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bitsandbobsandstuff · 4 years

Text

Ink on his heart

Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink.

Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”

Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader

Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.

A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.

In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.

It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.

But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.

That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.

The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.

And then? Then there was after.

After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasn’t concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.

He despised those haircuts.

But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.

When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - he’d dusted off Bucky’s shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.

But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.

“Not bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.”

Such a simple thing, a haircut.

It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself.

Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.

*****

Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.

“Hey, man. Everything okay?”

Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.

“Sure, just - can I get a favor?”

Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.

“Remember back in ’37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?”

Whatever Steve expected, it wasn’t this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.

“That terrified kid gettin’ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?”

Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick.

“Thought he was gonna puke on the guy.”

“Yeah, and didn’t we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?”

“Hey, I stand by that statement!”

“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma would’ve said if we’d come home with tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckles. “God, she’d a skinned me alive.”

“Damn straight,” Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.

Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.

“You know, all these years and I’ve never really - done anything like that,” he admits wistfully. “Gotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?”

Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailor’s face and he relishes the prospect.

Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.

“S’never too late, Buck,” Steve says drowsily. “You can do anything you want.”

Bucky contemplates Steve’s words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.

“So listen, I was thinking -”

*****

For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.

The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Bucky’s door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Bucky’s hands.

“So, I guess, uh - here.”

Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.

—

“Give it back asshole!”

“God dammit Steve, YOU’RE the one who asked me to look!”

“Yeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!”

—

Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.

Steve had cried when Bucky told him.

Because Bucky’s opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.

Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments.

There are no words.

His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.

“I can redo them,” Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.

“The fuck you will. You ain’t touching these,” his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. “This is - they’re perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but that’s one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.

*****

One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steve’s three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.

BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973

“Here we go,” he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.

Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.

Wow.

Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease.

The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through.

Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.

“Are you James?”

The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.

“Shit! Sorry, I’m sorry! Shit, I mean I’m sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didn’t - oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m not usually so - ”

Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.

Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.

“No worries,” she says with a breathtaking smile. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he can’t help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up.

“I’m, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.”

“Hello Bucky,” she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.

“Thanks for meeting me so late, I know it’s after hours.”

“Sure,” she says lightly. “So, what can I do for you?”

This is the tricky part.

“On the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,” he begins carefully. “Scar tissue I mean. Is that right?”

With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.

“Yes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?” she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steve’s portfolio, debating his response.

“Seemed like forever,” he finally says, and it’s the most honest answer he has.

Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.

“Come on back, let’s see what you had in mind.”

Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up.

Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.

“Sorry. First time I’ve been in a shop.”

“That’s okay, there’s lots to see,” she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. “Did you have some ideas already?”

He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.

“I like the colors there, if you think they’re possible?”

“Sure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,” she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is exquisite.”

“I’ll tell my artist. He’s a real diva sometimes.”

“I’d say he’s earned that right,” she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. “The grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?”

Bucky nods eagerly. “Yeah, I love that idea.”

She looks again, examining the intricate design.

“Can you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but they’re complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.”

Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.

“It’s high,” he mutters. “Very - high.”

Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.

“Would you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.”

There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.

“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me too.”

She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.

The third picture appears.

And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.

But nothing happens.

She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.

“Bucky,” she repeats and this time she understands. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late.”

He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.

*****

TATTOO 1: FOREARM

“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London

*****

Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.

The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.

“Hey, Bucky,” her voice is soft.

“Evening,” he says shyly.

“You ready to do this?”

“Could hardly sleep last night,” he confesses with a grin.

Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile.

“You got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?”

He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.

It was a novel of information that must’ve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.

“No questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.”

“Of course,” she says. “So this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since you’re new, we’ll start with short blocks and see how it goes.”

Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.

“Here are the rules. You’re in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. You’re in control. Understand?”

There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.

“Got it,” he whispers.

And with that, they begin.

Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.

The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.

When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, why’re you so stupid all the -

And then - oh.

Huh.

Interesting.

Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.

It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he can’t handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.

But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steve’s design hits him full force.

Holy shit.

How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steve’s bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldier’s fierce veneer.

And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.

Tears inexplicably fill his eyes.

“All okay?”

Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.

“Sorry?”

She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.

“Everything okay?” She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.

“Yes,” he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. “Yes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.”

Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.

“So I guess we’ll keep going?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”

Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.

Born from ash. Alive again.

Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.

“Follow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.”

At that comment, he fidgets.

“Actually, I heal pretty - fast.”

“I assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Let’s just make sure. Does that work?”

Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.

“Okay, that works,” he says.

She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.

“You did great,” she tells him.

Bucky smiles in return. And he doesn’t stop for the next six days.

*****

When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her.

“Evening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.”

“Bucky, thank you. I’ve been craving one all day.” She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.

After a quick check on how he’s healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.

“Is it okay to talk while you work?”

“It is,” she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. “I’m good at listening too. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen.”

Bucky figures that’s a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.

“Do you read much?” He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.

“I love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?”

Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, he’d be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people aren’t interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.

So he begins to talk.

He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumi’s poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading ‘A Fault in our Stars’ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King.

He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.

“It’s nice to hear a man who’s so well read,” she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. “Do you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?”

A favorite? No question.

“Yeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. It’s about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.”

At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.

“Did you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?”

Now there’s an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and he’s already addicted.

The comment tumbles free before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.

“It can be addicting,” she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the bird’s feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. “The right words can make you feel invincible.”

Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.

“She was all of these things and of something more,” he reads aloud.

“‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’ is my favorite book too,” she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.

Bucky always was a sucker for fate.

“That’s - that’s really - I love that,” he finally says instead.

*****

A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.

“This is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bucky raises the papers apologetically.

“No problem,” she says easily. “Let’s keep your ass safe.”

Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. They’re just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately he’s been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.

Like the scene in front of him.

Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.

“Are you left-handed?” she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.

“Oh. Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can switch. Never been a problem.”

At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.”

He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger.

*****

“Well, I think that’s it.”

It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.

He feels his heart lurch.

It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight.

It leaves him breathless.

“God, this is better - fuck, it’s so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I don’t know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.”

Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.

But this?

This.

This is all his.

*****

TATTOO 2: BACK

“Wear your heart on your sleeve in this life.” - Sylvia Plath

*****

“So, uh, how exactly does this work?”

Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.

“Are you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? I’ll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.”

Bucky grimaces. Eventually she’s going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but he’s not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet.

“Uh - let’s do part of the way if that’s okay?”

“That’s okay,” she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.

He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.

“Are you able to - work with it?“

“Absolutely,” she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.

This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.

It’ll be worth it. He can’t wait to show Sam - he’ll get a kick out of this one.

Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.

When she speaks, it startles him.

“What made you decide you wanted a tattoo?”

He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.

“S’random, but back in ’37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckin’ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with ‘MOM’ written in the middle.”

“Ah yes, the ever popular ‘mom’ tribute. I’ve done a few of those,” she says and Bucky grins.

“Well anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didn’t, and then it was - “ he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. “I had lots of years where I didn’t get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someone’s gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that makes perfect sense.”

Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself.

“The whole process, it feels sort of - intimate, doesn’t it?”

He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.

“It is intimate,” she says softly, leaning closer. “It’s almost like you’re - leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin? I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s what it’s always felt like.”

Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.

What a gift. He holds on tight.

*****

It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.

It’s been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. He’s frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he should’ve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.

So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.

The one inside and out.

Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.

“Hey,” he says, cringing when his voice cracks.

“Hey, Buck,” she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with ‘BROOKLYN INK’ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.

“Take all the time you need. No rush.”

Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. He’s been eager for this session all week, he’s sure as hell not ruining it because he can’t get his idiot brain to stop spinning.

When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.

“I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight,” he admits quietly.

“That’s okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,” she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes.

“If it’s okay, I’d - I’d rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - “ he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesn’t need to hear all your shit.

He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.

She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt.

“Just close your eyes and breath. You’re okay.”

Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.

For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.

The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug.

Bucky sinks into her arms.

That morning, the sun begins to shine.

*****

Bucky’s been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.

“Hey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?”

She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.

“Well, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the ‘original canvas’ for my brilliance.”

When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.

“Sounds like a good man,” he says.

“Yeah, he is - he was,” she quietly corrects herself. “He was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didn’t make it home.”

The story hits home like a kick in the face.

Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again.

“It took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didn’t recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldn’t help Mike, but I could still do something.” Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Bucky’s. “I did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.”

Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. “But you should know, what you’re doing for people, it’s incredible. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d be real god damn proud of you.”

A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.

“Thank you Bucky.”

*****

Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.

“All done.”

Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.

“There, have a look.”

Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Bucky’s jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding.

All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.

After all this time, he’s come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But it’s remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.

But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than he’s felt in a long, long time.

*****

TATTOO 3: SHOULDER

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” - Haruki Murakami

*****

“So our last session.”

“Our last session,” he murmurs.

Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“This is a tough one,” she warns, “but I think we can do it in one session. I won’t try and cover them up, it won’t work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?”

Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesn’t matter, but he timidly asks anyway.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. “It won’t hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, you’re in charge, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.

“Do you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.

Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man.

“Does it still hurt?”

She doesn’t want to ask, but needs to know what she’s working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.

“Not really. Aches sometimes, but doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel much there besides some pressure.”

Nodding, she pinches her lip. “I was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?”

“Sure, I’d like that. Any reason for daisies?” Bucky asks curiously.

Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.

“Daisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?”

Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?

Hell yes he likes it.

Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?

“Yeah. That sounds perfect,” he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.

“Okay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.”

This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.

As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.

Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.

And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.

His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I’m okay. You can keep going.”

When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.

But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before she’s done.

And there it is.

Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.

For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “They’re beautiful.”

*****

And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.

Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.

“Promise you’ll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,” she teases and Bucky laughs.

“Told you, I might be a little addicted,” he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. “Soon as I can think of a reason, I’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.”

Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.

Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.

*****

When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.

Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.

“When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What you’ve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.

But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin.

Well, I won’t lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.

So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this won’t seem that forward), would you have dinner with me?

I think there’s another new beginning waiting out there, if you’d like to find it with me.

Yours,

Bucky”

At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.

Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.

A new beginning.

She says yes.

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #SSB2020 #bucky fic #bitsmasterlist #tattoos #tattoo trope

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peterbarnes · 3 years

Text

Past Love

Summary: Set somewhat during TFAWTS time, but doesn’t address the plot. Y/N and Bucky talk about his relationship with Steve months after he goes back to the 50s.

Warnings: heartbreak galore, angst but also fluff, sad!bucky

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: my first fic in a few years, let me know what you think in the comments

“Baby, I’m home!” Y/N calls into her apartment as she closes the wooden door behind her. She makes her way over to the kitchen counter a few feet away, dropping the house keys she holds onto the marble.

She looks around the room, furrowing her eyebrows at the absence of her boyfriend. She usually comes home to a “hi, dollface” from Bucky, as he cups her soft cheeks into his rough hands and smothers her with kisses.

Instead, she’s greeted with silence all except for faded labored breaths. She steps deeper into the apartment, towards her bedroom, and the sound gets louder. Curious, but still cautious, Y/N reaches her bedroom door, the floorboards creaking under her. At that sound, the breaths stop and the air stills.

She pushes the door open carefully to find Bucky at the foot of their shared bed, head in his hands as his fingers grip his dark locks with a fierce tightness. Y/N lets out a sigh of relief now knowing that the noise was just Bucky, but quickly rushes over to him.

“Buck? Lovie?” She whispers as she crouches in front of him. She gently removes his fingers from his hair before he can pull it out. With his hands out of the way, she can finally see his face. His default expression is a frown, with his startling cerulean eyes always seeming haunted, but this time was different. There was none of the anger or guilt that his expressions usually wore, just an intense sadness that startled Y/N to her core.

“What happened?” She asked softly.

Bucky shakes his head before lowering his eyes to the floor, refusing to meet her gaze.

“Sweetheart…” She lifts his chin, rubbing her thumb along his rough and stubbly skin. Now she can really see the tears in his eyes as he desperately tries to hold them back. But it doesn’t work and soon they come flowing down his cheeks. He could fill rivers with the amount of tears he’s cried over the past century.

“Sorry, I-I just-“ his voice broke before he could finish the sentence. So instead he pointed to a worn brown leather book that sat on the bedside table. Y/N recognized it as one of Bucky’s many photo albums from the 40s. She walked over the table and carefully picked up before taking a seat next to her boyfriend on the bed.

“Do you miss it, is that what upsets you? Kind of like being homesick?” She says as she flips through the book. There were pages upon pages of photos of Bucky. And in each and everyone one, he was smiling. Really smiling. She wished she could reach into them and tell his past self to be strong, to be brave for everything he’d have to face soon. The thought nearly ripped her heart in two, so she couldn’t imagine how Bucky must’ve felt seeing these again. She tried to interpret his pain, but at the end of the day there was so much of it and it was so specific to his experiences that she felt like a fool for even trying.

“I miss him.”

There it was. The weight Bucky carried on his shoulders every day. The fact that his best friend abandoned him for another life- a life far away from him. Y/N placed the book beside her and wrapped her arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

“I know. I know how much you cared about him, he was your best friend.”

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows and scrunched up the rest of his face, making it more tense than it already was. He did this a lot in social settings, she noticed, when he was uncomfortable with the direction of a conversation. So she pressed her fingers lightly against his forehead, trying to smooth out the stress lines.

“What is it?” She says gently. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I want to help you.”

Bucky’s eyes are trained on his fingers as they fidget on his lap. “I-I’ve been talking with Dr. Raynor. She thinks that I, maybe, had some romantic feelings for him.”

He draws out the last part slowly in a soft, broken voice before dragging his eyes up to meet hers. He’s afraid of what might meet him- rejection, disgust, shame. He’s no stranger to those type of expressions, he gets them all the time. But not from Y/N, instead she wears a soft smile.

“And how do you feel about it?”

“I...I think she’s right.”

Y/N nods before taking his hands in hers and signaling for him to continue.

“I didn’t enlist like everyone thinks I did- I was drafted. I was gonna stay home with Steve, because he couldn’t go. No matter how much I wanted to be like my father and join the army, I couldn’t leave him behind. It was like I couldn’t even imagine being separated from him.”

Bucky spoke fast, as if he’d been holding this all back for so long and was ready to just burst at the seams.

“And when I was...him, I would have flashbacks to my old life. I didn’t know what they meant, I thought they were dreams, but they were always of him. Of his smile or something kind he did for a stranger. I don’t remember the details, just-just the feeling I got from it. It wasn’t that different from how I feel about you now. He was the only one who could bring me back. Make me Bucky again..” He took a brief pause. “And he left. Because he loved another woman the same way I loved him.”

Suddenly all that relief Bucky initially had at getting all of these thoughts off his chest faded as he realized the weight of his words.

“I loved him...and he left me.”

Y/N never knew Steve Rogers, she met Bucky after he had already left. And, sure, she saw him on TV like everybody else in the world. He was Captain America, she was supposed to love him and idolize him, but in that moment she never wanted to throttle someone more.

Y/N hates that Bucky is in such pain all the time, and she would do anything to take away even the smallest amount of it. So to know that someone willingly chose to add to it, even if it wasn’t their intention filled her with a protective rage she didn’t know she possessed.

But she couldn’t act on that. Steve was gone and Bucky didn’t need her anger, he needed her comfort. So she tightened her arms around him, allowing him to bury his head into the crook of her neck and grip onto her for dear life.

“There’s nothing worse than heartbreak- I’ve had my fair share of it before I met you. The thought of someone not choosing you is the worst feeling in the world. But you can’t let that shut you down.” She slowly lifted his head from her neck so she could look him in the eyes. “There are other people that love you, and we will always choose you first. Me, Sam, hell, even Torres loves you even though you scare the shit out of him.”

Bucky chuckled, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as he rubbed the tears from his eyes.

“I know I could never replace Steve, and I don’t want to. What you and him had can never be replicated. But I swear I will show you every goddamn day how loved and cherished you are. You deserve all the happiness in the world, Bucky, I love you.”

The tears started to flow from his eyes again, but this time it wasn’t out of longing or sadness. It was out of a love that was so all-consuming Bucky didn’t even know how to process it.

“You know, Dr. Raynor said she thought I was still in love with him. And, I’ll always love him, of course I will. But I’m not in love with him. Not the way I am with you, doll”

His rare but infectious smile lit up his face and Y/N couldn’t help but mirror it before pressing tiny kisses to his cheeks, wiping his dried tears away.

“I think I’m gonna be okay,” Bucky states.

His voice doesn’t waver, instead it stands firm and holds a confidence reminiscent of a side of him he thought was long lost. And for the first time in decades, Bucky really believes it. With Y/N by his side, he’s going to be just fine.

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enkelimagnus · 3 years

Text

Cookbook

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1694 words, rated T for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame

Bucky walks home from a long day of paperwork. On his path is a garage sale and a tired woman.

TW: cigarettes, smoking

Read on AO3

Part 2 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series, Part 1 here, Part 2 here

----------------

Bucky smokes on the way home from work.

Everything that brought some sort of pleasure was a currency back in his day. That was why they sent cigarettes to the front. It was easy to make them necessary, when you were under constant fire and needed something to keep you going. Anything that got you out of that hell was traded for, fought for. Some days, it was like nothing mattered more than the next ration shipment and its load of cigarettes, pin-up magazines and six-pence books.

In truth, he doesn’t have the habit he used to have. Hydra wouldn’t have that. Upside of brainwashing, he guesses. And it’s not like it burns the same way anymore. That’s the serum for you.

Still, sometimes, he pulls a cigarette out of its gore-decorated cardboard box, lights it and pretends it has the same effect on him now than it did back in muddy camps or candle-lit living rooms.

The day has been long. No raids, but he’d been stuck behind a desk doing fucking paperwork for the last two weeks-worth of missions. His reports are tired and concise, he hates doing them and he’s pretty sure it’s obvious to anyone who reads what he writes.

He wishes he could smoke then , at that stupid cramped desk, to make the endless signing and reading and writing easier, but you’re not allowed to smoke inside anymore. So he finds himself doodling on other pieces of paper when his mind drifts. His focus is not the best outside of missions.

He used to love writing shit. Steve had his drawings and Bucky had his words, in between everything else. They wrote stories on notes they passed in class in high school. When it got taken by the teacher, no one could understand what they were talking about. He used to make up worlds and think of men walking in space, and he wishes he could tell his 14-year-old self that there are people in the sky, and that he’ll meet them one day. That he’ll see aliens, real ones, and punch them in the face.

He would tell him all the good things about the universe, all the people in it, all about partners in crime and arms like Dugan or Morito or Jones, or Sam or Natasha, how he not only met Howard Stark but was his comrade, how Stark knew him as “Sergeant Barnes” or “Sarge”.

He’d tell him all the good, and none of the bad, none of how his dad would die in two years and he’d be leading the family in shabbos prayers at 16, none of how the people in the world could be cruel for the sake of their own fun, none of how Howard Stark said his name in shock before he punched in his skull with the metal fist that was now his left hand.

Those conversations with his younger self -- barely a man, already smart-mouthed and charming and cocky in the way teenagers are and in the way Bucky had tried to remain for as long as he could until the war drained it out of him -- evaporate in the smoke, in the cold Brooklyn air.

He doesn’t love writing anymore. His mind can’t create the worlds it used to make. He thinks in three languages on a good day, only knows how to write one of those, so whenever he tries, something’s always missing. On a bad day, he can barely string along one sentence, let alone tell a story.

And he’s got no one to tell them to, anyway.

It’s 7pm and the streets are dark and icy. In the last few weeks, the gloves he always wears to hide his left hand have not been an incongruous fashion statement.

It’s January now. There was snow last week, a soft blanket that made him fucking cry out of nowhere when he saw it through the window. It was gone soon, but it was there. And for once, it didn’t fall on Siberia. It fell on Brooklyn again. He never would have thought he’d seen snow on Brooklyn again.

That kind of shit pulls memories out of him like nothing else, and he’s thankful for them. They make it easier and harder at the same time.

He told Doctor Raynor about the shul that’s now a church, about how it was the worst pain he’d felt since he’d last been wiped. How that’s another reason why he doesn’t want to walk into Becky’s retirement home and see her as she is now. The pain of time lost is the worst one to bear.

That, and he’s pretty sure she knows what he’s done. His name and photo have been blasted on every news channel and every social media website after the UN bombing. There’s no way she wouldn’t recognize him, when he looks so similar to the brother she lost.

He has no desire to face his Becky now that he’s a murderer and a weapon of mass destruction, Hydra brainwashing or not. You don’t do that to your little sister.

Besides, she doesn’t need him. She’s got kids and grandkids and great-grandkids, and nephews and nieces and every sort of relative you can imagine except for parents and siblings. She’s taken care of, they visit her often, she doesn’t need the grief he’d bring. He can’t be selfish.

He stops to stab the butt of the cigarette into a wall but his eyes catch something else.

In the cold evening, there’s a few lights set up on the sidewalk, over some makeshift tables threatening to crumble over all the items on it. Everyday items mostly, kitchen stuff, books and a clock and some candlesticks.

At first glance, all of the pricier stuff has been sold already, and there’s a tired-looking middle-aged woman sitting on the stairs of the house behind the tables. She has a look on her face, heavy with emotions muddled so well they’re impossible to tell apart.

“Buy what you want,” she says. Her voice doesn’t carry. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have heard more than a mumble if his hearing wasn’t enhanced. “Pay what you want.”

How many times has she said that today?

He looks down at the items for a moment, the cheap metal candlesticks, some old plates decorated with blue flowers, a still plastic-wrapped, never used, frankly hideous challah cover, and a pile of various books. Most in English, a couple in what he assumes to be Polish, some in Yiddish. His eyes fall on one in particular, a cookbook. It looks old.

“Can I touch?” He asks, pointing at the cookbook.

The woman nods. “Yeah. Nothing very modern in there. Bubbe barely even made this anymore,” she explains. Ah. A bubbe passed and the stuff they can’t keep, they’re selling.

The cookbook’s unremarkable. It’s been used, obviously, there are stains of chocolate-covered fingerprints on some of the dessert pages as he flips through. It seems to be half in English and half in Yiddish. He reaches the page where the publication date would be. He doesn’t even know why he’s checking.

Entire Contents Copyrighted 1949 The B. Manischewitz Co. Printed in the U.S.A.

1949. It’s close enough. Really close enough.

“How much do you want?” He looks up at the mourner.

“I told ya, it’s how much you’re willing to give.”

Bucky makes an annoyed sound at the back of his throat. He rephrases the question. “How much do you want me to give?”

The woman makes eye contact again. She looks deeply surprised by his question. Hesitant, too. She has no idea what to reply.

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, starts going through the cash he has. He barely uses his credit card. Every month, when he gets his money from the army, he immediately withdraws most of it. It’s safer that way, and he knows how much he’s spending.

He counts out 180 dollars. It feels like a ridiculous amount for a cookbook, but the woman’s selling her bubbe’s shit like this, she’s still out at 7pm in January in Brooklyn and Bucky doesn’t have a lot of expenses anyway. He doesn’t really have expensive taste. 18’s a good number too, at least, it used to be, in his day.

“Peace be upon her,” He says quietly, when the woman opens her mouth at the bills he places in her hand. “It’s getting cold, you should go back inside,” he adds, quiet and coaxing, the tone he used to use when the neighbor’s son, Aaron, had a tantrum and sat on the stairs all evening, pretending to be mad at his parents.

Did he know the bubbe in question? Was she one of the kids from Hebrew school? It’s a little too far from his old neighborhood to be sure. He’s not going to ask.

The woman sighs a little, putting the money in her pocket when she realizes he’s not going to take any of it back.

He eyes the tables for a moment. “You need help packing up?”

She hesitates. He gets it, he’s a weird stranger who just bought an old cookbook for 180 dollars, it’s nighttime… He can’t tell her he’s not a serial killer, because he is one, and there’s going to be a moment where she remembers where she’s seen his face before. There usually is.

He holds his hands up, seemingly showing he’s harmless. It’s hilarious, really, because he’s never harmless. But contrary to Steve, he’s not massive. He’s more on the lean side of things, especially with his new arm.

“No pressure.”

She hesitates still, but he sees the exhaustion working away at her until she nods. The cookbook is put to the side and he helps her pack up the tables and the remaining things. He is careful not to display too much strength, and he’s also careful to keep his face in a neutral but positive sort of mask. His resting expression is meaner than needed.

He comes home much later than he thought he would, but he’s got a cookbook and some ideas of how to occupy his amnesia-riddled nights.

#jewish bucky series #bucky barnes #marvel #fic #mine

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oldsoldierr · 4 years

Text

The Carnation ~ Part 6

summary: the media always told you that the famous art critic bucky barnes is an arrogant, rude playboy and you agree, but something still draws you to him. is there a deeper reason to why he acts the way he does or is he the class A jackass you first met?

art critic!bucky x artist!reader

word count: 1.7k

series masterlist

The sound of a gun cocking snapped him back to reality. A low, sinister voice followed.

“Hey, James. How’ve you been?”

It was husky and haunting. Bucky felt the cold metal of the gun muzzle against the back of his head. He slowly put up his hands.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he growled. He heard an apathetic chuckle behind him.

“Well I do.” he felt Brock get closer to him.

“You’re gonna do what I want and you’re going to like it,” he snickered.

“Just kill me already. I’m not going to play your game,” Bucky retorted aggressively.

“Oh I think you will.” The brunette could hear the smile in Brock’s voice. He heard some shuffling in the back seat before a paper was slipped into his lap, face down.

“Flip it over.” Brock shoved the gun harder into Bucky’s skull. He begrudgingly turned it over. He regretted it immediately.

There, on the page was a picture of his sister in her kitchen. Bucky moved to cover his mouth. She was smiling blissfully, with no clue she was being photographed. Brock could shoot him, but he wouldn’t allow him to touch his sister.

“Why are you doing this?” he breathed. He knew Brock’s answer.

“I’m not letting you ruin my reputation. I worked hard to get where I am, and you’re not going to try anything. Now, you can take my offer. Or,” Brock equipped a faux sorry voice. “You can kill your lil’, poor, baby Becca. Your move Barnes.” Bucky took a sharp breath.

“What do you want?” The brunette looked into the rear view mirror to Brock grinning like a maniac.

“You’ve got a lot of questions for a dead man.” He leaned in close. Bucky could feel the heat from his ex-manager on his ear.

“I have only one request.”

Brock continued in a menacing whisper. With every word he said Bucky felt like he was losing more and more oxygen. The simple sentence felt as if it was an eternity. When Brock finally pulled away, he only said six words.

“You’ve got a week. Bye now.” he opened the car door, and disappeared into the night.

It was as if he was never there, but the single Polaroid of his sister taunted him, reminding him this wasn’t just a nightmare. Bucky sat completely alone, soaking wet, with not much more than thousands of strings of thoughts choking the air out of him.

He just wouldn’t accomplish Brock’s request. But the thought of his family’s blood on his hands was so much stronger. How did he get into this shit? He let his forehead fall onto the steering wheel in defeat.

~~~

On the first couple days after, Bucky had been confident he could avoid any of the outcomes. There had got to be, there HAS to be, there always is. But days kept going by, faster than he could fight. His hope for an easy solution, or pretty much any solution, dwindled and was diminished, like a small, pathetic flame.

Before he knew it, it was the morning of the seventh day since that night. Bucky had slaved for hours trying to find some way, some loophole, out of this but he just couldn’t find one. The deadline was approaching quickly and he didn’t have much of a choice.

He sat in his dim living room mulling over his very limited options. Bucky looked like a wreck. His hair was greasy and tangled, his eyes were sunken and dark, he looked like he could’ve just gotten out of a cave he’d lived in for 100 years. He hadn’t been able to get any sleep for three consecutive days.

He had done nothing but think but he still came out empty handed. There was nothing he could do.

Bucky would have to do what Brock wanted. He put his face in his palms as a sob wracked his body. He shuddered in silent tears. They slid off his cheeks and landed on his carpet.

Bucky would have rather been dead than be him at this instant. No matter what he did, someone would die tomorrow. Everything felt heavy.

All he ever wanted was to be an art critic, his dream job since he discovered it. He supposed this was the price. Everything had seemed so perfect, too perfect. He should’ve know. Bucky laughed without humor and took a sip of beer from the bottle. He couldn’t have imagined being in this situation in his worst nightmare. Yet he was still here.

That was Bucky’s last thought before he collapsed onto his couch and blacked out almost instantly.

When he regained consciousness it was the evening. Bucky checked his watch. It was 10:43 pm. Only a little more than one hour until Becca would be killed. It was a ticking time bomb with no way to disable it.

He had a decision to make. In the end, there was only one choice. He had known it all along but it was still endlessly painful. Even to think about it made him feel like his heart was getting cut out.

“I guess it’s time,” The exhausted looking man mumbled. Life was far too long.

He reached for a single pistol placed at the end of the clear glass coffee table. The last resort. Bucky grasped it with a shaky breath and slid on a black leather jacket.

He walked out of the apartment. He got in his car and began driving. He drove as slowly as possible. Maybe that would delay what was about to happen.

He tried to admire the outside world, one he might never see after this. Every tree, bug, person, building. The things he should’ve appreciated more. His destination was now only a little more than five minutes away. Bucky could barely breathe. His arms felt numb.

Four minutes.

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

One minute.

He saw the building coming up. The pit in his stomach grew. Bucky swallowed. If he had stood up at that moment his knees would have buckled. He felt like he was going to pass out but pulled up to the building anyways. He didn’t even bother to park, he just left it there in the middle of the parking lot and climbed out.

He padded his way to the front door. It was locked but Steve had given him a copy of the key before he left. Bucky inserted the key and stepped inside.

The halls were echo-y but not too large. What was though, was the staircase. It seemed to go on forever. Or maybe that was just what it felt like at the time.

With a huff Bucky started his way up. His steps felt heavy. Each one boomed of a man who didn’t have any more strength left in him. He passed two floors, barely registering it. All he knew was what would happen at the third one. He was there the next minute. The adrenaline was catching up to him.

Down the hall he saw the one person he wished to avoid as long as possible. You had come home for a quick change of clothes before leaving for some food. You came out of your apartment and fiddled with your keys a little before locking your door.

You went to keep walking but instead you saw a certain brunette man who had missed his usual visits to the art studio. You figured it was because you had slept with Sam. You still felt guilty. You had been trying to contact him and explain but he never picked up or responded to any of your many texts.

This seemed like the chance you’d been needing to make amends. You were a tad suspicious of why he’d come to your place, or how he even got in but you brushed it off.

As you got closer to him you realized how terrible he looked. He could’ve been a walking corpse. His eyes were swollen and red like he had been crying.

“Bucky!” you ran towards him. “Are you okay? Gosh, come here--” You stopped dead in your tracks.

Bucky had pulled out a gun from his pocket and was pointing it straight at you. You felt all your air leave your lungs. A silence rang through the hall.

“...Bucky?” you breathed. Your confusion laid out on your face. The man in front of you looked as if he might fall apart at any moment.

“S-stay where you are!” He threatened, tears brimming from his eyes. You were still processing what was happening.

“What are you doing?” you asked, fear creeping into your voice. He attempted a smile. It wasn’t ill intended though, it was one of those charming lop-sided grins that you liked, but this one felt different than the rest.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, full of remorse, ignoring your question.

“He-he said he’d kill my sister if I didn’t--” He took a breath. You took the opportunity to step toward him hesitantly.

“Bucky, we can figure this out, just please put the gun down.” Your words only made him hold on harder to the handle. He cocked the gun.

“Don’t get any closer to me.” He told you. His eyes were sad and mournful. He looked broken.

“Please,” he begged.

“Okay,” you held eye contact with him. “I won’t.”

He interrupted, “I never meant for you to get swept up into this, I--I just wanted to have a normal life for a little bit, but--” his lip trembled. “--but I shouldn’t have. Now you're gonna hurt for it and I--I’m so sorry. You’re an amazing person, you always figured out a way to make me laugh and--god--your talent, it’s unbelievable. And I know it doesn’t mean much now but, I just needed you to know that you have been the best part of my life--for a while now--and I’m so lucky to have found you. Visit me in hell, if you get the chance.” Bucky breathed out a chuckle.

“D--don’t talk to me as if this is goodbye. We can still change this, we’ll find a way!” you searched his face for anything that could tell you that this was just some mean spirited joke, but it wasn’t there.

Something else seemed to change in his face though you couldn’t quite place it. Bucky’s finger quivered on the trigger, a single twitch away from firing. He gave you an earnest, reassuring look that was contrary to the rest of his body.

With a shaky breath he continued. “I love you.”

He pulled the trigger.

only 2 more chapters(probably)! thank you for the support on my first series! i’m really bored so if anyone wants to hit me up feel free! 💕💕💕

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@the-fifth-marauder101

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rynhaswritersblock · 4 years

Text

peter! from physics!

a/n: this is gonna be one of those shitty fics where y/n and peter are so oblivious that they can't recognize each other's voice I'M SORRY!! also cindy moon is in this but she DOES NOT have powers for this imagine :/ srry

summary: y/n can't be controlled by wallets, peter parker gets crushes too easily, and crime in new york is abnormally low

warnings: the usual cussing, also the usual fluff. in conclusion i write the same shit every time LMAO

+ + +

"hey!" you yell, hands crossed over your chest as you look over the edge of the building, the blue and red figure jumping as he webs a perp to the wall. he looks up at you, the wide white eyes of his mask almost making you laugh as they squint. "aren't you stark's boy?"

"huh?"

the sound of a web latching onto the concrete next to you makes you flinch. spider-man flips himself onto the rooftop next to you, standing and facing you.

"you. stark. didn't he just recruit you?"

"how'd you know?"

his voice is light and incredibly boyish. he stares at you, trying to figure you out.

"well, you're not wearing pajamas anymore," you shrug, traces of humor in your words.

"yeah," the boy nods, "that makes sense."

a moment of silence fills the space between you, the sounds of traffic and people walking filling the background. you turn, sitting on the edge of the roof and dangling your legs. peter stands there for a second, frozen, feeling completely awkward and unsure of what to do.

"so, uh, how long have you been-"

"shadow?"

"yeah," he mutters, sitting beside you.

"almost a year, now," you breathe. the city-scape surrounding the two of you was quite astonishing, actually. all of your outside, mid-western family never understood your parents for moving out to new york, which is, in their words, "the big CRAPple." you don't care, though. it's home.

"cool," the hero mutters under his breath, repeating the word quietly, making you smile underneath the mask.

"you?"

"huh?" the large white eyes gaze at you, his head tilted slightly. "oh. bit over half a year, i think."

"and stark already pulled you in, huh."

the words confuse peter. was that an insult, somehow? were you jealous? the boy certainly thought you were much cooler than him-- energy and light manipulation seemed much more interesting to him than being a human spider.

"what do you-"

"shit," you seethe, head turned away from the boy in red and blue and instead toward the sound of sirens. "gotta go!"

peter's stuck in place as he watches your silhouette flip and twist as you fall off the ledge, white wisps of energy circulating around you as you use your powers to break the fall.

"jeez," he mutters in astonishment.

he stays on the ledge for a minute, in his traditional spider stance, ready to swing over and help you, if needed. yet, something about the way you immediately brought down the robber made him feel like he was okay to go.

it wasn't a long way to headquarters. ever since his recruitment, tony stark had been, as peter put it, "on his ass." every time he went patrolling, he'd have to go to headquarters, give a report, and get a checkup on his suit.

'protocol,' as tony put it.

"identification?" FRIDAY asks.

"it's me, fri."

"welcome, peter."

the doors open and peter walks in, sighing as he rips off his mask. sam, walking by, jumps and steps back, eyes wide and sparkling with mischief.

"shit! bucky, there's a spider in here!"

"get over it you cowar- oh, hey, pete!" bucky smiles and gives peter's messy curls a quick ruffle. "what's with the shit-eating grin?"

the grin drops from peter's face. how long was that there?

"oh, nothing, i, uh, need to see mr. stark," he clears his throat, giving an awkward nod before walking off in the direction of the lab.

"nothing my ass," sam mutters, taking a bite of fruity pebbles out of bucky's bowl.

bucky gasps. "hey!"

+ + +

"hey, mr. stark," peter chimes, tossing his mask on the nearest table. "let's get this over with."

"why such a rush all the time, pete?" the man asks, raising his brows at the boy. "you're fifteen, you have all the time in the-"

"sixteen, actually."

tony gives him a look and scoffs. "whatever."

the two follow the ordinary routine: plug the suit into FRIDAY's system, get it scanned, and, of course, debate star wars and physics theories in the meantime.

"i'm telling you, han sacrificed himself."

"yeah," peter huffs, "said the one who didn't see it coming when darth vader was revealed to be luke's father."

"well at least i'm not a total nerd."

"look around! you have an entire lab dedicated to nerd projects and superhero stuff. the complete epitome of being a total nerd."

tony lets out a defeated breath, subtle smile on his face as he watches the footage from peter's suit upload to the system and appear through the hologram. the grin drops as he focuses on the video, zooming in.

"you were with shadow?"

"oh, yeah!" peter says, perking up, the grin returning to his face. "what's the deal with her, by the way? she-"

"single? don't be a simp, pete."

peter's eyes widen and he looks at the man. "i'm not even gonna... no- uh- okay. what i was gonna say is: she mentioned you and was like 'stark already pulled you in, huh' and it was kinda weird, like she was.. i don't know, salty about it, or something."

a laugh sounds out from tony. "she turned me down, kid."

peter's brows furrow. "turned you- what?"

"i'd asked her to join the team a few months after she'd first started out- same timeline as you, actually- but she declined. had this whole 'ms. independent' thing going on. quite a shame, actually, i set out a room for her and everything."

well if that didn't slightly strike a chord with peter. he didn't realize that he wasn't the only teenager tony'd tried to recruit. he squints at the ground for a second, wrapping his head around all of the new information.

"wait, if she didn't accept the offer, then how is her suit-"

"she was independent enough to turn me down, kid, don't you think she's capable of using a sewing machine?"

+ + +

"cindy, shut up," you seethe, failing at your attempt not to laugh.

"ms. warren doesn't care and we already know this stuff," she giggles quietly, doodling on your notebook. a horrid laugh bubbles from your throat, your attempt to be quiet turning it into a weird noise that only furthers your laughter.

nonetheless, and much to your relief, ms. warren continues with the lesson, babbling about gravity pendulums.

"okay, so how do we calculate linear acceleration between points a and b?" the woman asks.

you knew the answer. didn't feel like speaking, though. cindy simply mutters the answer under her breath and you nod, resting your chin on your hand.

"flash."

"it's the product of sine of the angle and gravity divided by the mass," the boy states, looking over at your table and winking at the two of you. you stick your tongue out at him.

"nope," ms. warren replies, making you and cindy snicker and raise your eyebrows, pouting playfully at the boy's upset expression.

"peter, you still with us?"

you lean back in your seat, catching a glimpse of the boy. somehow, in a school filled with nerds, peter parker managed to get himself shoved to the lower end of the social ladder. he was constantly donned in button-ups, sweaters, and graphic tees bearing geeky science puns. moreover, up until a few months ago, there was a pair of slightly-too-large glasses thrown into the mix.

not that it was a bad thing, though. out of all the boys with that same stereotype, peter parker most definitely pulled it off best. he was quiet, kind, incredibly smart, and, not to mention, hot as hell.

at least in your opinion.

"uh... uh," peter mutters, scrambling to close the laptop sitting in front of him, giving you a better view of his face. "ye- yeah."

you adjust yourself in your seat, facing forwards once again and burying your head in your arms. being single all your life certainly makes your mind drift and heart swell at the sight of cute boys.

"uh... mass cancels out, so it's just gravity times sine."

cindy snickers at you and your overwhelmed state. you sit up, glaring at her and her all-too-knowing self before glancing back at the boy, just in time to miss his glance over at you.

ms. warren nods. "right. see, flash, being the fastest isn't always the best if you are wrong."

your laugh mixes in with the sound of your classmates, flash's face turning a deep shade of red. he turns around, facing peter, mouthing something to the boy that makes his eyes widen. you frown and sigh, refocusing on the lesson, or- in all actuality- the drawing of ms. warren that cindy doodled on your paper.

rather than reopening up his laptop, peter opts for resting his head on his arms, eyes landing on you for a few seconds. huddling with cindy moon, laughing quietly over your notebook, pencils twisting through the air; what peter assumed to be funny drawings of flash.

it wasn't his fault you'd left your notebook open as he walked by a few weeks ago, exposing random doodles of a few classmates (unbeknownst to peter, the sketch of him was on the next page).

while the boy usually spent his class time people-observing, he'd become more keen on watching you. it wasn't a weird thing, though. it was peter parker, bored in a class he was a bit too smart for, looking for something to distract himself. so what if that something was a pretty girl?

the bell rung, a sigh of relief falling from peters lips. everyone stood up, grabbing their bags, crowd slowly filtering out of the door and into the busy hallway. you say bye to cindy, who had rehearsal and claimed that "abraham will literally shoot me if i'm not there in time for warm-ups."

"shit," you mutter as you stumble, looking behind you. "sorry."

"it-" peter's voice gets caught in his throat. his wide eyes meet yours and your cheeks burn, the roses blooming all over them making you even more flustered. "it's, um, it's okay, don't worry about-"

you nod, struggling to crane your neck to look at him in the crowd of bustling teenagers. sucking in a breath, you manage to squeeze through the doorway, composing yourself and turning to look at peter. he wasn't there.

your eyes shut tight and you cringe, taking a deep breath and making your way out of the school doors.

+ + +

"why'd you do it?"

the voice makes you jump. a ball of light ignites from your palm as you turn your head to see a figure in red and blue. a breath of relief leaves your lungs and the ball sparks out, the eyes of spider-man's mask wide. "do what now?"

"whoa- uh, why'd you turn mr. stark down?" he asks, walking up to you. you scoot over, letting him sit next to you, the smooth material of his suit skimming yours.

no wonder spider-man found you so quickly; you spend every night up here.

"you think i wanna be tied down by a rich man? one who would, probably, make me follow certain stupid rules and reprimand me for not handling a situation the way he wanted it to be handled?"

"dang," he mutters, "way to make me feel bad about my decisions."

a laugh bubbles out of your throat, shortly followed by a gasp. "way to make me sound like him!"

the laugh the sounds out from the boy makes your heart flutter. it was boyish and light, confirming your suspicions of his age.

spider-man was definitely a teenager.

"he's not that bad, you know," peter offers, getting a huff from you in reply. "he just cares a lot. doesn't want me or anyone getting in trouble because of the way they handled a situation."

"how are you supposed to learn anything if you have a safety blanket wrapped around you at all times?"

peter froze, the large, white eyes of his mask blown wide. you made a good point.

there was something about you that was so intriguing. the boldness of your actions and the outward independence you carried with you was something that pulled peter in, that made him want to be around someone so unafraid of life's consequences.

he clears his throat. "so, uh, what school do you go to?"

"bold of you to assume i go to school."

you feel the hero freeze next to you, quite obviously caught off guard. peter was so sure you were his age.

"i'm kidding. i go to school, but there's no way in hell i'm telling you that," you sigh. he nodded.

identity was important.

the sound of traffic shuffles peacefully beneath you. you look over at the boy, tapping playfully on his head. "what's on that brain of yours, spider-boy?"

"uh, probably the fact that you continue to get my name wrong."

you laugh. "pretty sure i've got it right."

"whatever," peter scoffs, smile hidden behind the mask. he shakes his head and looks around. "sucks that i can't give you a name like that. what am i supposed to say, silhouette? no light girl? that's boring."

"no light girl, hmm. may just have to change my name for that one," you hum. the boy picks up on your tone and lets out that same laugh that makes your stomach twist.

you were starting to warm up to this boy.

"well, i gotta, uh," peter sighs.

you cock your head at the boy in red and blue, eyebrows raised. he looks at you.

"mr. stark wants me to check in every time i finish patrolling. says it's 'protocol.'"

"you never cease to prove my point, spider-man."

he jumps up, smiling brightly underneath his mask. "you said spider-man!"

"and i already regret it," you reply, looking up and him and saluting as he laughs and jumps off the ledge, swinging between the buildings and towards avengers headquarters.

a sigh falls from your lips as you pull out your phone, pulling up cindy's contact.

y/n/n i think i'm cheating on my unofficial occasional infatuation for peter parker

cindy lou who y/n, you do this every week ...who is it though

y/n/n a boy in red and blue

cindy lou who what the- are you telling me you have a crush on captain america he's like a hundred years old oh my god wait don't tell me it's spider-man

y/n/n ...

cindy lou who no bro like michelle said she saw spider-man just outside of school right after it ended one day

y/n/n wait what

cindy lou who yeah she thinks he goes to midtown

"holy shit," you mutter, stuffing your phone in your pocket.

now you really cared about his identity.

+ + +

"hey guys!" peter chirps, pulling off his mask and shaking his hair out with a smile.

"somebody's happy," natasha muses.

"what? no, it's nothing," he shakes his head. tony walks in, smirk pulling at his lips as he nudges the boy. "what?"

"kid had his first interaction with the girl."

"wait, the girl? as in..." rhodey trails off, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

"holy shit, the kid met shadow!" bucky exclaims, bright grin on his face as he slaps the counter and laughs. "oh my god!"

a series of laughs rings through the team as peter looks at all of them in a hurried confusion. "wait, all of you know her?"

"enough to know why you're in love with her," scott throws in, munching on his sub.

"i'm not in love with her!"

tony claps his back. "only a matter of time, kid. let's get you hooked up."

the two begin walking towards the lab.

"we'll be watching that footage, pete!" sam yells, snickering. "we got ourselves a rom-com."

peter glances back at the group as tony punches in the code, glass doors sliding apart to let the two in. "what's their deal?"

"more like what's yours," tony smirks, plugging peter's suit in. "ever since your first interaction with her, you keep running in here with that goddamn giddy smile."

peter sputters. "well- uh, am i, like, not allowed to have a friend? i can be smiley after making a friend."

"yeah, kid, but this is a girl. and you're peter."

the boy is silent; he had a point. curse you, tony.

"look, pete, if you want her, go get her. i think you two'd be cute. plus, you've probably got a better chance of coaxing her here than i do," tony suggests.

peter gives him a look.

"what? she'd be a great asset to the team, and her powers are unlike any of ours."

"i know, right?!" peter blurts in a rush of excitement, smile tugging at his lips before it falters slightly. "okay, yeah, i see what you mean, now."

+ + +

you slide into your seat, ignoring the smirk pulling at cindy's face as you grab your physics notebook.

"sooo," she drawls, smirking, "let me see the ring! is it red and blue, or-"

"cindy, i will make the neurons firing in your brain short circuit if you say one more-"

"jesus!" she laughs and holds her hands up in surrender. "wait, you can do that?"

you smile, leaning back in your seat as ms. warren begins her lecture over trajectories, doodles of her drawing graphs on the board fluttering out of your pen and out onto your notes. you'd already read this chapter of the textbook; listening was no use.

instead, you let your mind (and eyes) drift to peter parker. as per usual, his head was buried behind the screen of his laptop, only a few rogue curls peeking out. a sigh falls from your lips as you turn your head back towards the board, glancing at the diagrams before hunching over your notebook, doodling spider-man's figure swinging through buildings, just as he had in front of you last night. you close the journal before cindy gets the chance to sneak a peek.

you let your head fall back, face towards the ceiling. a light draft hits you and you sigh.

there was no way spider-man didn't go to midtown.

unless he was just some sick perv who just hung around there after school. but you were sure that wasn't the case.

after another thirty minutes of zoning out, the bell rings, making you flinch out of your daydream and get up, weaving your way through the end-of-day crowd and out into the new york air. ducking into an alley, you quickly manipulate the light waves surrounding you, deeming you invisible. within a minute or so, you're suited up and determined to catch the hero.

and it didn't take much time.

as soon as you walk out from the alley, spider-man is doing the same, jogging out from another alley just diagonal from you across the street. a smile tugs at your mouth and you dart up into the air, landing swiftly onto your rooftop, turning on your crime radar.

thirty minutes later, only having had to hunt down a shoplifter and return the stolen objects, you're laying on the rooftop, physics notebook out as you read and take notes over the next chapter. your ribs start to slightly ache as you curve your body up, stomach pressing against the concrete.

curse me for forgetting a blanket.

"i'm starting to think you live up here."

without looking, you stick an arm out and shoot a quick ball of light at the hero, making sure it just barely skims past his shoulder.

"hey! what was that for?" he whines.

"fun," you look up, eyes shining at him brightly. his playful sigh is muffled through the mask, but it makes you smile even more as he flops down next to you, stretching out on his stomach.

"ooh, physics," he murmurs, scooting closer and looking at the materials. peter's eyes widen when he recognizes the textbook: the same one he has. he clears his throat.

"what?"

"hmm? nothing," he murmurs, glad his flustered expression is masked. his eyes drift along your notes and land on a doodle of a figure swinging through tall buildings. "wait, you drew me?"

shit.

the air catches in your throat as he scoots even closer, shoulder pressing against you as he pulls the notebook towards him, the large white eyes of his suit squinting at the small drawing. a flutter is sent through your stomach.

"no, that's captain america. silly goose."

he turns his head towards you.

"of course it's you, who else would it be," you joke, tone slightly off, embarrassed and wishing you'd been less clumsy.

of course he was going to see that.

peter feels warm and gets a feeling of adoration towards you. he could tell you were embarrassed; he'd cracked you, even for just a second. the boy almost wished you could see the bright smile his mask was hiding.

"so, um," he blurts, sitting up. "let's, uh, get to know each other...?"

you snort, shaking your head and sitting up so that you're next to him, looking out at the surrounding buildings. "very smooth, spider-man."

"i try."

the two of you begin darting questions back and forth. what's your favorite color? y/f/c. what about his? blue. favorite movie? y/f/m. his? revenge of the sith. favorite song, type of food, hobbies- you name it. and, it was actually kind of fun. it was a friendship in which you got to appreciate each other for your personalities, not for your looks. although, peter did find your eyes quite hypnotizing.

"do you have a boyfriend?"

what?

your eyes widen and you suck in a sharp breath. "that was-"

"abrupt, shit, i'm sorry," he breathes, scratching the back of his neck. the fact that your faces were covered helped a little, but it almost felt more awkward, nonetheless. he could see your eyebrows scrunched together and he cringed. "i was just, um, curious, i guess."

"well, no, spider-man. i don't have a boyfriend."

his heart swells. "oh, uh, nice, i guess."

"nice," you humph. "yeah. uh, i'm guessing you probably have a-"

"definitely not," he laughs, shaking his head. the conversation as a whole felt weird, but the boy was smiling under the mask.

it was very peter parker of him to build a crush in such a short amount of time.

+ + +

"cindy," you whisper, sliding into your seat, "spider-man saw my sketch yesterday."

"what?" she turns her head to you, eyes wide and shining with excitement.

"i was doing physics homework on the roof i usually hang out at and he snuck up on me."

she gives you a mischievous grin. you scoff, light grin tugging at the corners of your mouth, pen making contact with the paper as you start on another sketch of spider-man.

you'd be more careful to hide your notes next time.

as much as he resented himself for it, it became routine for peter to sit down, pull out his notes, then ignore the lesson and stare at you instead. he couldn't help it. but as he watched you today, his brain didn't slip into its usual state of zoning out.

instead, it was making connections.

his eyes got wide at his sudden revelation, darting all over the place to make sure no one was paying attention. he pulls out his phone, starting up his drone and watching carefully as it flies over to you, hovering just close enough to see while still staying discreet.

and there it was.

the view from the drone plays on his screen, the oh-so-familiar doodle making peter's breathing stop. he gulps, quickly guiding the drone back into his backpack, leaning back and resting his eyes on you with an exasperated sigh.

holy shit.

+ + +

"not enough crime in queens, huh?"

he jumps, turning around. "where were you? you're always here before me."

"thought i'd turn the tables," you shrug.

peter nods, playing with his fingers. you'd been on his mind all day, head spinning as he tried to wrap his brain around the fact that you, his crush, were the independent hero that never ceased to amaze him. "can i take off your mask?"

spider-man and his unruly mouth.

"um, why?" you laugh nervously, reaching up to fiddle with the fabric that covered the lower half of your face.

"because we're friends, and i trust you," he shrugs, muttering. "and i have a bit of a suspicion."

you suck in a breath. it takes a moment for you to think it through, but it lines up. you were both doing the same job, so what was the fault in knowing what each other looked like? "i mean, i guess. but only if i can take off yours."

he nods, stepping towards you. you reach your hands out simultaneously, eyes sparkling at him out of both nervousness and excitement. you nod and feel the fabric, your safety blanket, slip off of your face.

"i knew it!" the boy yells, jumping back and pumping a fist excitedly.

wild curls, chocolate eyes, gentle smile.

peter parker.

"holy shit, peter! from physics!" you yelp, slapping a hand to your mouth before pulling it away, feeling as though you'd hidden your face for long enough. "wait, you knew?"

"your drawing, in physics. you were drawing in your notebook so i got curious and flew my drone over, then i saw it."

"you were watching me?" you ask, smiling.

peter's cheeks got red, and it was then that it really settled in. spider-man was peter parker. the cute, intelligent boy from physics. the one with puppy eyes and nerdy t-shirts.

"i mean, like, maybe," he looks down, flustered.

"you're cuter than you realize, parker."

the boy raises his head, confused look painted on his face. "did you just-"

you lean up and plant a light kiss on his cheek. peter feels his face get hot as you turn away, looking back to give him a wink before moving to step off the ledge.

the pull of a web stops you.

peter's lips are planted on yours, soft and quick, gentle and unsure. you stumble back, gulping. "peter, you-"

"i guess hanging out with you gave me a bit more confidence," he shrugs, crooked grin on his lips. a laugh leaves your lungs and you lean your head against his shoulder.

the sound of a siren wailing in the distance makes you flinch.

"last one there owes the other a kiss!" peter yells, tugging on his mask and jumping. you sputter before pulling up your mask as well, jumping off and flying next to him.

"you do realize that it works out in your favor no matter what?"

"yup!"

+ + +

rights for cindy moon because she doesn't get enough credit in fics even though she was in homecoming 0_0

#peter parker #tom holland #peter parker imagines #marvel #mcu #spiderman #peter parker x reader #spiderman x reader #fanfic #fluff #writing #peter #parker #thomas holland

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nade2308 · 5 years

Text

I don’t wanna live to waste another day

A/N: It’s completed. Finally! And I am proud and happy to present you with my new fic.

First of all I’d like to thank @stanclub for arranging this challenge on Tumblr, and again as the first time I wrote a fic for one of their challenges, it was a pleasure and I can’t say my thanks enough times because I challenged myself again per se. I hope you like this.

Then thanks go to my partner in crime and lab rat, @82tweeder. If it wasn’t for her, I probably wouldn’t be finished my story or posting for that matter. She was luckily able to go through the story today and she was of great help. Thank you babe. For cheering me and reading through it. It means a lot.

I’d also like to thank @lisamott9 that also cheered me on when I told her about this challenge and the fic. She had so many nice words to say about me and my writing that pushed me to move on from where I was on Tuesday and things just kind of picked themselves up yesterday and today. So, thank you girl, you know how much I appreciate your input. And now I can work on that other story we discussed (maybe I need a little bit of inspiration first, but I’m sure I can tackle that).

And last, thanks to delighted who was kind enough to suggest a few ideas as to where I can go with my story. Thank you hon for one of those suggestions made it in the fic and I was very happy to put it there.

And without further ado, let’s proceed with the story.

Title: I don’t wanna live to waste another day (from “Breaking Inside” by Shinedown).

Written for: @stanclub 2.5k followers writing challenge.

Prompt: Friends to lovers: I keep drawing you in my sketchbook because I’ve always found you to be beautiful and I’m longing to tell you how I feel, but one day you find it and you have questions. With Stucky.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes

Other characters: Sam Wilson (mentioned), Tony Stark (mentioned), Peggy Carter (mentioned), Sharon Carter (mentioned), Brock Rumlow (mentioned), Winifred Barnes (mentioned), George Barnes (mentioned), Rebecca Barnes (mentioned), Margaret, Annie, Bart and the other students in Steve’s art class.

It was on days like these that Bucky resented everything. It was almost a year since the event that turned his life upside down and it still haunted him. On days like these, he cleaned the place excessively, trying to come to terms with himself. Bad days were few and far these days, but still often that they worried Steve to no end.

Steve was Bucky's best friend since childhood, and honestly Bucky couldn't even remember when they met first, only that when he set his eyes on the little blond ball of fury, Bucky knew that it was the right decision to stand up for him.

Last night he had a nightmare that Steve was the one that suffered in the mass shooting instead of Bucky but he died on scene. Bucky woke up to Steve yelling his name and trying to wipe the tears off Bucky's face. Bucky sobbed uncontrollably once he realized it was just a bad dream and that Steve was next to him, alive and well.

Steve decided that Bucky needed a day off work so he rang Tony who, besides his eccentric and obnoxious self, was understanding enough that he let ‘Buckaroo’ as he liked to call Bucky, have that day off and get well again.

Bucky fell asleep in Steve's embrace around 5 am and slept through the better part of the day. When he woke up, Steve was still there and only with Bucky insisting he go to class did Steve leave him alone.

Bucky cleaned the kitchen with such fierce determination that by the end of his cleaning spree there was not one thing that was out of the ordinary. He sighed.

Now what?

Bucky wished he didn't insist Steve going on with his life as normal today, because Bucky didn't dare admit to himself that he needed Steve at that moment. Plus if Steve was home, they'd probably binge watch one of those new TV shows on Netflix and eat pizza, and Bucky would drink cola while Steve would down a beer. It was probably just another excuse because Bucky was really hyped up on the new TV show they did on Ted Bundy. All of his friends teased him and acted like they were scared that Bucky would kill them in their sleep one day, because of his interest on serial killers. Steve blamed Bucky's propensity on catching the “Criminal Minds” fever back when they were still in high school. Now almost 10 years later, Bucky was still addicted to the show and it was one of his many escapes when things got rough. Bucky just liked to keep up to date with things.

With nothing else left to clean in the house, Bucky sat down on the couch and wrapped himself in his favorite blue fleece blanket. It was a gift from Steve for Christmas a few years back and it kept Bucky warm when he was cold and in all situations when Bucky was under the weather because of something else. Steve liked to call it the therapy blanket because Bucky often wrapped himself in it when one of his dates went bad.

Bucky counted the minutes till Steve was back home from his class. Despite his need for Steve, Bucky also knew that Steve lived for the 3 times a week he got to do what he actually loved the most, and that was teach people how to draw and paint and share the love for the art.

Steve was always enthusiastic about art. Ever since they were kids, Steve would always draw something for his mom or Bucky, left little doodles on the page margins in Bucky's notebooks, and when he was older he moved onto drawing and painting portraits. Bucky was the huge dork that still kept all his notebooks with Steve's doodles and drawings in it.

It was for a while that Steve hadn't drawn anything or if he did, Bucky didn’t see him doing it. Ever since Steve got the opportunity to teach art classes he seemed more engaged with his students and actually doing what he wanted to all these years, instead of working as a graphic designer in Tony's company, where Bucky also worked in as an engineer. That also meant he was busier than usual and probably didn't have much time for it. Bucky shouldn't have thought much on it but he missed Steve in his element.

Bucky was restless on the couch, nothing catching his eye long enough for him to calm down. He proceeded with cleaning his own room but even that didn't help. And then Bucky eyed Steve's bedroom.

And to those that knew Bucky, they also knew that once he set his eyes on something, it was hard to convince him not to do anything about it. The fact that they both had zero sense of personal space for the other was beyond question, although they both had things the other didn't know about.

Searching for a particular sketchbook that Bucky knew Steve kept on his desk next to the window, Bucky instead found another one of Steve’s sketchbooks that sat open on a particular page. Coming closer, Bucky could see the pencil that was discarded in a haste and the ugly line it left behind. He wondered what made Steve leave it like that and with a shocked gasp he realized Steve must have sketched when Bucky had his nightmare.

Instinctively Bucky picked the sketchbook and took it with him to the living room. Wrapping himself in the blanket again, he opened it on the first page.

And there it was: a drawing of him. Bucky.

Flipping through the rest of the pages, Bucky found numerous drawings of him in various states: Bucky smiling, Bucky laughing, Bucky sad, Bucky grumpy, you name it. Most of them were drawn while Bucky was sleeping on the couch, wrapped up like a burrito.

Bucky thought he should find it creepy, since he never thought Steve was drawing him specifically. Of course Steve did draw him once when he was younger, when he was perfecting his technique on portraits but Bucky thought that was about it.

What baffled Bucky the most was the love he could see bleeding on the pages. The softness of the moves with which Steve managed to capture him and how lifelike he looked. It had woken up something inside him that Bucky swore he'd keep buried for the rest of his days.

He was in love with Steve.

Bucky wasn’t sure when he fell for Steve. He came out as gay in high school and despite his great fear his parents would hate him or disown him, they were the total opposite of that. They accepted him and educated themselves on the topic.

After that his mom always wanted him to hook up with one of the sons of her friends and his father tried his best on giving him tips for how to woo his date (even though he wasn't sure those things would work same on men as on women). Becca was teasing him relentlessly and insisting that she'll be his best woman on his wedding with Steve, to which Bucky promptly choked on his coffee when it was brought up. She had no idea how much Bucky wanted that but when asked he always denied that there was something more between him and Steve. As far as Bucky knew, Steve loved him only as a friend. And Bucky couldn't risk his friendship with Steve with admitting his true feelings, and that he loved Steve with everything he got. That he felt unwanted whenever Steve had someone over, or that he was jealous whenever that someone kissed Steve. And the most embarrassing part of it all, what made Bucky feel disgusted and ashamed of himself was the numerous dates he had where he imagined Steve to be the one that fucked him hard or made slow love to him.

It was painful, but Bucky made do. He compromised with himself: it was better to have Steve as a best friend than not have Steve in his life at all. Bucky didn't want to confess his love to Steve so he'd be told Steve didn't love him back. Bucky was a realist and scared and no one could blame him for doing what he did all these years, and that was hiding how he truly felt for Steve. But it didn't hurt less when Steve told him he asked Peggy to be his girlfriend, nor when Steve started dating Peggy's cousin, Sharon, few months after Peggy and Steve split.

There was that one time when Bucky saw Steve flirting with Sam when they had their usual morning run. Steve was awkward and adorable and Sam put him out of his misery when he told Steve he already had a boyfriend. Bucky had to admit that meeting Sam was one of the good things that happened in his life because Sam helped him find a therapist when things got rough.

Seeing drawings of himself in Steve's sketchbook, Bucky wondered if it was possible for Steve to love him back? Was it possible for Steve to reciprocate on the love that destroyed Bucky slowly, but also kept him alive?

In hindsight, Bucky should have seen it years ago. It was everywhere and in every word Steve said and every thing Steve did. There was that one time when one of Bucky's coworkers outed him in front of the whole group and Bucky had to leave the company because of the harassment he received for his sexuality. Steve wanted to beat the living lights out of Reginald, but Bucky managed to prevent Steve from acting on his emotions.

From then on there were numerous situations where Steve acted protectively around Bucky, but Bucky chalked it up to friendship, because Steve was always like that with Bucky.

Steve couldn't have possibly felt the same for him, right?

Then there was Brock, Bucky's longest relationship up to date. They met shortly after Bucky started working in Stark Industries. They hit it off immediately and even though Bucky liked him enough to imagine a future with him, he knew Steve wasn't very supportive of their relationship. And with right, because Brock showed his true face once Bucky was involved in the mass shooting. Suddenly he wasn't good enough, he was too much to handle with his anxiety and nightmares, and then there was his left arm that lost almost 60% of mobility thanks to the bullet that caught Bucky in the shoulder. There was a whole list of issues that bothered Brock. Gone was the love and attention and promises.

Bucky could clearly remember Steve's reactions and how much he wanted to strangle Brock for what he did to Bucky. It took a while for Bucky to realize that Brock was wrong and that he wasn't a burden and it was okay to have PTSD and anxiety without having to be careful around people. Steve helped him in those tough days and it was then when they decided to share Steve's condo in Brooklyn. Steve was the perfect roommate and they knew each other for all their lives so the decision was mutual and what they both needed.

Looking at Steve's drawings again Bucky was reminded of all the times they nursed each other after a bad time in their lives, all the times they watched over the other when they were sick or a bad night. Because no matter what happened in their lives they always gravitated to each other. It was a given.

Bucky sighed, looking down at the sketchbook one more time before he closed it. He hugged it close to his chest and kept glancing at the clock on the wall and realized that Steve was due to come back from class any moment now. Bucky couldn't make himself return the sketchbook back to Steve's room. He was drained from his night and the realization he just had. It was best he waited for Steve so they could talk.

It was a can of worms he wasn't ready to open, but there was this determination that set itself in him and for once Bucky just wanted to get it all out, come hell or high waters. He'd deal with the consequences later.

Bucky sat himself comfortably on the couch and waited for Steve.

…

The familiar screech of the train tracks alerted Steve of the arrival of his metro line. Just one more thing and he'll be home and with Bucky. Steve beat himself over and over for leaving his best friend alone after a bad night, but Bucky insisted Steve go with his day normally. He shouldn't have listened to Bucky. It wasn't that he didn't trust Bucky with himself but Steve didn't want to leave him alone when he wasn't in his best mood.

Steve entered in the train and found a free seat. He pulled his headphones out of his pocket then put them in his ears and got lost in the moment for a bit. He just wanted time to go faster. It usually did when he was listening to music.

Steve's eyes wandered around the cart. An older couple was seated in the back with bunch of college kids. It made him smile because they reminded him of some of his art students. That in turn made him think of today's class.

…

(Flashback)

Steve sighed in frustration as the third attempt of drawing a simple fruit in class. He could feel his students’ eyes on him, and it made him even more nervous and prone on mistakes. Only the respect he had for his students stopped him from throwing the pencil out of the window.

“Are you okay Mr. Rogers?” Annie, one of the teenage girls in his class asked, seemingly worried.

And Steve didn't want to see that look on such a young face. He didn't like the fact that he caused someone else to worry about him, something about his best friend being always the worrywart. Steve hated the face Bucky always made when Steve was sick or did something stupid. Which was often.

Steve shook himself out of his thoughts, aware he zoned out.

“Yeah, uh, yeah… Just, I think it's not my day. I'm usually better at drawing a simple apple. Sorry.”

“No worries, Mr. Rogers. It happens.”

“I know, I know. Thank you for asking that, though. Don't think anyone else than Bucky has asked me that recently.” Steve replied without thinking.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Bart, a grumpy 30 years old asked from the back of the classroom.

Steve looked at him, baffled, but he schooled his face quickly. Bart was a good hearted person so Steve didn't take it in a bad way.

“Bucky is my best friend. We know each other since childhood. And we live together.”

There was a chorus of “oooooh” from the class and Steve blushed. He was used to people mistaking him and Bucky for a couple enough, but it never ceased to elicit a reaction from him.

“It's not like that.” Steve spluttered. “He is my best friend. We are roommates. Nothing more.”

“Who said you were?” Margaret, the only student that had hit the 70s mark, queried and winked at Steve.

“I assumed… uh, never mind.” Steve scratched his neck and stood awkwardly in front of his class.

Margaret grinned conspiratorially and Steve could see her and Annie talk to each other. Those two were a menace.

“What's Bucky like?” someone from the back said, Steve couldn't remember his name. Was it Pietro?

It took Steve by surprise that someone would ask about Bucky, but it was a welcomed distraction so he decided to answer.

“He's the greatest. Always there for me. The best friend anyone could ask for.”

Steve then proceeded to tell them all about his best friend, how they met, and the adventures of their everyday life. What Steve wasn't aware was the way he was practically glowing when he talked about Bucky as Margaret was so kind to notice and voice it out loud.

“You certainly sound like you are very fond of him, dear.” Margaret piped in.

Steve blushed again and he had to grin.

“For not being a couple, you blush a lot, Mr. Rogers.” Annie helpfully added.

As if that was Steve's cue to turn in a tomato, he turned a darker shade of pink.

…

Not just that he managed to be productive and teach his class something useful, but Steve was also effectively distracted from thinking about Bucky and the way he looked last night - like death warmed over. He was reluctant to leave him alone today, but Bucky insisted. And nothing could deter Bucky from getting his way with things - which was useful for when Steve got himself in trouble. Bucky was still in the back of his mind the whole day.

“So, that will be all for today.” Steve covered the sheet he was working on while turning around and addressing his class.

“Oh, but it's too early, Mr. Rogers.” one of the students whined.

“It's actually past the 90 minutes mark, Beth. Besides I have important matters to attend so if you don't mind…”

“It's Bucky, isn't it?” Margaret winked playfully.

“In a way. It's personal though, so I wouldn't want to share more info without his consent. But he had a bad night, and it took me a lot of convincing from him to appear today and not just cancel. So be happy I appeared at all.”

Margaret nodded at the explanation with a knowing glint in her eyes.

When the last of his students left the classroom Steve released a breath he didn't know he was holding. It was time to go home.

(End of flashback)

…

“Breaking inside” by Shakedown blasted in Steve's ears as he all but missed his stop. The song lyrics hit him right in the feels, the story behind the powerful text was hinting at his situation when Bucky was in question and for the first time in a while Steve didn't know how to bury the feelings back to where they were all this time.

Moving on autopilot the last three blocks that separated him from the subway to the condo he shared with Bucky, Steve turned in his head the moment he realized he was gone on Bucky forever.

They were in high school when Steve first realized he liked boys as much as girls. Or the exact moment that he started looking at Bucky with different eyes and suddenly he wasn't just his best friends. He tried quelling that feeling with dating Peggy and then her cousin Sharon, but that didn't help him at all. Steve liked Bucky still and he often caught himself thinking of spending time with Bucky while on dates with other people which wasn't fair for them. Hence why he always broke off things before feels got involved.

Steve still remembered Bucky's face when he flirted with Sam, like a man ready to have a heart attack. Steve chalked it up to Bucky being a jealous friend but looking at things in a new perspective, Steve asked himself, was it possible that Bucky felt the same for him?

There was something that shifted in the air but Steve chalked it up to the cold weather and the wind chill.

Then there was the shooting that changed Bucky's life and by default Steve's too. With Winnie and George being in Indiana, Bucky didn't want to impose on his sister and her family. Steve came up with the suggestion for them to start living together. It took him a while to convince Bucky, but when Steve suggested he either impose on Becca or come with him, Bucky caved in. In the last year Steve had to battle through days when Bucky didn't want to get out of bed and days where you couldn't contain him in one room because he was bored out of his mind. They visited Bucky's therapist together because Bucky was afraid that if he spoke about the event without Steve being present, something could happen to Steve.

Not many could understand Bucky and Steve would forever loathe the moment Bucky met Brock Rumlow and he became Bucky's boyfriend. That schmuck wasn't worth Bucky's love and time and he proved so by breaking up with Bucky shortly after he almost lost his life. Steve almost beat him up then, and only Bucky's pleading voice and the disheveled state he was in prevented Steve from sending Brock to the hospital. Bucky was too precious for Brock anyway. And in Steve's opinion if you love someone, you'll love them in any situation, and not only when they are healthy or working or something else entirely.

...

Passing by the bakery on the corner of the street, Steve saw Bucky's favorite plum tarts being displayed. Without much thought he entered and bought quite a few. He wanted to indulge Bucky, who could blame him?

He managed to wrangle his headphones in submission and put them away. He looked at the time and saw that it was just past 8 pm. He hoped Bucky was okay and that they'd have a nice night watching some movie on Netflix and literally chill.

Steve was careful in opening the door to his apartment because he didn't want to interrupt Bucky in case he was sleeping. And sure enough, Bucky was sprawled on the couch, covered in his favorite blanket, the one that he bought for Bucky for Christmas three years ago. The soft baby blue sweater that Bucky had put on was Steve’s and Steve felt warmth go through him at the sight. Bucky's hair was loose and splayed on the pillow. Overall Bucky looked so soft that Steve didn't want to wake him up at all. But then he saw the item Bucky held with one hand. It was one of his sketchbooks. That didn't surprise Steve because Bucky grounded himself often going through Steve's sketches. What made Steve release a surprised squeak was THE sketchbook that Bucky held in his hand. Specifically one he never wanted Bucky to find.

Steve drew ever since he could remember. It was just something that started as a hobby but it developed in a passion that moved steadily throughout his life and ended in Steve taking art school and later going to arts college which earned him a degree. Nowadays he worked as a graphic designer at Tony's company but secretly he still loved to draw. There was something about the paper and pencil combination that would never get old, Steve knew.

That didn’t bother him essentially, that Bucky would go through his sketchbook. But the one in question he kept hidden at all times for the reason that it was full of drawings from the person that was holding it now. It was part of series of sketchbooks Bucky gifted Steve for birthdays and Steve made a good use of them. But never showing the drawings to Bucky. Only the ones that everyone was allowed to see.

Steve didn't think Bucky would violate his privacy and search for that specific sketchbook but he needed answers before he said more that he should.

Bucky stirred on the bed and Steve had a split second to prepare himself before being assaulted by the softness in the pale blue eyes that looked at him.

Bucky was awake.

…

Bucky heard the soft click of the front door but he wasn't ready to open his eyes just yet. He just wanted to enjoy the warmth of his blanket, and how happy he was that Steve was home. He could hear Steve moving around until he stopped in front of the couch. He stood there for a while before squeaking and Bucky found it hard to pretend he was still sleeping when all he wanted was to laugh because Steve always claimed that he didn't squeak.

In the battle between Steve and his warm post-nap bubble, Steve won. Bucky opened his eyes and stared at Steve, assessing the look on Steve's face. It was a mix between soft, fond and panicked. For a moment Bucky wondered what happened to Steve but then he remembered the sketchbook in his lap.

Bucky blushed as he fumbled with the sketchbook and he shot upright in the couch, trying to detach himself of the blanket and make room for Steve.

Steve stood above him like someone slapped a bucket of hot water all over him. Or maybe a wet Golden Retriever puppy. Yep, that was it.

Bucky didn't realize he was grinning until Steve raised a questioning eyebrow and Bucky smiled fondly at him.

“It's just you look like an adorable puppy. Adorable Golden Retriever puppy. Wet puppy.”

Steve choked on his spit and looked incredulously at Bucky.

“I'm not a puppy.”

“Sure thing pal.”

An awkward silence stretched between them until Steve broke it.

“What are you doing with my sketchbook, Buck?”

Bucky's momentarily good mood evaporated in a second, a frown now on his face.

“I… I’m sorry. I was restless and didn't know what to do so I went to your room. I found this sketchbook on your desk. It was there and I took it. I wasn't snooping, I swear.”

Bucky was distressed and looked genuinely scared. That shook Steve out of his thoughts.

“Sorry… Sorry, Buck, it's just…” Steve took a deep breath. “Today was one of those days where nothing goes right.”

If possible, Bucky shrunk even more into the couch. Steve face palmed himself at the sight.

“Look, I screwed up. I remembered now that I left the sketchbook on my desk and it's not your fault, okay? Not your fault.”

Bucky nodded but didn't say anything. Steve sighed. It wasn't like he anticipated Bucky finding that sketchbook. And now…

Steve went to the kitchen and left the plum tarts on the counter. He washed his arms and then removed his coat and scarf. Going back to the living room he found Bucky sitting on the couch, knees drawn close to his chest and with an off look in his eyes.

“Are you okay, Buck?” Steve asked tentatively, sitting on the couch next to him.

Bucky looked at him with the look of a wounded animal and shook his head. Steve felt awful. He shouldn't have gone to class. He shouldn't have been harsh with Bucky about his sketches. He shouldn't-

“Steve- Stevie, it's okay. Just because I might not react in a certain way, doesn't make you guilty of something. Okay?”

Steve looked at his hands in his lap. He probably said all of that out loud.

“I want to ask you something. You may not answer if you don't want to but seeing those drawings you have of me in that sketchbook… made me think and well…” Bucky chuckled and put a strand of stray hair behind his ear, “I came to realize I might not have been good at hiding what I feel and wondered if you, um, if it's possible you feel the same as I?”

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

“The only time I remember you asked me to pose for you so you can draw me was when you were discovering and perfecting your technique. After that, I've seen thousands of your sketches, but not one of me. But I found your sketchbook today and I saw it almost filled with drawings from me. So, I have some questions.”

Steve didn't say anything, deciding he'd let Bucky say his mind first.

“I went through your drawings of me and… I've noticed that they are very realistic. What I'm saying, of course they are, they are drawn by you.” Bucky smiled and looked at Steve, “I could see the love and the affection, how you think of me and I guess I want to know… Is it possible- It's stupid.”

“What is it Buck? What's stupid?”

“It's stupid I got that only from a few drawings and…” Bucky threw his hands in the air and sighed in frustration.

“It's more than just few drawings, Bucky.”

Bucky could see Steve's cheeks pinked up and he wondered just how many drawings of himself were out there.

“I see. Okay, I'm just gonna go and say this… Why is it so tough? Oookay, there we go. I'm in love with you.”

Bucky waited for a reaction. And Steve took too long to say or even do something. Bucky took that as a sign that he screwed things up and he started getting up but a hand on his wrist stopped him.

“What makes you say that Buck?”

Bucky sat back down and looked at Steve. He wasn't yelled at and wasn't ordered to leave the apartment, yet, so that was a good thing, right? He just hoped he didn't ruin his friendship with Steve.

“It's in all you say. And do. And the drawings just helped me gather the courage to talk to you about it. I guess I just put my feelings in a box and locked them. Hoping they'd go away. But they didn't. They are real. I love you Steve. I'm in love with you.”

“Oh, Bucky… I love you so much. Loved you for so long. But I didn't think you could love me back. God, I got out of my mind with worry last year when you were hurt in that mass shooting. When I saw your face on national TV, the way you were frantically running to escape, something lodged deep inside my chest. It turns out I didn't have to worry and hold out on you for so long, but I was scared.”

��Our friendship is too precious for me. I didn't wanna lose it in case you didn't love me back. I don't think that there's anything more that will hurt me than not having you in my life, Steven Grant Rogers.”

“Is this a proposal, James Buchanan Barnes?”

Steve winked playfully and grinned, the gloomy mood from earlier dissipating and his old self back on track. Bucky appreciated Steve and his way of making every situation better. And lighter. That's one of the numerous things about Steve that Bucky absolutely loved.

“It might be. With the way we are living together and we know each other our whole lives, it will only take me putting a ring on your finger to make it official.”

“Such a romantic, Buck.”

“Says the resident sap.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Steve's skin drummed with excitement.

“Yes. Like you have to ask now.”

Bucky smiled and puckered his lips.

The first touch of Steve's lips on his was soft and tender. Bucky didn't expect fireworks to go off or to see stars behind his eyelids but it was easily the best kiss he got to this day. Something uniquely Steve and full of love. It made him tingle and curve his lips in a smile. Steve pecked him again before moving back. As if pulled by a magnet, Bucky chased Steve's lips. This time the kissing became more heated and soon enough Bucky's tongue asked for entrance in Steve's mouth. Steve opened up and kissed as hard and greedy as Bucky, their lips dancing a sweet melody of two souls coming together at last.

“We were idiots, huh?” Bucky asked when he pulled off Steve and leaned his head on Steve's shoulder.

“Damn right we were.” Steve kissed Bucky's temple. “And oblivious too.”

“True that.”

“Although I don't know anymore. Two of my students today kind of pinned me in a corner and think they saw right through me when I mentioned you.”

“You talking about me in class, Rogers?”

Steve ducked his head and was faced with Bucky's smile.

“I might have mentioned you. A little bit. In passing.”

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

…

6 months later

Steve arrived a little bit early at the studio he held his classes in. Bucky was sitting in one of the chairs, looking at a catalogue with pictures of wedding cakes. He was engrossed in the content and it made Steve feel warmth pooling in his stomach at the sight of his now fiancé, being so at ease and looking like a soft teddy bear. Steve wanted to cuddle him.

He touched the ring that Bucky put on his finger a couple of weeks ago. The last 6 months were the best in Steve's life and in Bucky's too as he was reminded so of every day. Just waking up next to Bucky every morning was worth facing every obstacle life threw at him. And he was happy to see his students filter through the room and each take a seat.

Today he planned for them to practice their portrait skills and he had the excellent candidate in mind. Said candidate was grinning now, looking like the cat that ate the cream.

“Okay, everyone, thank you for coming today. As you know this is one of our last classes and I decided all of us to do something fun today. I gave it a lot of thought. And came to a conclusion when remembering something Bucky said.”

The familiar chorus of “ooooh's” made Steve stop with what he was saying. With the corner of his eye he could see Bucky was blushing.

“Back when I wanted to perfect my technique when drawing portraits, I asked my best friend to pose for me. He agreed and that was the only official time he knew I drew him.”

Steve grinned as he saw Margaret and Annie whisper between themselves as always.

“Those drawings that I kept away was what brought us together, to admit our feelings and we are here today because of them, or what Bucky likes to say, what I do best.”

“I thought that was him.” Margaret said and Steve had a split second before he had to tap Bucky on the back because he choked on his water.

Margaret had such a dirty mind sometimes. Steve should've known.

“Sooo, how about we have my fiancé be your model today?”

The whole room whooped and cheered.

“I take that as a yes? Okay, good. I won't be showing you anything today but let you capture this beautiful man all by yourselves. I did that 10 years ago.”

“It was 12 actually.” Bucky piped in as he got up and moved to the center of the room.

Steve waited for him there. For a moment he forgot he had a room full of students in front of him and leaned to kiss Bucky.

There was a loud sound of “yessss” behind them and Steve detached himself from Bucky. Bucky in turn chuckled and turned around.

“Hi, guys. I'm Bucky Barnes, the luckiest guy in the world. And apparently your lab rat today.”

That made the class erupt in laughter. Steve noticed it was tactful by Bucky to make them laugh so they relax.

“Model, Bucky. Model.”

“Yeah, yeah. So, where do you want me?”

Steve prevented any dirty thought to prevail at that question and smiled fondly at the love of his life.

“Right where you are Buck.”

Right next to me.

...

A/N 2: If you’ve come to the end of this story and you figured it out, congratulations. I was inspired for the characters of Margaret and Annie by Political Animals, a tv show Seb’s played in. Margaret as in Margaret Barrish (TJ’s grandma) and Annie (Doug’s fiancé and then wife). Hope you liked it. Leave a comment if you like. I love getting feedback and see what people thought about the story.

#stanclub2500 #Stucky #written for a challenge #getting together #friends to lovers #prompt #angst #fluff #they are both romantic saps that give each other shit about it #Artist Steve Rogers #Engineer Bucky Barnes #Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes #Modern Steve Rogers #Modern Bucky Barnes #boys in love #my fic #fan fic #my story

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soitmightgetweird · 7 years

Text

Heart Doodles

Bucky x reader

Summary: You probably shouldn’t let Tony borrow your notebook.

Warnings: nothing? a moment of slight embarrassment but it’s not too bad.

Word Count: 1921

A/N: boop.

It's honestly a miracle if everyone is fully prepared at the mission briefings. There's always at least one person who walks in after the meetings start and it's common that at least a couple people forgot pens or paper. On more than one occasion you planned to just grab a bunch of blank notebooks and extra pens from the supply closet and pile them in the center of the table. Though knowing the group, they'd end up taking it all from the room and still forget to bring it back next time. People love taking office supplies and the Avengers are no different.

Though to be fair, they have a lot to deal with on a regular basis between capturing lingering HYDRA agents, keeping extra-terrestrial threats at bay, and repairing their relationships with each other post-Accords. So maybe they have enough on their minds without having to remember to put a pen in their pocket so Steve doesn't look so exasperated during meetings.

Tony always has a pencil stuck behind his ear. Always. But he can't remember to bring a notebook to save his life. So you--being the lucky Stark employee that gets to sit in on mission briefings to take notes--started to just slide your personal 3-subject notebook to your boss. You carry it around with you all the time anyway to keep track of your daily random thoughts. Most pages hold little doodles, snippets of ideas you want to use in short stories, and probably too many lists of songs you've organized into themed playlists. It isn't anything too personal, so you usually don't have a problem with lending it to him.

The only sounds are the sharp click of your heels and your quiet grumblings as you make your way down the hallway to the conference room. You're the one late today. It's only by five minutes but you still have to convince yourself to actually walk in the room and ignore all your little anxieties about being late that are telling you to just skip altogether and apologize later. You know Steve won't call you out but you still aren't looking forward to being the center of attention as you walk in.

You're thankful that the door barely makes a noise as you enter and you keep your eyes cast to the floor as you sink into the open seat between your boss and Bucky.

“Look who's fashionably late," Tony whispers. He always looks more relaxed in these meetings than everyone else does. Like right now, he's leaning back in his chair and nonchalantly tilts his head to the side as he addresses you.

"You could've told me you guys relocated," you reply quietly. You automatically take your extra notebook and start to hand it to Tony when he raises his hand to stop you.

"No thanks, kid. I'm covered today."

You're so caught up in being irked by Tony's nickname for you that the voice chiming in from your other side causes you to jump.

"Yeah, because he took my paper."

Of course he did, you think before passing the notebook in the other direction.

When you look up, you see the annoyed glare on Bucky's face. It's one you've often seen directed at Sam and you have to resist the urge to laugh. Once his blue eyes shift from Tony to you, his expression relaxes and the corner of his lips lift in a soft smile. You're able to hold his stare for a second before your eyes dart to the table top in an attempt to stop the blush you know will form if you look at him for too long.

Bucky mutters his thanks and flips through the notebook, just as you hear a quiet snicker from Tony. You almost acknowledge the noise but Steve's voice breaks through your thoughts.

"Come on, Tony; at least pretend to pay attention," Steve says.

"Sure thing, boss." Tony shifts in his chair, straightening his posture then slumping forward and propping his elbow on the table so he can rest his chin on his hand.

The banter between Tony and Steve makes you think of how much this group has progressed since they reunited. The atmosphere isn't always as relaxed as it used to be but you know they've come a long way. The fact that Tony and Bucky are sitting as close as they are is evidence enough.

You start hastily scribbling bullet points based on the information Steve is relaying when Bucky chokes out a cough. You continue writing and scoot your water bottle over with your free hand.

Bucky ignores the water, instead addressing you quietly. "Um. This is full of stuff you write?"

"That's the point of a notebook, isn't it?"

There's the sound of another small laugh and you cut your eyes at Tony. His palm has shifted and instead of his fingers resting against his cheek, they're now covering his mouth and he's actively avoiding meeting your stare.

Your attention is brought back to Bucky when he continues whispering. "I, um... I thought you didn't write personal junk in here?"

"What are you talking about?"

Bucky scoots the notebook toward you and you're immediately drawn to the doodle that takes up an entire quarter of the page: his name with a bunch of little hearts around it.

You blush as you stare at the page. There's no way you wrote that. You're not dumb enough to do that in a notebook you lend to other people.

In a notebook you lend to other people...

There's no stopping the automatic reaction of reaching over and smacking Tony on the back of his head.

It's not until every eye turns to you and Steve stops in the middle of his sentence that you realize what you've done. You've smacked your boss. In front of his teammates.

Your eyes go wide and you silently pray that the floor will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe something will crash through a nearby wall and everyone will spring into superhero mode and forget about what just happened. Your train of panic abruptly crashes when Tony starts laughing. Not like he's trying to play it off--laughing like he's enjoying himself immensely.

"I'm sorry," he says through a smile. "I didn't expect that to go so well... That's perfect."

At hearing Tony brush off the brief physical assault, your dread morphs into a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. Bucky hasn't said anything else and honestly, you're too terrified to look at him.

Tony's still chuckling as you stand from your seat and make a beeline for the door.

You don't stop when when you hear Tony call out your name; you just head straight for the elevator. You keep going until you're back on the floor with your favorite break room--the one with a Galaga machine standing proudly in the corner. This is your go-to spot when you're frustrated at work. It happens a fair amount actually, evident by you holding the top three highest scores on the leaderboard.

A couple coworkers are lounging at the table next to the coffee machines--the unofficial location to gather for office gossip--and one of them pipes up as you pass by. "Rough meeting with the Avengers?"

"I don't want to talk about it," you reply. You stare down into Galaga's standby screen for a couple seconds before pressing the start button, causing your little rocket ship to pop into place.

You're not even past the first wave of enemy spaceships when the door to the break room opens and your coworkers fall silent. The next thing you hear is the scraping of chairs as they slide against the tile, followed by their retreating footsteps.

You glance behind you. They're gone but now there's a Bucky standing just inside the doorway with an unsure look plastered across his face.

"FRIDAY, you're a traitor," you mumble as you turn back to the machine.

"I didn't ask her," Bucky replies quietly.

You try to ignore the little flip in your stomach when you realize this means he pays enough attention to you to know where you go when you're annoyed. You also fleetingly wonder if he silently asked your coworkers to leave or if he still just seems that menacing to the average person.

"Do you want me to go?"

"No, Buck." You sigh and watch a little alien spacecraft take a dive and crash right into your ship, costing you a life.

When you turn around again, he's moved closer and his hands are stuffed into his pockets. The uncertainty in his eyes is proof that he still has a bit of difficulty speaking his mind, and you put a lid on the screaming in your head to give him time to gather his thoughts.

"Tony drew that?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because he enjoys calling me out."

You really don't want to elaborate.

You've been accompanying Tony to these meetings for a few months--ever since everything started to feel normal again--and so you've become close a few of them. Mostly Steve and Clint, but Bucky also slowly warmed up to you. But in all your random conversations, you and Bucky have never talked about significant others so you have no idea if he's dating anyone. What if it's Wanda; they sit next to each other a lot. What if it's Nat? Oh God. She is terrifying enough without imagining how she'll react if she finds out you have a stupid little crush on her boyfriend. How are you going to face any of those people again? You'll just ask Tony to transfer you--

"You in there?"

You jump when Bucky reaches out and grabs your hands, holding them gently in his own.

"Talk to me. Please?"

That same shy smile from earlier settles on Bucky's face again, and you feel some of your nerves melt away.

"Like a month ago, I made the mistake of asking Tony something about you. It was something harmless; I just wanted to know what book you'd been reading. I guess when he told me to just ask you myself, my face turned red or something. He's teased me about it ever since.

"But he borrows that damn notebook all the time. I never check what he writes in it... because why would I? He must've done that recently though."

You take a deep breath and huff out a laugh on the exhale. "I don't want you to feel any kind of obligation because of any of that. You probably have a girlfriend. I sure as hell don't miss how women look at you. So... yeah. Just... little ol' Tony's assistant with a crush. Oh. If he doesn't fire me for smacking him. I can't believe I smacked my boss-"

"Sweetheart." The interruption brings your attention fully back to the moment. The soft smile has morphed into an almost smug little smirk. "Did you know you ramble when you're nervous?"

"I have been told that once or twice."

He tugs at your hands until your body is almost flush with his then wraps his arms around you. There's a brief moment of disbelief before you return the hug and rest your head on his chest.

Of course, the moment doesn't last long.

"Sergeant Barnes," FRIDAY'S voice floats from the ceiling. "Mister Stark has asked me to inform you that you're to keep your hands off his assistant."

Bucky's grip tightens slightly and you feel the chuckle vibrate through his chest. "Tell Stark he can have her back after lunch."

Tags: @brighterlights @howlingbarnes @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes imagine #marvel one shot #bucky barnes

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