#jamesbbcrnes

. . . Well, let’s be honest, he still would’ve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.

But hey! At least this time they wouldn’t be wrong, but he’d never admit that to their face. Or to anyone else’s for that matter.

The first time Bucky meets you, you almost slice his ear clean off.

Honestly? That’s the moment he thinks he fell in love with you. Love at first sight. . . or possible ear amputation, in this situation.

It was his own error. He was walking in the gym, too in his own head and oblivious to his surroundings to notice you and walked right in front of the target you were hurling throwing knives at. They were all crammed around the center. Defenitely could've got him if you wanted to.

There’s no panic, there’s no loud dramatics like gasps or hands flying to mouths in shock, you're not rushing to take a look and see if he’s okay and spewing out apologies.

You just stand there and narrow your eyes with a head tilt that doesn’t say you’re concerned, but rather you’re lucky.

“You good?” You ask simply.

Bucky's mouth goes dry, and he finds himself being able to only nod in response.

He was doomed from the very start.

———

After your first encounter, he kept running into you.

In the gym (again), the kitchen, the common room. He seemed to gravitate towards you like there was something nudging him in your direction.

Bucky’s the one to ask you on a date. No grand gestures, just a simple question in the hush of the quinjet on your way back from a mission. Broken, bloody and bruised, the sun setting behind you.

This was one of the moments where you were at your softest. You were exhausted, your arm resting in Bucky's careful palms so he could stitch together a small gash on your arm.

“This is gonna hurt.” He says softly.

“I’ve had worse.” You whisper gently. No flat tone or sarcasm falling from your mouth like usual. Just you, tired and recovering.

He cleans it with antiseptic, and you welcome the sting with a shaky inhale, eyes fluttering shut.

The silence stretches between you. Steve controls the jet upfront, taking the three of you back to compound. That’s when Bucky asks you on a date.

And to his surprise? You say okay.

He blinks like he heard you wrong, his gentle grasp on your wounded arm going slack, "Really?"

You shrug, "Sure, why not."

His mouth stays a little agape, and you shake your head softly and rest your head back against your seat. Your eyes flutter shutter, tapping his chin, "Close your mouth, Barnes. You'll catch flies in that trap."

Bucky blinks again, and then his mouth shuts promptly.

The date is nothing overly fancy, an Italian restaurant somewhere in downtown Manhattan because he overheard you in conversation with Natasha once about it and how much you liked their tiramisu.

You wear jeans, a simple top and a pair of heels, all various dark colours, hair pulled away from your face. When Bucky hears you coming he turns opens his mouth like a fish out of water when he catches sight if you. He stumbles over his words, shooting up from the couch and almost tripping over his own feet.

"With limbs flailing like that, no-one would ever believe you were the Winter Soldier," You quip with an unimpressed arch of your eyebrow, "Just a man with bad coordination."

"You, uh— you look, uh, really nice." He chokes.

"You don't look so bad yourself, Barnes." You reply, already sashaying your way to the exit, "Are you just going to stand there or am I going on my own?"

Bucky prays for strength and to not make an absolute fool of himself, scoops up his car keys, and then jogs after you.

———

Ever since that first date, and the dates that followed, Bucky has been so totally whipped, and he knows that.

Sam says that to his face at least three times a day.

Bucky doesn’t deny it, not once— he can't. 

You spar one time just for fun, and you told him not to take it easy on you. You both pounce at each other, hitting and deflecting like you were practicing choreography, like you had memorised what comes next after he swung his arm in a low arc.

You catch him off guard at one point, and suddenly your swinging up and around his neck before he can blink, thighs squeezing either side of his throat.

And he. . . doesn’t do anything.

Brain short circuits.

Bucky.exe has stopped working.

What a good way to go, is about the only thing rolling around in his brain.

“You’re distracted,” You pant as he sets you down, sweat dripping from your temples and wisps of hair sticking to your forehead.

“No shit,” Bucky huffs, his eyes lingering on you for longer than necessary, “Kinda what happens when you wrap your legs around my head.”

You shake your head, exasperated, “Always thinking with your downstairs brain.”

Bucky grins, “Only when it’s you.”

You give him a sharp stare that would probably unsettle anyone else. It just makes Bucky melt like ice-cream left in the sun.

Only you would wrap your legs around your boyfriend’s head and expect him not to be completely distracted by that. . . or maybe you do, and you’re messing with him. He can’t be sure, and your expression doesn’t give anything away.

All Bucky knows is if it’s psychological warfare you’re playing at?

He’ll never win.

———

You're stood at the foot of the bed, sorting your clothes, a basket of Bucky's waiting on the floor for its own turn to be sorted after.

“Sam says I dress like I’m going to a funeral,” You grumble, folding clothes with more vigour than necessary, “Who the fuck wears dark green to a funeral?”

Bucky approaches you from the doorway, pushing the door gently behind him. He wraps his arms around your waist, and you tense for a moment before letting yourself relax into him.

A kiss is pressed to the back of your neck, soft and gentle, “Think he just means you wear a lot of dark clothes, baby.”

“I know what he meant,” You mutter, folding socks over each other so you don’t lose the pair, “The comment was uncalled for.”

Bucky huffs a laugh into your shoulder. You squirm like you hate it, but Bucky knows you don’t. He nuzzles into, thumbs running in soothing circles over your hipbones. 

"Since when have you ever listened to Sam?" He murmur, peppering kisses against the soft skin behind your ear and trailing them down neck.

"I don't listen to Sam," You mumble, eyebrows furrowed and your lips pursed.

"He's trying to get under your skin."

"He's annoying."

"Aggravatingly so."

You lean into his touch as his hands curl around your hips to hold gently instead, until your eyes lock onto a basket of clothes that're pink and your body goes still.

"Bucky?" You say softly.

That tone of voice is never good.

That tone of voice means he's in trouble. 

He doesn't register it though, he only hums noncommittally. You feel the vibration against the sensitive skin of your neck that makes you flinch before you can try to stop yourself from reacting. 

Bucky grins, happy with himself, and lifts his head from your neck. He kisses your cheek, "Yeah, baby?"

You point at the basket of clothes he left on the floor, "What is that?"

His eyebrows furrow, looking at where your pointing, "My clean clothes?"

You grit your teeth and turn your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral, "Yes, but why are they pink?"

Bucky does a double-take, blinking at his clothes. He picks up the basket and sets it on the foot of the bed next to your neatly folded clothes. 

He chews on his bottom lip, "They looked white in the washing machine."

You scoff, "Oh, so the air made them pink?"

Bucky doesn't say a word.

You rummage through his clothes, dress shirts and t-shirts and vests and socks, until you find the culprit. You hold it up slowly, dangling it in front of him.

The look on your face says he's fucked up.

"Are you gonna kill me?" He blurts out.

"I might've if it was my clothes, but you did this to yourself," You huff, gesturing at the ruined pile of his clothes, "How do you even do this, Bucky?" 

He shrugs, "Wasn't paying attention."

You hold the offender in your hand— a single red sock. Not even a pair.

"I can see that," You deadpan, "Now your whites are all. . . pastel pink."

At least he has the audacity to look a little sheepish.

"You had one job," You continue, "Just one."

Bucky nods solemnly.

"I did."

"You failed. . . how do you fail washing clothes, Bucky?"

"I didn't fail washing them," He corrects, "They're clean, aren't they?"

You blink at him, "They're pink. They're supposed to be white!"

"I just— I missed the red sock!"

"You have pristine vision!" You exclaim, "You're a super-soldier, it's part of the package!"

"Yeah, but I don't have x-ray vision!"

You huff, shaking your head and muttering about your useless 106 year-old super-soldier boyfriend who can't wash clothes correctly under your breath.

You're complaining, but it still has the corners of Bucky's mouth upturn fondly.

He guides your hips to turn you around, wrapping his arms back around your waist, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other coming up to knead the back of your neck gently.

Your jaw grinds, and you stare at him, that same stare from the first day he saw you in the gym, but this time there's something else there. 

Love.

And it's for him.

And isn't that something special in itself?

"I'm sorry," He whispers softly, brushing hair from your face, "I'll never touch the washing again."

You try not to smile at that. It's a failing task.

"I'm an 106 year-old man, we didn't have washing machines," Bucky exaggerates a long sigh, "All this technology. . .”

"Alright, old man." You roll your eyes, patting his chest.

He grins, a thumb stroking over your cheek before leaning in to kiss you— slow and soft, a kiss that warms you on the inside and makes you melt. 

Something that makes you feel safe, cared for, loved.

Everything the two of you deserved to be.

"I love you," Bucky murmurs against your lips, soft like a prayer, his hand cradling your cheek.

"I love you too," You sigh in a rare defeat, nipping at his lower lip in warning, "But if you ever do that to my clothes, Bucky. . ."

"Told you, I'll never touch the washing machine again," He offers quickly, "Or try to be helpful."

You roll your eyes with a lingering smile, "Might be for the best."

You can still feel the honeyed trace of his lips that had just been pressed to yours, residual warmth still seeping into your skin like sunlight. 

If he's going to kiss you like that? You ought to have to him apologising more often.

He tilts your head just enough to kiss you a second time, pouring love into you as if it comes from an endless source that lives in his chest. 

Your eyes flutter shut, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, and suddenly the reason why you were mad at him in the first place slowly begins to fade away.

Later, he'll buy you flowers as an apology. A small bunch of red roses and he'll make a silly joke about the two of you and true love. You'll scoff and give him a playful shove, but you'll take the bouquet and inhale the floral scent. You'll gingerly untie the ribbon and put it in your pocket, filling a vase with water and placing the flowers inside with the utmost care.

But for right now? You can settle for this.

———

Some of Bucky's favourite moments with you is in the morning, specifically when the sun is rising and shines through your bedroom window.

Hues of orange and yellow bleed into the darkness of the room, slithering through the gaps in the curtains that had been haphazardly drawn the night prior.

Your face, illuminated by the rising sun from its golden light spills into the room and streaks across your face, will be an image he will never be able to rid from his mind.

In your sleep you had always looked serene, as though the traumatic weight you carry on your shoulders doesn't exist at all. The wrinkle between your usually furrowed eyebrows is smooth and that flat, unimpressed look you usually wear is nowhere to be seen.

It's just you, stripped of that façade you wear like armour. 

Sometimes, he can't believe that he's lucky enough to see you just as you are.

Bucky tucks hair that had fallen in your face behind your ear, and the soft sweep of his fingertips against your skin has your face twitch, the corners of your lips quiver at the fleeting touch.

"Shhh," He hushes softly as you shift, seeking him out with a deep sigh.

That alone could've made him melt.

His grumpy girl, searching for him even when she was asleep. 

Your hand settles against his chest and a leg weaves between his. Bucky watches the tension that had started to rise in your body slowly dissipate until you were pilant against the sheets once more. 

He smiles, his metal arm enveloping your back, and curls his free hand over yours where it rests against his heart.

———

You in your element is something that Bucky will never quite get over.

He watches you move— dangerous and deadly, your body twisting fluidly and your limbs swing in arcs meant to deliver heavy blows to take down men that're twice your size.

Bucky sighs wistfully.

Sam blinks, looking both mildly frustrated and slightly horrified at his reaction.

“She’s doing her job, Buck.”

Bucky huffs, “Yeah, but she looks good doing it.”

“Are you two finished with your mother's meeting or what?" You yell, glancing over your shoulder at them with a withering stare.

Someone takes this as the chance to try and rush you.

You curse under your breath, exasperated and utterly irritated, jaw clenched as your body moves fluidly, whirling around on your heel and swinging your leg in the air. The heel of your boot connects with his face, a sickening crunch under it where his nose snaps to the side. 

He staggers from the force of it and swears, trying to grasp clumsily at your leg in his disorientation. You grab him by his shoulders and smack his head against your knee hard, and he falls like a sack of potatoes— unconscious.

"Seems like you have it handled." Sam quips.

You roll your eyes, pointing a throwing knife at him, "Careful, Wilson, or it'll be you next."

"What about me?"

"You're such a machochist, dude." Sam huffs with a shake of his head, following redwing down one of the corridor's that'll hopefully lead you all where you need to go.

"If you want a punishment, James, you know where to find me." You tease with a roll of you eyes, but there's a hint of a smile there.

And that's for him.

When he doesn't move from his spot, you huff softly and take his wrist to drag him along with you to follow Sam, still failing to hold off that smile, "C'mon, old man."

Bucky grins and trails behind you like a puppy.

There's no place he'd rather be.

He misses the life he used to live. He misses the hustle and bustle of the Barnes household, the laughing of one of his sisters and the reprimanding of the other, the soft and soothing voice of his mother and the rasp of his father's gravelly voice from indulging himself to one too many cigarettes. He misses being roped into playing games with little sisters, or hauling them onto his back when one of them complained their legs were tired and he'd pretend to be put out, groaning something about his back, and they would giggle at his theatrics.

He misses when his mother insisted Steve stay for dinner, and every time he tried to decline, Bucky's mother would shake her head and practically drag him inside.

Someone's got to feed you, she'd always say, guiding him in by his shoulders, I'm worried you'll wither away!

And today, Bucky had buried the last of his past.

Rebecca had been suffering with Alzheimer's for a few years. It started off with small lapses in her memory that were just written off as forgetfulness. But then it started to occur more frequently, and then confusion followed, her personality started to alter, and she was getting stuck in memories that had long since passed.

This day was inevitable, but it doesn't make it hurt any less than it does.

Bucky had been there when he could manage, when Rebecca's daughter, Sarah, had told him she was having a good day because seeing Bucky sometimes put her in distress. Sometimes she'd look at him and remember Bucky as he was now—six foot of pure muscle with a glinting vibranium arm. Then there were others where she would blink and suddenly she transported back to an earlier time, to just a little girl clutching onto her brother extra tight, making him swear to 'fight the bad guys and then just come back home.'

When she was that little girl from the 40's, more often than not she would be angry. Shouting and telling him that he lied, that she waited and waited but her big brother never came home. Then she'd catch the glint of sleek black metal under his left jacket sleeve, and tears would stream from her eyes and the anger would morph into horror of what had happened to him.

Who did that to you, Jamie?

Why would they do that?

Ma will be home soon, she'll be so happy you're back home.

That last one always made his heart ache.

But sometimes that little girl would be happy to see him. Sometimes that little girl would insist he sat on the edge of her bed whilst she chatted about her day, naming people and places that were from a time long gone, but he would sit and indulge her anyway. Bucky would nod like he understood, make a comment that would send her giggling, and suddenly his heart would crack wide open at the sound.

His little sister, sitting in her room in the nursing home, clutching his hand with her frail one whilst she spoke.

His little sister, dying before he did.

It shouldn't have to be this way, but it was.

Just another thing to add to the long list of things that Hydra had so cruelly stolen from him.

He had left the funeral feeling numb. Sam had attended with him, sat next to him in the church pew whilst Sarah and her brother presented their written eulogy to their mother. They talk about her passion for teaching and how they grew up in a house full of laughter and love, of park trips after school and Fridays that were exclusively for movies and pizza. They talk about the endless kindness that lived in their mother's heart that she extended to everyone she had crossed paths without fail. 

Proof that Bucky's little sister had lived a wonderful life, one that she so rightfully deserved. 

But looking at the service portrait of her made his chest tighten and his eyes burn. Weathered sunkissed skin, laughter lines etched into the corners of her smiling mouth, greying hair replacing the once dark chesnut brown that she shared with her brother. 

Everyone else looks at it and sees Rebecca as she had been before she died, but Bucky looks at it and sees a younger version staring back at him. He sees the girl before he was shipped off to England, her smooth porcelain skin, rosy cheeks and that signature Barnes grin that their mother always said they inherited from their father.

Bucky swiped a lone tear from his cheek and clenched his jaw tight, looking away from the portrait before he let himself break completely.

There was a wake after the service, but Bucky didn't attend. He didn't feel like he belonged, he felt like an intruder— even during the service, filled with so many faces he didn't know. Rebecca's family and friends, people she loved and who loved her back. 

At his own sister's funeral, he felt like a stranger.

When it came to a close, Bucky wished Sarah and her brother well and slipped out quietly through the church doors. Sam offered to drive him home, but Bucky declined. He'd done enough for him already, and Bucky wanted to be alone for a while. 

So, he walked. 

There was no end goal, just unsure of what to do with himself which is how he ended up here— with a coffee from the café a block away in his hand as he sat on a park bench, people watching.

A woman marches through the park in heels, clicking with a mild sense of urgency against the paved ground. She holds her phone to her ear, her expression pinched. Bad news, or maybe just an irritating coworker. Judging by her attire and the clip of ID on her blazer label, she looks like she works in an office.

Bucky's gaze shifts to a father who jogs after his small daughters. Two identical twin girls that evidently have a penchant of mischief, with rosy cheeks, honey-blonde ringlets that bounce wildly as they bolt down the path in a fit of giggles with a stolen bag swinging between them from their hands. He doesn't look upset, he just grins as he shouts out a promise of catching them as follows after them. 

A young couple then walks past him, a boy and a girl. His arm's wrapped around her shoulders and hers is wrapped around his waist, tucked under his denim jacket. They look happy, laughing at each other and grinning like they're know something nobody else does, fingers intertwined together at her shoulder. 

He doesn't know how long he sits there for, observing the people strolling through. His coffee stays untouched, his hand curled around it still as he rests it on his knee. Bucky's attention is suddenly caught by someone's dog, a golden retriever that is seemingly on the mission of its life, as it slips through someone's spilt puddle of water on the path. The dog careens right into his knees with a yelp as its head barrels into solid bone. Cooled coffee from Bucky's takeaway cup spills and stains the dog's golden fur with espresso.

He barely has time to blink and register what just happened before the dog is scrambling back up onto four paws and tilting its head, ears perked at the sound of a voice yelling, "Daisy!"

Bucky follows Daisy's line of sight to see you jogging down the path, out of breath and swiping hair that's fallen from your ponytail away from your face. Daisy sits by his feet and wags her tail like she's the best girl in the world. Your gaze catches Bucky's, and then lowers slowly to the bitter liquid that drips down his fingers and the side of his cup, the stain on his trouser leg and then the damp patch of fur on the side of Daisy's neck.

You rub at your face with a resigned sigh.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry," You breathe out, "That's... I can pay for that—"

"It's all good, it's cold anyway," Bucky dismisses quietly, "I'm sorry that Daisy smells of espresso."

You laugh softly, "Well, honestly, there's worse things that she can smell of trust me."

"I'll bet." He murmurs, watching Daisy sniff at his coffee-soaked fingers and deciding that she should lick off the excess.

Bucky cracks the first real smile he has in days, and scratches behind her ears. Daisy wiggles happily.

You huff at her audacity, gesturing weakly to the space beside him, "Mind if I sit for a minute?"

Bucky shakes his head, "All yours."

You practically collapse into the space next to him.

"She must be half Whippet," You sigh, looking down at Daisy with furrowed brows as she wiggles closer to him and pushes her head insistently into his fingers.

"She looks very Golden Retriever to me." Bucky comments.

He stops scratching behind her ears for just a second, and Daisy snuffles as she whips around to look at him in betrayal.

Daisy nudges as his hand and he arches one amused eyebrow, fingers slowly resuming their gentle scratches. Her tail whips from side to side in a blur of happiness.

You smile, and there's a moment of silence where you both watch Daisy and her wagging tail before you offer him your name.

"James," He introduces," Well, Bucky— people usually call me Bucky."

"That's an... unusual nickname for James."

Bucky chuckles, tips of his ears turning pink, "Buchanan's my middle name."

"Old school, I like it." You quip.

Conversation slowly starts to flow, and there's an odd sense of familiarity between you. There's no rush to think of something to say to combat the usual awkwardness people sometimes experience when meeting new people. Instead, any silence between your sentences comes as a comfort more than anything else without having that need to fill the gap.

Daisy lays down between you, panting softly, her head resting on Bucky's shoe.

You smile, "She likes you."

Bucky blinks, "I'm sure she likes everyone."

"She doesn't actually," You tell him, "You must've passed her test."

"What test is that?" He chuckles, and you sigh with shrug, "I don't know, but she secretly judges people and stares into your soul with those brown eyes of hers. If only I could figure out what's on that checklist."

"Free pets," Bucky offers, "And scratches. Unlimited treats."

You click your fingers like he's cracked the code, and Daisy pushes herself up and whips around at the sharp sound but smacks her nose into your knee and you wince. But in true golden retriever fashion, she shakes it off and rests her head atop your knee instead like nothing happened.

You're not entirely sure how long the two of you stay seated on that bench talking, but it's enough time for Daisy to fall asleep under your legs for shade.

Bucky asks about your job and you tell him about your work as a kindergarten teacher and your love for it. The kids who look up to you and enjoy every class you teach and how they call you miss so sweetly when they want help. You tell him about that childlike determination that makes their eyebrows furrow and their tongues stick out the corner of their mouths when they want to get something right and how you find it endearing.

When you ask about his job, Bucky answers vaguely about a job within the government. He says he can't talk too much about it, and you respect that.

You both fall into the topic of reading for a while, and Bucky looks at you like you've grown three heads when you tell him you've never read the Hobbit.

"I'm just— I don't know," You laugh, flustered, "I've just never read it!"

"Well, you should," Bucky says like his words carries great importance.

You roll your eyes, "Maybe I'll give it a go, since you're so insistent."

"You should." He repeats simply, and you huff out a soft laugh.

"What're you doing at the park in a suit, anyway?" You ask him with a tilt of your head, "On your super-secret government job lunch break?"

Bucky thinks about lying for a moment. Laughing and saying yeah, and making something up. But he's tired.

He's so tired. Of trying to navigate the world as it was now, of missing home, his parents, his siblings and Steve.

He's so tired of the resentment he still holds in his chest for Steve leaving, the overwhelming guilt of what Hydra made him become, of trying to be normal when he was anything but that.

But in this park, on this bench with a dog napping on his foot and her owner sitting beside him, talking to him normally without walking on eggshells, Bucky feels that tension in him loosen. 

You've treated him like a friend, despite having only known each other for mere hours, as someone who deserves your kindness.

So, he tells the truth. 

"I had a funeral to go to," Bucky murmurs, "it was my sister's."

You blink.

"Oh," Your voice is soft as it quietens, a small frown starting to pull at your lips, "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have. . ."

Bucky shakes his head, flashing you a quick smile, small and reassuring, "It's alright, you couldn't have known. My sister and I, we. . ."

His words trail off and then he shrugs, lowering his head, "It's complicated. She had Alzheimer's."

"That must've been difficult." 

Bucky nods, "Yeah, she. . . she had her days, good and bad, y'know? Sometimes she'd be present, and then others she'd be. . . stuck in her head, getting the days confused and not knowing where she was."

"Can't imagine what that was like." You whisper softly.

"Yeah," He breathes in deeply and holds it for a moment before he exhales shakily, catching the time fromt the watch on his wrist, "I've uh— I've got to go to her house actually, start going through stuff and help clear it out."

You frown, "Now?"

"No, but I'd rather get it over with, so it won't be hanging over my head like some dark cloud." He rubs his hands over his thighs, his jaw clenched, "I promised her kids."

"I get that," You nod, slow and soft, picking at a loose thread on Daisy's lead, "Would you. . . would you like me to walk you there?"

Bucky blinks, his head turning quickly at the offer, "You. . . that's, uh— you don't—”

You wave a hand lazily in the air, "It's alright, I'd like to. But, of course, I'd understand if you didn't want me to."

Bucky lets the offer sink in before giving a slow nod, "No, that would. . . be nice."

You wake Daisy up with a soft shake to her back, and she stumbles up to her feet sleepily, but her tail's already starting to wag ferociously.

Bucky tells you where you're going and then you both stand from the bench, Bucky throwing his takeaway cup in a trashcan, and start to walk. 

You fall into step beside him with Daisy's lead wrapped around your hand and clutched tight as she trots in front of you.

Neither of you talk now. There's no need to fill the silence with mindless chatter, you just accompany him to the house. A solid presence beside him, grounding and there if he needs someone.

Just to remind him that he's not alone.

After a few minutes of walking, Bucky clears his throat and slows to a stop outside a well-kept brownstone, "This is me."

A large door awaits him, No. 80 in gold lettering plastered on the glass pane above it. Two small flower pots of blooming red-and-yellow tulips stand on either side of the doorway with an old doormat between them.

Bucky looks up and swallows thickly at the sight.

You notice, "You can take a moment, before you go in."

He shakes his head, "If I don't go in now, I don't think I ever will." 

Bucky turns to look at you.

"Thanks, for walking me here."

You give him a small smile, "I actually just live on the next street over road, so it was no problem. . . good luck in there."

He huffs out a nervous laugh. Daisy nudges his hand with her nose, like she can sense the wariness in him. He gives her one last scratch behind her ears, and she licks his hand as he pulls away to grasp onto the stair railing, and mutters a quiet thank you as he starts up the stairs.

You take that as your cue. 

You continue down the street, hearing the click of Bucky’s shoes get quieter as the distance grows. You don't get very far until you pause for a moment, eyebrows furrowed. Daisy nudges at your leg when you stop. Your hand gently pats her on the nose before you turn on your heel.

"Hey, Bucky?" 

He head lifts from where he was staring at the lock, the key half raised, "Yeah?"

"127 is my door number, if you... ever feel like you need someone to talk to, to listen to you," You clutch Daisy's lead tighter in your grasp, "You don't always have to be alone, Bucky, you're welcome anytime."

His heart clenches at your generosity, "That's... thank you."

You nod, "It's okay. Take care of yourself!"

"You too." Bucky says softly.

You give him a wave and parting smile that turns into a huff of laughter as Daisy barks in his direction and jumps in the air, "C'mon, silly girl!"

A girl and her dog made of sunshine.

Bucky never would've thought the misery of the day would start to dampen, but it did. And he never would've guessed that the light peering through the darkness would be in the form of a kindergarten teacher and her clumsy golden retriever.

Everything happens for a reason, his mother used to say.

Bucky used to roll his eyes and wave her off like it wasn’t something worth remembering. But perhaps his mother had a point.

Maybe finding his footing in this new world wouldn't be so hard after all.

Everyday you're absolutely certain you can't possibly love Bucky any more, and every single day he proves you wrong.

Especially now, with you driven by one too many cocktails, running down the street on wobbly feet, insisting he can't catch you.

"Baby, come back here." He laughs.

You're not going very fast, or very straight, zigzagging and giggling to yourself.

Bucky shakes, grinning as he chases you down the street, indulging in your drunken antics, catching up in seconds and scooping you up by the waist and spinning in a circle.

Your hands grasp his arm tight, throwing your head back with a squeal, "Okay, okay! So maybe you can catch me."

"Didn't know that was in doubt."

He kisses your cheek, setting you back down, hands lingering on your waist to keep you steady.

"You seem to have been having the time of your life tonight."

You turn on your heels, grinning from ear to ear, "The best time. Thank you, baby, for taking me out and getting everyone together, was so nice."

Bucky smiles, tucking wind-swept hair behind your ears, "Always, doll. . . though Sam did help, I kept getting names and numbers wrong."

You giggle, your smile wide as your hands rest against his chest.

The look you on your face, soft and so full of love, and how your hands curl around his neck make Bucky melt. 

"What is it, baby?" He whispers, giving your hips a gentle squeeze.

"I have one last birthday wish." 

"Oh yeah?" 

You bite down on your bottom lip, batting your eyelashes at him, ". . . a kiss."

His mouth curves upwards, his hands cradling your face like you're something precious before tilting your chin up gently and leaning in.

As soon as his lips touch yours? The rest of the world falls away.

Just you and him, alone on an empty street, your last wish of the night being granted with nothing but the stars to bare witness.

"Happy birthday, baby." He murmurs before capturing your lips in another slow, sweet kiss.

Happy birthday to you, indeed.

"Careful, Bucky!"

"Whaddaya mean, doll? M'careful, m'so— woah—"

You giggle as Bucky stumbles out of the jazz club and you grab the back of his shirt to stable him. It's still raining, but it's softer now, a light drizzle that clings to your lashes and hair, small droplets landing on your clothes.

"You look like you're being careful."

Bucky mimics you, making a weird face and moving his head animatedly. You thwack him on the head, and he cries out assault! in jest as he clutches his head.

You shake your head, grasping the bend of his arm, "C'mon, Barnes, let's get you home."

"I'm supposed to take you home." He pouts, but he puts one foot in front of the other anyway as you walk.

"We literally live across the street from each other, you can watch me walk back from the front door."

Bucky grumbles, "S'not very gentlemanly, is it?"

"Neither is being drunk," You point out, "Y'know, just because someone challenges you, doesn't mean you have to accept it."

He puffs out his chest and raises his chin, "But I won, didn't I?"

You sigh, "Yes, Buck, you won. Congratulations."

The two of you continue on in silence, only the soft patter of rain and the click of your shoes could be heard as you walked side by side.

And then Bucky stops abruptly, and you frown, "What?"

"Dance with me." 

"Dancing?" You blink, ". . . in the rain? We've been dancing, Bucky!"

"Dance with me, doll." There's a certain look in his eye you can't place, wide-eyed and almost pleading, his voice breathless.

Whatever that look is, you’re hopeless to it.

So you face him, chest-to-chest, letting one of his hands grasp your hip and yours on his shoulder, and then your free ones lace together.

Bucky leads in a gentle sway, humming softly, hooking his chin over your shoulder. You breathe slow, deep, inhaling the mix of his cologne, smoke and whiskey as his arm curls around your back.

It's way past midnight, and the two of you should really be getting home. But under the glow of a flickering lamplight and the gentle trickle of rain, Bucky Barnes let's his eyes flutter shut and believe that, in this moment, you're his.

"I'm not sparring with you." Your voice is flat as you say it, sprawled out contentedly on the couch with your nose buried in your book.

"Please." Bucky nudges your head gently from beside you.

"No." 

"Why?!" He whines.

Yes, the big bad Winter Soldier, the ghost story, one of the most feared assassin's of your time. . . is whining.

You sigh exasperatedly, your withering gaze turning to him.

". . . Because."

"Because what?"

"You never focus when you spar with me."

Bucky's head reels, offended, "Yes, I do."

"No, you don't." You shoot back, eyes narrowed, "Last time we sparred, you literally malfunctioned."

Bucky blinks, eyebrows furrowed, and then nods slowly, ". . . that was one time."

You groan, "That's all of the time!"

"You had your legs wrapped around my head," He defends, "I got a little distracted!"

You dog-ear your book and chuck it haphazardly onto the coffee table, sitting up properly with your legs curled under you, "That's not my fault!"

"They're your legs!"

"It's not my fault you think sparring is some weird equivalent to foreplay!"

"Who do you feel more sorry for?" Clint murmurs to Natasha as they sit atop the kitchen counter, watching them squabble.

"Me," Sam interjects, coming up behind them, sipping his coffee, "You think this just happens here? Bucky practically drools at the sight of her during a mission, and I always seem to get wedged between them."

"There's worse people to be wedged between." Natasha wiggles her eyebrows, "Could be Cap and Tony."

"Or Tony and Bruce, trying sitting with them when they're speaking their special science language." Clint rolls his eyes at the thought of it.

Sam shakes his head tiredly, taking a long sip of his coffee, "Y'all are crazy. . . That's a whole different ballpark I don't even wanna think about."

The wind billows through your hair as you stand outside, the party behind you still raging on. You bounce on the balls of your feet, arms curled around yourself, Bucky's suit jacket the only thing keeping you warm as you wait for him to bring the car to you.

That's when it happens.

A hand skims your ass and squeezes. You freeze, blinking in shock.

Rumlow smirks, standing too close for comfort, "Lookin' good, sweetheart— where's Barnes, hm? Leaving a pretty thing like you out here all alone for the vultures. . ."

"She's not alone."

A shaky sigh escapes you at the sight of Bucky, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw grinding and silently seething.

Rumlow turns, "She sure seemed like it."

Bucky grins, shows them pearly white teeth, and then swings.

The crack is defeaning, ripping through the quiet of the night, the sick crunch of bone under his fist as it connects with Rumlow's nose.

You gasp, "Buck—"

"Stay there, princess," His hands fist Rumlow's shirt as rivulets of blood pour from his nose, "Gotta make sure this asshole knows not to touch what's mine."

"You ever touch her again," Bucky whispers, his voice so calm it sends a chill down your spine, "You'll be six feet under."

"Fuck you," Rumlow snaps.

Bucky's hand grasps roughly at the back of his neck, turning him around to face you, "Apologise."

Rumlow spits at your heels, leaving a splatter of blood, and Bucky jerks his head forward with a snarl.

"Apologise, otherwise I'll personally send you to Pierce in fucking pieces."

"Bucky," You murmur, "I just wanna go home."

His voice softens when he glances up at you, "We will, babydoll, I'm gonna take you home, but I'm not gonna let him disrespect you and walk away unscathed."

Bucky's hand tightens, fingertips digging into the sides of Rumlow’s throat until he chokes out an apology.

You watch Bucky shove him to the floor, satisfied as he watches the man drop, and then holds a hand out for you.

Your hand slides into his palm, intertwining your fingers, letting him pull you closer— safe and secure.

"You'll always be mine, babydoll," He whispers against your temple.

"I know."

Bucky gaze down at you for a long moment, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"C'mon, let's go home."