#sunshine!reader

“How are you not freezing?” Victoria hisses, jamming her shoulder into yours.

You jump at the sound of her voice, glancing down at your arms, which are currently hosting a very enthusiastic colony of goosebumps. You cross them over your chest and rub slow circles into your own forearms, as if friction alone might coax warmth from marrow. 

It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. You’re fairly certain even your cells might have frostbite. And okay, yes, maybe wearing short sleeves in January was a bit... idealistic. But you had faith. In body heat. In central heating. In the power of sunlight. In the flawed yet beautiful science of layering. 

All of those have failed you today.

“I am freezing,” you say, which is a generous interpretation of the breathy little gasp that leaves your mouth. Your teeth haven’t started chattering yet, but it’s a close call. Pride’s the only thing keeping them in line, white-knuckling it through sheer force of delusion. “I just… wasn’t expecting the heat to be broken.”

Victoria makes a face. “That was your first mistake.”

“What was?”

“Trusting this hospital,” she says. “It’s constantly praying on our downfall. This place senses hope and snuffs it out.” 

You let out a graceless snort, breath nearly clouding in front of you. “That’s… a lot of existential dread for a Tuesday morning. Do you wanna talk about it or should I just let you have that one?”

“Please,” she says. “It’s too early for self-reflection.” Then she jerks her chin toward the side hallway. “Why don’t you go work whatever weird spell you have on Robby. He’ll listen to you. He never listens to me.”

The tips of your ears begin to burn.

“Okay, first of all, that’s not a thing. Second of all, if he listens, it’s probably because I’m annoying and he wants me to go away.”

“Right. Sure.” She shrugs. “Tell yourself that if it helps.”

“I just feel like we’re assigning intention to something that is very much not intentional,” you say quickly. “Which is… not fair to me, frankly —,” Your pager chirps. You nearly skip out of your skin, relief flooding you as you glance down. “Oh — that’s fourteen. Flight risk. I should, uh, go before she makes it to the elevators.”

You pivot like you’re on a mission (because you are — an extremely cold, slightly frantic get-away-from-Javadi mission), heading toward Room 14 with your mental script already queuing: soft tone, kind eyes, lots of de-escalation language, maybe a distraction about her grandkids if she brings them up again.

It helps. Work always helps. It gives your thoughts somewhere to stand that isn’t the suffocating echo of Victoria’s voice and the very inconvenient realization that you sounded… defensive. Which is annoying. And suspicious, you know.

But as you reach the door, you notice it’s cracked open. And through that narrow slice of space, you catch the edge of a white coat, a familiar posture. Dr. Robby. 

You pause in the doorway, hands twitchy at your sides, watching him do what he always does. Speak plainly, calmly, like every syllable is weighed for maximum impact. You’d heard once that effective communication is about tone and rhythm, and he’s got both down to a science.

You know you’ve been hovering around him a lot lately. You're not proud of it, but you also don't have the emotional bandwidth to deny it. He speaks and things seem to fall into order.

You’ve been trying to wean yourself off the instinct to orbit him, to ask him things you already half-know the answer to, just to hear his version.

Santos even teased you once, just like Javadi, said he was your emotional support attending.

You laughed like it was funny. You also maybe had a small internal crisis and contemplated transferring to plastics.

But it’s fine. You’re working on it. You’ll just… circle back later.

He glances back once more at the patient, murmurs something low, then steps out into the hall. When his eyes find you, he gives you a subtle nod, then reaches out to touch your shoulder. He pulls the door shut behind you both. 

“She’s planning her next jailbreak,” he says. “I told her we lost the key to the ambulance. Bought us ten minutes. Maybe.”

You manage a tired, lopsided grin.

 “Well,” you say, eyes flicking toward the door, “if she actually makes it to the ambulance bay, I say we let her go. Anyone who clears that much ground in a hospital gown has earned her freedom. That’s just Darwinism.”

You glance at him, then immediately look away. “That was a joke,” you add, just in case. “I’m definitely not advocating… you know. Ditching patients.”

A tremor starts low in your back and rolls upward. It travels from your spine to your shoulders to your fingertips, and by the time it’s done, you’re visibly vibrating.

Robby’s gaze dips for a heartbeat. His jaw tightens. Whatever passes behind his eyes is gone as quickly as it appeared, shuttered and carefully controlled.

He clears his throat. Looks sideways. “You cold?”

“Just a little,” you lie, cheeks prickling from more than the wind now, almost as if trying to compensate for the lack of warmth. “Which makes sense, actually, because prolonged exposure to low ambient temperatures can cause muscle tremors even when core temperature is technically normal, so this is probably just my nervous system being enthusiastic. Overachieving. Really giving it its all.”

Robby frowns. You know he’s unconvinced.

“I’ll call the HVAC company again. And Gloria.”

It’s your turn to frown. “But — don’t you like hate Gloria? Or —,” you wince. “I don’t love the word hate. Strongly dislike? Actively avoid?”

He ignores you, reaching out then, thumb brushing your wrist as if he’s checking for a pulse. His hands warm you from the inside out instantly.

“You feel like an ice pack,” he mutters more to himself than you.

“Okay, see, when you say it like that it sounds much worse than it feels. Which is not me arguing. Just… contextualizing.”

He doesn’t respond right away, which is fine, totally fine, except your brain immediately interprets the silence as rejection, or judgment, or that maybe you’ve finally reached your lifetime word limit and this is the moment he’s decided to put you in time-out.

But then, his jacket is suddenly off and moved to drape over your own shoulders, heavy and warm and still holding the ghost of his body heat like an intimate ecosystem you weren’t prepared to be invited into. 

You blink up at him, mouth open slightly because you don’t know what you’re supposed to do with this kind of care that isn’t professional or clinical or required. 

“Talk me through it,” he says plainly, either oblivious or ignoring your state. You don’t know which is worse. “How do you rewarm someone who’s freezing but stable?”

“Peripheral circulation first,” you say, a little too quickly. “Movement, friction, muscle activity. No sudden heat, no hot showers, because vasodilation too fast is bad.”

“See? Atta girl,” he says. “You know what to do. Do it. I’ll be back.”

You’re still standing there like an idiot by the time he walks away.

Your blood is no longer blood but some sort of unstable soda stream. You feel like a Mentos got dropped into your cardiovascular system and now you’re vibrating with the combined power of gratitude, panic, and deeply repressed feelings about tall men with control issues and kind hands.

You don’t even hear Langdon until he’s right next to you.

“Well, well,” he says, eyeing the jacket like it’s a name tag that says property of Robby. “Didn’t realize we were playing teacher’s pet this early in the semester.”

“Wait — no, it’s not like —”

He’s already gone, leaving you shouting denials into a hallway that does not care.

You whirl to flee, heart hammering, only to make the gravest mistake of all, eye contact with Santos, who is leaning against the wall with a glint in her eye that screams I’m about to be so annoying.

She cocks her head. Opens her mouth.

You don’t give her the chance.

You duck into the nearest bathroom, slamming the lock shut, and only then do you catch your reflection.

Your nipples are clearly, undeniably, aggressively visible through your scrubs.

You stare for a second too long.

Oh.

And now your brain is playing the last ten minutes back in slow motion, pausing on Robby’s eyes dropping for a fraction of a second, on the little clearing of his throat, on the very deliberate way he handed you his jacket without a single comment because he’s probably a professional and a gentleman and also now irrevocably aware of the current status of your chest.

God, you hope the HVAC people get here soon. Because if the cold doesn’t kill you, the mortification definitely will.

And they do, eventually.

The heat kicked back on with a rattling groan, vents coughing out lukewarm air.

Victoria thanked you later, not Robby. In her mind, the cause-and-effect was obvious.

You'd been in Gotham for exactly three weeks when you realized that Bruce Wayne was avoiding you.

It wasn't obvious at first. Bruce was naturally elusive considering he is a shadow in expensive suits, and a brooding presence that flickered in and out of rooms like he was more ghost than man. But you were Jonathan and Martha Kent's daughter, raised in a place where people said what they meant and meant what they said. You knew avoidance when you saw it.

"He's just busy," Clark had said over the phone last Tuesday, his voice crackling with that particular tone he used when he was trying to be diplomatic. "You know how he is."

You did know. You'd known Bruce Wayne for two years now, ever since Clark had finally introduced you to his "work friends." The Justice League, he'd called them, as if they were just colleagues he grabbed coffee with instead of the people he saved the literal world alongside.

Bruce had been... polite. Distant. He'd shaken your hand with a grip that was firm but brief, his blue eyes assessing you in that way of his — like he was taking note of every detail, every potential threat or weakness. You'd smiled your brightest Kansas smile and pretended not to notice.

But something had shifted three weeks ago at Clark and Lois's anniversary party. You'd found Bruce on the balcony of their Metropolis apartment, nursing a glass of whiskey and staring out at the city lights like they held answers to questions he hadn't asked yet.

"Not a fan of parties?" you'd asked, stepping out into the cool evening air.

He'd glanced at you, one eyebrow raised. "Not a fan of small talk." He corrected.

"Good thing I'm terrible at it," you'd replied, leaning against the railing beside him. "Ma says I inherited Dad's habit of just saying whatever comes to mind. No filter between brain and mouth."

The corner of his mouth had twitched. "That must make you a liability at diplomatic functions."

"I wouldn't know. We don't have many of those in Smallville. Mostly just potlucks and the occasional barn raising."

"Barn raising." He'd said it like he was testing out a foreign language. "People still do that?"

"People still care about their neighbors in some places." You'd softened the words with a smile. "I know, shocking concept for Gotham."

That had earned you an actual smile, it was small and fleeting, but real. "Gotham has its own way of caring. It's just... less wholesome."

You'd talked for an hour that night. About everything and nothing. He'd told you about a case that was frustrating him, speaking in vague terms that you'd learned meant Batman business. You'd told him about your job at the Metropolis children's hospital, about the little girl who'd asked if you knew Superman personally.

"I told her he was my brother," you'd said. "She didn't believe me. Said Superman was too cool to have a normal sister."

Bruce had looked at you then, really looked at you, and something in his expression had made your heart skip. "You're not normal."

"Gee, thanks."

"I meant—" He'd paused, seeming almost flustered, which was so unlike him that you'd felt a flutter of something dangerous in your chest. "You're not ordinary. In your own right. Not because of Clark."

The moment had stretched between you like taffy, sweet and precarious. Then Lois had called you back inside for cake, and the spell had broken.

But Bruce had been avoiding you ever since.

You cornered Clark at the Watchtower on a Saturday afternoon, materializing in front of him with the determination that had once helped you win the Smallville High debate championship three years running.

"What did you say to Bruce?" You accused, your footsteps fast and full of intent. You came to a full stop in front of him with your arms crossed and your eyes livid (somewhat playfully).

Your brother had the grace to look guilty, which told you everything you needed to know. "I may have... mentioned that I noticed him noticing you."

"Clark!"

"In my defense, I was trying to be supportive!" He held up his hands. "I told him you were single, that you'd been asking about him-..."

"I asked if he was okay! Once! Because he looked tired!"

"...-and that if he was interested, he should actually do something about it instead of brooding from afar like some kind of Victorian ghost."

You'd dropped your face into your hands. "Oh my God. You gave Batman relationship advice. You, the man who took four years to ask Lois out. Oh, Clark!"

"It was three years, and that's not the point." Clark had put a hand on your shoulder, his expression softening into that big brother look that always made you feel like you were seven years old again. "He likes you. He's just... Bruce. He thinks he doesn't deserve good things."

"That's ridiculous, who the hell thinks that? Especially about themselves! I've never met a man that thinks things that complex..." You groaned, your head lolling back against your shoulders, peering at him through narrowed eyes.

"That's trauma." Clark had squeezed your shoulder gently. "Just... don't give up on him yet. Okay?"

You'd taken Clark's advice to heart, which was why you were currently standing outside Wayne Manor at 7 o'clock on a Sunday evening, holding a warm apple pie and wondering if this was the bravest or stupidest thing you'd ever done.

Alfred answered the door, his expression brightening in that subtle way of his. "Miss Kent. What a pleasant surprise."

"Hello. I brought pie." You lifted the dish slightly. "Is Bruce home? And before you give me the polite brush off, Clark told me he's here, and I'm stubborn, so I'm not leaving until I talk to him."

Alfred's smile widened. "He's in the study. Third door on the left. I'll bring tea." How was Alfred a better wingman than your own damn brother.

The study was exactly what you'd expected. It was all dark wood and leather, floor to ceiling bookshelves, and a massive desk covered in papers. Bruce sat behind it, reading glasses perched on his nose, looking unfairly attractive in a simple black sweater.

He glanced up when you entered, and something flickered across his face. Surprise, pleasure, panic which was all there and gone in an instant.

"You're avoiding me," you accused quickly, and Bruce was quickly learning that the Kent family motto was apparently "Why Be Subtle?"

Slowly, he removed his glasses as if that would work to stall the conversation he was dreading. "I'm working."

"You're always working. It's your favorite excuse." You set the pie down on his desk, right on top of what looked like some mildly documents. "We're going to talk about what happened at Clark's party."

"Nothing happened at Clark's party."

"Exactly. Nothing happened, and then you disappeared like I have the damn plague." You crossed your arms. "If I misread things, fine. Tell me, and I'll leave you alone. But if you're avoiding me because you're scared, that's a bit ridiculous."

"I'm not scared." He stood abruptly, and you were reminded of how tall he was, how he could be intimidating when he wanted to be. But you'd grown up with a brother who could benchpress a tractor, so you weren't easily intimidated.

"Then what? What is it?" you challenged.

He moved around the desk, closer to you, and you could see the conflict in his eyes. "You're Clark's sister. You're... good. Genuinely good. You bake pies and work at children's hospitals and probably help old ladies cross the street."

"I do, actually. Mrs. Rogers on Fifth Street needs help every Tuesday when she goes to her physical therapy."

His lips twitched despite himself. "You don't belong in my world."

"Your world," you repeated. "You mean Gotham? Because I've been living in Metropolis for five years now, Bruce. I'm not some sheltered farm girl who can't handle the big city."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

He was close now, close enough that you could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, the faint scar on his chin. "I meant that I'm not... I don't do relationships. I don't do normal. Everything I touch-..."

"Oh, please." You poked him in the chest, which was sufficiently solid. "You're not cursed, Bruce Wayne. You're just scared," you raised an eyebrow, before realizing how abrasive those words may have sounded, "Which is fine. I'm scared too," You added quickly. "But I like you, and unless I'm completely delusional, you feel the same, so maybe we could try being scared together?"

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, "Your brother will kill me."

"Clark? Please. He's a marshmallow. The worst he'll do is give you a disappointed look."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

You laughed, and something in Bruce's expression softened. He reached out slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away, and let his fingers brush against your cheek bone and down your cheek. His fingers lingered against your skin, leaving tingles in its wake.

"You make it sound simple," he murmured.

"Maybe it is. Maybe we make it complicated because we think we're supposed to." You leaned into his touch. "Ma always says the best things in life are the simple ones. Good food, honest work, people who make you feel like home.. things like that."

"Home," he repeated, like it was a foreign concept.

"Yeah. Home." You smiled up at him. "You're the one person in this messed up city that's made me stay, if it weren't for you.. and my job.. I would've gone back home a year ago."

He kissed you then, soft but strong, like he was afraid you might disappear. You kissed him back, rising on your toes, your hands finding the soft fabric of his sweater. He tasted like coffee and something darker, and when he pulled you closer, you felt like you were falling and flying all at once.

When you finally broke apart, both breathless, Bruce rested his forehead against yours.

"I'm not good at this," he warned.

"Lucky for you, I'm good enough for both of us." You grinned. "Fair warning though, dating me means Sunday dinners in Smallville. Ma's already planning the menu."

He groaned, but you could see the smile he was trying to hide. "Does Clark know about this?"

"Not yet. I figured I'd tell him after-..." You paused as your phone buzzed. Then again, and again, and again. You pulled it out to find a slew of texts from your brother: FINALLY. ABOUT TIME. HAPPY FOR YOU BOTH.

Bruce looked over your shoulder and sighed. "Super-hearing."

"Super-nosy actually." You corrected, texting back a string of eye roll emojis, then pocketed your phone. "So. Want to try some pie? It's Ma's recipe. Apple cinnamon, your favorite."

His eyebrows rose. "How did you know—"

"I asked Alfred. Last month." You smiled sheepishly. "I've been planning this intervention for a while."

Bruce shook his head, but he was smiling now, really smiling, and it transformed his entire face. "You're trouble."

"Yeah, but I'm your trouble now." You took his hand, lacing your fingers through his. "Come on, brooding billionaire. Let's eat pie and you can tell me all about why you think you don't deserve nice things. I'll explain why you're wrong."

"That sounds like a long conversation."

"Good thing I'm patient." You tugged him toward the door. "It's a Kent family trait. We're very persistent. Clark once spent six months convincing a cat to like him. So let's get to it, Batman."

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

"Don't forget your logbook, Rookie," he grumbles as he shoves a protein bar and a few clementines in his pack. You watch him zip the bag with ease and set it on a nearby counter.

"Sure thing, Vet," you grumble back. Your nicknames are not at all contentious or uttered with malice. Not at all. Ha. "What's on the agenda today? Ooooh, are we going to yell at tourists for not following park rules? Maybe we’ll get to pick up X-rated litter at the campsites? Or–oh!–you'll even show me the firewatch station? The weather is going to be perfect today, you know."

"We'll see, kid," he mumbles, lacing up his hiking boots with a grunt.

You roll your eyes, tired of his incessant attitude and the unnecessary nickname. Kid. Blech. You're twenty-three, not a child. And if you had to guess, he's at least ten years older than you, maybe more, but still not old enough to call you a kid. You say your name in response, willing him to call you by it instead of the irritating moniker. He nods, but doesn’t apologize.

James "Bucky" Barnes has been a park ranger for nearly sixteen years, and he has the scars and stories to prove it. Newbies tend to romanticize the gig, and his personal mission is to beat the optimism out quickly and quietly—preferably over a Thermos of hot coffee on a cliff side. But you, optimistic little you, were having none of it. Like a wild stallion he just can’t break, you show up everyday with that damned smile plastered across your face, always always armed with some baked goods you've whipped up the night before and a random nature anecdote in the chamber. Today’s is about how direct sunlight on the skin can decrease cortisol levels in the body.

"I made banana bread," you say, pulling the wrapped loaf out of your backpack. “I forgot my lunch, so I’m stealing a piece for our break.”

Bucky smirks knowingly. Like clockwork. "Great. Bears are gonna love you today," he replies.

You scoff. "Don't pretend you don't eat up every last crumb at the end of your shift. I watched you lick the plate clean when I brought that blueberry cheesecake last week." It was amazing. You’d used blueberries from your home garden. They were perfectly round and juicy.

"I was hungry. We hiked all over the damn park that day!" He retorts with a huff.

Such a huffy, grumbly human. "You're probably just getting old," you reply with a shrug and a smirk. "Tiring out faster than you did in your prime. When do you qualify for Medicare again? You must be getting close.”

“Ha-ha,” Bucky faux laughs and grimaces, silently wincing at the idea of you thinking he's past his prime. He turns away from you toward the mirror above the utilitarian sink. The ranger's cabin near the entrance of the park serves as a break room/locker storage/First Aid area with an emergency eye wash station. His reflection shows a few shining grays highlighting his temples and chin. You're not wrong about him being older, but he doesn’t agree with being past his prime. In fact, he feels like he’s just cresting that hill. And he’s definitely not eligible for fucking Medicare anytime soon.

Teasing your pissy mentor has quickly become a highlight of your day, and you giggle under your breath as he inspects himself in the mirror with an appraising look. You change from your slip-on Birks to one of your favorite pairs of hiking socks: sky blue with jump-roping avocados. Bucky turns back toward you and subtly rolls his eyes at your ridiculous socks before throwing on his backpack.

“Do you ever have any fun? Or do you get your kicks from sucking it out of whatever room you happen to be in?" You ask as you pull on your boots with an oomph.

“Hmm,” he watches you and pretends to mull it over, scratching his fingers through the stubble on his chin. "The second one. Fun-sucking."

You send a tight-lipped frown his way as you lace up your boots and rearrange a few things in your pack. You always feel like a kid on the first day of school when you put it on–two thumbs through the loops as you smile enthusiastically at the beautiful day outside. You’re ready for whatever magic the park decides to show you today. 

Bucky glances at the banana bread on the communal counter and back at your pack. "You're not going to bring more than a piece with you? Won’t you get hungry?"

"Did you not point out earlier that I'd be eaten alive by the rabid bears that inhabit the park if I take that out of the wrapping?"

He shakes his head. "Dramatic much?"

You click your tongue and smile. "Only because I know it gets under your skin, old man."

He makes a mental note to pack some extra food with his lunch tomorrow in case you forget again. Rolling his shoulders with a big sigh, he declares, "You're gonna kill me before I retire."

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - May 29

The Rookie is going to kill me. This job is going to break her heart. She's too optimistic, too impressionable. I need to have a serious talk about burnout and managing expectations.

Items of note: Picked up litter left by an unsanctioned campsite. At least they used protection. Insane banana bread. Buy better sun protection-do I look old?

An official summer kick-off party with the other rangers is not Bucky’s definition of fun, but you, little ball of incessant sunshine, assured him that it would be a great time, stating that it’s important for elderly people to get out of their homes and interact with others. It keeps the mind sharp and the hips groovin’. He’d rolled his eyes at that, but you peeped his mouth turned up slightly at the corner–a crack in his invisible shield.

“You never come to these things,” Alex, a fellow ranger, pokes at Bucky as you two sit on a wooden picnic bench under some string lights. The bar hosting the event is rustic with a touch of mountain-town charm that’s hard to pin down.

“Yeah, well, this one convinced me with her feminine trickery,” he huffs, scratching at the sweaty label on his bottle of Coors.

You laugh and roll your eyes. “The feminine trickery was the homemade tiramisu I brought on Thursday,” you inform Alex swiftly. “He has a sweet tooth. I simply played to his weakness. And now, Bucky, you get to relax and recharge to the sounds of cicadas and John Denver. Don’t forget to thank me!”

“Not happenin’,” he grunts as he takes a drink of beer. 

Alex laughs and offers his drink up in cheers. You clink yours against it. “No, seriously,” he starts, “I haven’t seen Barnes at one of these work parties in… damn, have I ever seen you at one? So, whatever you’re doing, keep it up, new girl!” He waves you both off with a salute as he heads inside to the bar.

“See, I told you that people want you here,” you say, shifting your attention back to Bucky. “They look up to you, Vet.”

“It’s not that I think people don’t want me here,” he starts. “I guess I’m just more of a solo guy.”

“That’s called a loner, Bucky,” you say with a friendly wink. “Alone time is important. I don’t want you to think I’m knocking solitude, but being around people can be nice too.”

He nods like he agrees and notices your nearly empty glass. “What are you drinking?” 

You look from him to your empty glass and back again. “A Sea Breeze.”

“Sea breeze?” He repeats for confirmation with a furrowed brow. “Now what the hell is that?”

You laugh at his antics and list the juicy ingredients in the cocktail. He stands up and motions for you to hand him your empty glass. “Here. I got your next fruity little drink, Rookie.”

“Okay,” you smile, giving him the glass. “But only if you get one too. Don’t be a fruity little drink hater, Bucky.”

He swishes around the remnants of the drink and brings it to his nose. “It smells like sugar.”

“Tastes even better,” you quip. 

He narrows his eyes at you and notices where your tinted Chapstick has transferred to the glass. He lifts the same spot to his lips and takes a sip of the watered down drink. Your stomach heats at the intimate gesture. Or maybe it’s the alcohol. 

“It’s sweet,” he says. “I’ll get one for myself if you take a shot of tequila with me.”

Your eyes widen in shock. “Bucky Barnes, resident loner and fun sucker, wants to do shots? Has Hell frozen over?”

“I don’t want to do shots,” he corrects with a raised brow. “I want to do one shot with the Rookie. You in?”

“I’m in.”

Bucky isn’t sure when one shot turned into three, but now the fireflies are starting to look a bit angelic, like little glowing halos floating around the purple night sky. “Hell did freeze over,” he chuckles. “There’s tiny angels everywhere.”

You smirk and laugh. “Bucky, are you drunk?”

“Mmm…” he thinks it over, looking at you with a slightly glazed expression. “Just a little buzzed. Don’t you have socks with fireflies on them?” He asks, looking under the picnic table. You snap your legs together.

“I’m wearing a dress, Bucky! Eyes up here.”

His face turns an even deeper shade of red. “I’m sorry. I was looking for your cute socks.”

“I’m wearing sandals, Ranger. No cute socks tonight.” You say the last part with a pointed look. Bucky never says things like that. He’s always extremely professional, albeit grumpy as fuck. Get a few drinks in the guy and all of a sudden he turns to pudding.

“I wasn’t trying to look up your dress,” he reiterates, clearly embarrassed. 

“I know!” You assure him. “We’re colleagues.”

“Right,” he mutters, looking out at the slowly emptying parking lot.

Before you can dig more into whatever that exchange was, some more coworkers, Natalie and Anton, skip over with handfuls of tiny glasses… full of some type of clear liquid.

“A round on us!” Natalie practically shouts. She’s tipsy and adorable. Anton holds out a glass for you and Bucky. 

“To say thank you for helping us with the Junior Ranger camping fiasco last week,” Anton adds, looking fairly sober. Ah, the Junior Ranger camping fiasco. Who knew that flushing a tampon was going to wreak havoc on the entire education cabin? What began as an instructional lecture about what to do if you encounter a bear turned into how to properly dispose of feminine products. Preteens.

You hold a hand up to the offered shot. “That’s so sweet, but I’m feeling good after a couple glasses of water. I can’t.”

“More for me!” Natalie says, downing your shot. 

Bucky takes his, clinking it against Anton’s, and downs it. He hisses at the heat of the alcohol and mutters a thank you. 

“See you guys at CPR training next month!” Anton shouts over his shoulder as they stagger back into the bar.

“CRP training… I forgot about that…” Bucky mutters, sitting down heavily on his side of the picnic table. He’s clearly drunk. You glance over at his truck and frown. You’re going to have to get him an Uber. 

“Bucky? Are you okay with an Uber? I can reserve one for you. You can’t drive,” you say, reaching across the table to get his attention. He sways a bit and smiles.

“You can’t drive,” he chuckles. 

“I’m fine to drive. I switched to water after we took a shot together,” you tell him as you pull up the rideshare app on your phone. “Eighty nine dollars? For economy? Christ…” You look up at him, but his eyes are already on you. He’s smiling and a small giggle-like sound erupts from his chest.

“Keys are in my pocket, Rookie,” he slurs. “Come get them.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Bucky. We can take my car. Just don’t throw up in it or you’re paying to get it detailed! We can pick up your truck in the morning.”

“Mmkay,” he agrees easily. “Whatever ya say, cutie patoots.”

“Good lord. Can you walk?” You ask with a grimace. You’re not sure you can support his weight back to your vehicle. He’s much broader and taller than you.

“I can walk,” he utters. “C’mon.”

You offer him a friendly arm, and he loops through yours. “Are you okay?”

“Mhmm.”

He manages to walk fairly steadily back to your Subaru. You help him fold his large body into the passenger seat and buckle him in. Alex walks up as you shut the car door. You offer him a weak smile. “Gotta get this one back to his place. Any idea where he lives?”

“Not a clue. He’s so private,” Alex says. “You sure you’re okay to drive and get him home?”

You tsk. “Yeah, we’ll be fine. Drive safe.”

“You too.”

You get into the car and buckle up before turning to ask Bucky for his address, but he’s out cold.

“Damn it, Barnes!” You yell, but he doesn’t even stir. To your place it is.

The drive is quick and quiet since your driving companion is currently passed out with his mouth slightly ajar. You pull into your parking spot and thank God that you live on the first floor because you have no idea how you’d get this larger than life man up a flight of stairs. 

“Bucky?” You ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt. No answer. You shake his arm. “Bucky?” You yell. “Ranger Barnes!” Louder this time.

“Huh?” He rouses, eyes slowly opening and taking in his surroundings. He looks around the unfamiliar car interior and then slowly turns to you. “Oh, hi sunshine.”

“Feeling more like an annoyed rain cloud right now,” you offer. “You’re going to sleep on my couch, okay?” 

“Couch. Yeah.”

“Let’s go, old man.”

The state of your apartment is a work in progress to put it mildly. Half open boxes are strewn about. You moved here at the start of the summer, right after graduation, but you’d started at the park at the same time. Days have been long, so it’s been hard to keep momentum and your energy levels up to get fully unpacked. 

“You’re messy,” Bucky says, looking around the place on unsteady legs. 

“You are the bigger mess right now,” you snarl. “There’s the couch.”

He plops onto it quickly while you grab him a clean blanket and pillow. He has one arm thrown over the back of the couch when you get back, just staring at your ceiling. You hand him the bed linens and stand back, crossing your arms. 

“I’ll take you back to your truck in the morning,” you say.

“Mmkay,” he agrees with a sleepy voice as he pulls the blanket up to his chin.

“Night, Bucky.”

“Night angel lightning bug.”

You sigh and head to your bedroom. What a night.

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - June 8

She hasn't exiled me for her having to drive my drunk ass home after the work party. I'm such a dumbass. And I can't get the vanilla smell of the blanket she threw at me out of my nose. So warm. So her. God damn it.

Items of note: Soil samples today. Google what's in a Sea Breeze besides shame and regret.

The forecast is predicting a high in the mid-nineties today, so you packed your swimsuit in the hopes of taking a dip in the crystal clear lake you spotted a couple weeks ago. It’s secluded, clean, and deep enough to actually enjoy a swim in the cool water.

Bucky is in a better mood than usual today, and has honestly been more friendly overall since the night you let him couch surf. He was awkward as hell the next morning–all apologies and fancy takeout coffee. You assured him it was fine, and definitely didn’t bring up all the pet names he called you when he was out of his right mind. Maybe you remind him of an old flame, but you know it didn’t mean anything. It’s best to just keep trucking until you’re done with this summer training and finally, blissfully on your own. But today, you blame his good mood on your famous fruit salad. You brought it one day last week and it was devoured by lunchtime. You made a huge bowl for everyone again, but this time you made a separate, smaller one for Bucky without the kiwi. You noticed him picking the tiny green chunks out last time.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says as he forks another mouthful of the fruit into his mouth. Some juice dribbles down his lip and he licks it up. “I can just eat around them.”

You shrug. “It’s no trouble. Plus, maybe I only made you your own bowl to sweet talk you into finally showing me the firewatch tower. It’s called an ulterior motive, or you know… feminine trickery.”

He laughs genuinely before rolling his eyes and spearing a strawberry. “I know what an ulterior motive is. And I stand by the trickery sentiment.”

“So… firewatch tower?” You ask with pleading eyes. You can’t place why, but you’ve been drawn to the tower since your first shift. It has an otherworldly, slightly spooky aura to it, like anything could happen up there. Maybe you are just excited by heights.

“Maybe,” he replies. “If you behave.”

“Maybe?! I made a special bowl of fruit salad sans kiwi for you, Mr. Picky. Show me the tower!”

He laughs and washes his bowl in the sink before filling up two stainless steel bottles with ice water and putting them in his pack. 

“Are you super thirsty today or something?” You ask, nodding toward his backpack. “Ooh, did you meet a milf at the bar and drink one too many Sea Breezes?”

“A milf? Jesus, no,” he says with a frown. “It’s going to be really hot today so we need to stay hydrated. I can carry more weight in my pack than you.”

Oh. He packed you an extra water bottle. How… thoughtful. He’s usually all survival of the fittest. “Well, thanks, but I can handle an extra bottle. You don’t have to–”

He tightens the straps of his pack and stands up straight, looking you in the eye while he cuts you off. “I had a former rookie pass out from heat stroke on a trail a few summers back. I don’t want that to happen again, especially…” he trails off before clearing his throat. “Anyway, let’s get going. We’re in C sect today and the Gator is in the shop for repairs, so we have a long trek on foot.”

“Okay, let me lace up my boots,” you say, quickly plopping down on the wooden bench. 

Bucky notes your socks today: bananas wearing fedoras and carrying briefcases. “Where do you even find those?” He nods toward your feet–one sock on, one foot still bare. His eyes flit from the bright orange polish on your toes to your concentrated face. The tip of your tongue pokes out between your front teeth as you pull the other sock on. 

“My cute socks?” You ask, wondering if he remembers calling them that.

“Sure, I guess.”

You laugh and nod, not sure if he’s playing it off or really doesn’t remember. “My brother gets me a pair for my birthday and Christmas every year. We like to get each other silly, but useful things.”

Bucky smiles. “So what do you get him?”

You pull on your boots and start lacing up. “He’s a lawyer so he has to wear ties and fancy clothes to work. I get him vintage cuff links, bow-ties, pocket squares… that kind of thing. I like to find them at thrift shops, estate sales, you know. The crazier the pattern or style, the better. It must run in our genes to like loud accessories. I once found a pair of cuff links that were tiny bottles of Yoohoo. He loves those."

Bucky chuckles. “How thoughtful. That’s a nice tradition.”

You finish tying your boots.

“C’mon, Rook. Let’s get going.”

After a few hours and miles in, you have to admit that Bucky was right–you are beyond thankful for that extra icy cold water bottle he packed this morning. It’s toasty outside, but thankfully nearly time for lunch. You’ve already finished your first bottle of water, and your throat thanks you as you drink from the second. You sit down on a bench under a covered shelter spot with a few picnic benches, relishing the shade as you check your watch.

Bucky sees you check the time. “We can break early and eat in the shade,” he says, starting to unzip his backpack more. There’s a line of sweat staining his shirt where the pack was sitting against his spine.

“Oh, thank goodness. I’m roasting,” you say. You sigh and look around, realizing exactly where you are. “Actually, I’m going to eat lunch in a bit. I want to walk down to that lake and take my break there if that’s okay.”

“Lac nu?” He asks with a smirk as he takes the lid off his lunch.

You tilt your head, confused. “Is that the name of the lake?” You suppose you hadn’t noticed a sign the last time you were in the area.

Bucky nods slowly, crunching into a carrot.

“Okay, well, I’m going to Lack New or whatever it’s called for my break. I’ll be back in an hour,” you say as you saunter off. He gets so weirdly quiet sometimes. He’s hard to read.

“Watch out for snakes,” he says loudly before he laughs under his breath. He watches you walk away as he bites into another carrot and his tongue. “Damn it!”

Bucky finishes his lunch quickly and picks up some nearby litter before checking his watch–still forty-five minutes before lunch is over. He always ate too fast from working up an appetite logging miles in the park. He fans himself with his logbook and undoes the top button of his brown uniform shirt.

“Ah, fuck it,” he grunts as he slings his pack over one shoulder and follows your path down to the small lake. He normally doesn’t swim in the park because he doesn’t want to interact with dumb tourists, but he doubts anyone will be down there but you. Even though you’re way more chipper than a normal human, you know how to appreciate the park’s beauty without ruining the ecosystem or leaving your mark behind.

The sunlight streams through the surface of the water into the lake below, painting sparkles across the rocky bottom as you swim beneath the clear veneer. The water is lukewarm and doing a magnificent job of cooling you off. You turn and start to float on your back, closing your eyes to the sun for several moments. When you move upright to start another lap, you let out a squeal at Bucky standing on the grassy lake shore.

He holds his hands up in defense with a small smirk. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You laugh out a sigh in relief that it’s just him. “It’s fine. Just glad I’m not getting axe murdered!” You say as you tread water, letting your head bob above the water. He looks from you to your discarded uniform shoved into your unzipped pack and back again.

“How’s the water?” He asks as he drops his backpack on the grass next to yours. 

“It’s perfect, actually,” you smile, readjusting the strap of your swimsuit. “Are you coming in?”

His eyes follow your hand across your shoulder back down under the water. “Would you mind? I don’t have swim trunks, though, so maybe I’ll just put my feet in.”

“Oh, get in here. A little skinny dip never hurt anyone,” you tease with a laugh.

“Uh, okay. You’d better turn around unless you want a show.”

You spin around in the water and make a dramatic show of covering your eyes even though you’re facing the other direction. “Just social distance from me, old man.”

He huffs as he undresses quickly, tossing his clothing in a heap at his feet before wading into the lake. It is perfect. When he’s certain his manhood is hidden beneath the water he calls out to you. “Okay, I’m in. Just don’t look down.” 

“Wait, are you seriously naked? I was just joking about skinny dipping!” You shout. 

“Well, I seriously don’t have swim trunks, so…”

“Oh,” you say and swallow before spinning around and putting a bit more distance between your two bodies. You decide to trek forward with the conversation and ignore the elephant (Or was it more like a mouse? Stop, brain. Why are you thinking about it?) in the lake. “The water’s nice, huh?”

“Mhmm,” he hums in agreement. His hand comes up above his eyes to shade the sun from his vision as he looks at you. “You know it’s called Lac nu, right? Not Lack New.” He says the former with a French accent and the latter with a slightly offensive American South one.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, perplexed.

“This lake,” he starts, waving a pointer finger around the area. “It’s called Lac nu. It translates to Naked Lake.” He says the last part with a breathy laugh and flicks some water at you.

You snort and roll your eyes. “I guess I’m breaking the rules then?”

“I won’t tell,” he says with a playful wink.

“I think there’s probably a spot in the employee handbook about this,” you joke.

“Skinny dipping?” He asks.

“No, winking at me when you’re naked,” you say with a giggle.

He chuckles and dips lower into the water before dipping his head under to wet his hair. When he resurfaces, your eyes trace the beads of water racing down his neck.

“You’re in a good mood today,” you say, swimming in a circle around him, always keeping your eyes above the water. “What’s the occasion?”

Bucky lets out a sarcastic “ha-ha” and blows water droplets from his lips before dipping back under the water. You watch his eyes open under the surface and drop your jaw as he resurfaces. 

“Did you just… sneak a peek?” You ask, pretending to be scandalized. You hold your arms around your body, covering your chest. “Did you just check out your controversially younger coworker? Your mentee?” 

He splashes you with yet another eye roll. “First of all, I’m the naked one here. So if anyone should feel exposed, it’s me. Second of all, you’re not controversially younger than me. How old do you think I am, anyway?”

You rub your chin, pretending to think before mocking him. “First of all, Barnes, you’re not denying the checking out your coworker accusation. Second of all, I’m not guessing your age.” You huff, feeling like you’ve won.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says matter of factly. “I’m thirty-eight for the record.”

You size him up–the smattering of grays you’re met with day after day, the broad shoulders and beefy arms built by years in the park, the crow’s feet around his blue eyes when he flashes you a rare smile. “Yeah, I suppose thirty-eight checks out.”

“Now who’s doing the checking out?” He asks cheekily as he swims further into the lake. His back is to you now.

You notice the constellation of freckles across his tanned shoulders and the muscles there. The sun’s rays hit the water just so, shining through the lake. You follow the trail of light with your gaze under the surface, down the hard lines of his back to his…

That’s not a butt. That’s a–oh.

“Eyes up here, Rookie.”

You snap your eyes up to to his and your cheeks immediately heat in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to–I-I wasn’t trying to…” Words escape you. 

He laughs and runs a hand through his wet hair. “Come on. Let’s get dressed and get back to work. I’ll go first so you can get dressed in private. Keep an eye out for water snakes, would ya?” 

You gasp at the naughty joke and watch him get out of the water, his back to you. He climbs the small incline gracefully. You only notice your bottom lip between your teeth as he ducks behind a nearby bush to dry off and get dressed. You let go of the flesh and clear your throat, willing your body to calm down before you exit the lake. Why do you feel all tingly? Surely a brain eating amoeba has made its way into your ear canal and started its work. It’s definitely not your grumpy, graying, somewhat pessimistic coworker. Right?

“All clear,” he says with a wink as he trots up the hill fully dressed and out of sight. Your stomach flutters again. Oh no.

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - June 30

Lac nu is a hidden gem of the park, and I'm thankful for it today. It was nearly 90 degrees and served as a cool-off during our lunch break. Fuck, this logbook is turning into evidence. Must burn to ash when it's filled.

Items of note: Orange toes and swimsuit. Wet hair. Nature is beautiful, but she's stunning.

CPR training–not an aphrodisiac, just a standard practice, great knowledge to have in case of emergencies, absolutely not a turn-on. Ugh… until it’s his turn to do chest compressions.

You have definitely never listened to those breathy, suggestive audios of dudes doing push-ups to failure on Quinn. Not the ones where they’re practically moaning “baby girl” through your headphones while you get a little sweaty folding laundry. And you’re absolutely NOT thinking of how Bucky sounds like he’s doing those devious push-ups right now. He’s trying to save Hector’s life for crying out loud! Hector is the CPR dummy that you are slightly, weirdly jealous of right now. A lock of hair falls out of place across Bucky’s forehead as he keeps pressing on Hector’s chest. His arms–God, have they always been so veiny and muscular–are tensed from the compressions, and his face is flushed from the exertion. Your mind wanders to what other activities make the Ranger flush and you feel a blush creep up your neck. He’s like… old. What is wrong with you?

You hear your name and are pulled from your sexy trance. “Huh?” 

“You’re up,” the instructor says.

Bucky takes his place next to you and nudges your shoulder. “Go! He’s literally dying.”

You huff and kneel down next to the dummy. 

“To the rhythm of Stayin’ Alive by The Bee Gees,” the instructor says, nodding for you to begin. You start the compressions and count, growing tired by the end. No wonder Bucky was huffing and breathing a little more… well, just more than you’re used to when he was doing this. Why did his breathing sound hot? Are you ovulating? You mentally count back to your last period and shake your head. No, definitely not ovulating anymore. That must mean you actually think he’s hot. Your mind isn’t clouded by some cavewoman needs. These are your true, luteal phase thoughts. Oh no. You save Hector from the brink of death and take your place back by Bucky as a few other colleagues revive the dummy.

“Good work,” Bucky says with a wink. “You got a little tired at the end, huh?”

“I guess so.”

“You sounded a little breathy,” he adds to which you look up at him with irritation.

“So did you!"

“Did I?” He asks.

“Yes, you were all huh huh ugh heeehuhhhh ugh huh.” You imitate his breathing.

He smirks, holding back a laugh. “Do you want to run that by me again?”

“Oh, hush!” You say. The instructor glances up at the two of you. Damn, if looks could kill.

“Your face is red,” Bucky whispers, leaning down a bit to get his mouth closer to your ear.

“Yeah, well, I just did chest compressions. Besides, you’re sweaty.”

“I’m not sweaty,” he says.

“You’re… there’s a sheen,” you say, pointing to his face and circling the air around his head.

“A sheen?” He smirks.

“Yes, Bucky, a sheen.”

“Now it’s more pink than red,” he says, nodding at your face. “Now it’s the same color as it was when you saw that water snake in the lake.”

“Bucky!” You gasp. “I didn’t see anything.

“Mmm, I think you did. You blushed like you did.”

“Let it go, Barnes.”

“Oh, I’m never forgetting that, sunshine. Ever.”

You huff and cross your arms as the instructor stands and claps his hands together. “Okay, let’s move on to First Aid.”

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - July 6

Hector is enemy number one. Why can't I stop thinking about her flushed face and the way she was breathing? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Items of note: So much July 4th garbage around the campsites. Disposed of properly and citations issued as needed. Be respectful, people.

“Guess where we’re going today?” Bucky asks with a genuine smile as you both start out on the main trail.

“Well, I’ve given up on the firewatch tower, so… maybe to clean up some campgrounds?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “You’ve given up too easily.”

Your eyes widen and you gasp. “You’re taking me?!”

“I’m taking you. It’s a long walk, so I’m glad you packed some extra trail mix.”

“Bucky!” You exclaim, jumping on the dirt trail. “I’m so excited! Thank you!” You hug him and he carefully wraps one arm around your waist to return the sentiment. 

“You-you’re welcome, Rookie.”

You can hear something in his voice and break away, realizing that it’s kind of inappropriate to hug your coworker.

“Sorry,” you mutter, looping your thumbs through your backpack straps for something to focus on that’s not his muscle-y back. 

“It’s fine,” he assures you. “You smell like oranges.”

You laugh. “I made orange juice this morning.”

“What? With real oranges?” 

“Of course!” You say. “It’s way better that way.”

“You really are a ray of sunshine.”

“Thanks. You’re kind of a storm cloud, but we need some rain, so…”

He laughs and nods. “That’s actually why I figured now’s the perfect time to show you the tower. We’re technically in a drought at this point, so forest fires are more likely. It’s important that you know what to look for if you ever have to cover the tower. Usually they have special rangers for it, but if someone is out and you get called up, you have to know your shit.”

“Sounds good.”

You start your trek to the tower with a smile on your face, his spicy deodorant in your nose, and butterflies in your stomach. 

When you’re about a quarter mile from the tower, the clouds start quickly rolling in.

“Did you check the weather today?” You ask Bucky, biting your lip nervously. You didn’t pack umbrellas or any rain gear. 

“I-uh, it must have slipped my mind.” It’s your fault it slipped his mind. He was watching you pull on your ridiculous hiking socks-golfballs with moustaches and tees wearing high heels-and forgot to check the damn app.

The last four hundred yards to the tower are a mad, rain-soaked dash.

By the time you reach cover you’re both drenched, chilled, and your feet are covered in blisters from the rainwater squelching in your hiking boots. You didn’t expect to see the tower for the first time looking like a wet noodle while Bucky somehow looks like a wet Adonis. Unfair.

You carefully climb the slick stairs to the top and both heave a sigh of relief when you’re safely under the roof. Finally.

The clouds outside darken and the wind picks up, making the branches of the trees dance in a frantic rhythm. You watch from one of the many windows. It’s not just rain. It’s a full-on thunderstorm. 

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to spot any rogue wildfires now,” Bucky says with a click of his tongue. He sits on a small cot in the corner and pulls his log book out of his pack. 

“This is kind of beautiful, though,” you muse, watching the way the rain is coming down in sheets of silver. 

“Nature is, yeah,” he says quietly and he uncaps his pen with his teeth and chews on the cap thoughtfully before the pen meets the page. 

“What are you always writing in there?” You ask, nodding toward the weathered book. 

“Observations.”

“I don’t write in mine enough then. You’re always jotting stuff down. Can I read it? Get an idea of what I should be documenting?” You walk toward him and he snaps the book shut. “No. It’s… you know… a Ranger’s logbook is personal.” 

“C’mon,” you laugh. “How personal can soil samples be?” 

“Extremely!” 

“Fine, grumpy,” you say, too soaked and cold to fight him on it. “How long do you think this will last?”

He glances out the window with a shrug. “No clue. You cold?” 

You nod, and he looks under the cot. He grunts as he pulls a heavy trunk upright and clicks open the latches. There’s an array of first aid supplies, tarps, blankets, a couple National Park Service sweatshirts in an ugly shade of moss green. He hands one to you. “You should take your top off.”

“Sorry?” You gasp.

“No!” He stammers, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I mean you should take your wet shirt off before you put the dry sweatshirt on or else you’ll stay cold. I’m not looking.”

He turns around and looks out the opposite window with his arms crossed. By the time you’ve shed your shirt and cozied up in the dry, ugly sweatshirt he asks “You decent?” 

“Yeah,” you say. He turns around too. At least you’re wearing matching ugly sweatshirts. In this fashion crime together.

“So, we’re kind of stuck up here for a bit, aren’t we?” You ask.

“Looks like it.”

"Okay, we could just play a game to pass the time, or volley questions back and forth to get to know each other better," you suggest. You feel like you only know the surface of this man, and you wonder if he’d let you crack him open a bit like the sky outside.

“Sure,” Bucky rifles through the drawers of the decrepit desk near the cot, searching for a pack of cards. Nothing. He slams the last drawer, and it's punctuated by a flash of lightning outside.

"Is it actually safe to be up here when there's lightning?" You ask, peering out the window at the raging storm.

He shrugs. "It's better than being on the ground of a literal forest. With trees."

You roll your eyes. "Fine. Questions it is. I'll go first. What's your favorite color?"

Bucky sits on the cot in the corner and leans his head against the wall. He shrugs. "I don't really have one."

"You don't - okay, nevermind. What's your favorite dessert?" You try again, leaning on the desk across the small room.

His lips quirk into a smile. "Don't get a big head about it, but that cheesecake you made."

"Aww, you love my goodies," you tease as his eyes widen and he snorts out a laugh. "Sorry, that sounded-"

"My turn," he says, cutting you off. "What's your favorite part of the park so far? I know you haven't seen everything, but…?"

You consider his question and look around at the tall trees, some at eye-level in the tall tower. There's a lot of things you like about the park - the way it's misty in the morning sometimes after a night rain, when the frogs in the pond by the Ranger cabin will quiet themselves if it gets too loud with human noise, how the light filters through the trees when the sun isn't directly overhead, when Bucky always asks if you have your logbook (even though you only use it for doodles of flora and noting down how often he sighs when he's particularly grumpy, and the way he's watching you right now). Whoops. You hope you don’t have to turn it in at the end of training.

"My favorite part of the park?" You repeat the question, eyes wide at your internal realization. "Having you as my mentor has been nice."

His eyes flit to yours, brow furrowed. "That doesn't count, plus I'm not that great. You don't have to say that-"

"I'm not saying anything I don't mean," you retort. A flash of lightning lights up the sky with a crack of thunder following not long after. It's not letting up, and you silently wonder how long you'll be taking refuge here. "But if you want me to pick something in nature, I guess I'd say just how big some of the tree roots are. Some of them are thicker than two people put together. It's incredible. You're kind of like a tree root, you know."

He scoffs. "Well, you keep bringing in sugary desserts and goodies."

You laugh and roll your eyes. "No! That's not what I mean. I'm not saying you're thick," you say with a giggle. He is terribly, deliciously thick, but in the best way. "I'm saying you remind me of the roots of a tree - stable, grounded, only searching for the good soil, one with the Earth. Strong. All that jazz."

“All that jazz,” he hums and nods his head, eyes moving to the storm outside. You peep a blush on his cheeks. "Like roots, okay."

"What would I be?" You ask, nudging his foot with yours. "And don't say anything about the muskrats."

He chuckles and assesses you before swallowing. He knows what he wants to say, but isn't sure if it's too much. He knows he got too flirty… too inappropriate at the lake the other day, and he needs to reel it in, but damn. He doesn't want to regret not saying how he feels.

"Okay, I have an answer," he says, voice a bit deeper than it was seconds ago. "Do you know how the sun hits the water at a certain angle and makes it shimmer? But with colors, like…" he searches for the right word, but you fill it in for him.

"Like a rainbow prism?" You offer.

"Yes, exactly like… a prism. Every color kind of dances across the surface. That's what you would be," he answers, running a hand through his beard like he's stressed.

Your chest heats at his answer. It almost sounds romantic if you didn't know better. "Why'd you pick that?" You ask eagerly. You swallow, trying to push down any expectations.

He clears his throat and decides to just go for it. "Because you came blazing into this park and into… my life… in color. Your whole persona is just like a rainbow I guess - your weird socks, your smile, your jokes, your orange toes, just you. You bring life into this place. Into my life, too. I wasn’t looking forward to one last mentee, but you… I’m just glad it was you.”

You close your mouth. It had fallen open during Bucky's short but effective declaration. "I-I'm not sure what to say," you start. "Which is a first for me."

He laughs and shrugs. "You don't have to say anything. You're done with training after this shift anyway."

"I'm done with training?" You repeat, blinking at him. "But I thought I had the rest of the week with you.

"No," he says, shaking his head. He pulls a crinkled and folded paper out of his shorts pocket. "I graduated you this morning. I guess I just wanted one more shift with you." He looks at his watch. "And the shift just officially ended, so you're a full-fledged Ranger now, sunshine."

"So you're not my supervisor anymore?" You clarify, pushing off the desk you're leaning on and taking a step toward him. Another crack of thunder intensifies the already heady air of the tower.

"Correct," he says, standing up. "Are you… happy about that?"

"Ecstatic, in fact," you say, taking another tentative step. He meets you in the middle and you breathe the same humid air for what feels like a full minute. His chest is heaving in symphony with yours. Eyes bounce from each other to your lips to his eyes and back again like a mating ritual.

"Why?" He breathes across your skin. His breath is minty and smells slightly of honeydew. "Because now you can do this?" He mutters as his lips brush against yours. You inhale sharply at the contact and your heart picks up its pace. The rain outside starts coming down in heavier sheets, soaking the deck surrounding the tower.

"Yeah," you answer weakly. All sense of reality has been turned on its head as his tongue slips easily into your mouth. Kissing Bucky is like dipping your toe into Lac nu, like picking the first ripe strawberry of the season off the vine, like sinking into fresh bedsheets dried on the line after a long day. It feels right. So right. It’s warm and light and perfect. He breaks away first and you can feel his smile.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since you called me an old man that first week,” he admits.

“You called me an angel lightning bug,” you mutter with a smile.

He looks at you with a quizzical brow. “Those Sea Breezes got to my head, didn’t they?”

“They did.”

“Well, you know what they say… drunk words are sober thoughts.”

“You should kiss me again,” you whisper. “You taste like honeydew.”

His hands find the nape of your neck and his fingers comb through your damp hair as he pulls your mouth toward his. “You taste like mine.”

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - July 15

Maybe I'll give her this logbook when I marry her annoying, perfect, sunshine and rainbows ass. Why the hell does the firewatch tower have a condom stash?

Items of note: Replenish the firewatch tower's condom stash.

"But it's a blue moon," you murmur longingly, twisting your head to look out the window. You can't see it from your bedroom, which is why you're so keen on going outside. "Please?"

Remus sighs, long-suffering and tired. "Dove..."

James, however, is a victim of your puppy dog eyes, and he relents before anyone else can say object. "Just the courtyard, then."

"Prongs!" Sirius and Remus say at the same time, Sirius entirely amused at the way you've got James wrapped around your finger, Remus entirely unamused at the thought of you being out so late.

"Come on, just this one time? I want to see the blue moon too," the traitor murmurs, and Remus bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at his whiny tone. He sounds more upset than you at the thought of being unable to go outside, and how can Remus resist?

Remus relents, tipping your chin up with his finger from where he's standing above you all. "You stay within arms distance at all times, yes?"

You brighten, a grin tugging at your lips. "Yes, thank you!" You practically squeal, hopping up from the armchair to slip your feet into your slippers.

Sirius is behind you within two seconds, much closer than his duty requires him, hands helping you into your coat. "Arms up, pretty," he murmurs softly, breath tickling your neck, and you feel warmth crawl up your spine as you obey.

James guides you out with a hand on your waist, Remus walks in front to scout the area, and Sirius is at your tail, all of them alert and in protective mode. You're giddy, bouncing on your heels, entirely excited just to have a breath of fresh air.

"Within arms distance," Remus reminds you softly, looking back over his shoulder to check you're still following. You nod eagerly, and the divot between his brows softens.

The courtyard is beautiful this time of night. The Palace is known for its jasmine flowers, which bloom after dark, so you take your time wandering around, and to your promise, you stick close to one of them at all times.

James bumps his hip with yours as he leans down to where you're intently watching a ladybug crawling up a leaf. "Riveting," he murmurs, playfully stoic, to an elbow to the side from you. He grins, standing up, keeping watch over you.

You and Sirius sit down on the white bench, impossibly closer than absolutely necessary, while you murmur to him about constellations. "Canis Major," you point out, beaming so wide your cheeks ache.

He tilts his head to look. "Is it really, are you serious?" he asks, resting his cheek on the top of your head.

"No, you are," you reply, giggling at your own joke, which makes James snort in laughter from where he's standing, watching the same ladybug you were find a friend. Remus's lips tug up in a smile, but Sirius looks unamused, sending you a playful glare. You just grin up at him innocently, batting your lashes, and he falls victim to your eyes.

Later, you sit with Remus on the grass, your head on his shoulder, watching the blue moon. "It's stunning," you murmur, transfixed.

Remus isn't even looking at the sky. He's more focused on looking at the blue moon through the reflection in your eyes, eyes trailing over your face with a gaze that is rather close to adoration. He nods without taking his eyes away from you. "Stunning."

James and Sirius are inclined to agree.