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autumnsghosts · 2 years

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Thank you so, so much!!! I’m so glad you enjoyed it! I absolutely love watching the grave cleaning videos and I also find them so comforting! 🧡

Dust to Dust

summary: When you come back from the blip in the graveyard having just been at your grandmother’s funeral, the cemetery seems like the safest place to be. Cleaning old gravestones had certainly never been a dream of yours, but now you find yourself there most days, scraping dirt and moss and algae from stones of people long dead and most likely long forgotten. It also doesn't hurt that a certain blue-eyed super soldier visits the cemetery weekly, placing flowers over two plots. pairing: Bucky x female reader word count: 7379 (this really got away from me…) warnings: some cursing, mentions of death author’s note: This is my entry into @pellucid-constellations Love Letters Writing Challenge (cut it right down to the wire)! This is only my second fic and my first time writing for Bucky. I was originally planning on writing something completely different but I couldn't get this out of my head. Completely inspired by the awesome folks who do this in real life and post about it on Tik Tok. playlist: Dust to Dust by the Civil Wars on repeat forever

You were well aware that to others, your new hobby would appear more than a bit morbid. But as you scrubbed the dirt from the tombstone with a wire brush, watching as the brown suds ran down into the soil below, all you felt was catharsis. Peace and catharsis. Cleaning old gravestones had certainly never been a dream of yours, but now you found yourself here most days, scraping dirt and moss and algae from stones of people long dead and most likely long forgotten. And that was the reason you continued. There was something comforting about being in the presence of others who had been forgotten, even if they were no longer living.

The first stone you had cleaned had been your grandmothers. Your beloved grandmother who took you and your mother in when your father walked out, no questions asked and no judgment given. Your grandmother who told you bedtime stories of fairies in magical woods and of strong princesses who didn’t need rescuing. The one who taught you to paint and to bake chocolate chip banana muffins and above all things, to be kind. Sometimes that last lesson was difficult to carry on when the world had treated you so unkindly.

When she had died, it felt like your whole world had ended. And then it really did. On the morning of her funeral, as a soft, warm wind lifted your hair and the sun beat down against the black fabric of your dress, the world had ended for what felt like a held breath. The small crowd that had gathered around the upturned earth felt suffocating and you were almost glad when they started thinning out, even if it meant you were now truly alone. After what felt like hours, eternity, you reached down to grab a handful of grave dirt and as you stood over her grave, the last person on earth who loved you, the handful of dirt slipping through your fingers and falling onto the smooth, wood casket , your own fingers turned to dust.

You could still remember the feeling, numbing cold and then nothingness before returning to the same spot, hands empty. Green grass had replaced your grandmother’s open grave and her tombstone was already dulled with the wear of 5 years. You would go back to the grave over and over again in the few weeks after the blip. You had lost your job, lost the warm, cozy home you had loved so much. The last part of your grandmother now well and truly gone. Maybe that is why you continued to go back to the cemetery, day after day. Marveling at the quiet. Wondering how the graves could go so long without anyone caring for them, becoming dirt covered and worn. So you had gotten to work, first starting with your own grandmother’s tombstone, pulling the weeds from the base, cleaning the smooth marble until it was bright again and planting a bright yellow mum at the base. You had researched the proper tools to get, the correct techniques to use as you surveyed the gravestones dating back decades. Your first course of action had been to ask permission from the caretaker, who had taken some time to track down. Just one man who should have been retired responsible for acres of final resting places. He had been thrilled for the help. And then you just couldn’t stop. You felt like you were doing something, something useful, something good.

You never felt alone as you walked through the cemetery, and sometimes you weren’t. The old cemetery frequently had visitors but was never crowded by any stretch. It had been two months, and you had still not moved on from the section of plots near your grandmother you had started in. When you returned home to your tiny walk up studio apartment, you spent hours researching the history of the names on the stones you had cleaned that day. You told yourself that you were just being methodical, cleaning stone by stone. But if you were being completely honest, you hadn’t really moved on to a different part of the cemetery because of a certain handsome stranger who came once a week on schedule, bringing a bouquet of yellow roses and white daisies to lay at the base of two headstones.

Of course, he wasn’t exactly a stranger. You knew who he was. He had cut his dark hair and kept his metal arm buried under a leather jacket and gloves, even in the heat of late summer, but you recognized him. Though you hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to James Barnes, you had certainly worked up quite the crush. The way he knelt in front of the stones of the people he was visiting, the sadness evident in his blue eyes even from afar. You felt drawn to him. Marveling at more than just his handsome face, you wanted to know him. You wanted to know who he was visiting and why he seemed so hollow. But the thought terrified you, not because you were afraid of him. You were terrified because it had been so long since you’d actually had a conversation with someone. You spent your working hours in front of a computer screen and when you weren’t working, you were here, cleaning old tombstones in ragged clothes, hair pulled up and dirt smudged on your face.

You knew, of course, that you could just look at the gravesites he visited after he left, but it strangely felt like such an invasion of privacy. The sites you cleaned were old, sometimes over a hundred years, and no one had visited them in years. This felt different, more personal, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look.

As you worked on the stone in front of you, the final resting place of Sarah Monroe, an amazing woman who has driven the city’s first bookmobile, you glanced towards the tall maple tree you always found Bucky under. He usually was here already, crouched in front of the two graves under the maple but you had yet to see him today. You surreptitiously glanced up every now and then, looking for him, but as the sky darkened and you finished with your last grave of the day, you still hadn’t seen him. You stood, dusting the dirt from your jeans and rinsing off your tools with your water sprayer. You wrapped them in a towel and placed them in your bucket, snapping a quick picture of your work and heading towards the center of the graveyard. Richard, the caretaker, would let you store some of your things in the garden shed, especially your water sprayer that made the job a lot easier but was too heavy to walk with. When you looked down at your watch, you realized it was a lot later than you realized.

When you reached the shed, you yanked on the door but it didn’t budge. Richard had never locked it on you before. You glanced down at the heavy water sprayer and tried the door again but it didn’t budge. You felt panic rising in your chest. You could just leave them here, but your tools, though not particularly expensive, had taken a while to procure on your very limited income. Plus, if the shed was locked that must mean that Richard had already left for the evening. You glanced over to the iron gate inside the high brick wall and ran, heart thudding in your chest. You weren’t necessarily concerned about being in a cemetery alone at night as much as you were concerned about being anywhere in the city alone in the dark at night. When you finally reached the gate your heart sank even lower as you noted the large lock in place through the chain, barring your exit. You dropped your tools to the ground and pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, whirling around as if another exit was going to materialize. You desperately beat against the gate, rattling the chain which sounded particularly ominous in the empty graveyard.

“Are you okay?” In your panic, you hadn’t heard anyone approach. You screamed, tripping backwards over your bucket of tools and falling with a resounding thud right on your behind.

Bucky stood at the gate, hands raised in front of him as if you were a startled animal he was trying to placate.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He said.

“You’re late,” you said, not fully recognizing the words as they poured from your mouth until it was too late to take them back. You closed your eyes tightly in embarrassment, ducking your head to avoid his gaze, missing the way his eyes crinkled in confusion.

“Not that I know your schedule or anything. Or that I watch you when you are here…oh my god, I need to stop talking.” you managed to choke out, scrambling to your feet and dusting yourself off.

But Bucky laughed, actually laughed. It was breathy and quiet but it was a laugh and you immediately looked up to see his face, broke into a grin.

“I…had some things come up. Do you need some help?” He asked, nodding towards your supplies.

“I’m actually kind of locked in?” the words sounded like a question and you heard him laugh again. You suddenly wanted nothing more but to make this man laugh for the rest of your life.

Bucky wasn’t sure if you knew who he was. He had a feeling that if you did, it was not his help you would want when you were alone at night in a dark cemetery. He glanced down at the lock before looking back up at you. It would take a simple pinch of his fingers to snap the lock open, but he didn’t exactly want to expose who he was if he didn’t have to. His session with Dr. Raynor had left him more than a little frustrated. He had thought going to visit his parents every week should count for something, some sort of way to reconcile his past, honor the Bucky Barnes he had once been. But Raynor had just reiterated again how very alone he was.

He thought about that fact as he looked at you, still clearly flustered from being scared half to death in a cemetery. He had seen you, of course. He had been intrigued by the care and concentration you gave to each grave. He had guessed that maybe you worked for the city or some historical preservation society but now he wasn’t so sure. He wanted to find out

“Why don’t you gather your things while I work on this lock.” He suggested, hoping you would turn. You seemed to understand, nodding as you turned, gathering the things that had strewn across the walkway after your trip. You heard a metallic click and then the screeching echo of the rusty gate swinging open.

“Lifesaver!” You said as you turned around. Bucky ducked his head.

“Need some help with that?” He offered, gesturing to the tools at your feet.

“I usually lock it up in the caretaker shed but I guess Richard forgot I was here tonight. I don’t want to put you out, you’ve already helped enough.”

“I really don’t mind.” Bucky said again, reaching down to grab your things, swiftly holding the water sprayer and bucket of tools with no effort.

“Thank you, seriously, I really appreciate it. I’m Y/N, by the way.” You said.

“Bucky.” He found himself saying.

The walk to your apartment is mostly quiet, but it is comfortable, occasionally filtered with questions.

“Cleaning the graves, is that your job?” He asked. You let out a soft chuckle and sighed.

“Sadly, no. That would probably make it less creepy. My…grandmother passed away, right before the blip. I was actually at her funeral when it happened and when I came back, it kind of became the only place I felt comfortable. God, that sounds so weird.”

“It doesn’t. Not at all. So you were…gone? In the blip?” He asked, his voice gentle. You nodded, glancing up at him.

“You?”

“Yeah” you both fell quiet for a few moments before he said “I think it’s pretty incredible, actually. Spending your time caring for people you'll never meet.”

You looked up at him again, catching him looking at you. You gave him a grin before ducking your head again.

The evening was turning cool, and your shirt had gotten wet in the cleaning process leaving you shivering. Bucky looked down, wanting to do something normal like offer you his jacket, but he didn’t want to break this spell, this comfortable bubble of companionship he had somehow stumbled into. He didn’t want to scare you off if you didn’t know who he was. But you were shivering and he was still the gentleman his Ma had raised, so he stopped walking, setting your tools down on a front stoop and shrugging off his jacket. He held it out, silently offering to drape it over your shoulders and you turned, grabbing the soft leather as soon as it fell over your shoulders.

“Thank you,” you said, snuggling into the jacket and Bucky felt warmth spread all the way down to his toes.

When you neared your building, your stomach dropped. You didn’t want the walk to end and you also were nervous about Bucky seeing your apartment. After losing your grandmother’s cozy brownstone, your small 5th floor walk up paled in comparison. The building was old, but not in the historic pre-war beauty of a few blocks up. Yours was crumbling with age and poor maintenance, made of chipping concrete and a front stoop with a broken step and bent railings. You hurried to get past the front of the building, hoping your creepy neighbor wouldn’t make an appearance tonight…or maybe rather wishing he would. Bucky was certainly a looming presence, maybe the creep in 4B would finally leave you alone.

As you climbed up to your apartment, you thanked Bucky up each flight of stairs. Bucky caught your nervous glances around and was on edge himself. He noticed the immediate shift in your movements and was worried that you didn’t feel safe here. When you stopped in front of the last apartment down the hall on the 5th floor, digging through your bag for your keys, he opened his mouth to say something but stopped. What would he say? Can you please find somewhere safer to live? When you finally found your keys in the depth of your tote bag, you unlocked two deadbolts, which made Bucky feel a bit better, and stepped inside, opening the door wider for Bucky to come in.

“You can just set that stuff right by the door,” you said, continuing to head inside the warm apartment. Bucky placed your tools down and then stood, closing the door and finally taking in your apartment. It was small but exceptionally cozy and nothing like his own barebones government mandated housing.

A small kitchen was directly to the right, overflowing with cooking equipment. To the left, a small dining nook, really just a table pushed up against a window, covered in a delicate lace tablecloth as well as two candles and a white pitcher with a delicate blue design holding a bouquet of dried lavender. There was floral wallpaper, mismatched rugs on nearly every bit of exposed flooring. There were no overhead lights, lamps on nearly every surface emitting a warm glow.

This home, filled with clearly loved things neatly arranged with care, felt so much like the home he grew up in that he stalled at the door, taking in a shaky breath. You must take his harsh inhale as a form of judgment because suddenly you were by his side again, taking in your space with hands clasped in front of you, fidgeting.

“I know, it’s…small. And I don’t think I could ever be described as a minimalist so, I know it’s, well…a lot”, you say.

You had taken his pause at the door to mean he was uncomfortable. You had spent the last few months scouring thrift stores, trying your hardest to recreate the cozy and safe feeling your grandmother’s home had enveloped you in as a child. But seeing a super soldier standing on your braided rug in the doorway, taking in your tufted velvet sofa and lace curtains separating your “living space” from your bed, you felt oddly embarrassed.

“No! No, it’s…it’s, uh. It’s really nice. I think…” Bucky wanted to reassure you that even through his shock, he felt instantly at peace in your home. And that’s what it was. Unlike his apartment with barely any furniture and no personal traces, your home felt like a warm hug. He could tell exactly who you were just by stepping foot inside, like he was peering straight into your mind. “I think my mom had that exact pitcher.” He said finally, gesturing to the milk glass on the table.

“Oh yeah?” You said, smiling now. You hand him back his jacket as you move towards the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove.

“Want some tea? Coffee?”

He did. Bucky felt the instant urge to never have to leave your side again and that was terrifying. You had seemingly just met. You hadn’t even taken a glance at his arm, either out of politeness or fear he wasn’t sure and he didn’t think he wanted to find out. He felt his heart rate increase, sweat beginning to gather at the nape of his neck. Flashes of memories forced their way to the surface. His mother, teaching him how to dance across the hardwood floors of their home, doing the same with his sister when she was older. Coming home to the smell of a home cooked meal, sitting together at the table, a table not unlike the one sitting to his left. Even the scent was familiar, lavender and honey. He could feel the panic rising and he knew he needed to get out of there.

“I should actually head out,” Bucky managed to say from the doorway. Your face falls for a moment before you realize that to him, you are essentially complete strangers and your silly crush is one hundred percent one sided.

“Thank you again,” you say, turning for just a moment to reach for a glass from the cupboard but when you turn towards the door again, he is gone.

You had made the decision as you lay awake that night, unable to sleep. Clearly, Bucky was visiting the graves of someone he loved, or at least someone who meant quite a bit to him. He had saved your life, or at the very least saved you from a cold and uncomfortable night spent on a park bench inside a cemetery. You wanted to do something for him, something to thank him properly, and all you kept coming back to was the gravestones. When you woke the next morning, after a fitful few hours of sleep, you had made your mind. You gathered your supplies, dressed quickly into a pair of worn jeans and an oversized gray sweatshirt and your green rain boots before heading out the door.

It was Thursday, and while you knew he wouldn’t be coming today, you still glanced over your shoulder as you neared the cemetery walls. You walked reverently towards the stones he always visited, two stones clustered together underneath one of the large maple trees that had just begun to turn color. This part of the cemetery was towards the center, away from most of the city noise and surrounded by trees. It was one of the reasons your grandmother had picked her plot so early. You thought it had been incredibly morbid at the time but now you understood. It was a beautiful place to rest.

You set your tools down, arranging them in order and mixing your cleaning solution. You inspected the stones for flakes or cracks, any damage that might be made worse by cleaning and thankfully found none. You soaked the stone with the water from your sprayer and picked up your paint scraper, gently scraping away the areas where moss had taken over, obscuring the stone. Then you got to work spraying your cleaning solution and scrubbing the stone with your brush, using a toothbrush to get in the small nooks and crannies to make sure the inscription was legible again. While you were letting the stone sit for a few minutes, you finally took the time to read the epitaphs.

Winnifred Barnes

1895 - 1955

Beloved wife and mother.

George Barnes

1891 - 1940

Beloved husband and father.

You trace the dates with your finger, breath catching in your throat, marveling at the fact that they must be Bucky’s parents.

After rinsing the stones completely with water, you stand back to admire your work. Though they are simple, they truly are beautiful, and you run your fingers over them, sending a silent hello to George and Winnifred. You wondered what they had been like. If Bucky had been close with them. If he had once had siblings. You gently arranged a bouquet of flowers at the base of each stone and slipped a note inside the wrapping.

The next week, Bucky can’t stop his eyes from drifting across the cemetery, looking for the green rain boots you always wore. He can’t help but smile when he finds you. Your back is to him, scrubbing a stone a few yards away and Bucky is surprised at the comfort your simple presence brings him. He feels like he needs to apologize. He had been on the brink of a panic attack in your apartment last week and left with barely a goodbye. When he reaches his parent’s graves, he stills. He has to do a double take to make sure he’s in the right spot. He feels a tightening in his chest, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as he lets out a shaky breath and crouches down for a closer look. The stones were beautiful, back to the palest gray and their epitaphs were dark and clear. You had even laid flowers at each of them, bright, sunny bouquets that his mother would have adored. He sees a sliver of paper sticking out from the wrapping of the bouquet in front of his mother’s stone and he picks it up, delicately unfolding it.

“Bucky,

I truly hope this isn’t out of line. Normally I never see the families of the graves I clean and I think it is truly remarkable that you are still here, that you can visit their memory. I hope that this brings a bit of beauty to your weekly visits.

Thank you again,

Y/N”

Bucky is enamored with your thoughtfulness. He runs a hand over the smooth marble, taking in each detail he hadn’t bothered to notice before.

“Hey, Ma. Dad.” Bucky says, still crouching low in front of the graves. “I don’t know if this is you sending some sort of sign, but I’ll take it.” He looked up for you again before leaving his own flowers and saying goodbye to his parents.

You catch just a glimpse of his back as he leaves, shoulders hunched, completely unable to read him. Your own shoulders fall. Maybe you had overstepped? Maybe it truly had been some invasion into his private life that he resented you for? Out of anyone you could think of, you knew he certainly deserved his privacy, after everything he had been through. You knew that you only knew a fraction of it, only what they had thrown at him during his pardon proceedings. He had strangely become this constant in your life, and now that you had actually met him, had a conversation with him, you knew him to be sweet and caring. You didn’t want to think lose that now. You felt tears gathering in your eyes and you shook your head. This was stupid! You hardly knew the man, and you had overstepped. This was all on you. Instead of packing up and heading home, like you wanted, you gathered your things and moved a few stones over, preparing to start cleaning again.

After another twenty minutes had passed, you had lost yourself in the process enough to clear your mind somewhat. The music playing through your headphones certainly helped, which was why you didn’t see Bucky as he returned, a coffee in each hand.

Bucky called your name before seeing your earbuds. He transferred the coffee cups into one hand and gently laid a hand on your shoulder. Which was exactly the wrong thing to do. You screamed, stumbling back and again falling flat on your ass, wielding your putty scraper like a weapon. This time, though, Bucky laughed. A head thrown back, hand on hips laugh that you heard even over your music. You ripped out your earbuds, a hand placed over your heart and joined him. He held out a hand to help you up and then offered you one of the coffee cups in his vibranium hand, which you noticed, was not covered by a glove.

“You are going to be the death of me, Barnes.” You said, not knowing why you had the urge to call him by his last name, but the blush on his cheeks made it clear he liked it.

After he left the cemetery, Bucky had begrudgingly called Sam. He had been out of the game for…a long time. Sam, after teasing him relentlessly, had told him to just be direct. Ask you out for coffee, if that would be easier than dinner. So instead, Bucky brought the coffee to you.

You reached out to grab the coffee, brushing the hair back from your face with your other hand and smudging dirt across your forehead. Without pausing to think, Bucky leaned forward and swiped a thumb across your forehead, clearing the smudge. “You had some dirt.”

He was being bashful, you thought. That had to be a good sign that he wasn't angry with you. That and the coffee he had brought. Maybe you hadn’t truly messed everything up.

“Thanks,” you breathe out, holding up the coffee in a salute.

“Do you have time for a break?” Bucky asks, nodding towards the bench just across from you.

“Yeah, just give me a second to rinse this one off.” Bucky reaches for the coffee cup and then watches you work, spraying down the stone with water and watching the brown suds clear. You held such concentration, such reverence as you moved around the stone, making sure all of the soap was gone, reaching down to swipe away a few errant strands of grass that had plastered to the bottom of the stone. He liked the way your nose scrunched in concentration, the tilt of your head as you examined your work. When you were done, you looked up and he realized you had caught him staring, but you gave him a soft smile, reaching out your hand.

“Okay, all set.” You said, taking the coffee he offered back to your outstretched hand. You walked over to the bench, sitting close but not touching. At first the silence was awkward, both not sure what to say. Bucky ran a hand across the back of his neck, letting out a quiet chuckle before turning to you.

“I want to say thank you. For taking care of my parents' graves. That was…I just really appreciate it. They deserve that.” He finally said.

“It was my pleasure. You deserve it too, you know.” You wanted to shy away from his gaze but you held strong, making sure to look in his eyes so he would know you meant it.

“I don’t know about that.” You noticed the instant his body language changed and you knew not to push so you changed the subject, asking him gentle questions about his parents and were pleasantly surprised when he answered. He told you stories about growing up with his best friend Steve, the trouble they would get into. He asked you about your grandmother, about your life before the blip. You didn’t realize how much time had gone by until the sky began to darken, your coffee long gone.

Bucky helped you store your tools into the shed and offered to walk you home. This time, he said goodbye at your door, not coming inside and you reached up to wrap him in a quick hug before you lost your nerve. He was stiff at first before he wrapped his arm around you. He smelled like leather and citrus.

You watched him as he walked down the steps, turning once to give you a wave. When you head in, locking the door behind you, eager to take a shower and wash off the dirt, your hand brushes against something in the pocket of your sweater. You reach in and pull out a folded piece of paper with a phone number scrawled across it and on the back “dinner tomorrow?”

You can't help the excited squeal as you hold the note to your chest before sticking it on the fridge with a magnet. You make yourself wait to text him until after your shower. You rush through making dinner, settle in on your sofa and clutch the phone in your hand like a lifeline. Finally, you type in his number.

“That was very sly of you, Barnes.”

“Too much?” he responds, just a moment later. You grin at the phone.

“Not at all. Tomorrow night is great. Where should I meet you?”

“I’ll pick you up. 7 okay?”

“Perfect.” You send with a smile.

When he picks you up the next evening, he has a bouquet in his hands. He walks you to a diner just a few blocks away, and you grin up at him. It was a favorite spot for you and your grandmother. The waitress, Stella, an old friend of your grandmother gives you a hug when you come in, ushering you to a corner booth and teasing you about how handsome your date is.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky consumes your life. He meets you at the cemetery each week, walking you home at night. Sometimes he comes in, and you watch a movie on your couch, usually ending up with your head on his shoulder. You meet for coffee and sometimes dinner at the diner. You spend late nights on the phone. Through bits and pieces, he starts to share his life with you. His past life, his guilt.

Sometimes he stays the night, though usually only when you both fall asleep on the couch and you have both yet to make a move, to turn this into something more. On one of those nights you wake in your bed, unsure of how you got there before seeing Bucky hunched over on the couch, clearly not sleeping. He must have picked you up and tucked you in after you fell asleep. You sit up, whispering a quiet “hey”, just to make sure he really was awake. He turns to you then, and you see his eyes, haunted and wide. You move towards him slowly, not wanting to make any sudden movements and frighten him away. As you sit down next to him on the couch, you take his hand in yours, rubbing your fingers over his knuckles.

“Nightmares?” you ask, already knowing the answer. He had mentioned them to you before, though only briefly and never wanting to get into them.

He nods, still not turning to look at you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask, voice still low. He shakes his head and you lean in closer, trying to offer him your warmth.

“Okay. What can I do?” you ask. At first you think he isn’t going to answer, but then he inhales and lets out a long breath, angling towards you.

“Why do you clean the tombstones?” he asks. His voice is rough from lack of sleep.

It takes you a minute to answer, not sure exactly what to say.

“I think…,” you start before taking a breath, “I think it’s because I felt so alone. Alone and worthless, if I’m being honest. I guess I didn’t feel like I had done enough to help my grandma when she was alive. Maybe it started as a way to try and apologize to her.” Bucky looked up at that, eyes wide. You shifted closer to him and he draped an arm around your shoulders.

“I think it started out of guilt, out of…just emptiness, but the more that I did it, the more I felt useful. It sounds silly but I never felt alone when I was in the cemetery. I felt…feel…safe and comforted.”

You are both quiet for a long time before Bucky speaks. “I’ve been working since my pardon to...make amends. For the things I did.”

“Bucky, that wasn’t you. You didn’t have control…” you start and he shakes his head. “I know. I know that. But the things he did. I’m not him anymore, but those things are still in my head, it doesn’t feel like it’s separate from me and I can’t…” he breaks off in a gasp.

You pull him in closer, wrapping your arms around him and carding your hands through his hair.

“Do you think maybe it might help? Cleaning the stones? Would you teach me?” You lean back just enough to look in his eyes.

“Of course I’ll teach you, Bucky. I don’t know if it will help but of course I will.”

And you do. You meet in the cemetery twice a week, showing him how to scrape and scrub. How to check for damage before continuing. Bucky is surprised to find that he truly enjoys the work. It forces him to concentrate just enough to clear his mind and he likes being outside. He tells you that in time, he’d like to look for some of the Winter Soldier’s victims, to find where they are buried and do the same for them and you spend evenings researching with him, keeping lists of places you hope you will be able to go with him.

When Autumn is in full swing and the temperatures dip into the forties, making it unsafe for the gravestones to be wet, you still meet in the cemetery, sometimes sharing a picnic, sometimes just talking. It had become such a part of his routine now, something he didn’t have to think about. It left room to think about your smile, your kind, sweet voice, the lavender scent of your hair. He could think about how close you had become, something just more than friendship.

Bucky had been waiting on the bench beneath the maple tree for the last 45 minutes. After thirty, he had called you, just to check-in. For the last few months you had been meeting, you had never missed a day. You had never been so much as five minutes late and he was starting to worry. He wiped his palm on his black jeans, realizing he was sweating.

He couldn’t stop the thoughts that immediately rushed through his mind. Glimpses of you, taken by invisible hands. Someone taking revenge for the things he had been forced to do. After the third unanswered call, he bolts up, unable to pause to wonder if he is overreacting. He’s at your apartment in no time, knocking on the door.

You hear the sound, a gentle knock, coming from just outside of your awareness. You had been lost in the hazy space between dreams and wakefulness and it was hard to open your eyes, fatigue weighing heavily on your entire body. You don’t remember when exactly you fell asleep or how long you’ve been in bed. It could quite possibly have been last night or two days ago. It felt as if every muscle in your body had been hammered with a meat tenderizer and your throat was on fire. Your chest tightened every time you let out a shaky breath, wheezing as you attempted to suck in air. You didn’t think you had ever felt so sick. You were drenched in sweat, sheets soaked through and yet you were shivering. You had the vaguest notion that you were meant to be somewhere, that you were forgetting something important but you couldn’t fight through the thick fog in your brain to remember. You attempted to sit up, desperate to get a drink of water but you felt as if you were moving through mud. You heard the knock again, wondering if you were still sleeping. You called out a weak hello, attempting again to get off your bed but stumbling and falling to the floor.

“Y/N, I’m coming in!” you heard, and though you were miserable you smiled at the sound of his voice.

“Bucky” you whispered.

You heard a loud bang and the sound of splintering wood.

He was by your side in an instant, placing the back of his hand against your forehead.

“Jesus, you’re burning up, doll.” Bucky gently lifts you up, placing you on the bed. You barely recognize the movements but you are instantly filled with relief.

“Have you taken anything for your fever?” he asks, brushing the hair from your eyes. You shake your head no.

“Shower,” you whisper, realizing just how crusty you feel. Bucky glances to the bathroom door and back to you. He gives a quick nod and searches your drawers for a pair of clothes for you to change into and a towel and stacks them neatly on the sink.

“Do you think you can manage?” he asks and you nod again, slowly standing up and accepting his help to the bathroom door. He turns on the water, adjusting the temperature so it is just slightly warm, not wanting to overheat you more than you already are.

“I’ll just be in the kitchen, okay?” His face is clouded with worry so you attempt to smile reassuringly but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You leave the door open a crack and only start to undress when you hear him in the kitchen, the comforting sounds of him making tea and rifling through your drawers.

Initially, the shower feels good, but after a few minutes, it is becoming increasingly difficult to stand. When you turn the water off, you hear a knock on the open door. Bucky reaches through the curtain to hand you your towel and you realize just how cold you are now that the water is off. Shivering, you towel off and wrap the towel around you, carefully opening the shower curtain and accepting Bucky’s hand. You briefly think this isn’t how you wanted the first time he saw you naked to go and Bucky chuckles, his face turning crimson. You must have said that out loud. There is no time to feel embarrassed at the moment, though, because all you want is to get back into your bed under hundreds of blankets and sleep for eternity.

Bucky turns around to let you get dressed as you sit on the edge of your bed for support and you notice that he’s also changed your bedsheets. There is a cup of tea perched on your nightstand along with a full cup of water and a bottle of ibuprofen. After helping you take the medicine and drink a few sips of tea, Bucky tucks you in, pulling the extra quilt from the end of your bed. He turns to leave just as your eyes drift closed but you hold out a hand, desperate in your fever haze for him to stay.

“Are you sure? I’ll just be right over there if you need me.” He points to the couch across your studio apartment, but you nod, grabbing onto his hand and tugging with what little strength you have. Bucky kicks off his boots and takes off his jacket.

He lies down next to you, stock still, feet crossed at the ankles and arms crossed over his chest.

“Cold.” You mutter, teeth chattering, and the sound breaks Bucky’s heart. He turns then, opening his arms and you shuffle closer. Bucky inhales as you snake your arm around his neck, leg hitching over his hip, just trying desperately to get warm and completely lacking any inhibitions you normally would have in your feverish state. Bucky pauses for a moment, frozen, before wrapping his arm around your back. His fingers trail through your hair as you nuzzle deeper into his shoulder and the last thing you remember before finally drifting to sleep is a gentle kiss on the crown of your head.

You wake often through the night, each time Bucky is already awake and looking at you, asking if you are alright. He gives you more ibuprofen once during the night but you never truly stop touching. The weight of his arm around you is a comfort. When you wake in the morning, the sun is already making its way higher in the sky and you don’t feel quite as achey. You roll over slightly, watching as the light drifts across the floor, filtered through the lace curtains. You reach a hand out to find Bucky but you are met with cold sheets. Had you dreamed he was there? But as you sit up, looking at the cup of tea you definitely don’t remember making, you find a note.

“Heading to the hardware store so I can fix your door. I’ll be back soon. - Bucky”

Fix your door? It occurs to you only now that Bucky must have kicked it in to get inside last night. You roll out of bed, grabbing the robe hanging on the bedpost and sliding your socked feet into your coziest pair of slippers before making your way to the bathroom. You splash some water on your face and brush your teeth before heading towards the kitchen. Bucky is already back, unloading a paper bag of every type of cold medicine you have ever seen. You smile gratefully at him as you see he also brought you a coffee and a bagel from the shop down the street that you love so much.

“Buck, you didn’t have to do any of this.” You said as you came up beside him. He takes a moment to answer, as if he is steeling himself to say something.

“I was, uh. I was really worried when you didn’t show and weren’t answering your phone.” He pauses to clear his throat. He fiddles with one of the boxes of medicine, turning it over in his hands before setting it back on the counter. He looked around your kitchen, eyes stopping at your fridge and the tiny note with his phone number that was still stuck there.

“I was worried that somehow…because of who I am, something had happened to you. And I realized how devastating that would be…to me. God, I was terrified, doll. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.” He stepped closer, cupping your cheek and lowering his forehead to yours.

“I’m sorry I worried you.” You whispered, just as he said “Your fever’s gone down.”

He chuckled.

“Please don’t be sorry. Honestly I kind of needed the push. Because I’ve been denying just how hard I’ve fallen for you.”

You sucked in a breath, looking up into crystal blue eyes that felt like home. After a moment Bucky let out a nervous chuckle.

“You’re killing me, doll. Say something. Am I out of line?”

“I really want to kiss you right now, Barnes.” You said, finally.

“What’s stopping you?”

“You’ll get sick,” you said with a smile.

“Super soldier, remember?”

“A definite perk, I guess.”

You were smiling as your lips touched, a gentle, sweet kiss that held the promise of something more. And despite the exhaustion in your bones, the ache in your head you were exquisitely happy.

“You need rest. Plus, I need to fix your door. Gotta keep my girl safe.” He said, giving you another peck on the lips. You couldn’t argue with that.

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autumnsghosts · 2 years

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𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary You ask your best friend Eddie to give you your first kiss. Eddie's not really in the habit of saying no to you. [4k]

warnings fem!reader, fluff, first kiss, eddie being totally sweet on his best friend, wrist kisses, sharing a bed, eddie reads to you, you hurt your arm and eddie is overprotective/doting etc, unspoken mutual pining, requested here

𓆩❤︎𓆪

"This is way heavier than you implied," you say, words followed by a startled, pained gasp as you lose your grip on the amp and it almost pops your wrist from the socket trying to keep it up.

"Shit," he says.

Eddie quickly shoves the bigger amp he'd been carrying into the back of the van and makes to help you, his fingers pushing into your stomach as he lugs it up into his arms.

"I'm sorry," he says, and for once you think his apology might be genuine. "I forget how heavy they feel at the end of the night."

Your arms ache. You definitely pulled something you didn't mean to, a sharp pinching pain climbing from your wrist to the crook of your elbow. "Eddie, I think I hurt myself."

He shoves the last amp into the van and doesn't bother closing the door, turning back to you with a concerned grimace. "Yeah? Your wrist?"

He holds his hand out and you extend your arm, wincing. He's tentative, taking your wrist in one hand while the other grasps your upper arm loosely.

"What's it feel like?"

"Like I twisted my ankle, but in my wrist."

He laughs under his breath at your explanation, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes as he looks you over. "The word you're looking for is 'sprained,'" he informs you jovially.

There's no physical evidence of any injury, not that either of you had expected that, and he has no real reason to be touching you. His thumb smooths over the flat of your wrist.

"How bad is it? Amputation?" you ask, suddenly all drama. You put on a tearful frown and pinch your eyebrows together.

Eddie – who's used to this, who encourages this – nods gravely. "You'll likely never use it again."

"Good heavens, doc. Is there really nothing you can do?" you implore, leaning away from him with your uninjured hand thrown to your forehead.

"Nothing… unless you're willing to undergo the most invasive, painful, gruesome operation any one girl has ever undergone."

"Anything."

"Close your eyes."

You close them, always willing to play these fanciful make-believe's with him. He's charming, it's funny, but you can't say you expect the hot press of his lips against your pulse. If it had been a smacking, playful thing with too much spit you would have laughed about it, but it hadn't been. It's gentle. It's sweet.

He pulls away. You open your eyes to find him lingering, staring at your wrist. A split-second.

"Fixed, right?" he asks smugly.

You take your arm back and curl it towards your chest, twinging with pain. "Definitely. Good as new."

Eddie slams the back doors shut and stretches with a groan, cool night air kissing the shining sliver of abdomen that emerges. He's always sweaty after a gig. You know you should find it gross.

You should.

"Alright, get in the van, sweet thing. It's way past your bedtime."

You laugh and climb into the passenger side, skirt riding up and tights featuring a brand new ladder thanks to some idiot who'd almost broken your leg. You point it out to Eddie as he starts the engine, "Did you see this? S'my last good pair of tights."

He tugs at the ladder and you squeal, pulling your thigh up and over the other so he can't reach it.

"There, they're punk now. Do it on purpose and you're cool," he says sagely.

"Are you staying?" he asks, the question so familiar it doesn't need a proper end.

"Thanks for that."

There's lost minutes of a comfortable silence. You watch the roads change as you draw nearer and nearer to home.

"If you shower first."

He sighs like this is very tortuous of you to ask but agrees. "Yeah, whatever. Always get what you want," he mutters, taking a rough turn that has you gripping your seat. "My bad."

"Learn to drive!" you demand, laughing.

"You learn to drive! Then you wouldn't need a ride every night!"

"Baby," you say earnestly. "Rides to your shows."

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye. You turn to him, perplexed by his uncharacteristic silence. Usually he has something quick to say, an uppity comeback, too witty for his own good and twice as fast.

"What? Wait, don't tell me, you're having a total epiphany right now on why I'm the best friend you've ever had." You nod to yourself, leaning back in your seat with your chin held high. "It's easy. I'm extremely dedicated, I'm sharp as a whip. I'm funny, I'm confident-"

"Humble."

"I'm humble. And obviously very pretty."

He hums to himself. "I kind of hate when you joke about stuff like that."

You blink and drop your chin. "What?" you ask. Weaker than you mean to, your chest feels that heavy weight of an unexpected argument, but Eddie doesn't look angry.

"Because- 'cos I know you don't mean it." He draws his eyes from the road, a familiar stretch of black top leading into Forest Hills, and gives you a well-meaning grimace.

"Sorry, I-"

He clears his throat. "No, don't be. I guess I wished you actually believed that shit. Do you know how many people would come to all of my shows? Listen to the same ten songs, drink the same shitty beer and then help me pack up at the end of the night?" He sounds back to normal. Punchy, a hair's width from incensed. "Nobody but you."

"I'm your best friend," you say firmly. "Of course I'm gonna do all that."

"Right." He laughs and scrapes a hand through his dishevelled hair.

You pull into the parking spot and climb out of the van. You slip like you always do, giggling to yourself as Eddie comes around to roll his eyes at you and shut the door.

"We'll leave it for tonight," he says after he's retrieved Sweetheart, his prized guitar, traipsing up the steps to the front door. "Don't want you straining your poor wrist any further."

You kind of agree. "Or you could do it all by yourself and I'll watch."

"Maybe tomorrow. Are you hungry?"

You ignore his question and waltz straight into his bedroom, throwing yourself down on his rumpled sheets with a harrumph. He puts Sweetheart back into her rightful place and presses a kiss to his fingers. You can't help thinking of the kiss he'd given you, bringing your wrist to your chest where he can't see. It feels the same as it had before, but different. It still aches.

Eddie throws himself down next to you and climbs up over your back, a hand on your shoulder. "Is it still hurting?"

You squeeze it. "Not really."

"Let me see? If it's swollen I could get you some ice. Or, like, a bag of frozen peas. Not that I think we'd have anything that green in the freezer," he corrects himself.

"I don't think they have to be peas to work."

"What if that's where you're wrong? What if we totally need the power of the peas?"

You turn on your back so he can see your wrist. Hovering above you, all his smells and sounds are amplified. The gentle hum as he looks over your arm. The smell of sweat under deodorant, cigarette smoke and something funkier. Then, mixed in with everything, cedar.

When his kind attention on your wrist becomes too much you wrinkle your nose and make a big show of moving away from him. "God, you stink."

"You're fucking horrible," he says, putting your arm down carefully. "I'm gonna shower. Find your pajamas."

"Did you wash them?" you ask as he climbs off of the bed.

"Nope."

You grumble about dirty clothes and search for the pajamas you'd left here last time. Eddie disappears into the cramped bathroom and you can hear every sound he makes, the clipping of bottle caps, even his footsteps moving from the cabinet under the sink and into the shower.

Water sloughs heavily against the glass partition and you try not to listen, try not to think about him and what he's doing and where his hands are.

When he comes in he's in a towel and nothing else. You squeak and pull his covers up past your eyes. "Christ, Eds."

"What? It's my room. I forgot to take clothes in with me."

"You're sullying my eyes."

"Like you've never seen it before."

You scowl. "I've never seen you naked."

"Can you come out? You're being ridiculous."

You hear him go into the bathroom and let the sheets fall from your face, blinking at the sudden brightness. Yellow lamp light bounces of the poster-covered walls, shiny as egg yolk.

He's left the bathroom door open. You peer out into the hallway and then stop yourself, feeling guilty. You don't actually want to see him naked. You're curious.

"Fine," he says as he trudges back in, plaid pants low on his hips. He shrugs into a t-shirt and it sticks to his damp torso, leaving his dark happy trail on show for the second time tonight. "You've never seen me naked. It's not like you've never seen any guy naked."

You feel a tepid mixture of embarrassment and defensiveness. "Who says I've seen a guy naked?"

His eyes are owlishly large, dark lashes not far from kissing his eyebrows as they pinch together. "What?"

You don't repeat yourself.

"You fucked Jerry Mandoza."

"Did not," you say, startled.

"I gave you condoms."

You resist the urge to glare at him. "And you can have them back, if you like. They've been in my nightstand for a year."

"I thought you liked him."

"I did. I just wasn't… ready."

He holds his hands up in surrender. "That's fine, babe. Swear. But, you never told me. Why didn't you tell me?"

He sits heavily at the end of the bed and takes the towel from around his neck, scrubbing ruthlessly at his wet curls.

"That's exactly why your hair gets so frizzy," you chide lightly, climbing on knees to his side. You ease the towel from his hands and are much kinder than he'd been, drying the skin before his hairline and behind his ears and then moving onto his pretty curls.

"He didn't do anything creepy, did he?" Eddie asks. He smells like toothpaste.

You laugh as you wring excess water from his hair as carefully as you can. "No. He was actually really sweet. Said all the right things. He was a gentleman," you drawl dropping the towel back to his shoulders.

"But?"

You sit back and smile at him. "I don't know. He leaned in for a kiss and I just… I got so nervous about it. He closed his eyes and I didn't think, I turned my cheek. He didn't call me for another date. Can't say I blame him."

You're not sure why you never told Eddie that story before. He tilts his head to one side and squints. "Why were you nervous? He was in marching band."

You snort. "It wasn't about him. I guess I was worried my first kiss would be awful."

He rubs the back of his neck with his towel. "First kiss, huh?" he asks.

"Right."

He pulls the towel away, holds it in his lap. You notice his rings are missing, likely still in the bathroom. "I mean, I think you did the right thing. If you weren't ready it can't hurt to wait. And first kisses, they can really suck. Mine, with fucking- fucking Darren Harmon, that sucked. He spit in my mouth so much I think I tasted his dinner from the night before."

You laugh in shock and disgust. "That's gross."

"Tell me about it."

"Why did he spit?"

Eddie brings his legs up onto the bed and his tone is gentle. "Well, when you kiss someone, there's like-" He raises his hands and drops them, lost for the right words. "You know, tongue."

"Is it weird?"

"Sure. Of course it is. But it's really fucking fun, too. Or it can be, if the spit is kept to a minimum." He purses his lips, eyebrows raised. "Actually, spit can be kinda nice if you like the person you're kissing. It's hard to explain."

You spread your legs to fall into a W-shape, hands braced on your knees. "Sorry, I'm not trying to harass you for details."

"You're my best friend. I'll tell you anything you want."

You smile at your legs.

Eddie reaches over to put his hand atop yours. He's leaning toward you, hair falling in his face as he catches your eye. "It's fine. Keep your first kiss for someone you actually like, babe. You'll like it better."

He squeezes your fingers and leaves the room. You can hear him filling a glass of water and turning off all the lights he's left on.

"Did you want anything else?" he asks, offering the glass.

"No, I'm just gonna brush my teeth really quick."

"Take your time."

You take a little bit more than you need to, staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror until your heart is pounding, thoughts coming a thousand a second. Lately, Eddie's touches – his hand around your wrist, his thigh over your thigh, even the thud of his rubber toed converse tapping yours – have become individual events in time. Even when you can't remember the conversation, you can remember his skin on yours. You look at photos from gigs and instead of thinking, Oh, that's the night we made fun of Gareth's new haircut, a truly momentous occasion, you think, That's the night Eddie tugged me by the belt loop. That's when he brushed an eyelash off of my cheek. That's when he leaned in so close I thought he was gonna kiss me.

Even now, the conversation about kisses is fading though you desperately want to remember what he'd said. The sound of his voice slips away. The heat of his fingers curled around yours remains.

You wash your hands twice and don't feel any better.

As if destiny or some higher power feels the need to taunt you, you slide into bed with an amicable handful of inches between your thigh and Eddie's and he totally ignores the gap, sidling up to you with a smile.

"You'll like this," he says, spreading the paperback in his hands open on your thigh. "'A pockmark of matter that can dissolve any light that threatens to eradicate, to nullify, to quantify. An indelible darkness, spreading from one universe to the other, the pristine pages of a tome sullied by a piercing fountain of ink,'" he reads to you, his voice smooth and unhurried. "Guess what she's talking about?"

"Dark matter?"

"What? Keep your astronomy to yourself, dork. She's talking about the Puppet's heart. How sick is that?"

You grin. It is pretty sick.

Eddie's smile grows with yours, though his lips part when he notices something on your face. "You have-" He brings his thumb to your mouth and brushes it roughly, tugging the soft pillow of your upper lip up.

You turn your face. "Jeez. Keep your hands to yourself, Munson."

"Sorry," he says, not sounding very sorry.

"You wanna read some more of your book to me?" you ask. "My eyes are tired."

You lay down flat with one of his pillows smushed under your head and Eddie reads, sitting with his back to the headboard. "'You turn the page and find the ink has eaten into the next page, and the next. The damage is expansive, Dolly says, lifting her chin. But not limitless. Eventually, a page will turn. Eventually, the page beneath remains plain.'"

"I thought Dolly and the Puppet loved each other," you murmur, watching his finger slide up the back of the book.

He gives you a knowing smile. "They did."

"Not anymore?"

"I don't know. He's not the same anymore. He really is evil," Eddie says. "'The Puppet becomes a man of flesh and bone before her, nothing like she had remembered and yet the same. His voice, slick as oil, becomes a malfeasance of sound where before it had been her most treasured melody. And if the tome were sullied to begin with? The Puppet asks. If the darkness subsisted where I only lay my hand?"

"They speak in riddles," you complain.

Eddie shushes you. "'Don't act as though you didn't bring about this war, Dolly says, her voice harsh as tree bark. The Puppet draws ever closer, his wicked grin softened. A puppet once more. I did it for you, he says.'"

You gasp so loudly it makes your throat burn. "He did not!" you whisper-shout.

Eddie chuckles, hand dropping to your shoulder. "He didn't."

"Keep reading!"

"'Dolly refuses to acknowledge his pleading tenor. You did not, she shouts. You created this conflict to become what you wanted to become.

"'Someone you could love. The Puppet places a frozen hand over her cheek. She hits at his chest with the brunt of her palms, hands growing limp as he murmurs. Someone you could kiss.'"

You miss the rest of his reading, eyes slamming shut as if you'd been stuck. You catch small parts. An attempted reunion, a sword tipped in biting silver from the coldest recess of the moon. A short fight, a retreat.

"Are you sleeping?" Eddie whispers.

You swallow. "Almost," you whisper back.

Eddie tosses the paperback onto his desk and pulls the covers over your shoulders and curls toward you. "You should get some rest, sweetheart. It's been a long day."

You nod and turn to him, refusing to open your eyes. "Goodnight," you say, rubbing your cheek against the brushed cotton of his pillowcase.

"Goodnight."

Long minutes of silence. You can feel his warmth beside you like a heating pad under the sheets. You know his hand lies an inch away, if that, his fingers lax. You could stroke the length of his pinky with yours.

As if he knows, as if he can read your mind, a fingertip reaches out to tap yours. "Are you okay?" he asks.

You open one tired eye and lift your face enough to open the other. He looks beautiful. Hair half-dried and flat to his cheek. You reach out to push it from his face slowly. If you were any braver you'd tuck it behind his ear, scratch his scalp lightly with your nails.

"Is it your arm?" he asks.

You drop your hand. "'M just thinking."

"I can't help with that," he jokes, turning his gaze to the ceiling.

You laugh under your breath but even to yourself it sounds odd.

"Do you think you'd ever kiss me?" you utter eventually.

He doesn't answer for a while. Your heart races fast enough that it's all you can hear, like the wind rushing in your ears.

"Is that what you want?"

"I want my first kiss to be a good one."

"And you think it would be, with me?"

"You said to keep it for someone I actually like."

He takes your wrist into a kind hand. Calluses slide over your skin. "I meant someone you have the hots for, babe."

Dangerous territory. Wary to admit anything else, you try to take his rejection with grace. "It's okay if you don't want to. Was just… wondering," you murmur.

He strokes your wrist. "I'll kiss you if you want me to."

"No, I-" You laugh, all nerves and too much blood. "I don't want a pity kiss, Eddie."

"Who said anything about pity?" he says, voice quiet as yours had been and harbouring much less panic.

He pulls your arm like he's encouraging you toward him and you hiss. His grip slackens. "Sorry, I should've-"

"It aches, that's all," you say.

Understanding lightens his eyes. Honey melting into a woody brown. "Shit," he mutters, lowering his head. "I'm sorry." He presses his lips to your wrist in a small kiss. "If it's hurting you should've said."

The words come out hot.

"It…" you drift off as he gives you another kiss. Another.

Close-lipped, Eddie dots pecks down your arm until he reaches the crook of your elbow. He slows and stays. You take the initiative and drop your hand into his hair, stroking behind his ear like you wanted to, like you've wanted to for a while, and shiver as the tip of his nose ghosts against sensitive skin.

He draws away, pulls up, his face much closer than you can remember it ever having been before. You try to breathe normally but the look on his face prompts breathlessness, his eyes steady, bordering impassive. His lips hint a soft bemusement.

He raises his chin. "This okay?"

"This," you repeat, fingers curling into his hair.

Eddie moves in, bringing a hand to your face to guide you to one side. His lips bump into yours and you let your eyes close, overwhelmed by this new feeling. There's a tenderness to how he holds you still, worse when he pulls you in, his kiss hot and soft as water.

He slides his fingertips under your sleeve, palm hot to the breadth of your upper arm. His grip tightens incrementally and you try not to pull his hair in response, your knee hitting his thighs as your body seeks him out.

His lips part against yours and you both suck in a breath before he's kissing again. You try your best to follow his lead, though quickly find yourself a laughing mess as he wraps his arm around your shoulder to pull you close.

"What's funny?" he asks.

You honestly don't know. It's a giddy feeling to be this close, more so when he smiles back and tries to start up another round of sweet kisses, his lips pressing to yours insistently. He caresses the length of your back until you sigh, your open mouth an invitation that he sinks into.

You scrunch the hem of his shirt in your hand when he sucks on your top lip, nonplussed.

Eddie pulls away. Your eyes open in tandem.

You're noticeably out of breath and he isn't unaffected, his chest rising and falling almost as quickly as yours. "So," he says, inhale a struggle though he tries to hide it, "how was that? A good one?"

"I don't know. I don't have anything to compare it to."

"No?" he asks, already leaning in for another.

You weave your hand into his hair and he rubs his hand down your arm until your aching wrist throbs under his fingertips, callused by metal strings and somehow impossibly soft.

"I'm sorry about your arm," he murmurs.

You hope your hum against his lips conveys your forgiveness.

When you've been kissed to the point of dizziness you break it to hide in the space under his chin, breathing in his new smells, his skin, his hair. The remnants of soap; a sharp citrus, mandora awash in something heady.

He pushes his arm under your chest and wraps you up. You hug him back, languid in his hold as he starts to rub your back. Broad, sweeping lines. Your shirt pulls up and he smooths it back down.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," you joke lightly, quickly chased by a big yawn.

"If you're tired, you can sleep," he assures you.

"It was a good kiss."

"Tell me all about it in the morning, okay? Sleep, pretty girl."

You're feeling more and more tired with each passing second. Fatigue hangs heavy and his wandering hands make it worse.

"'Nother kiss in the morning?" you ask, burrowing your face into his shoulder.

He takes a little while to answer, turning his lips down into your temple. "Y'always get what you want, don't you?"

With Eddie? Just about.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

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19K notes · View notes

autumnsghosts · 2 years

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