And rather than the usual fangirling moment that you’d seen many a time on TV, down red carpets and in news broadcasts, you have an overwhelming sense of triumph at figuring out the mystery behind the man who can run too fast. You’re not the sort to ask for an autograph or anything of that kind and so you congratulate yourself on a job well done in figuring out the puzzle and return your focus to your notebook as best you can.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a voice comes from above you and you look up and suddenly there he is. America’s golden boy and patriotic savior. You want to salute but you’re pretty certain it would be too much. Instead, you smile as warmly as you can which he returns, although his smile is messy, as if he hasn’t used it in a while, out of practice, “Could I grab a sip of your water?”

You’re handing it to him before he can blink.

“Knock yourself out,” you say hurriedly, “No problem! The speed you’ve been running, you’ll need more than a sip.”

He looks uncomfortable at that, as he thanks you graciously for the drink, as if he’s been caught running faster than he should be, caught being different. You’d intended it as a compliment and it takes a second to recognise this man as a reserved character as opposed to the inspiring military Captain that you’ve heard the voice of so many times. You adjust your approach to him in your head.

“I’m Y/N, by the way,” you venture, sticking out your hand for a handshake. Steve looks at you curiously, until he realises you’re waiting for him to introduce himself. You know who he is, he can tell, but you still want to be introduced. His chest grows slightly warm. He hasn’t introduced himself in so long, hasn’t used his own name in so long.

“Steve,” he says happily, shaking your hand firmly and admiring the strength, or at least determination, in your own grip, “Steve Rogers.”

“Nice to meet you, Steve,” you reply, “Feel free to sit and rest here if you’d like.”

He ponders your offer for a moment before deciding that he may as well, that he could use a break before returning to Stark Tower. He sits down on the little patch of grass surrounding the tree, his back resting against another large root near yours.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks, and his words could come across a little harsh to some but he’s never been well versed in small talk and in this new world he feels even more out of his depth. You don’t appear to mind though, much to his relief.

“Getting inspiration, I suppose,” you say, shrugging your shoulders, “I like to write sometimes and I always seem to write better outside.”

He nods, like he understands.

“I-“ he hesitates, but a simple glance at you and he sees that you’ve put your notebook and pen on the floor and are now looking solely at him; somehow he feels encouraged, “I sketch. Sometimes. I always sketch better outside too.”

“Something about the fresh air,” you say wistfully, leaning back against the trunk and stretching out your muscles a little. The corners of his mouth quirk upwards.

“Something like that, yeah.”

There’s a silence, but it isn’t all that uncomfortable, with the vague noise of traffic nearby and the hum of chatter on the sidewalk beside you.

“I should get going,” Steve announces, a little suddenly, as he pushes himself up to stand. You snap your gaze up to meet his own and find him smiling at you, a smile that already seems more genuine, more free than his initial attempt, “They can hardly manage without me.”

His voice holds remnants of his Captain’s voice that you’re more familiar with, but it’s almost as if he’s mocking it himself which brings a toothy grin to your lips.

“I can imagine,” you say sarcastically but there’s no bite in it, “Have a good day, Steve.”

“You too, Y/N,” his voice is soft and he hands you back your water bottle, turning to leave when you stop him.

“Steve!”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t forget to rest.”

He looks slightly shocked, but after a few seconds he nods, his eyes almost grateful, and then he’s turning and jogging away from you, gone before you can comprehend it.

You sit silently for a few more minutes, contemplating the conversation you’d just had, the man behind the mask, quite literally.

Soon enough, you were picking up your notebook and pen with newfound vigour. Inspiration could be found where you least expected it.

---

His eyes shift from left to right and back, again and again and again, sometimes punctuated with a turn of the head, instinctive, afraid. He’s not used to this. He’s too used to being in the spotlight, a beacon of hope, positivity and patriotism. It took him long enough to get used to that.

The fall from figurehead to fugitive was harder than he could have anticipated.

Somehow, he had found himself in the streets of Barcelona, hiding in tiny hostels and darkened alleys. He’d split from the others for a few months: it would be safer that way. They’d reconvene at some point, when their names weren’t plastered over the international news reels every single day. He missed them.

He missed Tony.

Steve tugged his baseball cap further down over his eyes, which still shifted, and he wondered when he had become quite so on edge. So high alert. It was exhausting.

It was only because he was on such high alert that he noticed a pair of footsteps following him along the street. There was only one pair and the steps were light and Steve easily decided he could take out the threat with little trouble. As they got closer and closer and Steve’s heart beat faster and faster, he spotted the alley just a few steps ahead and as soon as he was opposite it, he turned, grabbed the person whose footsteps had been following him and pinned them to the wall of the alley, turning his head to ensure nobody had taken any notice of him. Somehow, they hadn’t.

He had his arm pinned against the person’s throat and as he looked back at the person he had trapped between himself and the wall, his eyes widened and he stumbled backwards in total shock at the sight of your terrified eyes and the sound of you gasping for breath.

“Y/N?” he asked hoarsely, having hardly used his voice in a week or two. Your eyes went wider, if it was even possible, as you clutched your chest and struggled to regain your breath. It took you a few seconds to reply.

“You remember me?”

It came out breathless and confused which only made Steve look puzzled himself.

“Of course I do,” he said softly, still not quite believing this was anything more than a dream, “What are you doing here?”

You smirked as best you could, even if it was half hearted as you held your side.

“Still looking for inspiration,” you shrugged and he felt the deja vu hit him like a freight train, “What about you? Still running, I see.”

It was meant to be a joke, even if it was a little ill-timed and possibly in bad taste. He smiled anyway. He seemed different to the man you’d met three years ago. Hardened. Still the same, just a little...different. There wasn’t a way to put your finger on it. The scruff of a beard that he was starting to grow wasn’t the only thing about him that had changed. He had smiled at your joke too, something that you reckoned he would have been slightly too in his own head to do a few years ago.

“Still running,” he said, almost regretfully, “I don’t know if I’ll ever stop, Y/N.”

His last sentence held a reality, a confession, a fear that you hadn’t been expecting. You let out a long and shaky exhale. Then you smiled. You figured he could use a few smiles at the moment.

“You’ve stopped right now, haven’t you?” you asked, almost teasingly and he let the smile grow upon his face slowly, until it just about managed to reach his eyes, however tired they were.

“I can’t stop for long,” he said, but he didn’t sound quite so defeated anymore.

“Long enough for food? And a drink of water?”

He knew he shouldn’t really but then again he also knew he trusted you and that this was extremely unlikely to have any repercussions that were bad, rather the opposite for his own mental health, in fact. So he followed you, not knowing where you were going, not too bothered by it either.

His eyes had stopped shifting, his posture slightly less hunched.

If anybody had told him this would be his life, he wouldn’t have believed it. Who would have guessed the Winter Soldier would ever be allowed to appreciate flowers on a spring day. He certainly hadn’t. Just a few years ago his life revolved around just surviving.

Below his feet, Bucky could only hear the soft crunching noises his sneakers made when walking along the dirt path. It was nice to look back and realize he had changed for the better. To realize that what had once seemed impossible had become his reality.

He had a few people thank. Himself first, and he had been constantly reminded. But also people like Sam and Steve who had not given up on him no matter how dark things got. There was also Tony, a man with a great heart. But there was also you.

He had last seen you three years ago as he waged a battle against the tears that threatened to spill. Bucky didn’t exactly cry easily, but having to say goodbye to you had been more than enough for the tears to form. He understood why you were leaving. There were other opportunities, goals you wanted to accomplish, that simply couldn’t be possible from New York. So with great effort he put on the bravest face he manages and watched you go.

There had been so many things he wished he had spoken. So many other words past the simple “bye” he mustered, but three years had passed, his window had closed, and he had accepted it.

Up ahead he noticed the path he was on, bent to the right leading to a small hill with a couple of cherry blossom trees.

He looked to the trees for a second, quickly diverting his gaze as he notices a woman standing in between them also admiring the trees.

“Hey there stranger,” the voice he heard stopped his heart.

Looking back towards the trees he realized he knew the woman standing in between the trees.

“Were you planning on saying hi or ....”

“You’re back?” He found himself asking. How could that be? Were you back for good? Just to visit? How had you found him? Again he found himself cursing his inability to say everything he wanted to you.

“I am,” you smiled. “Word on the street is you’re gone even softer than before and like to take strolls in the park.”

“Softer, huh,” he picked up on your teasing. “You thought I was soft before?”

“Softest man I’ve met,” you responded making your way down the little hill to stand in front of him.

You were here. If he reached his arm out he could touch you and after three years his heart and mind was having trouble processing that.

Letting his gaze sweep over your face he noticed a tiny petal from the cherry blossoms on your hair.

“Couldn’t even properly say bye to me. That’s how soft you were,” you giggled. “I’ve really missed you Buck.”

“Guess you’ve grown softer too then,” he laughed, trying to contain his heart. “You’ve got something on your hair, doll,” he let your pet name slip past his lips after so long. “Want me to get it?”

“Please,” you offered him a timid smile.

Slowly he lifted his hand, fingers carefully brushing your hair out of your face then making their way to collect the petal that rested there.

“I’ve missed you,” he heard you whisper, repeating the words that had not even seconds ago melted his heart in his chest.

“I’ve missed you too, doll,” he finally admitted, a small smile appearing on his lips. “More than you know.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you show me how much you’ve missed me then?” You asked, something so vibrant swimming in your eyes.

“Join me for dinner? Only way I can truly show you,” he winked.

“It’s a date,” you smiled and suddenly those three years you we’re away didn’t matter anymore. All that was on Bucky’s mind was the days and months and years that will follow and how much he was going to make sure you knew exactly how he felt.

——-

Bucky hunches his shoulders and slams back the rest of his beer, wishing it was strong enough to affect him. After three years, the best memories of his life are as untouchable as the woman tucked against another man’s side in a booth twenty feet away. He doesn’t look at them, doesn’t cast pleading eyes at her, but he’s helpless against the sound of her voice. It thunders in his ears, even as low and quiet as it is, drowning out the clinking glass and the calls for another shot and the scrapes of chairs and stools against the sticky wood floor.

He drops his head into his right hand, rubbing his forehead as he stares at the bar. He’s immersed in her voice, drowning in it, to the point where he barely registers the fact that her conversation is so clearly for him.

She’s teasing information out of her—date? Her mark? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that focusing on the content of her words, and not just the sound of her voice, that voice, is worse torture than anything HYDRA had ever thrown at him.

Still, by the time he’s had another two beers and Natasha’s left, his mission is set to be a hundred times easier.

She never once looked his way, never once turned her body to face him like she used to, but somehow, she’s still looking out for him.

Bucky doesn’t know what it means. If he’ll ever find out why she helped him. But for sixty-seven minutes at a neighborhood bar, he drowned in the sound of her voice.

He closes his tab and walks out of the bar, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, head bowed but every sense on high alert as he walks towards his dingy temporary digs. Four blocks out, he slows for two whole steps before carrying on.

Natasha Romanoff pushes herself off the lamppost and falls into step beside him. He doesn’t look at her, can’t—but she doesn’t either. All she does is walk beside him, silent, eyes ahead.

After three years, she’s in arm’s reach. For now, until they get back to his place, it’s enough.

—

A/N: My first entry for the 31-day Hello Spring challenge that the marvelous @itsbuckysworld set up! Thanks so much, dear L!

Your careful steps became a little more hasty, but still, your composure remained. To any onlooker, you were just another person on their commute to wherever was your destination. No one but you could know you were going three blocks further down the path you were supposed to take if you meant to go home. The signs were still familiar. It’d be a shame if you didn’t have all of the small city mapped out in your brain by now. You wouldn’t call yourself a spy if you didn’t.

Looking up before crossing the street, the familiar strange face was somewhere to your left. Quickly your brain told you to take advantage of the sea of people to weave in and out of sight, and you would have stopped right after losing the face at the crosswalk, had your senses not told you that somehow, someone was still hot on your tail. At least that’s what it felt like and you hadn’t lived as long as you had by ignoring that gut feeling that had been drilled into you all those years ago in training. 

Damn it. The footsteps were familiar, but not enough so that you’d feel at ease. They disturbed you more than anything. Your hood was thrown up over your head as a mere hiding instinct as you turned corners, your feet dragging you through paths without your eyes needing to see them, as they were busy scanning for easier escapes and the looming figure that was close enough to make you want to run, far enough to make you nauseous with suspense. Jumping over fences, almost tripping over rocks, spewing semi mute apologies as you tried to leave people behind, take the silent empty routes, the white bag with bold kanji was forgotten, the sourness in your mouth present at the lost of your yummy Takoyaki dinner. 

Mr. Kimura would surely give you more, and for free, that is if you could ever return to his small stand. 

Looking over your shoulder was something you thought you could leave behind, but much like right now, the feeling of a chase never stopped, and so your ears, perking up at every sound, they never rested. Marrakesh, Budapest, Milan to name a few, and now Osaka. You never fully rested. 

Running now. The strong pitter patter of your light shoes echoing in your head, scaring you somewhat, that you didn’t know what chased you, yet you knew something was there. Absolutely disturbing. And then it stopped, but you didn’t. 

You didn’t until you were blocks away, regaining your breath as you slowed your steps and descended into the first subway station you came across. Brain working overtime, the job of a thief, an agent, a spy, an assassin, to plan everything ahead, leave no trace. A quick trip uptown to throw anyone off, a change of clothes at a random souvenir shop, and then you’d catch three cabs; the long way home, make sure you didn’t hint anyone towards your actual place. 

But why was the station so... quiet. Empty.

The train breezed by on the other side of the tracks, going downtown. You hid your hands deep in the pockets of your raincoat, hair blowing with the breeze from the speed of the wagons. Still looking behind you, but the looming feeling that had stopped was now creeping back in, as through the small windows, a shape appeared on the other side of the station, making your eyes widen in realization, your breathing reduced to short jagged gasps. The black cap, longish strands of dark hair and ever present gloomy stare more familiar than you’d like. As the last wagon flashed before you, it left the clear image, his stance similar to yours, with hands deep in his pockets and light stubble coming to view as he eyed you down. 

His right hand, slowly coming out of hiding, moving as if time had stopped, flicking nonchalantly over to you, and the distinct clatter of something hitting your shoe. 

A red poker chip. The memories immediately flooding back. Thankfully, good ones, with the faint, distant howl, of all the bad they hid. You stared at it, not needing to look up to feel how he illegally ate the distance between you in three strong strokes, avoiding the dangers of the train lanes, and standing at a mere 7 feet away from you. Whistling from the coming train that whizzed by, not even bothering to stop. The station long forgotten at this time of the day.

“Y/N” his voice was just as you remembered, as if you could forget. Husky, breathy, deep and so enticing. “James...” you look up at him, the bags under his eyes were more prominent, the clear indicator that he, much like you, couldn’t stop. Couldn’t rest. “You’re hard to find” “For you?–” you scoff lightly – “Allow me to doubt it. It’s been what? Four years?” He takes a deep breath, coming just a little closer. “Three” You knew, but somehow it was easier to act as if you didn’t remember all those things. “Only took you that long to call in that favor” you bit your lip, trying to keep a shocked gasp of a laugh at bay. “I’m not.” your head’s shooting up, eyes looking between his blue ones, you’re confused, he’s determined and there’s something else there you still haven’t placed. But the chip... He shakes his head as if reading your mind. This wasn’t about the poker chip. This wasn’t about that past. This was not the favor. At least not yet. 

You knew he was enhanced, but his ability to read you like a book did not come from any serum or junk put in his brain. Your ability to read his mind didn’t come from any training either, no matter how hard anyone tried you can’t beat super powers into a person. No, this ability came from the same place as his. Familiarity. 

It had been three years for a good reason, but you understood back then, and it came to bite you back right now as you looked around, much like running away, you couldn’t outrun your past, you would never fully leave James and all that came with him behind. Considering all your options - none - and noticing the two men that stuck out like sore thumbs coming down the steps on the other side of the station – Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers – things fell into place, as they always did when James Buchanan Barnes was involved. No wonder they felt like familiar strangers. No wonder this was all Bucky after all. And you knew. Sighing, you unclenched your fists by your side, mimicking James’ stance as you cracked your neck. He gave you a grimace, he hated this as much as he knew you would, but his hands were tied, and suddenly so were yours. It was as if no time had gone by at all. 

You zipped up your hoodie and leaned against the wall crossing your arms and closing your eyes “What’s the mission?”

But the more you talked and learned, the more fun you had and you start to relax while talking with your old friend Wanda. She was a spunky one even back then and that didn’t really change. She was gushing over her coworker who she has a crush on and you giggled, when suddenly a familiar voice rumbled beside you ear.

“Hello, darling. I didn’t expect to see you here.” You tensed and slowly turn around, but you know who it is. The voice something branded into your brain, his expressions still haunting your dreams. “Hello, Loki.”

He smiles with the same little mischievous quirk to the corner of his mouth, his eyes twinkling and making you feel like he knows more about you than he should. Once it enthralled you, now it scares you a bit. You don’t want him to figure out that you heart still threatens to jump out your chest when you see him.

“So formal”, he clicks his tongue and reaches for the drinks behind your back, leaning closer and letting you smell his cologne. Still the same…

“It’s been three years and the last time I saw you, you were packing your back and moving out”, you remind him, your voice soft and breathy from his presence. He stops and looks down at you, his face near inches from yours. “Right”, he pulls back like he suddenly remembers it and throws you charming smile. “If you aren’t too mad about that, we could maybe meet up some time.”

It was not formed like a question and you know that Loki would never ask for something, that wasn’t his style. You sigh and shake your head, getting annoyed with the man before you, the man that broke your heart three years ago.

“I’m still mad and no, I don’t think that would be a good idea.” “Why not, darling?”, Loki sounds confused and you chuckle softly. “Because I’m in a relationship and I don’t think he would like me to run back to you.” “Who?”

You shake your head, not wanting to say. He frowns and finally takes a step back, letting you breath again. “If you don’t want to tell me…” “I don’t”, you finish his sentence quickly and Loki’s eyebrow shots up before he catches himself again and wears a indifferent mask again. “Alright. It was nice to see you, darling.”

“Another glorious morning walk?” Gloria asked, slamming an empty crate atop the pool bar.

Filling the yellow bucket with water from the hose and pouring a careless amount of bleach, you smiled knowingly.

Your coworker rolled her eyes and slapped a wet rag to rest over her shoulder. Not caring in the least that it drenched the sleeve of her black tank, placed a hand on her hip and judged. “Why do you have to be so poetic all the time, huh? We work as kitchen cleaners during the day and bartend for cheap tips at night. Not exactly the life of a Shakespeare.”

Shutting off the valve to the water hose, you dunked the mop head into the bucket and straightened. “Pretty sure Shakespeare was the one giving the cheap tips.”

“It’s just an ocean.” Gloria deadpanned, taking up the crates once more to drop off in the loading area. “We see it every damn day. Waves come in; waves go out.”

She continued to mutter grievances about you as she walked away.

Kicking the bucket on its wheels to head towards the restaurant, you called out: “You don’t have to be a poet to enjoy nature, you know.”

Without missing a beat, she swung around to throw back, “What you gotta be is rich, now hurry up! We don’t finish this by eleven, Devon is gonna kill me.”

“Then it was nice knowing ya,” You respond under your breath. She heard you anyway, kicked up her leg to rest the weight of the crates on her thigh and flipped you the bird.

The days were different here. The only missions you were ever in charge of were cleaning the restaurant patio, tending the bar during happy hours, and assisting snowbirds with special tasks such as grabbing extra chairs, pulling shades, or grabbing a manager when inevitably a flipflop slipped on wet pavement and there was threatening to sue.

It was a service job. One you hadn’t busied yourself with in years. Not since the academy. Not since S.H.I.E.L.D.

You never stayed too long after sunset, but there were two no-calls, no-shows and there was a popstar or country or rap star on the island that weekend and the pool bar was swamped.

“Bet you wished you had slept in this morning instead, huh?” Gloria was still able to criticize as she squeezed next to you to reach the frozen margarita machine.

Swiftly finishing dressing up an elaborate fruit cocktail, you handed the customer their drink and smiled as you accepted a cash tip. Brushing past her to put it in the tip jar, you responded, “And deprive you of the opportunity to give me shit? I think not!”

She laughed, threw her head back with her smile reaching her eyes. “Don’t forget the man over there, he’s been sitting for awhile.”

She pointed to the last seat at the bar, land side. The couple with their Bahama Mama and Tony’s Tornado, blocked the customer from view.

All but dancing around Gloria and Raul, the other tender working the poolside, you made it to the corner seat with a breathless smile.

You instantly froze when the man, clad in a yellow Hawaiian shirt, lifted his head to stare at you. Suddenly feeling it rather difficult to stand, you steadied yourself on the bar between you.

“Clint…”

His eyes, wide and eager watched you carefully. He looked at a loss for words. Truth be told he had been sitting at the bar for almost fifteen minutes just trying to think up what to say when you noticed him.