#fluff eventually

He didn’t look happy to be there in the slightest. You had already started on the orders, and were finishing them up when he made his way to the counter. “Welcome in. Your order will be ready shortly,” you said with a smile. He finally looked at you. Something shifted in his eyes, and after a moment, he nodded. He paid after you slid the order across the counter, muttered a “thanks,” and left.

With what everyone knew about him, you didn’t expect him to be talkative. But what astounded you was that he was the one that started picking up the orders. No longer Nat or Steve. After a week of him picking up the order, he started to ask you things—tried to get to know you. You gave him the polite vague answers.

One day, he came in while you were finishing up the order and asked you what you did outside of work. You shrugged and muttered something about always being busy. You didn’t mention that you couldn’t sit in the silence too long because your thoughts would get too loud. But he saw it—his ability to read you, especially when you didn’t look at him, was completely unknown to you. 

A few days later, he ran into you on your walk back from running errands. He ended up walking you back to your apartment—helping you carry the bags. When you got there, he set the bags on your counter and he looked around the apartment. “You’re alone?” he asked. “Yep.” Nothing was said after, but when he looked at you, something clicked in his head.

He started to show up at random times. Helped you with whatever you needed. Brought things you like. Walked you home after your shift. You assumed it was him being friendly. You didn’t think anything about it. When he invited you to dinner, you agreed—completely unaware that he meant it as a date. When he arrived at your apartment dressed nicer than you had ever seen him, you were confused, but said nothing about it. 

The dinner went well until the waiter said something about being a lovely couple as you were leaving. You quickly said, “We definitely aren’t a couple,” in a tone that left no room for an argument. Bucky stilled next to you until he recovered—chuckled awkwardly. It wasn’t until you both got back to your apartment that he said, “Was it that bad?” 

Yoongi doesn’t remember getting back to the dorm. He doesn’t remember much actually. He woke up in his room, with Seokjin propped up in the floor, leaning against the mattress in case Yoongi woke up.

“Jin-hyung,” Yoongi croaks out, voice broken from misuse.

Seokjin sat up almost immediately, surprised and relieved to hear Yoongi’s voice after so long.

“Yoongi-ah, don’t move! I’ll help you, just don’t get up right now!”

Yoongi had no idea what he was talking about.

Until he tried to turn his head, and he felt about a thousand daggers run down his neck.

Yoongi’s gruntled cry had Jin hovering over him within seconds, scolding him for not listening to him while trying to steady Yoongi’s head again without hurting him.

“Ah, I told you not to move! Just lay there and listen for once while I go get Namjoon.” Seokjin ordered, fluffing Yoongi’s pillow with care but still full of sass.

“No, hyung, that’s okay, I won’t move. What’s going on?” It isn’t that Yoongi didn’t want to see Namjoon, or the others for that matter, but he wanted to know why he was in so much pain and more importantly, where Jimin was.

“You don’t remember anything?”

Yoongi begins to shake his head no, but quickly settles for a broken “nuh-uh”.

Seokjin sighs, sitting down on the corner of the bed and fidgeting with the blanket before covering Yoongi’s lower half with it.

“Last week, you and Jimin were walking home from the studio. The police said it looked like the two of you were about to walk through the tunnel near the bridge, and walked into an ambush. They say it was a local gang looking for someone else and you two got caught up in the middle of an attack. Namjoon was about to go out with our manager to get you and Jimin when he saw all the sirens go by.”

“Its been a week?” Yoongi manages to croak out, shocked that he had been unconscious for that long.

“Yeah,” Seokjin continues, “You and Jimin were taken to the hospital immediately and you were there for a couple days, just so they could make sure everything was good. You’ve been pretty out of it from the medications they gave you.”

“Where is Jimin?” Yoongi speaks clearly, all misuse gone from his voice.

“Right now, he’s at a doctors appointment. He should be back in a couple of hours.”

“He’s okay? Who’s blood was on my hands?” Flashbacks of sirens and crimson flood Yoongi’s mind, panic beginning to wash over his face.

“He’s… well, physically he’s okay. The doctors said that most of the blood they found on you was from the guy who jumped you, though you got pretty banged up and had a couple cuts on you. They said from the force of the attack, you have some pretty bad bruising around your ribs and back, and sent you home with some painkillers that are strong enough to knock out an elephant.” Seokjin moved from the foot of the bed to grab his phone, pulling up the front camera to show Yoongi the fresh scarring that had started forming on his lip. Yoongi looked down to his hands, bruised and cut on both sides.

“When is Jimin coming home? I want to see him. I need to see if he’s okay…” Yoongi tries moving from the bed once again, only thinking about getting to his Jimin, but quickly reminded that moving was not a good idea.

“Stay still, you dummy. Jimin is at his new therapist right now, it’ll probably be a few hours before he comes home. Do you want me to get Jeongguk to come help you to the living room? I’m sure the others would like to see you actually conscious,” Seokjin asks as he begins moving the blanket from Yoongi’s lap.

Yoongi only manages a quiet, defeated “Therapist?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, Jimin wasn’t knocked unconscious as quickly as you were, he saw the majority of what happened before the gang members realized they had the wrong guys. He was the one who called the police and stayed by your side until they got there to make sure you kept breathing. Said they kicked you in the ribs pretty good and he was afraid you’d quit breathing on your own before the paramedics got there. He was really brave for you, Yoongi.”

~*~

Seokjin’s words sat heavy on Yoongi’s mind for the next few days. Yoongi hadn’t said much other than to reassure the other members that he was feeling okay (he wasn’t, but it was more on the inside that he felt not okay).

Jimin had been going to see his new therapist every other day since his first visit, spending at least two hours there each session. He didn’t talk much when he was home, only answering when he was being spoken to directly. Even then, his responses were short and snappy.

Yoongi stayed in his room most days. He was still in pain even with the help of the medication, so he found it easier to lay in bed with his laptop than have Jeongguk carry him bridal-style back and forth. Not that being carried was on the top of Yoongi’s favorite past times list, but it hurt more being cradled than it did to pull himself up when he started sliding down in his bed from watching endless hours of dramas he had no actual interest in.

Seokjin brought Yoongi meals, making him eat at least half of what he brought him so he could “rebuild his already tiny figure”. Namjoon was in charge of keeping up with doctors appointments and medication schedules, while Hoseok and Taehyung cleaned and entertained Yoongi. Yoongi appreciated everything that his members were doing, really, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually engage in any real conversations. Most of his responses were grunts or hums, or if he was feeling frisky, a one word response.

He hadn’t seen Jimin, except for when the younger boy walked past Yoongi’s bedroom, since the night of the attack.

He couldn’t even remember the last thing he said to him.

Yoongi sat and thought about Jimin all the time, though. About how he put him in danger; how he should have called their manager to come get them instead of walking home late at night; how because of him, Jimin had to go to a therapist; how Yoongi was so stupid for not thinking, for not taking a new way home when he had his Jiminie with him; how he fucked up and he doesn’t blame Jimin for not talking to him, and wouldn’t if he never spoke to him again.

Yoongi wished he could go back to that night and start all over, to hear Jimin say he misses Yoongi again; that he could hear Jimin say he wishes Yoongi would let him love him.

“What happened?” she asked.

Feigning ignorance, you said, “What do you mean?”

“With Bucky.”

You said nothing, sliding the drink toward her as she paid.

“He likes you, ya know.”

“He’ll get over it.”

You hadn’t meant for it to sound that harsh, but you didn’t apologize. You just turned and walked away, needing a moment alone in the back.

You waited until she left before letting yourself breathe. You felt bad—he didn’t deserve it—but you couldn’t help the wall you’d built around your heart. You didn’t expect to see him again, especially not right after your shift. But when you stepped outside, there he was, standing by the shop door, waiting for you.

You tried to walk past him without a word, but he noticed and matched your stride, walking beside you like before.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Walking you home.”

“I don’t need you to.”

“I know. But I want to.”

He looked at you, even when you refused to look back. You didn’t say another word until you reached your apartment. Then, quietly, he asked, “Can we talk?”

You hesitated but let him in. You felt like you owed him that much. He stayed by the door once inside, as if giving you space to change your mind. He always respected you—your boundaries, the ones you never spoke but always showed.

When Nat had brought the drinks earlier, they’d talked. He knew you didn’t let people in. He understood the fear behind it—the pain of opening up and getting hurt. He also knew how lonely it could be. That was why he came back.

“What did you want to talk about, Bucky?” you asked, your voice clipped and defenses high. You already knew this was a conversation you’d rather run from.

“About… the other day.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He went quiet. You avoided his eyes.

“I meant what I said,” you continued. “I would’ve said no. I don’t do dates. I don’t do…” You trailed off, unable to say love.

“I know,” he said softly. “But I also know what it feels like to think you can trust no one.”

You finally met his gaze.

“I trust people,” you said defensively.

“No, you don’t. You keep people at a distance.”

The words cut deep. You hated how seen you felt, how exposed. Your defenses snapped back into place. You pointed toward the door. “I’m done with this conversation. Leave.”

He left without another word. You didn’t see the sadness in his eyes as the door shut behind him. You just stood there, staring at it for what felt like hours, the silence pressing heavy against your chest.