you, nose pushing your hair aside to expose the soft skin of your neck which now sits defenceless to his advances. The heat of his breath is electrifying, lips nearing your pulse point eagerly.

Bucky’s lips ghost over your skin as he explains, “Cause once I’ve had my way with you, you’re gonna be a hot fucking mess, sweets.”

A breathy moan tumbles from the depths of you chest at the crude insinuations of his words; your eyes flutter shut, an unintentional reaction that you’re grateful for as it hides the way your pupils roll to the back of your head.

Through the dark span of your eyelids, you picture exactly how Bucky will make you a hot fucking mess. Spread legs with his tongue delving through your folds, back arched as he pounds into your pussy with vigour, his hands guiding your hips back to meet his as he fucks you from behind. The images bear too much for you yet you can’t stop picturing the salacious scenes, not when your neighbour is pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck.

“James…” You sigh, voice carrying the weight of a thousand pleas.

“Yeah? Is that what you want?”

Nodding your head desperately, you whine, unable to form any words beneath his sinful tongue.

“Words, doll.” Bucky says, lips hovering over your ear. He’s struggling to hold back but can’t let himself touch you the way he wants to until he hears you spell it out for him.

Turning your head slowly, you peer at Bucky with half-lidded eyes and a slack-jaw. “I want you, James. Please.”

That’s all it takes to disintegrate the final remnants of the firefighter’s self-control before his full lips meet your own with a hunger that’s been brewing for months.

Bucky’s lips glide across yours, slotting between your own so easily it’s got you believing this is not your first kiss. It’s soft and sweet but so goddamn sensual that you can’t help but moan into his mouth, the now open gap giving him the perfect chance to slide his tongue inside.

You bring your hands up Bucky’s body and rest them on his neck, fingers tentatively feeding through the hair at the nape of his neck while you jostle for control of the kiss.

Forced to pull back for breath, you take a peek only to find those strikingly blue eyes already on yours.

“Fuck, doll,” Bucky whispers, “you don’t know how long I’ve been waitin’ for this.”

“Probably not as long as I have.” You scoff.

“Then let me make up for lost time.”

“Wait, what do y-“

Within moments, Bucky is lifting your legs over the bench and is knelt between them, his large hands teasing the hem of your dress as he keeps your thighs spread apart.

Your mouth is agape with surprise while you grab onto the piano behind you for stability, a mixture of nerves and anticipation coursing through your veins. And as if he can read your anxious thoughts, Bucky looks up at you with the most sincere expression across his soft features.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks, despite the deep desire shining in his eyes. He wants you more than anything, but he needs to know you want him too.

It’s an easy answer and you’re shaking your head faster than you care to admit, but the memory of Bucky’s prior words flash through your mind and you still just as quick.

“No.”

Watching intently as he runs a hand from your ankle up to your knee, the firefighter rolls his bottom lip between his teeth when your breath hitches.

“Then promise me you’ll tell me if that changes?” Bucky asks.

You reach down and run your fingers through his chestnut locks, tucking the few loose strands behind his ear.

“I promise.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweets.”

A hearty laugh reverberates through you, but you’re quickly silenced by Bucky’s lips on your inner thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. He kisses his way up to your heat, slowly pushing your dress higher and higher till the only thing between you and his mouth is the crimson lace panties covering your mound.

A sound you can only describe as a growl ripples through the room and you glance down at your neighbour to find him practically drooling at the sight of you. But then his eyes are on yours, his hungry, half-lidded eyes, and he’s tracing a finger over your clothed slit. Your breathing becomes laboured at his touch, your body, your mind, all of you at his mercy.

“Bucky, please…”

“Ah ah ah-“ The firefighter tuts, “-since when do you call me Bucky?”

You frown, back arching slightly in search of some friction on your core, too aroused to process his words properly.

“Look at me, Y/n.”

The stern nature of his tone lures your eyes to his once more. “What?” You ask, confused.

“I haven’t spent months goin’ crazy listening to you use my name only to have you call me Bucky when I’m finally between your legs.”

The throb of your pussy spurs you on and you tilt your head teasingly. “Touch me, James.” You say, and he obeys.

Bucky glides his hands up to your hips and drags your panties lower and lower, his lips chasing the lace till there’s no where left to kiss but your slick folds.

He hovers over your heat with bated breath before forcing himself to close his eyes and ask if you’re still okay with this.

“More than okay, James.” You answer truthfully.

“Good, cause I’m fucking starvin’.”

You feel his mouth on your pussy before you’ve even processed his words, tongue delving between your folds like he really is starving and you didn’t just feed him the best dinner he’s had in years. Though something tells him that title is about to be beaten the second you cum all over his face.

Your mouth curves into an ‘o’, the most pornographic of moans escaping you at the sinful sounds of Bucky’s mouth on your cunt. Drowning in increasingly intense waves of pleasure, your senses are dialled up to the max; with every flick of his tongue and suck on your clit, you find yourself falling deeper in your arousal. It becomes impossible to listen to anything Bucky’s telling you.

“Y’taste so sweet, doll.”

“Doing so good for me, aren’t ya? My good girl.”

“Let me hear you, doll, need to hear how good you feel.”

Whether it’s praises or orders, there’s no chance in hell of you understanding a word that falls from his lips, though Bucky doesn’t mind. The clench of your soft thighs around his head tells him all he needs to know - that even if your heads not fulling comprehending him, your body is. And the sheer amount of slick glistening across your cunt is enough for him to know that you’re ready for more.

The sensation of Bucky’s finger tracing along your pussy lips sends your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your hips lifting off the stool.

“James- oh fuck-“

Words die on your tongue when Bucky eases a finger inside you. White hot pleasure builds at your core, burning the last remnants of your self control, its embers coaxing a near-scream out of you.

“Fuck, that’s it, sweets. That’s- shit you’re so tight, pussy’s squeezing me and it’s just one finger.”

You mewl and squirm beneath him.

“How you gonna handle two of ‘em, doll?”

Bucky’s mesmerised at the sight of his finger gliding in and out of you, drenched in your sweet juices, too beautiful of a sight for him to give up by eating you out. But when you groan at the suggestion of two fingers, he drags his gaze upwards and is greeted with a view that’s evening better.

You, draped against the piano, head tilted back and brows drawn together while uneven sighs tumble from your swollen lips. God, you look heavenly, Bucky thinks. He doesn’t realise he’s said it out loud, but it makes little difference seeing as you’re rather preoccupied with the thought of Bucky fucking another finger inside you.

“James?” You call, reaching down to cover your left hand around the one at your sex, the other tugging on his hair.

“Yeah? Are you alright? Do you want me to stop?” He panics, thinking you’ve grabbed his hand to stop him.

Instead, you look him in the eye and say “Are you gunna fuck another finger inside of me or what?”

An awe-inspired grin spreads across Bucky’s face at your question. He keeps his blue orbs on yours while he presses a kiss to your clit and pushes himself higher till he’s inches from your face.

He rests a hand against the piano, caging you in and says, “Anything for my girl.” before a second digit joins his first.

The stretch knocks the wind out of your chest but Bucky hardly gives you any time to adjust, his fingers pumping in and out of you even faster than before. His palm slaps against your bundle of nerves with every thrust, the force riding to your chest where your tits bounce in rhythm.

“So damn beautiful…” The firefighter says.

You look up at him through your lashes and pull his lips to yours, tasting yourself on his tongue. With clashing teeth, the wet slapping sounds only feeds into the moment and Bucky’s suddenly very aware of the tightness in his jeans.

With each passing second, the cord in your stomach is getting so close to snapping that your mouth isn’t even moving against Bucky’s anymore.

“Fuck, James, I’m- I-“

“Shh, I know.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “You gonna cum all over my fingers, doll? Gonna let me see you fall apart?”

You nod feverishly.

“Good girl, now let go for me.”

That’s all it takes for the damn to break loose and the fiercest orgasm of your life to rack through your body. It reaches every part of you, all the cracks and crevices you never thought could be touched, yet here you are, feeling every inch of yourself set on fire.

“That’s it, doll, that’s it.” Bucky comforts you while you lay victim to the aftershocks of his work, slowing the thrust of his fingers till your breathing evens and he moves to gently circling your sensitive clit.

“Holy shit…” You sigh, a satisfied and totally fucked-out grin playing across your lips.

Noticing how your hazy your eyes still are, Bucky smiles to himself while pressing loving kisses on your forehead.

“You did real good for me, sweetheart.” He listens to you hum beneath him as he moves to kiss your temple. “Y’look so pretty when you cum, you know that? Even prettier than I imagined.”

You twist in your seat to face your neighbour. “You’ve imagined this too?”

“Every night, doll.”

“Huh…”

Though Bucky’s eyes remain fixed on yours, it’s obvious that his mind has slipped away; he’s now clouded by memories of his x-rated dreams, ones that have ended with him pumping his embarrassingly hard length into his fist one too many times, and his cock twitches in his ever-tightening pants. You notice the movement at his crotch and, emboldened by his confession and the best orgasm you’ve ever had, you decide to take back some control.

“What have you pictured doing to me, James?” Your tone is so sweet, so innocent, that it takes a moment for your words to register in his brain. But when it does, boy, does a fresh wave of blood rush to his cock.

“You sure you wanna know? Cuz it ain’t all sweet and innocent.” He warns.

You say nothing and let your actions do all the talking; you slide a hand down to meet his left, the one still nestled between your sticky thighs, and tug it away from your cunt. With your eyes locked on his, you raise Bucky’s cum coated fingers to your mouth, slowly wrapping your lips around them and sucking your sweetness away. Making sure to give the firefighter a show, you swirl your tongue around his fingers before taking them as deep as you can, a knowing look in your eyes when you notice Bucky clenching his jaw.

After releasing his fingers from your swollen red lips, you press a kiss to the palm of his hand. “Tell me.”

What you can only describe as a growl rises from the back of Bucky’s throat and before you know it, you’re being carried to your bedroom, legs bound tightly around his waist while your arms wrap loosely around his neck.

He sits down on the edge of the bed; hands resting on your hips and edging lower to your ass, his fingers grip the supple flesh to keep you in place.

His force on your hips is pushing you down on his ample bulge, sparking a flash of pleasure straight up your spine that escapes you with a moan. Bucky chuckles softly with a sinful grin as you tilt your head back at the feeling.

“You wanna know what I’ve imagined us doing, doll?” The firefighter grabs your chin to bring your attention back to him. He runs the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, tugging on it and letting it bounce back into place.

“I’ve pictured us just like this.” He drops his hand to your neck, tracing the curve of your collar bone till it meets the strap of your sundress. “You, naked and beautiful as ever, riding my cock like I know you can.”

You gasp lightly when he tugs your strap till it’s tumbling off your shoulder.

“And you’re telling me just how full you are, how stretched your little pussy is around me, choking my cock like a damn vice.”

Bucky’s filthy words send your hips into motion without warning; you grind your bare cunt over his crotch, the tent in his pants settling between your slick folds till his shaft is enveloped with your warmth.

“Does that sound good, doll? To have my cock buried inside you when you bounce on it? Fuck, I bet your cunt is dripping for me again,”

“It never stopped, James.” You whimper, your sensitive clit sending jolts up your frame as Bucky guides your hips over his.

“That’s right, you’re never gonna use anything else to cum ever again. You got me now, doll. I’m all you need. Me, my cock, I’m gonna ruin everyone else for you.”

You don’t even notice that Bucky’s hands are on the zip at your back, slowly pulling it down till the fabric are your chest goes slack, and with the straps already draped over your shoulders, the flowing material cascades around you, tumbling to your hips and leaving you defenseless to Bucky’s insatiable blue eyes.

“Fuck me, sweets, you’re- god- you’re perfect.” He leans in and kisses your collarbone. “So,” kiss, “So,” kiss, “perfect.”

Your eyes flutter shut, lost in the feeling of his touch, and Bucky smirks when he sees you. He teases a hand up your soft skin till it sits just beneath your tit, daring to reach up and play with you in the ways he’s always dreamt of.

“Is this okay?” He asks, earning an even more passionate grind of your hips as you push your chest closer to his open mouth.

He chuckles, “Needy, aren’t ya, sweets?”

You whine.

“Hmm, lucky for you, this is exactly what I imagined doing to you, what I’ve dreamt of for months…”

His lips wrap around your hardened nipple with haste, the warmth of his mouth a welcome sensation. He sucks at the sensitive nub, this tongue reaching out to soothe you afterwards. You throw your head back and moan loudly.

The sound of bucky loudly licking and sucking on your tits is driving you crazy, to the point where your hips are stuttering over his, practically drowning in the feeling till you have no control over your movements.

“God, I love your tits. Wanna act out every dream I’ve ever had of you. Fucking your tits, your throat, your cunt, anywhere you’ll let me, doll, please. I’ve needed you for so long.”

You blush at the word love, surpressing the hope that is stirring at the possibility that your tits aren’t the only thing he loves. Has he really wanted this as long as me? You wonder, picturing everything he just revealed he’s been wanting.

“M’So fuckin’ hard for you sweetheart, I know you can feel me. Dick’s throbbing, doll, it’s s’hard it hurts.”

You pull at his hair so he’s looking up at you again and capture his lips in yours.

“I wanna see you, Bucky…”

He groans and reaches for the hem of his shirt which he waists no time in tearing off. Your chest rises and falls heavier than before, eyes raking his physique just like you had that night he was leaving the shower at his place.

You trail a finger down his abs till it brushes the button of his jeans teasingly.

“All of you, James.” You look pointedly at his crotch. “May I?” You ask and when he nods, you climb off his lap and sink between his legs on the floor, you dress tumbling to the ground immediately.

Bucky’s abs tense as you work to undo the button, your hands tiny in comparison to his body. Next, you work the zipper up and over the bulge of his cock, the teeth desperate to come apart after being so constricted for so long. The two sides of denim snap away from the tent of his boxers, perfectly presenting where the firefighter so badly needs your touch.

He helps you kick off his jeans till the only thing between you is his boxers. You trace a finger up and down his shaft through the cotton, enjoying the sticky patch of pre cum leaking through the top.

“Have you ever imagined me sucking your cock, James?” You ask with half lidded eyes before kissing his covered shaft. “Cause I have.”

Bucky whimpers - whimpers - at your words, his hips snapping up to your face uncontrollably.

You begin to drag down his boxers, trailing kisses down down down, your lips greeting his tip when his cock flicks up against them before your eyes even get chance to glance at him.

Your eyes flutter shut at the salty taste on your lips, revelling in the breathy moans from your neighbour.

“Fuck- pl-please honey, I need your- argh- mouth around me!”

You make eye contact with him from your place on the floor and ask if he’s sure.

“More than anything.”

And with that, you take his thick length into your mouth, lips sealing around his angry pink cock head briefly when your trace your tongue over his slit, before gliding lower down his cock.

You take as much of him as you can, but you need time to warm up having never taken a cock as large as his before.

“You’re so big, baby.” You say as you pull off his shaft with a pop, “Biggest I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

A frustrated groan arises from the firefighter and you feel his hand on the back of your head, gently pushing you to his dick once more.

“Suck my cock, doll, just like we’ve both imagined, nice and deep, please.”

You take the base of his cock in your hands and guide his tip back to your lips.

“Atta girl,” Bucky encourages as you take him deeper and deeper.

He feels you relaxing your throat to take more of him and his balls clench at the feeling.

“Argh fuck, fuck, fuck. Good girl, oh my god, yes!”

His praises and curses cheer you on and you manage as much of him as you can, only an inch or so remaining that’s simply too thick to fit in your mouth. Lord knows how he’ll fit in your pussy, but you’re sure he’ll figure it out.

You bob your head on his length over and over till you’re in desperate need of air. You let your hands work your spit and his precum up and down his hard cock while you catch your breath and watch his beautiful face contort into one of extreme pleasure.

Your chest fills with pride at Bucky’s facial expressions; making him feel good is somehow more rewarding than anything you’ve done in your life and you find yourself content at the thought of spending the rest of your days pleasing him.

Bucky is oblivious to the gratified smile toying your lips and wholly unprepared for your next movement.

“Oh god- oh fuck, doll-” He groans, his breathing staggered and eyes clenched shut when you take his balls in your mouth, the skin sloppily wet from your work on his cock, and now enjoying the warmth of your mouth.

“Oh honey, do that again, felt so go- argh!” He’s interrupted by you tending to his sack once more, your tongue swirling around them and lightly sucking.

You moan around his pretty, swollen balls, the vibrations drawing a sigh of pleasure from your neighbour. The trimmed hair at the base of Bucky’s member is tickling your nose while you fight to taste every part of him.

With a final sharp suck, you release his balls with a small plop, plant a wet kiss on each and flatten you tongue to lick a bold stripe up his length. The tip of your muscle presses into the vein on the underside of his dick and Bucky thrusts upward, his hips bucking as he desperately searches for more.

As you ready yourself to glide his cock down your throat once more, you feel Bucky’s hand on your cheek, pulling you off him.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something?” You ask with a concerned frown, nervous that you’ve done something wrong to have Bucky stopping you. You wrap your hand around his forearm, the one outstretched to hold your hair, while the other remains enclosed around his cock.

“Nothin’ bad, sweets, it’s just that- fuck-“

You absentmindedly stroke your thumb over his girth, a motion you intend to be comforting but in reality, it just makes him throb even harder in your hands.

“-I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep using your pretty mouth like that.”

“And that’s a problem because…?”

He laughs lightly and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Cause as hot as you’d look swallowing my load, I’d much rather cum inside that sweet pussy for our first time.”

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth before pecking a doting kiss to his forearm and letting Bucky pull you to your feet. His eyes follow yours till he’s looking up at you from his seated position, his hands falling to your hips with an awestruck face.

“What the hell did I do to deserve you?” His voice is barely above a whisper. You blush crimson.

“Get on the bed, doll.” He orders. “Lay on your back.”

You do as he says and once you’ve settled, he crawls on top of you. It’s quiet for a moment as Bucky stares lovingly down at you, burning the image into his memory to remind him he has everything he needs.

“I should have found the guts to do this months ago…” You murmur, pushing the fallen tendrils of chestnut hair behind his ear. He looks so goddamn perfect; the golden glow filtering through your window catching every feature you’ve spent so long dreaming about, and now he’s here, really here, and you can’t help but stroke his cheek with revere.

“We have now, doll. That’s enough for me.” Bucky whispers. “Are you comfortable?”

You nod, truthfully, both in terms of your position but also for what’s coming. But then his elbows bend out and he’s lowering himself onto you.

“How about now?”

There’s a gleam in his eye and a playful smirk on his lips as he watches your chest heave, your body taking more of his weight now.

“No!” You giggle.

“No? Is this better?” Bucky teases, briefly laying his whole weight over you until you paw at his shoulders to push him off.

“James! You’re squishing me!”

The melody of your carefree laughter has Bucky melting and he pushes himself up onto his hands once more. His lip is tucked between his teeth, enjoying the view as he becomes increasingly aware of his cock now just one slip away from your pussy lips.

Quickly coming to your own awareness of Bucky’s rock hard length pressing into you, you sober up.

“Darling?” You tug on his bottom lip with the pad of your thumb.

Bucky’s brows pinch closer slightly.

“I need you inside me.”

His soft lips are crashing against yours within moments, his hand fighting between the nonexistent space between your bare bodies to grasp his cock and guide his tip to your bundle of nerves.

The sudden taste of how good Bucky can make you feel forces a sharp breath from you. It’s so much yet not enough, all at the same time.

“Tell me if you need me to stop, okay? Let me take care of you how you deserve.”

After a meek nod with your hands finding refuge in Bucky’s soft locks, he trails his cock head down your pink folds till it catches on the dip of your entrance.

Bucky tempts a whimper from you as he slides inside of you, your walls stretching to accommodate his larger than average member.

“Fuck, doll, you’re so tight for me.” The firefighter moans, resisting the urge to snap his hips and bottom out completely.

You’ve yet to make a sound, the sting in your pussy not yet dissipating, and when you glance down at where your bodies meet, you realise you’re barely taking half of him.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Bucky’s reassuring voice is ghosting over your ear, “you’re taking me so well, sweets. You need me to go slower?”

You clench your eyes shut briefly, “No, keep going, you’re just so…”

“So what?”

Bucky watches a deep red creep up your neck before returning his gaze to your eyes, that now dance across the room avoiding him.

A gentle grasp on your chin draws you to face the breathtaking man above you and you clench around his dick.

“What happened to the little minx who was practically beggin’ me to fuck her, huh? Don’t get all shy on me now, dollface. I’m so what?”

His words have you spilling yours without second thought. “You’re so fucking thick, James, cock’s splittin’ me in half.”

He groans and snaps his hips fully into yours, making you scream out, “Jamie!!!”

His scalp burns when you pull on his hair harder than before, your moans filling the room like a broken record. Bucky should be focused on the furrow of your brow, your laboured breaths, the way your cunt is choking him, anything about how perfect this feels, but all he can focus on is how with one thrust, you called him ‘Jamie’. And you didn’t just say it, you screamed it.

“Shit, honey, say it again.”

“Ja-Jamie…” You whine and feel Bucky draw his hips back before pounding into you once more.

“Again.” Your neighbour growls.

“Oh my god, fuck- I”

“Again.”

It takes everything you have to open your eyes and look at him. “Fuck me, Jamie.”

“That’s my girl.”

Bucky drives his length into you till his tip is hitting your cervix, the pleasure wrapping around your throat and squeezing the air out of you. You fight to breathe as Bucky drills into you, over and over, softly grunting with every thrust.

“Never felt anything as good as your cunt before, doll. Wanna spend the rest of my life buried inside you.”

You pull his lips to yours and, back arching from the mattress, dive your tongue into his mouth with vigour. He lets you explore his mouth while fucking you deep and fast, the headboard of your bed slamming against the wall and probably driving your neighbour crazy. Oh wait, he is your neighbour, and it is driving him crazy, but in the best way imaginable.

“So goddamn tight, sweets, y’pussy was made for me,” He swallows your whimpers happily, “don’t you think? You feel how good i’m filling you up, honey? Sliding in an’ out so easy, you’re so fucking wet for my dick.”

“Harder, Jamie.”

Goddamn.

“Keep calling me that and I’ll do whatever you want.”

You lose yourself in his thrusts; the sting has long turned into the most pleasure you’ve ever felt, and that’s saying something after the orgasm he lulled from you only a few minutes ago.

“Fuckin’ me s-so good, Jamie.”

“Ah- just like that, baby.”

“I’m getting close, James, need you to go faster.”

Your pleas send Bucky’s cock pulsing and he does exactly as you wish. He fucks you faster, fighting off the desperate urge to cum inside your sweet cunt.

“Jamie…” You sigh.

He grins up at you from his place at your tits, his tongue reaching out to tease your nipples. You push his head down till he takes your sensitive bud in his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue over it while he gropes its twin.

The tight coil in your stomach is twisting to its limit and you find yourself dangerously close to cumming around Bucky’s hard, thick length.

“I’m so- oh fuck- i’m so close, James.”

He lifts his head and eyes you with lust blown pupils.

“Are you gonna cum for me, doll? God, I can feel you clenching around me, you wanna cream all over my cock? Huh?” He smirks at your pornographic moans. “Bet I’ll look so good covered in your cum, sweets, maybe I’ll let you clean me up, put that mouth to good use.”

“I’m gonna cum, i’m gonna cum,” You chant several times breathlessly.

“Let go for me, sweet girl, make a mess o’my cock. Cum, doll.”

Your body shudders as your hips grind up into Bucky’s, your walls tightening before he feels you gush around him. Practically screaming in pleasure, you bite down on Bucky’s shoulder to quiet yourself, though the pain travels straight to his member, still fucking into you with force.

“Fuck, James, you’re so perfect, never came so hard in my life- shit-“

He’s groaning into your ear, his balls slamming against you and filling the room with salacious wet slaps.

“You’re so wet and- fuck- I can’t- I can’t hold back much longer.”

You tug on the hair at the nape of his neck and lick up the side of his throat, tongue catching the salty beads of sweat in its path. Reaching his earlobe, you suck on it lightly and whisper into his ear.

“Want you to cum inside me, Jamie. Fill me up, please, I need your cum.”

“Argh, fuck!!” Your words send Bucky over the edge and his hips stutter while he finally lets go.

“Oh god, yes!” Bucky grunts. “Take my cum, doll, fuckin’ take it.”

Your tongue seeks his neck once more, pressing open mouthed kisses as his cock shoots streams of white seed into you, the spurts seemingly never ending.

“Fillin’ my cunt so much, Jamie- fuck- you feel so good!”

As his cock softens, his thrusts slow to a more bearable pace, both of you so sensitive from your orgasms. Catching your breath takes a minute or two, but in the meantime, you coax satisfied sighs from your firefighter by running your hands up and down his back; the light sheen of sweat greets your fingertips as you touch him tenderly.

With no words being shared, you focus solely on Bucky’s breathing, the rise and fall of his back beneath your hands and the weight of his body on yours. It should be uncomfortable, but you’ve never felt so at home in a place, let alone with a person, in your life.

“That was…” Bucky murmurs into your neck.

You finish his sentence, “Pretty damn good.” Laughter ripples through the muscles of his back.

“Yeah,” He agrees and pulls back slightly to look at you, “you feeling okay?”

“If by okay you mean ‘completely and utterly fucked out’ then yeah, I’m great.”

You grin cheekily before pushing his hair behind his ear yet again, an act you find yourself praying that you’ll get to do for the rest of your life.

“How are you feeling?” You ask sincerely.

Those blue orbs flick between your own, laced with an emotion you hope to be love. “Like I want to be with you like this forever.” Bucky admits. “That and completely and utterly fucked out.”

You laugh heartily, bringing a beaming smile to Bucky’s swollen red lips.

“Let me clean you up, doll.” He offers before pushing himself off you, much to your dismay. He disappears to your bathroom for a minute before returning with a damp cloth in hand.

“Can you spread your legs for me, sweets?”

He bites a chuckle at how quickly you obey him and gets to work, wiping away your shared cum from your pussy and goosebump-ridden thighs. The towel is warm and soft on your skin, lulling you to sleep, though you fight to keep your eyes on your neighbour.

“You’re so beautiful, James.” You say, reaching to place your hand on his that sits beside you hip, where he’s leaning his weight.

He smiles sheepishly and focuses on the job at hand. Once you’re clean, Bucky carries you to the bathroom so you can do your business, waiting patiently outside after putting his boxers back on and grabbing his henley for you to wear.

When you step out of the bathroom, Bucky’s holding his he let out in front of you. “You looked a bit cold so I thought you might want a shirt?”

You smile, “Your shirt?”

“Yeah…” He rubs the back of his neck, muscles flexing at the movement, “You don’t have to, I just thou-“

He stops talking when you pull the henley from his grasp and tug it over your head. It swallows you whole and the sleeves tumble past your hands, but Bucky thinks it’s perfect. You’re perfect.

Grabbing his hand, you pull him back to your room and back into bed, tugging the sheets over you both where you nestle into his chest.

“You’re staying, right?” You ask with the most puppy-dog eyes you can muster.

“Of course, doll.”

Smiling to yourself, you curl up against the firefighter. “Woulda cooked you a meal months ago if I knew that’s all it took for you to finally fuck me.”

NEXT CHAPTER

a/n: filth. pure filth. so sorry that it took me a lifetime to post this - life got lifey and it took me ages to get this right. it’s my second time writing any sort of smut so i hope it was good for y’all. thanks for all the support, it means the world to me. love you guys, red ❤️

comment if you’d like to be added to the ashes to embers taglist 🧡

This house was old, and probably optimal fuel for the fire that had started within it. You were unconscious and dead weight, but Bucky could more than handle you and he had to get you out of there.

As he approached the door, Bucky heard a crash which he hoped was created by his crew going through the roof to get to the fire. When you heard it, you started coughing and moaning and struggling against him.

“Easy. Easy now. You have to stay calm. I got you. Gonna get you out of here.”

You opened your eyes, lifting your head from his shoulder but all you saw was haze, and a giant form that had you in his grip. The voice that came out of it was distorted, sort of like Darth Vader. You dropped your head back down and decided that you were dreaming. 

“Never gonna drink a whole bottle of wine by m’self again. ‘M a lightweight.”

Bucky’s heart clenched. He’d heard a lot of things in burning buildings, but that was a first.

You twisted in his hold, one hand fumbling for a pillow that wasn’t there. And then, realization dawned and your body went rigid. You started thrashing. Hard.

“Stop, hey!” 

He grunted, tightening his grip as you fought him. You weren’t too heavy, he could carry you all day if he had to, but you were panicked, limbs flailing, feet kicking against the door he’d been about to open.

A white-hot jolt of fear surged through him as your leg scraped the door’s edge and blistered instantly.

“Fuck! Hold still,” he ordered, voice dropping low. “You’re gonna have to trust me.”

You bit your lip with tears in your eyes. It was time to woman up.

Bucky felt something sharp lodge in his chest. You were terrified, but you were still fighting.

“We’re going through the window,” he said, already shifting you higher against his chest.

“My guys have the lifenet ready. We’re gonna be fine.”

Your wide wet eyes met his, and even through the mask, he felt the way it hit him, something hot and protective and completely unprofessional.

A groan of splintering wood cracked above you and you flinched, burying your face in his chest. He looked up, saw a fissure spidering across the ceiling, and knew there was no more time.

He ducked his head to look you in the eye. 

“We gotta go. Now. Both arms around my neck.”

Your arms obeyed on instinct, looping tight behind his helmet. His grip flexed on your thighs as he stepped to the window, shoulder braced against the glass, testing. 

He backed up and tightened his hold, telegraphing what was about to happen. Terror filled you.

“Open the window!”

You thought he’d forgotten that important detail as he responded.

“The air will just feed the fire.” He backed up a step, his stance widening, every muscle bracing.

“We’re going through.”

You gasped and then coughed with a lungful of smoke. 

“Just hold on. A few scratches are better than the alternative.”

You clung to him, nodding, trying not to sob. “‘Kay.”

“I’m gonna count to three.”

His gloved hand rose with his axe poised over his shoulder. You pressed your face to his chest.

“One,” he said, rocking forward.

“Two,” he shot forward, and you closed your eyes as he swung the axe. 

You two jettisoned through the window as the glass shattered. There was a leap out into cool air, but also the slight vacuum tug of heat following you. 

For a moment, flight, then a free fall. You screamed as your stomach dropped, and howled as you landed on the net, the canvas scraping your burned leg raw and glass raining down all over you.

“Three.”

It was the last thing you heard before you blacked out from the pain.

—-

When you woke, it was to the steady beep of monitors and the low murmur of voices you knew, your parents, your best friend, and one you didn’t.

You turned your head, blinking slowly, and found him sitting there in the visitor chair, still in his turnout pants and a navy t-shirt that clung to broad shoulders and the defined planes of his chest, his face streaked with soot. You noticed the metal hand on his thigh and your eyes traced the prosthetic up to his elbow, his bicep, and his shoulder.

His blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver through your bruised, exhausted body. 

They were a little too familiar, like you’d seen them somewhere before.

Your voice scraped out, hoarse and raw.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For coming in after me.”

He exhaled, something easing in his shoulders.

“Anytime,” he said quietly.

For a moment, neither of you looked away. You knew him, but you were too exhausted to chase it down. There were more immediate things, like the ache in your throat, the exhaustion clawing at your bones, and the simple fact that you were alive.

Hours later, the room had emptied, your parents slipping into the hall to talk to the doctor as your best friend Amyra dozed in a chair. You were almost asleep again yourself when you heard it, your father’s low voice, warm but edged with fatigue, right outside the door.

“Yeah. Lieutenant Barnes just went in. He’ll be out in a sec.”

Lieutenant Barnes.

That old, unshakable teacher’s instinct, cataloguing every name and every face, flickered awake in the haze of your mind.

James Barnes.

You knew that name. Not from the firehouse. Not from any training.

From the district memos.

The reports you’d read a couple of years ago, when you were still at Jefferson High. The ones about a lieutenant who’d flagged repeated safety violations,  who’d stood in front of your principal, your mentor, Lloyd Hansen, with a spine of steel and told him he was risking lives.

Lloyd, who’d called that firefighter a nuisance. And who’d been demoted when it turned out the firefighter had been right.

Your heart gave a slow, stunned thump, and the monitor betrayed you, spiking with your recognition.

That was why he looked familiar. That was why you’d trusted him in that burning house. Even half-conscious, even terrified.

Before you could think better of it, you cleared your throat.

“Lieutenant Barnes?” you rasped.

He turned from where he’d been watching the monitor, his gaze catching yours. Even out of uniform, just dark work pants and a grey t-shirt stretched over muscle and scar and metal, and he looked every inch the man you now remembered. 

The man who didn’t back down, no matter who he was up against.

“Yeah?” he said, stepping to your bedside, voice low, handsome face soft. “You need something?”

Your voice shook.

“I… I think we’ve met before,” you said carefully. “Jefferson High. You were the one who…”

You trailed off, too tired to finish, but you knew he’d understand. And he did. Recognition sparked behind his eyes, something like surprise, and maybe even regret.

“Yeah,” he murmured after a minute. “I remember.”

Neither of you spoke, just looked at each other, the air between you heavy with everything that happened back then, and everything you’d barely survived tonight.

He sideyed the monitor, which told him that your heart was hammering. You didn’t have the energy to fully analyze the reason why.

Finally, you shifted.

“I guess you’ve been saving my life longer than I realized,” you whispered.

Something flickered in his expressions.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Guess so.”

And in that strange, quiet moment, you knew nothing between you was ever going to be simple.

—--

The next few days passed in a blur of pain and bright fluorescent lights. Every morning, someone came to change your bandages. It was excruciating, worse than the burn itself some days, and you clamped your jaw shut so you wouldn’t make a sound.

The burn specialist explained it over and over:

The burn needed to be thoroughly cleaned daily

The risk of infection was high.

Pain management wasn’t optional.

But you tried to prove you were stronger than this. You refused the stronger pain meds the first day, and the nurse just looked at you like she’d seen it a hundred times, like she’d watched other stubborn fools learn this lesson the hard way.

Bucky visited that night, unannounced and uninvited.

He stood just inside the door for a moment, watching you like he was taking inventory of everything you were trying so hard to hide. Then he crossed to the chair by your bed and sat, his hands braced on his knees, his broad shoulders tense.

“You don’t get points for suffering.”

“I’m fine,” you lied.

His gaze locked onto yours, blue and unflinching.

“Then why are you shaking?”

You hadn’t even realized you were until he said it.

The next morning, when the nurse offered you a dose before the dressing change, you didn’t argue. You swallowed the pills and stared at the ceiling until the pain blurred into something you could survive.

—---

The first time Bucky stepped into your hospital room, you were half-asleep, your face turned to the window. You looked so small in that bed, swallowed up by stiff white sheets, and an IV running slowly into your arm.

He’d seen hundreds of burn patients over the years. Kids, grandparents, families with nowhere else to go.

He’d told himself you weren’t different, that you were just another call. Another save.

But standing there, watching you pretend you weren’t in pain, he knew he was lying.

—---

Three days in, Bucky watched you grit your teeth through rehab.

Your parents hovered by the door, but you kept waving them away, insisting you were fine. Amyra cried once, quietly, and you looked mortified.

Eventually, they left.

They trusted him. God help him, he almost wished they didn’t.

He was the one who stayed when you shuffled to the parallel bars, every step a fresh agony you refused to admit.

He knew you were proud, knew you’d rather collapse than ask for help. But he also knew what it felt like to push so hard you tore yourself up inside.

When your knee buckled, he moved instinctively, one step forward, ready to catch you if you fell. But you didn’t. You caught yourself, your breath coming in fast, ragged pulls.

“Are you trying to prove something?” he asked, voice quiet and close.

You didn’t look at him. When you finally spoke, your voice cracked around the words.

“Maybe I am.”

He stayed behind you, silent and steady, even though his hands itched to touch you, to ease something he had no right to claim.

Then he watched you take another step.

And another.

And he knew. You were going to survive this.

But you’d rather bleed in private than let anyone see you weak.

—-

That night, when he stopped by after shift, Bucky saw the pill bottle on the tray. The edge had gone out of you, your face soft in sleep, one hand resting over your heart.

And even though it was selfish, and probably wrong, a small part of him felt relief. You’d finally started to heal.

He should have left; he’d already crossed too many lines.

Instead, he sat in the chair by your bed and let himself watch you.

When your eyes blinked open and drifted down to the glint of metal where his sleeve had ridden up, he didn’t move to cover it.

Your voice was soft, thick with exhaustion.

 “Does it…does it hurt?”

He hadn’t told anyone in a long time about the fire that took his arm. It had been easier to let people think he was born hard.

Easier to be the man who never flinched.

But looking at you now, he knew he wouldn’t lie.

He swallowed. Sometimes it did hurt; phantom pain was a bitch no one prepared you for.

“Not like it used to,” he said quietly.

Your gaze stayed there, on his metal skin.

 “Was it…fire?”

He nodded once, “Yeah.”

You didn’t ask more questions.But you didn’t look away, either.

After a moment, he cleared his throat.

“They tried a lot of shit to fix it,” he murmured.

“First graft failed. Infection. Then this…experimental tech.”

“Really?” you whispered.

“Yeah, in Wakanda.”

He let out a breath.

“Figured if anyone could build something that felt real, it’d be them. They are good people.”

You were quiet for a long time. Then your fingers moved, just a little, toward where his forearm rested on the side of your bed.

He didn’t pull back. But he couldn’t breathe.

When you finally drifted off again, he stayed there, your touch warm on metal that usually felt like nothing at all.

—--

It was over a week before they’d even consider letting you leave.

Eight days of doctors, dressing changes, antibiotics, and endless check-ins that woke you every time you drifted into something like real sleep.

Eight days of Bucky showing up at your door, sometimes in uniform, sometimes in jeans and a plain t-shirt, but always carrying something you hadn’t asked for.

Like food, or flowers.

Not from him, of course.

From the crew, he’d say, every time, like he thought you couldn’t tell he wasn’t telling the truth.

He never stayed long.

But he always came.

On the morning of your discharge you were sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, trying not to look as exhausted as you felt. You’d been upright for barely fifteen minutes, and it already felt like you’d run a marathon.

The nurse was flipping through your chart when Bucky came in, this time with backup.

Steve gave you a quiet nod, smiling kindly at you. He set a bag of takeout on the tray table without ceremony. Syverson followed, carrying a bouquet so large it looked ridiculous in his hands.  

Ari Levinson trailed behind, all, dark-haired, still in uniform, flashing you a crooked grin. His eyes swept over you in a slow, unhurried appraisal that made your face warm.

“Principal,” Ari drawled, smile flickering, “you’re looking better than last week.”

Your throat felt too tight to answer immediately.

“I’d hope so,” you managed.

Syverson smirked, glancing at Bucky. 

“She’s even prettier up close. You didn’t say she was pretty, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t look at him. He was staring at you, his jaw flexing.

“Not relevant,” he muttered.

You mind began to spin.

Bucky didn’t say you weren’t pretty. He said it wasn’t relevant. So did he think you were pretty, or just that prettiness wasn’t relevant to the situation? Holy shit, the drugs must be affecting your brain.

Ari’s gaze slid back to you, amused at his friend’s reaction.

“You sure you’re ready to leave? You could milk this for a little longer.”

You managed a tired laugh, “I just want to go home.”

Silence. Your face went hot.

“I mean a home,” you corrected quickly. “I’m going to Amyra’s.”

Your parents were nearly an hour away, and you couldn’t stay on your own.

Not yet.

“Then let’s get you there,” Steve said, his voice warm as he set the takeout on the tray table.

“Just waiting on the last form,” you said.

The nurse finally came in, flipping through your chart. 

“You have a ride home?”

Amyra’s voice came from the doorway, dry and affectionate all at once.

“Right here. I’ll go bring the car around.”

You pushed yourself upright, ignoring how your leg twinged. 

“I can walk.”

The nurse gave you a look.

“Hospital policy says wheelchair discharge.”

Bucky’s mouth quirked. “Told you.”

Ari smirked, leaning closer, voice pitched low. 

“He’s just trying to impress you. Thinks it’s charming when he plays stoic hero.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed so tight you thought it might crack.

“Knock it off,” he growled.

Syverson let out a low whistle, tipping his head toward the hall.

“C’mon, Ari. Let’s go warm up the truck before Barnes commits a homicide.”

Ari lingered half a beat longer, eyes sliding back to you.

“If you are half this stubborn at your school,” he mused, that grin widening, “I don’t know how any kid ever gets away with anything. You need someone who can keep up with that spirit at home.” he teased.

Bucky took a step toward him, his shoulders squaring like he’d forgotten you were watching.

Ari held up both palms in mock surrender and disappeared into the hallway, Syverson chuckling behind him. Steve shook his head and then spoke to you again.

“Please take care. We’ll… “ He caught his friend’s glare.  “...I mean Bucky will check in on you.”

He smiled as he left, following his men.

You looked away from Bucky, but it didn’t matter, he was still watching you like he already knew what you were thinking.

“Hospital insists on wheeling you out,” he said. “I can do it.”

You blinked, flustered by the testosterone in the room.

“Since when does a fire lieutenant do the hospital escort?”

His gaze didn’t waver. 

“Since I’m a certified paramedic.”

You were surprised. And pleased. But you didn’t let it show.

“You…you don’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, already moving to get the chair. “I do.”

When you reached the exit, Amyra was waiting in her car.

“You good?” she called, her eyes flicking between you and Bucky like she was trying to read something neither of you had said out loud.

You nodded, even as your throat went tight. Bucky bent, one large hand bracing your elbow as he helped you stand. 

His touch was professional. Almost.

“I’ll ride over behind you,” he said. “Make sure you get settled.”

Amyra lifted a brow. “I think I can handle it.”

He didn’t argue, just stated facts. 

“Yeah. But I’ll still be there.”

—--

Amyra’s little bungalow felt impossibly calm after the hospital with it’s natural light and lavender smell. She helped you to the couch, fussing with your pillow, and  making sure your leg was elevated.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice sounded thin in your own ears.

Her gaze flicked to the door just as Bucky stepped in, carrying your overnight bag and the takeout. He looked too big for the room, broad shoulders, heavy boots, that quiet, unshakable presence that made something in your chest pull tight.

“I was going to make sure your room has everything you need,” Amyra said, her tone so carefully casual it made you suspicious.

“Can you stay, Lieutenant Barnes?”

You opened your mouth to protest. Bucky cut in first, his voice low but unyielding.

“Yes, I’ll make sure she rests.”

Amyra’s brows rose.

“Oh, I’m sure you will.”

He shot her a look that probably worked on everyone else. Amyra just grinned.

“Call me if you need anything,” she sing-songed, already drifting to the hallway. 

“Or if you need him removed.”

“Amyra,” you groaned.

“I heard that,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

She ignored you both as she slipped down the hall. Bucky stood there for a moment, just watching you. He looked tired.

“You really don’t have to stay,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said again, voice soft but final. “I do.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

He looked you in the eyes.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But you’ve got one anyway.”

He set the takeout on the coffee table and crouched to unzip the duffel.

“I’ll change your bandages after you eat,” he added, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your throat went dry.

“You don’t…”

“You’re not an inconvenience,” he interrupted gently, glancing up.

His gaze held yours, unflinching. Heat crawled up your neck, your heart thudding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

His mouth curved, just a little.

And for one breathless second, you didn’t feel tired at all.

—--

Bucky unpacked the supplies efficiently, like this was something he’d done a hundred times and never thought twice about. He laid out gauze, antiseptic spray, ointment, and a fresh roll of the elastic bandage.

His hands were steady. Yours weren’t.

“I can call the nurse,” you said, though you didn’t mean it.

He gazed at you, blue eyes burning.

“I’m qualified.”

“I know.” Your voice came out too soft. “That’s not…”

You were lost in the ocean of his eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

It was such a simple question. And it shouldn’t have felt like the most intimate thing anyone had ever asked you.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He nodded once, the line of his jaw easing by a fraction. “Good.”

Carefully, he lowered himself to the edge of the couch, close enough that your knees brushed his thigh. The warmth of him bled through the thin cotton of your borrowed sweatpants, and you had to look away.

“I’m going to lift your leg,” he said quietly. “Tell me if it hurts.”

His hands were large, warm, and shockingly gentle as he braced your calf. You hissed when he shifted the limb onto a folded towel, and his gaze snapped up, searching your face.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the unburned skin above your ankle in a reassuring stroke.

You tried. When he began unwrapping the bandage, you pressed your lips together keep from making a sound.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve got you.”

The last layer fell away, and cool air kissed the raw, angry skin. You swallowed, blinking fast.

“It looks good,” he said after a moment. “Healing clean.”

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until it shuddered out of you.

“Still hurts,” you admitted.

His metal hand hovered for a second, then lowered to rest lightly against your shin, careful not to touch the burn.

“I know,” he murmured. “I’ve been there.”

Your gaze flicked to his arm.

“Do you have sensation in it?”

“Yes.” His thumb traced a slow line along your uninjured skin. “Not the way you’d think.”

You didn’t know what possessed you to ask.

“Can you feel my skin under your fingers now?”

His jaw worked, like he was sorting through a thousand things he wouldn’t say.

“Yes,” he said finally, voice rough. “I can.”

Your heart knocked hard against your ribs.

He set the clean gauze in place, the touch gentle but so precise it almost felt clinical, if it weren’t for the way he looked at you. 

Like he was memorizing every small sound you made. 

Like he’d never let anything hurt you again if he could help it.

When he finished with your bandage, he sat back on his heels and looked up at you, searching your face like he could read every unspoken thing you were holding in. He held your gaze for a second, and then looked away, moving to  pack the supplies away. 

You watched him in a daze, your cheeks still hot.

“Is this where you offer me a sponge bath, too?” you mumbled, trying to sound like you were joking, even though your voice was too unsteady.

He looked up, and his gaze pinned you in place again.

“I told you,” he murmured, his voice like gravel. “I’m qualified.”

Heat crawled up your neck so fast you thought you’d pass out. 

Maybe he mistook the look on your face for pain, or maybe he didn’t, because he said, “You should take something.”

“I’m okay,” you sighed, because you were always okay. 

Because you didn’t know how to be anything else.

His brow furrowed, and something about the way he looked at you, like he’d already decided you were his responsibility, made your throat close. His eyebrow raised.

“You keep saying that.”

He reached for the bottle of pills the nurse had sent with you and shook one into his palm. He held it out.

“Take it,” he said, steady and unflinching.

You looked at his hand, at the calluses and the faint scars along his knuckles, and at the way his metal fingers flexed against his thigh. And you realized you were too tired to argue.

Your hand brushed his as you took the pill. His fingers curled reflexively around yours, warm and sure, and for one heartbeat you didn’t feel like someone broken or in need.

You just felt seen.

He handed you the glass of water, watched you swallow the pill, and waited until you set the glass back down.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. The way he said that phrase made you feel things, but your eyelids were already heavy, the pain blurring at the edges, replaced by something warm and thick that made it hard to think.

You drifted in and out as he moved around the room, packing away the supplies, murmuring something to Amyra when she peeked back in.

When you opened your eyes again, it was darker and there was a ceiling fan spinning above you.

Amyra’s guest room.

The quilt tucked around your shoulders smelled like lavender and clean cotton. Your overnight bag sat neatly on the chair in the corner.

For a second, you couldn’t remember how you’d gotten there. 

Then you realized.

He’d carried you.

And even though you told yourself it shouldn’t matter, it did. 

It mattered more than anything had in a long time. 

Because it was the second time Bucky Barnes had carried you to safety.

——

★ BUCKYS

★ CANON / AVENGERS ★

#bucky barnes

#1940s!bucky

#winter soldier!bucky

#fugitive!bucky

#avenger!bucky

#tfatws!bucky

#new avenger!bucky

★ AUs ★

#college!bucky

#college athlete!bucky

#librarian!bucky

#farmer!bucky

#lumberjack!bucky

#firefighter!bucky

#pirate!bucky

#vampire!bucky

★ RELATIONSHIP ★

#pining!bucky

#dad!bucky

#husband!bucky

#domestic!bucky

#soft!bucky

#neighbor!bucky

★ FIC TYPE

#bucky barnes headcanon

#bucky barnes drabble

#bucky barnes oneshot

#bucky barnes series

#bucky barnes series masterlist

★ VIBES

#bucky fluff / #bucky barnes fluff

#bucky angst / #bucky barnes angst

#bucky hurt/comfort / #bucky barnes hurt/comfort

#bucky comfort / #bucky barnes comfort

The smoke was thick black clawing at Bucky’s lungs even through the respirator. He could barely see through the wreckage of what had once been a beautiful cabin structure; trees were downed, timber blazing, sparks biting at his gear threatening to swallow him whole.

Steve was pinned beneath a beam, his legs crushed, blood blooming through his fire pants like fresh ink on a page. Bucky dropped beside him, adrenaline drowning out the heat. “I’m getting you out punk!” Bucky barked, voice muffled behind the mask as he took in his surroundings, not knowing where to begin first, everything he knew, everything he had trained for in the moment blowing away in the hot heat surrounding them.

Steve shook his head weakly a strangled coughed slipping past his lips, his blood stained hands shook as he tried to fight him off. “You’re not, Buck.” He groaned. “You know it, I know it.”

Bucky gritted his teeth, shaking his head feverously as he started lifting the beam anyway. He hadn’t left behind a brother before he wasn’t starting now. “Don’t talk like that Rogers, we’ve been through harder remember, you and me till the end of the line. Cmon now.”

“You haven’t,” Steve said with a grimace and it was true. “Not with the way the fires closing in. It’s the end of the line for me pal, I’m sorry.”

The roar in Bucky’s ears wasn’t just from the flames anymore.

“You listen to me, Rogers. I don’t leave my team. You’re not dying in here. You’re not!” He growled as he struggled with the beam once more. Steve grabbed his wrist, weak grip strong as he grabbed his friends attention.

“Bucky,” he rasped. “You have to go.”

Buck shook his head, tears of his own threatening to well in his eyes as he looked down at his childhood friend, his brother, “Not without you Steve, I can’t, I wont. Don’t make me.”

“You have to. She’s - she’s waiting for me, you have to get back to her to the baby. Tell them I’m sorry that I love them.”

Bucky’s hands trembled against the beam. “No, no I won’t because you’re going to tell them, were getting you out of here.” Steve shook his head Bucky’s heart ached in his chest, a roar threatening to break his lips, “Don’t Steve. Don’t your dare I -

“Listen.” Steve’s voice dropped, “I knew.”

Bucky froze mind racing like his beating heart, “What - what did you know?”

The tug of Steve’s lips is weak, “I’ve always known. How you look at her - Its how I look at her.”

Bucky’s heart dropped like a stone, lips parting to apologize, but Steve shook his head, “I never hated you for it, because she was yours before she was mine, I knew that. But you put my happiness before yours, hers as well” Steve’s breath hitched. “She chose me and I wanted that life even if a part of her heart was always somewhere else.”

“Steve..” Bucky whispered.

“I never told her I knew, didn’t want her carrying that, didn’t want her pushing you away." His eyes glistened beneath soot and sweat. “But I am telling you now. Because you’re the only one I trust to take care of her the way she deserves, you’ve been doing it for awhile now."

“I’m not you,” Bucky murmurs “I’m not the better man.” I’m not who she wants.

“No,” Steve said, smiling faintly, “but you’re the right one now. She’s going to need someone, they both will. And I know you, Buck. You’ll love them both so hard it’ll scare you.”

The beam above them creaked, the fire shifting roaring louder. It was time.

“You have to go,” Steve whispered. “Tell her I loved her that I was happy, and that it’s okay, everything is going to be okay.”

“I won’t leave you,” Bucky said, voice shaking. “Please Steve don’t do this, we'll get you out of here."

“You have to,” Steve said again, softer. “Promise me.”

Bucky hesitated only a second longer, then finally nodded, pain carving a trench in his soul.

cookies, kisses and such by @stevebabey

All This Time by @jobean12-blog

When you finally meet your new neighbor you can tell you’re going to have a difficult time staying away from him, even though you should.

Bribe the Super by @real-jane

You have a very hot neighbor. He happens to think the same of you.

What Are Friends For? by @gogolucky13

When you threaten to swear off men for good after your last bad date, your neighbor and friend offers to help change your mind.

Day After Tomorrow by @buckyarchives

enhanced hearing is both a blessing and a curse. eavesdropping, loud music, footsteps and when your sweet neighbor has been coughing her pretty head off all day.

do i even have a chance? by @noceurous

you’ve found him and he was sure he didn’t have a chance

just a dream by @itsmeatballworld

Bucky and reader are neighbors in Brooklyn. When reader has a spicy dream about the broody man, it sets off a series of events that ignites something in both of them.

mutual by @buckycuddlebuddy

the windows you were sharing were belong to your bedrooms, and ─okay, it was wrong, bucky knew this but he was only human ─ you sometimes left your curtains open.

valentine by @softlyspector

You're Bucky's neighbor, Bucky is your secret admirer. Valentine's day and a potential date forces him to act.

Foolish Heart by @jadedvibes

You thought Bucky would never want to settle down, but it turns out you were very wrong.

A Very Special Recipe by @straywords

You’re feeling adventurous in the kitchen and your sinfully attractive neighbor has just the ingredient you need for that unique experiment.

Secret Admirer by @bxcketbarnes

Sneaky by @imagine-docx

Being neighbours with a cute boy has some perks. Also, Sam is being the best wingman (no pun intended) he possibly could.

see through by @buckys-black-dress

where bucky's your inconsiderate neighbor, but he's a frequent flyer at the coffee shop where you work, and you're determined to get on his good side.

Gentle Giant by @touchstarvedirl

You and your neighbor Bucky have will we, won’t we thing going on and you devise a plan to get him to tell you how he feels. It doesn’t go according to plan, or does it?

Neighborly by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky

living in the apartment down the hall from Bucky Barnes is definitely not what you expected-and you definitely didn’t expect him to show up bleeding at your door.

blame it in the neighbors by @nev3rfound

having recently moved in next door, you and bucky become fast friends. however, there’s something looming between the two of you and it comes to light when it’s revealed you’re in the hospital.

Can’t Hurt Me by @sweetbbarnes

You're the one that takes care of Bucky after missions, only this time he asks for a different kind of relief.

SERIES

new neighbor by @alisonsfics

being bucky's next door neighbor and slowly getting to know each other and falling in love?

Paper Walls by @writingcroissant

 Your apartment happens to be right next to Bucky's, heads only separated by a paper-thin wall, leading to you witnessing every second of his nightmares. Although, bonding over your late night conversations, you seem to forget that you never even saw him before.

Time after Time by @justsomebucky

When the reader’s parents divorce, her mother moves her to a new town, right next door to Bucky Barnes. This is their love story.

Hey Neighbor by @moonbeambucky

You had a plan and then life came along with one of its own. With your future almost derailed you worked hard to get yourself back on track and finally everything seemed to be going right... that is, until your new neighbor moved in.

Teardrops on Lashes by @delicatelyherdreams

After the Chitauri invaded New York and nearly ended your life, you moved to Bucharest to get away from the superhero stuff. You simply wanted an uneventful, ordinary life. But when a stranger moves into the apartment next to yours, you begin to question those aspirations and choose to risk it all for love.

A Friendly Wager by @justsomebucky

Reader and Bucky Barnes are neighbors and best friends. After yet another bad date, reader comes home to find Bucky with his typical weekend target. They decide to make a wager about dating, but is there more on the line than reader cares to admit?

Come Over by @moonstruckbucky

You’re new to New York City. Fresh out of post-grad and wanting a change of pace, and this change comes in more ways than one. 

Keeping Me Up by @writing-for-marvel

When Bucky moves in next door, you seem to get much less sleep than when your previous neighbour lived in apartment 4a.

Early morning, late night- Bucky didn’t care what you wanted to call it as he drug his feet out of the station at 3:28am.

All he cared about was being home for the next two days. His three day shift finally coming to an end and the plush bed that held you in it waiting for him.

Shedding his uniform the moment he walked through the front door, he peaked into the bedroom where you slept soundly. Carefully making his way into the bedroom and peeling back the thick comforter to slip into bed. Placing himself over your sleeping form as slowly as he could as to not wake you. Not yet at least.

He remembered the conversation the two of you had about his harsh hours as he caressed your soft skin. Knuckles dragging along your upper arm, remembering he was allowed to take what he wanted and needed whenever he pleased. You said so yourself when you’d caught him fisting over himself to a photo of you in the living room one night when he’d just gotten home.

Even in your sleeping state, you seemed to acknowledge his presence. Shifting to your back and legs falling open, the sight of you so inviting as he gently glided his hands along your legs.

Up your calves and to the soft thighs he just wanted to bury his head between and stay there for the next 48 hours. Feasting on your sweet nectar like a starved man until you begged for him to stop.

The throb of his cock started to become unbearable when he cautiously drug your underwear down. Folds glistening with arousal and calling out for him to devour, clit swollen and needing attention as his tongue swiped over his bottom lip. Skin heating at the thought of filling you until your warm walls spasmed around him.

“Oh, peach. Dreamin’ ‘bout me?” He whispered, fore finger and thumb spreading your slit to have a better view of how needy you were as he pulled the front of his briefs down. Your breath hitching when his swollen tip nudged your clit.

“Buck…” you breathed out, his eyes flitting to your face to see you were still sound asleep. Your slick letting him slip in with little effort.

“‘M right here, baby. Just relax.” Bucky said only a little louder. Gradually pushing in every inch of his cock to soak in the feel of your cunt stretching around him. Accepting everything he had to offer with a relieved sigh as his bionic left hand gingerly lifted the shirt of his that you wore, baring your chest to him.

Buried to the hilt, he slowly pulled out. Watching as your cunt clamped around him as if it were trying to pull him back in, fingers dancing over the supple flesh of your breasts. Tweaking your pebbled buds as he kept a slow pace and pushed back in until his skin was flush to yours.

“Fuck, peach. Drive me crazy.” He huffed out, an almost inaudible whimper passing your lips. Every roll of his hips bringing another pleasured sound from you as his rhythm gradually increased until you were wide eyed and reaching out for him. Your back arching from the mattress and hands gripping onto whatever part of him they could find.

“Bucky- oh, god- please- don’t stop-“ you keened, a proud grin spreading across his sharp features. Angling his hips to fuck into the rough patch that sent you over the edge, your nails curling into the skin of his thigh bringing a pleasurable sting as your mouth fell open in a silent cry.

His lips crashed to yours, twitch of his cock not registering with you as he spilled into you. Slowing the rock of his hips and slipping out of you despite the whine that muffled against his lips.

Letting out a content sigh as your arms went loosely around his neck and ankles hooked at the base of his back, Bucky grazed his lips against your jaw. Satiated and exhausted as he let a little bit of his weight rest on you. “I’m fucking addicted to you, peach.”

————