#sidwritestuff

You took the B train every Monday through Friday at seven in the morning. You got off at the seventh stop every Monday through Friday at seven thirty in the morning. You smiled politely at the muscular stranger who shared your stop at seven thirty in the morning. Even though he never really smiled back, only sometimes gracing you with a slight nod of his head.

You talked to everyone on the train. It started as a nervous habit. Nerves were easily appeased once you complimented a stranger and their tight-lips transformed into a glowing smile at the flattery. It was always genuine; you never made up a compliment. It wasn’t that hard to find at least one nice thing about someone, and it was worth it to be able to fall into conversation with them over constant conversation with yourself and your mind that was usually trying to convince you that you were always out of place. 

Over the years, you knew every face on the seven am B train. You knew their lives, what they did, who they loved, and sometimes even made some kind friends in your neighborhood.

You knew everyone from Mr Delmar, who always watched out for you, to Peter Parker, who was always far too bruised up for a high school kid, to the humblest of men, Steve Rogers, who grew to love you as a kind soul with the remarkable ability to put themselves in anyone’s shoes and imagine quite accurately how they must feel, a compassion you extended even to him, something you said was not difficult at all, which Steve found hard to believe. But, chip by chip, you aided him in changing how he viewed himself. People did not deserve to see themselves any less than they were, least of all Steve Rogers, you told him.

Yet, of course, there had to be one remaining obstacle, one last stranger you never got to know. He didn’t really intimidate you, though you got the impression that that was his intent. You supposed, as a woman taking the New York subway, you should be wary of a tall, muscular man, dressed in dark clothing. You weren’t to be mistaken for a foolish woman. You carried around a taser the size of your forearm and pepper spray was always hardly a second out of grasp. You looked for an exit to every room you walked in. You worked for S.H.I.E.L.D for fuck’s sake. Even if you were just an engineer, you had taken self defense classes since your first day of work. Caution was in your blood at this point. 

This man should have set off every red flag, and still, there was something endearing about his slightly crooked walk, his uneven shoulders and long strides. His stubble grew in all different directions as if no one taught him to shave. There was some constant uncertainty in his certain gaze. There was something remarkable at how human he was with his little ear buds and his strangely gloved hands. You wondered what he listened to every morning. You could only guess and those guesses ran from the Beatles to Motley Crue. 

But then there were his eyes. Lighter eye shades usually came off more deceptive; you favored coffee colored irises like Peter’s–coupled with his childlike wonder and affliction for trouble, it made you relax around him immediately. But this man’s eyes, despite being a striking cerulean, were much, much too soft for a dangerous man. There was something so utterly tender about him that had you catching your breath far more often than you’d like. 

It’s also what stopped you from exchanging words with him, fear that those eyes would turn on you in anger, something you didn’t feel that you could bear. An odd weight on your chest for a literal stranger. You chalked it up to social anxiety, though you knew there was more to it. 

Still, it wasn’t for a lack of trying that you still hadn’t gotten to know him. You had wordlessly offered him many a bagel, a donut, a bear claw, a puff pastry, for crying out loud, but he had always politely waved you off, ears red in what you assumed to be annoyance. You felt a little dismissed, like Pooh trying to invite Eeyore to come play, but you knew this was likely how he treated everyone, and eventually gave into being content with knowing the people you knew. You weren’t one for a challenge that made you look stupid. You knew your place. 

You still wondered what he did, though. Your stop was the same, but your routes after were different, yet you swore you saw him around S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters sometimes. 

 It was nearing two years of seeing him on the B train that you found out what he did. You were on your short walk from the cafe near Delmar’s where you got your morning latte, humming softly as you passed alleyway after alleyway. You were almost to the station when you caught sight of a familiar silhouette. On his knees, head in hands, there was your mystery man. No doubt about it, it was him. It was the same kevlar jacket, the same dark wash jeans and steel-toed boots, the same uneven shoulders.

You hesitated, paused beside the alley, facing him. His breaths came far too frequent and far too short, visible in the cold Brooklyn air. This was one of your worst ideas, but you couldn’t stand by and watch him stumble through this, quite awfully you might add. Unfortunately for him, it looked like he didn’t know a single coping mechanism to get through a panic attack. Hell, you doubted he even knew that he was even having a panic attack. 

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for what lay ahead, and approached him. 

He didn’t notice you at first, hands ungloved, revealing that one of them was made of some sort of expensive metal. It looked like it could crush you in a second. You gulped, certain you didn’t want to scare him, and quietly called out, “Hey, there.”

He turned to you in an instant, a hand dropping to his waistline. Oh my god, he was armed, too. What had you gotten yourself into?

You knew that looking scared wouldn’t help, though. You slowly dropped to your knees as well, your worried eyes locked with his terrified ones. 

“Hi, honey,” you began, your lips suddenly feeling dry. 

He was still panicking, one hand on his chest, but he didn’t say a word. 

You tried your best to only focus on what he needed at the moment. You dropped your bag to the ground and put your near empty coffee beside it. 

“It looks like you’re having a panic attack. I think I can help you.”

He chews the inside of his cheek, hands shaking terribly. “Can I give you my hand?” you ask. 

He hesitates, drawing his hand closer to his body, as if his body language could be any more inward. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, love, I promise. I only want to help.” He relaxes slightly at your steady tone. He reached his flesh hand out for you to take. You grab it with both of yours and inch closer to him. You can feel how warm he is, hands slightly sweaty from panic, the pulse in his wrist thundering. 

“These things always end. Know that. It’s going to be over soon,” you reassure, watching as sweat builds on his temple.

His eyes are restless, looking over you and around you, never pausing. “Focus on me, sweetheart. Just look at me. Yes, there you go. Let yourself breathe. You’re going to get through this. I know it’s stupid hard for no reason and you feel helpless, but just trust me when I say you’ll get through this.”

He gave you a curt nod, grateful eyes staying on yours.

“Can you tell me your name, honey?”

He nearly choked, voice shaky as he rasped out, “Bucky.”

Your eyes flashed in recognition. You didn’t want to say anything that might trigger him yet, though, so you softened your features and smiled. “Sweet. That’s a sweet name. I like it.”

Bucky’s breaths were slowly steadying, his pulse decelerating. 

You stayed with him, coaxing him off of the edge and whispering words of encouragement. 

 He was dying. This was it. Some old lady in the coffee shop he frequented saw his metal arm and screamed, calling him a monster and that was it. He left the shop, unable to breathe. He checked his body for bullets, but he couldn’t find any. Bucky was certain his lungs had been shot, though. He’d only ever woken up from nightmares with this feeling. There’s no way this wasn’t real. 

Heart in his throat, Bucky pulled off to a nearby alley and nearly vomited his internal organs. The world was spinning. He didn’t know how he got to his knees with his head in his hands but he was there now, unable to fight off the evil feeling that he would never be normal, never be anything better than HYDRA’s monster.

Tears threatened to breach Bucky’s eyes as he still couldn’t take in a proper breath. He imagined drowning would be a better way to die than this.

He was so caught up in his distress, in the shadows that threatened to pull him under, that he hardly heard your voice, muffled like it was underwater.

Bucky flinched hard, surfacing, immediately reaching for the pistol in his waistband. He had a fleeting thought that put into perspective for him how sick it was that the one technological adjustment he didn’t have to make from his old life to his new life was weaponry. He knew of every one; he had _used _every one.

He took you in, eyes glossing over your overly concerned figure. 

Fucking hell, of course he would lose his shit in front of the woman he had become sweet on from the morning train for two goddamn years. Bucky had no real reason to take the B train. He had initially only taken it for a week when his bike was in the shop, but that week had given him more faith in humanity than anything had in the last decade.

He had noticed you the moment you had walked into the train, eyes taking in every one on the car and greeting near everyone around him. You checked in with a teenage boy’s science project and urged him to apply to an internship where you worked–S.H.I.E.L.D. 

You were warm, and bubbly, unburdened by any horrors, at least not on first look, and you cared so much for every individual you came across. Bucky hoped you didn’t notice him watching you like a creep the entire ride, jaw slack and eyes way too fond for a stranger.

Though he was headed the same way you were, he went the opposite direction at the seventh stop so it didn’t look like he was following you. 

He came back day after day, your blinding smile and kind eyes starting off every one of his mornings until he began to dread the weekends when he couldn’t see you–nights plagued with nightmares and memories of a person he wanted to set himself as far apart from as possible. He didn’t realize how much he had come to depend on seeing your plushy face and hearing your silken voice until nearly two years had already passed. 

You were always too bright of a star for him to accept any of your kindness, however. Sometimes he felt unworthy of even looking at you, a sun in the cold world he lived in. That’s why he always waved off any of your offerings, often without even making eye contact, trying to hold down the flush of his skin from his flustered state.

He never imagined that this is how he would finally meet you.

Oh no. _Oh no, ohnoohnoohno. _This couldn’t be happening. You had definitely seen his hand. There was no hiding it now with his gloves strewn at his feet. Bucky wondered what you thought. He figured it was something along the lines of repulsion. But no part of you looked at him in disgust, only with affection. 

“Hi, honey,” you practically crooned, the pet name making him practically melt into a puddle at your feet. It wasn’t condescending at all, only genuine concern in your voice. You told him he was having a panic attack. Is that what this slow death was? You seemed to know a lot about them. He hoped it wasn’t from personal experience. Shit was miserable.

Then you asked for his hand and he practically threw himself away in the dumpster closeby. He couldn’t imagine why you would offer to touch him. Him, who was the devil in disguise. 

He swallowed thickly, chewing the inside of his cheek, before he gave in. He couldn’t help it. There you were, pleading so tenderly with him to take your hand. How could he refuse? He didn’t know how he ever refused you anything, to be honest. It seemed almost blasphemous.

His lungs wouldn’t stop wailing and the world still wouldn’t stop spinning. You were the only anchor and even then he wasn’t sure of his footing. 

You took his hand in both of his and described exactly how he was feeling, as if you had felt it before. And you were calling him all these sweet things like honey and love and sweetheart and he didn’t know if he could survive it, but this was in a good way, a sort of death he didn’t deserve but was desperate for.

And then you asked his name. Before he knew it, he was saying it, and you were calling it sweet and then he was near choking out a sob, suddenly wishing he knew yours. He already knew he loved it.

It felt like you knew him then, and he knew you. He wondered if you felt it, too.

There was something so intimate about the little bubble you two had created, and all at once you realized just how much you had been craving the presence of this near stranger, the chance to know him. The tension was palpable and there was no true rhyme or reason to it, but it had you on the verge of tears. 

Of course, you knew far more about him now. You knew he was Steve’s best friend way before he was the Winter Soldier and way before he was this–essentially an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. You knew things about him that Steve told you, that you weren’t sure if he’d ever tell you himself. You knew he wanted to be a scientist in the 40s, but he saw Sergeant as the best way to help his country at the time. You knew how much he always cared for the little guy, a quality so deeply ingrained in yourself that you immediately adored in him. You knew of his struggles with coming to terms with his past as a HYDRA pawn, and in fact, you had helped engineer the very suit he wore on most assignments. Your fates were considerably more intertwined than you had ever realized. 

Once he had fully come through the panic attack, heart in your throat, you finally admitted. “I’m a friend of Steve’s. Erm, at least, I was,” you corrected. The worst timing. You had no business dumping that on him after what just happened, but something told you you needed to blurt it out. That it would help. 

At that, you heard a deep chuckle. You looked up to see Bucky full out-laughing and the sight had you biting your lip to keep away your own smile. He was so free when he was laughing, all of his teeth were out and his eyes crinkled in a way that drew at your heart-strings. So young. He laughed with his whole chest.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” you said, smiling.

Bucky shook his head, still beaming, “It’s nothing. Well, actually, it means a lot. It’s just funny. It makes perfect sense. Of course, of course, Rogers, you little bastard.”

“What makes sense?” you pushed as he stood up, pulling you up with him. 

He caged you in against the wall, chewing his lip, “It just makes sense that Steve would know exactly what I like.” He was deep red at the admission, but you were still processing, your mind slightly fuzzy from your view, his arms on either side of your head and his face inches from yours. He was going to kiss you. You could almost taste his breath when his eyes widened and he flinched away, realizing. 

Bucky apologized, stepping back, “I’m-I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. I’m not a creep, I promise, I’ve just seen you around on the train and I’ve seen the way you talk to the kid and to Delmar and I have to admit I’ve grown a little sweet on ya, but I-I understand if–”

He didn’t get the chance to get through anymore because you had pulled him by his jacket, crashing your lips against his, hands immediately reaching for his hair. 

He gasped in surprise, an mmph! making its way past his lips and into yours, but he quickly recovered, hands dropping to your waist and his lips bruising yours. The kisses were hungry, rushed, Bucky taking your lower lip between his only to bite down on the plump skin softly. 

You whimpered, letting your tongues envelop each other, reaching, longing, craving something more. 

Bucky pulled away, pupils blown, lips swollen red, his face utterly wrecked. You found that you wished he could always look like that, as long as it was because of you. “Wait, wait, wait. I don’t-” He smiled all crooked,, “I don’t even know your name, doll.”

You laughed, trailing your nose against his, “You can call me whatever you want if you keep kissing me like that.”

Bucky chuckled, pressing a kiss to your neck, whispering against the skin there, “Oh, I plan on it.”

You didn’t know where all of this boldness came from, but you loved it on him. “It’s y/n.”

Bucky hummed, “y/n.” It rolled off of his lips as he tasted it, testing how it felt. He lifted your legs around his waist and pushed you further into the wall. “It’s perfect.”

Your hands roamed across his torso, over the layers of kevlar as he captured your lips with his again. Your breaths were visible as you panted between kisses, both of you flushed a deep red from the cold air. 

He pushed against you at just the right spot, causing the perfect sort of friction and you gasped, before moaning, “_Oh! _Bucky…”

“Shit, say my name like that again, sweetheart, and I’ll take you right here.”

You felt so far from reality then. Your boss would be a little upset but what did it matter? You were on time every day of your life. You had clung to routine for so long out of a need for an anchor from all of the chaos of this world that you had forgotten what it was like to do something spontaneous, to live, to love. While you were nowhere near loving this man, you felt it somehow only a matter of time that you ended up here, with him. He was Steve’s childhood friend. He worked at S.H.I.E.L.D. He took the bloody B train. You were bound to meet him. Something told you that you were meant to act on only your heart now, your heart which Bucky had touched so deeply without you even realizing it. He saw you. He saw your kindness. While you never did any good deed for attention, being seen for it was utterly validating. In this world, constantly making the right decision took a toll, and this was a reminder that it was worth it in the end. The right people would see it. Your choices, however small, did matter. Your empathy was your most prized possession and you would be damned if you’d let go of someone who saw that so clearly from just the morning fucking train.

Cloudy and dazed, you wrapped your legs around Bucky tighter. “Fuck it, what’s stopping you?”

Bucky’s laughed nervously, “Wait, you’re serious?”

You raised a brow, “What? Can’t handle it, Sarg?”

You could tell he liked that as he bit his lip, eyes hooded. “Oh, I think I can handle you, doll.”

You leaned into his ear, whispering, “Prove it.”

He huffed, hand around your neck as he slotted his mouth over yours, once again kissing you dizzy.

Hands tight on your hips and nearly bruising you, he moved his lips to your neck first, and then your collarbone, tongue and teeth working together to work you up so much you weren’t sure he even needed to touch you for you to climax right there. 

You had a moment then. Again, rethinking everything. That was kind of your secret special power, after all. You all of a sudden saw a future. There was something so intimate about every interaction with this man, and while you never judged anyone for jumping into sex with someone, you weren’t sure it was the best way for you to start something that could be important to you, not with you being a flight-risk and constantly anxious. 

You slowed your breath and put your hand on his jaw, thumbing his cheekbone, something you only felt unafraid to do while his eyes were still on your neck. When his eyes met yours, you withdrew, holding your wrist in your other hand, close to your chest. He recognized the lack of surety in your gaze, softly dropping your legs to the ground as you steadied yourself with your hands on the wall behind you. He gave you a second, both of you catching your breaths before he quietly asked, “Everything okay?” 

It still felt as steamy as before, your eyes kept meeting and leaving, your pants visible in the cool air, lips swollen, plump, and a luscious pink, only centimeters away from each other, but there was also a comfortable air of quiet. There were no expectations, only patience. 

You picked at the fabric of your collar, looking at his face, eyebrows furrowed in worry. “I just,” you chuckled, “I just realized I kinda want to take you out first, Sarg.” You smiled a little, “Just you know, to make sure you can handle it and all that.” 

Bucky laughed, eyes crinkling as he lifted your chin with his thumb, “You’re gonna make me prove it, doll?”

“If you don’t mind,” you whispered, jutting your chin out even more.