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ladyvesuvia · 2 years

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Favorite Mug

PAIRING: Architecture Student!Bucky Barnes x Roommate!Reader

SUMMARY: After your apartment room burns down, you’re left with no choice but to live with your neighbor for a while in his spare room. That is, until something comes up and temporary becomes permanent. In the midst of the situation, Bucky’s unwillingness to become friends wavers when you fall sick.

WORDS: 8.6k

REMINDER(S): fluff. apartment fire. whump. food. showering scene. arguing. jealous!bucky. cursing. drinking. intoxication.

REFERENCE(S): plum frozen yogurt.

A/N: for @maggiebuchanan my beloved bucky hoe also yay i’m trying out a different format for clout hHAJSHDHA reblogs are very much appreciated!!! 🤓

—

I. When You Moved In

It’s unfair, you thought to yourself as you walked into your room upon seeing the blackened bits of walls and burnt furniture.

You had just come home as fast as you can after shopping for groceries and this ghastly sight is what greets you.

You had lost all your things except for the ones you had brought along with you. It was a bit of a relief that you had your backpack containing all of your textbooks, notes, and laptop.

The rest left in your apartment were either burnt to a crisp or just straight up trash now.

It has only been four months since you moved in yet here you are now, struggling to come to terms with the situation. No way you were going home. You won’t just give up and leave this home you’ve made for yourself just because of a stupid hair straightener you forgot to unplug before leaving.

Thankfully, the fire hadn’t spread to the other rooms. Apparently, the guy who lived next door immediately called the emergency hotline.

Problem, however, is that it’ll take about a month or two to fix it. The landlord is not pleased as well as the other neighbors. As the firemen began to leave, you tried hard not to look back at the other tenants looking from their slightly open doors.

You knew exactly what they were thinking: “Better you than us.”

You had hesitantly knocked on the door. He opens up. “Hi. Bucky, right?”

“No, it’s James.”

Ignoring this, you put some of your grocery bags down and began explaining yourself: “First of all — er — thank you for calling the fire department otherwise I’d be in court sometime in the future and I know that this is a very big favor to ask of you but . . . could I stay here until it gets fixed? I’ll pay you rent.”

Much to your surprise, he closes the door on you.

You knock again. He opens the door, annoyance very much visible on his face. He could not be more blunt.

Of course, out of sheer desperation, resorting to respectful negotiation was a safe choice. “I’ll cook, I’ll pay you rent, and I won’t be a bother.”

He raises a brow. “You won’t be a bother?”

“Yes, I won’t. I swear. I’ll follow your rules and whatnot,” you answer. “I’ll cook, clean, and pay rent. And that, yes, I won’t be a bother.”

“I seriously doubt that. You burning down your own apartment when it’s right next to mine sounds like a bother to me.”

“I’ll cook, clean, pay rent, won’t be a bother, and I won’t burn down your apartment,” you say, counting with your fingers for exaggeration. And so you bring the stakes higher. “And I’ll buy us both groceries.”

“The couch is your friend, I’m not,” he says before stepping aside and swinging the door open.

Which brings you to tonight, where you’re inside the apartment room of your neighbor who you assumed to be a lot nicer. He’s not that bad, you think to yourself. Probably could be a lot nicer but overall not the worst.

The space is cramped, but not too cramped. It’s mediocre at best with little to no decoration, but it’ll do.

“We go to the same university, right?”

He doesn’t look up, seemingly unamused. “Really?”

“Yeah, we even have one class together. Art History?”

“Sure.”

He helps you put the last of your grocery bags on the counter.

“I’m not a fan of the situation,” he starts. He then pauses, as if considering something. “No need for you to cook and clean, but I’ll need two month’s worth of half of the rent.”

“So a month’s worth?”

“I’m too exhausted to calculate, we’ll work it out some other time. And you better stick to the ‘not being a bother’ part of your deal which means following some of my ground rules.”

“Like what?”

“Follow me.”

You do.

He stops in front of the other side of the counter and you try hard not to laugh out of the blue. He then grabs one mug from the mug holder tree. There weren’t any other mugs occupying the entire thing.

“There’s only one mug so unless you have yours, don’t go anywhere near mine. This is that. It’s my favorite. That’s rule number one.” He waves the plain white mug your way.

“It can’t be your favorite if it’s the only one,” you scoff.

“Yes it can because I said so.”

“It’s literally a plain white mug.”

“That says ‘You’ve been poisoned’ inside.” He flips it over, showing it to you and there it is — the ‘you’ve been poisoned’ written at the inside bottom part of the mug. “Just — do you wanna stay here or not?”

“Okay, yes, my bad. I do. What else?”

He returns his mug to the exact spot on the mug tree before turning his attention back to you. “You have a boyfriend or a girlfriend or something?”

“Look, this is awkward,” you tell him. “I’m not really interested in you that way, I just need a place to crash and yours just—“

“What? No, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just asking because maybe you could stay there instead.”

“OH! Okay, misread that, I’m sorry. Please, if I had a boyfriend or a girlfriend, you think I’d even think about going here in the first place?”

“Fair enough.” He yawns. “Then maybe you should get one.”

“Yeah, maybe I should.”

“What about any of your family that live nearby? Or friends?”

“Again, I wouldn’t be here if I had any of those. I just moved here for college because it’s cheaper than dorms.”

“Same,” he says as he put back his mug. He looks up from the counter, staring at you.

Or maybe just staring at the air . . . in front of you?

“You alright?” you ask with a laugh while waving your hand in front of him upon noticing his dazed expression.

He finally blinks. “Yeah, yeah, I just gotta go to sleep now. It’s one in the morning,” he pauses to stretch. He clears his throat. “We’ll continue the rules tomorrow. For now, it’s: Don’t touch my mug. Couch is all yours. That’s all.”

You were gonna let him go until you remembered once more with great disappointment that your clothes had burned down along with your apartment room. “Wait!”

He stopped just right out of his bedroom, and from where you stood you can see folders piled up over each other. “What?” he answers back.

“Yeah, so, tiny problem. All my clothes may or may not have been set up in flames, too.”

He frowns. “So?”

“May I please borrow some of your clothes?”

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

The very next day, you woke up at four in the morning to take a shower. Last night, James had tossed you a bag of clothes he doesn’t wear as often along with a towel he got as a souvenir gift of some sort from a wedding.

You tiptoed towards the bathroom so as to not wake up your new roommate as you passed by the door to his room.

You turn on the lights. You’re greeted by a small bathroom: the walls lined by blue tiles that are easy on the eyes, the toilet and the sink right next to each other, and the tub with a shower at the end of the room.

Having just woken up, you decide to turn the light off. Way too painful on your eyes.

A transparent shower curtain separated the tub from the other amenities. You put the clothes you’ve borrowed on the sink before undressing.

You don’t bother to sink into the tub and just settle for a quick shower instead.

As soon as you turned the shower handle to the middle, expecting a bearable temperature, you regret it immediately — it is unbearably freezing.

You turn it to the warm side, but nothing happens.

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath, “it’s broken.”

You turn off the shower as soon as you’ve dampened your hair. This went on and on: turn on the shower to rinse, turn it off, turn it on to rinse off the conditioner, turn it off, turn it on to rinse off the soap, turn it off, and so on.

You’re patting your body dry with the towel while planning your day ahead: Finish the essay you were supposed to do last night, clean up things, attend classes, buy new things with the latest paycheck. . .

After drying your hair the best you could, you hung the towel over your shoulders.

At the exact moment you swung open the shower curtain, the lights turned on.

He jumps. “WHAT THE FU—”

And just like that, your drowsiness and James’ washed away upon seeing each other under undesirable circumstances.

Or desirable?

What the fuck, no.

He turned around, alarmed, rushing to turn off the lights.

You, on the other hand, had rushed to the end of the tub, trying to hide behind the useless shower curtain.

“Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Holy shit, I am so sorry,” you manage to get out. “I wasn’t—”

“What are you doing here?” he barked.

“I’m showering, obviously? What are you doing here?”

“Obviously? The lights were off, the shower was off, and the door was open! And it’s my bathroom! It’s my bathroom and I should get to decide when I’m allowed to use the toilet!”

“So you chose to use it at twilight time, then?”

“What? I— You chose to use it at this time, too! The least you could have done was lock the door.”

“I locked that door,” you answer defensively. “Maybe it’s as broken as your shower!”

“Well, maybe if you used the bolt lock, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in the dark right now!”

You laugh humorlessly. “Oh, so you want to have this conversation in the light, yeah?”

“No! Do you?”

“Idiot, of course not!” you retort. “If you can get a bolt lock on it, why didn’t you just fix it in the first place?!”

“Again, it’s my bathroom.”

“Oh, so do you suggest I build my own bathroom? How the fuck would I have known there was a bolt lock?”

He laughs without humor as well, and you could tell he was rubbing his nose at frustration.

“Maybe if you just turned on the lights you’d have seen it and I would’ve known that you were inside and I wouldn’t have seen your beautiful bo. . .”

What?

The heat rushes to your cheeks, your face, everywhere and the cold from the shower gets doused away.

This conversation’s like a fever dream.

The silence hangs, almost as if it wants to deafen you. You don’t say anything and neither does he for a while and you stand at the end of the tub, the length of your stay alone drying your hair a bit.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a long, long, long breath. He turned off the light. And just before he closed the door behind him, you heard him mumble: “I just wanted to piss.”

You hurriedly get dressed in his clothes: a large white t-shirt and a large flannel jacket. You had to make do with the sweatpants you were wearing from yesterday (whilst also going commando).

He only comes into the bathroom when you’ve made your way to the living room.

You hurriedly just carried your backpack with you, deciding to just do your essay at the campus library.

Neither of you speak of that entire questionable moment of the day.

Not even at Art History class.

You’re glad you’re in front of him so you don’t have to steal a couple of glances here and there out of sheer awkwardness.

You leave as fast as you can to avoid all the worst potential situations that could happen.

Tom Cruise would be proud of you, you think to yourself. This shit’s way harder than that Mission: Impossible type of shit.

You were about to look back when we walked past you hurriedly, speed walking.

He clearly has somewhere he needs to be.

And so do you.

-----

II. When You Were Welcomed

Bucky (don’t let him find out you refer to him as this in your head) had given you his spare key.

Technically, his refrigerator magnet did. He’d written a quick note on the fridge pointing out that the spare key was on the kitchen counter before he rushed to the bathroom as soon as you got out.

It’s honestly hard not to laugh every time you remember the last thing he said to you: “Beautiful bo. . .”

You snorted to yourself as you swung the door open, hoping he wasn’t home just yet. Probably unlikely, but there’s no harm in wishful thinking.

The entire room is . . . messy.

Heck, that’s even an understatement: piles of paperwork and folders and boxes of different types of paper are piled onto one another on the kitchen counter.

“Buck?” you ask, internally screaming. Please don’t bring up the shower thing. “Hello?”

You put the new addition of paper bags filled with cheap clothes you got from the thrift store. You’ll be busy later that night washing it all thoroughly with heated water in the tub and the laundry afterwards.

What a wise way to spend your Friday night.

You make your way towards the door to the spare room, knocking gently.

He lets you in, and there are about three things that surprised you.

One, the folded drawing table that he’d put all of his things on. Two, the house sketches you want to ask more about.

Three, the newly assembled bed fitted into the space. There’s a mattress standing against the wall, still wrapped, marking it brand new.

He got you a bed.

He looks up at you from the floor where he’s busy organizing his other things.

“Are you gonna help out or not?” he asks. “Put the folders and the papers wherever flat and neat outside, we’ll deal with my drafting table later. Make sure not to wrinkle any of them or you’re gonna have to move out.”

“You already got me a bed,” you say giddily, a smile forming on your face. Honestly, if it hadn't been for what happened that early morning, you probably would’ve hugged him. No joke. It’s going to take some time before you get rid of that memory.

“It’s common courtesy.”

“To buy your roommate a bed?” you suggest with a grin.

“No, it’s common courtesy to not let your roommate sleep on a couch,” he answers. He then hands you the toolbox. “Bring this with you on the way out, too.”

You take it, trying hard not to beam up in joy. “Bucky, thank you so much. Seriously.”

“James to you.”

“Why not ‘Bucky’? It’s cute.”

“Because, roomie,” he starts, lining up the folders. “Bucky is for friends only.”

“I like to think I’m getting there.”

“Don’t. You’re not.”

-----

III. When You Overstayed Your Welcome

Remember when you said you’d only be staying for a month or two?

Surprise, surprise, it has been four months: After calling your landlord regarding the status of your apartment, you’d been told you had to move out with two months notice. It has to be one of the stressful weeks you’ve had, with your finals approaching on top of you just getting fired from the cafe.

Bucky had told you he’ll take care of it and pay the landlord a visit (you two shared a reasonable hatred for the man).

Something strange happened, though: You were on your way home, close enough to see the window to your apartment room with the fire escape. You saw Bucky leaning on the window with his phone out, probably trying to get some ‘fresh air’ after you had suggested it.

Not what I had in mind, but okay.

That day, you decided to have some fun. You pulled out your phone as you leaned against another building’s wall, looking up at the window. You call him and he picks up surprisingly fast.

“What?”

You deepen your voice. “This is Sal’s Pizza.”

“No, it’s not. What do you want, [Y/N]?”

“Oh, you saved me as a contact now?” you asked, recalling the times you had called him only for him to ask who it is despite the countless times you’ve called. “That’s nice of you, Bucky.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, I’m still James to you.”

“Alright, James. Where are you now?”

He paused for quite some time. You had to look back up again, expecting him to point out that he knows you’re there, but he doesn’t. ”I’m at the landlord’s.”

What? “What?” you said out loud.

“Yeah, I just got out. Talked to him. Fucker wouldn’t budge,” he groaned. You’re still trying to comprehend the situation when he spoke again. “On my way home now. ‘Bout you?”

“On my way home now, too.”

“Where are you right now? Want me to pick you up or—?”

You watch him from below. “Listen, I’ll call you back later. Thanks for handling the thing. Bye.”

He frowned at his phone, and you tried hard not to think about it. Why’d he lie? Was he lying because he doesn’t really want to handle it? Am I a burden?

Usually, you’d jog back up and greet your roommate and plop down on the couch to use the TV. . .

You checked your watch, seeing that it was still seven p.m., and so with one last glance at your roommate, you began walking away.

-----

IV. When You Met Jack

You’re in the campus library with James, and you’re both seated right next to each other in front of a computer with books you’ve both gathered on a spare chair.

He doesn’t look up from the computer. “Where are we on Gaudi? I’m telling you, we can’t get anywhere with—”

“Forgot the book, I’ll be right back.”

You stand up from your chair, already thinking of what book you were gonna get. Having a limit on how much books you can bring out with you, the two of you have decided to borrow five each. Of course, the limit’s big but neither of you wanted to borrow all under your own library card.

Bucky looks up from the computer, watching as you disappear from one of the shelves. He’d be lying if he said he was relieved you partnered up with him. He had agreed, saying it was for convenience. At this point, he’s kidding himself.

Two minutes pass. Bucky decides to go look for you only to return, evidently, empty handed.

However, beside you is another guy, holding one book in hand, skimming the pages with an amused smile. Bucky couldn’t hear what the two of you were talking about and as soon as the guy handed you the book and you began walking back to Bucky, he shifted his focus back to the computer, looking at the mouse pointer religiously.

“Took you long enough,” he says. “Let me get that for you since it looks so heavy.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Really? You got some frat dude carrying a book for you?”

“Shut up,” you say with a laugh, not noticing his demeanor shifting. “That was just Jack. He’s the one who found my phone the other day. You got him to thank for this book.”

“Why? Did he write it?” scoffs Bucky. “Or did he materialize it out of thin air?”

“No, Bucky,” you say, ignoring his protest at calling him by his nickname, “he found it hidden at the back of some books you had returned carelessly.”

He doesn’t look up. “What, it’s my fault you’re bad at finding things?”

“Whatever,” you muse. “Also, I have a date this weekend. I might call a rain check on our board game night just this once.”

“Sure.”

“Can you believe that the only reason he’s put off asking me out is because he thought you and I were a thing? I mean, seriously! Us?”

You don’t notice that he’s only clicking on the screen repetitively and not even searching up anything anymore. “Yeah, sounds stupid.”

You recall the time he’d asked if you had a significant other. “Good news though, if this works out and it gets serious, maybe I’ll be out of your hair soon enough,” you say with a smile, patting him on the back.

“Good riddance.”

On the days that followed, whenever he saw you carrying anything remotely lightweight, he’d take it right from your hands and say something along the lines of: “Oh, too heavy for you?”

One time, while watching TV, you were looking for your phone, feeling around for it on the sofa. “James, have you seen my phone?”

Bucky throws your phone from the other side of the couch with you barely catching it. “Hi, my name is Jack. I’m a cool guy who does bench presses badly and I found your phone.”

“Ha ha,” you say, tossing him the remote, hitting him square in the head.

“Ow!”

“Hi, my name is [Y/N] and I threw you the remote.”

From the corner of your eye, you see him laugh to himself.

“To be fair, I have seen him in the gym once. Safe to say that I think I have a clear idea of what he looks like when he’s on the toilet.”

“Oh come on, he’s not that bad.”

“Sure, but on bench presses? Yikes.”

You snort, and he laughs until your phone rings which you answer promptly. You mouth an apology to Bucky, gesturing for him to keep watching as you lift the apartment window open, stepping out into the fire escape.

Bucky could faintly hear you talking to the phone.

“Jack! I didn’t expect you to call,” you say. “Yeah, yeah, I’m not really busy, I was just. . .”

There’s that moment of wanting to stay and listen, or stay and wait for you but he decides against it, knowing you were gonna take a while on the phone as he watches you laugh out loud over whatever the hell that Jack has told you.

I could make you laugh louder than that, he finds himself subconsciously thinking. Heck, I already have.

He refuses to acknowledge the fact that he does sometimes think about the times when you still had to wear his clothes.

And the fact that he likes you.

No, I don’t, he responds back to himself. Bucky shakes his head in an attempt to shake away his thoughts as well. He turns off the TV to just go into his room and plop down on the bed, and he takes a long nap.

That Saturday night, you’ve pulled out all the stops and put on the prettiest dress you could find (and afford).

You sling your bag over your shoulder. “I’m going out, what do you want?”

“What?”

“I mean, do you want anything? Like lasagna?”

“Plums would be nice,” he says from his seat, his eyes trained on whatever plate he was working on in his drafting table.

You lean on the door, looking at him with an attempt at comprehension. “Plums? Sure you don’t want something like pizza or something?”

“Why not plums?” he asks, deadpanned.

“Because I’m going on a date not in the fruit market?”

“Why not?”

You almost want to laugh. “Oh, my—! Just ask for something else.”

He looks up from the table briefly only to look back down again, the strokes of his pencil audible amid the petty conversation you were having. “That dress looks good on you.”

“Oh,” you acknowledged, unconsciously fixing your posture. “Thanks.”

“Also, you can just get me anything plum flavored. Like yogurt. I’m not picky.””

“Right. Yeah, I’m never asking you what I can get you ever again. You’re getting lasagna and that’s that.” You open the door, giving him one last wave. “Wish me luck!”

He doesn’t.

-----

V. When You Came Home Late

Things have never been better.

Technically, they have, but for the sake of your own enthusiasm, they haven’t. You had been spending more and more time with your new guy for the past six months, you’ve even got a part-time job at the library after a spot opened up and so far a while after that, and you’ve been seeing a lot of Jack but less of Bucky.

The last board game night you’d had together was the last Saturday night before you first went out with Jack. Since then, you’ve only ever seen Bucky busy working on another plate on his drafting table, not even bothering to look up from his table or his hand and his back just closing the door to go leave or when he leaves the bathroom just to enter his room and close the door quickly.

The most you’ve seen of him for the past half year was his mug in the sink which he’d just wash at the end of the day.

When you came home from your date that Saturday night, you had brought home with you McNuggets and put it on the kitchen counter and wrote a note: Searched far and wide but this is the best I can get and a sundae in the fridge.

Was it that? Is he mad over plums?

While shopping for the groceries, however, you did buy ingredients needed the other day for something you were sure he’d like — a plum frozen yogurt. You had made a mental note to make one while he’s out.

Weirdly enough, he always was.

You rarely ever saw him anymore, and so you took the chance to use the blender while blasting your favorite playlist using Bucky’s — sorry, James’ bluetooth speaker.

The blender was, without a doubt, needed to be replaced. You had mentioned it to your roommate already once: “You should get a new blender,” you had told him in your first month of living here.

To which he replied, “I should get a new roommate.”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you poured the contents of the blender into the only air-tight container you could find in the cupboard. Well, would any other roommate willingly make you a plum-flavored yogurt? I don’t think so.

As soon as you topped it with chopped plums, you hid in the far end of the fridge’s freezer, looking at the time on your phone when it rang. Buck?

You dismiss your disappointment upon seeing it was only from your boyfriend, Jack. You turn it off and disconnect it from the bluetooth speaker and pick it up.

Just as things have never been better, it has never been worse, either, yet here you are now.

“Hey,” you say as you stack all the other bowls you’ve used on the sink.

Just a while ago, you had an argument with your boyfriend about Bucky after you pointed out that he’d been posting more pictures with his ‘friend,’ Lois than of you with him, where he rebutted that you’d been spending more time with your roommate and . . . the rest you have no energy to think about but you know that right now is not the best time.

“Hi, I just felt like calling.”

You laugh nervously. “Why?”

“Am I not allowed to call you?” Jack says, and you notice he’s less outgoing than usual. He’s whispering, too. “You free tonight?”

You look at the whiteboard attached to the door. James had written nothing. It’s a Saturday night and the last time he’d written ‘Board Game Night’ on it felt like ages ago.

“Listen,” you say, apology prominent in your tone. You tiptoed towards the door, uncapping the marker to write ‘Board Game Night’ on the board. “I’m really sorry, but I have plans and I think I have to make at least an effort and—”

“Really, [Y/N]? With who, your roommate?” You saw it coming long before you even said anything. The real challenge is correcting him and saying /whom/, and you overcome it well.

“We’ve talked about this before,” you start, stepping away from the door, pressing your phone against your ear. “It’s not like that.”

You hear him snort. “So I’m right? I’m not stupid, okay? I’ve seen the way he looks at you, [Y/N]. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

You scoffed. “What are you trying to say?”

“You’re bailing on me for your ‘roommate,’ what are /you/ trying to say?” hisses Jack. “You see him everyday more than me, you’re constantly together—”

“Oh my god,” you groan. “You think I’m cheating on you?”

You don’t mention the sudden joy you’d felt motivating you when you first thought Bucky — no, James — was calling. You don’t mention the relief you feel whenever you’re in the same room with him. You don’t mention what you’d just written on the board.

Is it cheating if you’re just naturally happier? Is it a crime to feel that way?

You wanted to cry. You already are.

Just . . . Why are you even in this situation?

“Your words, not mine.”

“Alright, fine, let’s just talk,” you say, trying hard not to let your voice crack. “I’m coming over.”

You hang up and toss your phone on the kitchen counter to hurry and get dressed up and put on your coat. Wiping your nose, you grab the first bag you can find and throw in your wallet.

Why do I feel like I’m forgetting something?

You leave it be, telling yourself you can deal with it later, taking the stairs two steps at a time with one goal in mind: end it with Jack, unaware you had left your phone on the counter and the words, ‘Board Game Night’ on the board.

But your long cab ride was a waste of money, for your boyfriend was nowhere to be found in his dorm despite you asking his roommate — who you had grown pretty well on you —- where he had gone. Apparently, he had left earlier after Lois came over.

That’s all you needed to know.

“Do you have a big bag or something?” you ask his roommate, who then began to rummage through his drawers to hand you the best he can find — an eco bag. And so you picked up all the things you’d left over at Jack’s dorm except for the necklace he’d bought you on your second month together.

Six months wasted and yet you feel a lot more relieved than you’ve ever been.

You can finally go home and proudly toss your roommate the yogurt you made him.

You think about how Bucky would gloat on you later on and you couldn’t help but laugh. Oh, he’d mock Jack later and pick on you for dating him, and you loved that.

As soon as you’re out of the campus, you decide to take a walk for a while.

It’s a beautiful night and yet the only person you could imagine walking down with you on this very sidewalk is the one you lost six months ago. Maybe that’s why you always failed to progress more with Jack.

You check your watch. It’s getting late. You go through your bag, looking for your earphones, hoping to listen to some tunes as you walk.

After untangling it, you dig back in to look for your phone, but the closest thing you could find was your wallet, ever so blocky. You roll your eyes.

The streets are empty because you had taken a quieter route, and the blinds of the apartments you’ve passed are closed, and lights are off.

You just keep walking, thinking about how you were gonna hand him the yogurt you made.

Maybe bring it up as soon as you get home? Nah, that would be too—

You felt something on your head.

Shit, you think. It’s raining.

Holding your bag over your head, you began to lightly jog in hopes of making it to the main street where cabs (are hopefully) present.

Much to your dismay, by the time you were already half-drenched, the best you could settle for was to stay under the roof of a tiny bus stop and wait until the next bus arrived.

So far, you’ve tried out calling a cab but they’ve all been occupied already.

“How fortunate,” you curse under your breath before giving up and just sitting down on the bench.

You decide to take a detour to the liquor store, deciding it’s best to . . . seek shelter.

Probably not the best idea to drink but you’ve made several bad ideas come true already, so what’s more, right?

You’re drinking the cheapest bottle of alcohol you could get, a paper bag not doing the best job of making it look discreet.

You return to the bus stop: It took a while, but eventually you got on a bus and got down to the nearest stop you knew to your apartment.

It’s almost ten in the evening, so you begin to pick up your pace. The rain had long dried, but you felt cold nonetheless. You had removed your coat while you were on the bus and you’ve been carrying it ever since.

By the time you made it to your apartment after a tiring amount of time, it’s already eleven past ten, thinking James is probably over at Steve’s.

You open the door, ready to take a quick shower only to find your roommate by the counter, biting his nail.

“James?”

He puts down his phone and he looks like he’s about to say something, but he closes his mouth.

He stares.

You . . . stare back. “Hello?”

He doesn’t budge.

“You’re doing the eye thing again.”

You narrow your eyes and he says the first thing that comes into his mind: “Where the hell have you been?”

“I thought rule eight was not asking about the other’s whereabouts?” you say back with a grin.

“It’s twelve A.M., and you have been gone since I got home and your phone was on the counter and I read the notification from Jack telling you not to come and that you guys are through,” he rants out. “Now, I’m sorry for giving a shit, okay?”

“It’s 11:27 PM, and I’m obviously not a corpse.”

“You’re a bit wet though.”

You snort. “No shit, it rained.”

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure that it rained?”

“No, are you sure you’re alive? Not a ghost who’s come to haunt me?” he deadpans.

“No, but that would be fun. Are you good?” you say with a laugh. It’s so easy to return to this type of . . . whatever this is. It just is.

“Yeah, are you?”

“Yepporta potty,” you answer with an enthusiastic nod. “Also, there’s ice cream in the fridge and a box of cones in the cupboard. Paycheck came early this month.”

He nods slowly. “Right, right, okay.”

“Okay.”

“You smell.”

“Thank you.”

“Bad,” he adds.

You grumble. “Rude.”

The silence hangs for a moment and lingers and nobody has said anything else.

He’s about to say something again but he reconsiders. His chest begins to deflate and his shoulders are now losing the tension. He hands you your phone, not looking your way. “Here’s your phone.”

You take it from him. “I figured. Thanks.”

Without thinking, he went straight to his room, almost as if this very encounter didn’t just happen.

Baby steps, you think to yourself. Baby steps.

“James?” you call out. His door opens a bit, just enough for you to be heard and for you to see him.

“What?”

You try to think about ways to sober up. “Do we have coffee?”

“You bought the groceries.”

“Oh, then no. Okay, thanks.”

“Are you drunk?”

“The real question would be are you drunk?” you accuse, pointing at the wrong direction despite having originally intended on pointing at James.

He tries hard not to laugh as he closes his door shut. His smile falters as just right before he closed it shut, he heard you announce something to no one in particular: “And I’m gonna go apartment hunting tomorrow!”

He lies down in his bed, keeping his ear open, waiting for you to get in your room or hear the shower running but nothing happens for two minutes.

He starts to theorize that you’ve fallen asleep while standing so he leaves his bedroom once more only to find you on the couch, slipping in and out of your dazed nap with the stench of alcohol wafting from you that would more often than not bother him.

But he did not mind now. He didn’t even think of it.

He debated whether to just go back to sleep or at least fetch you your blanket and lay it on you, on which he decided on the latter.

And now there he crouches right next to you, studying the very face he had claimed to dislike countless times before.

He’s arranging the coffee table in front of the couch and was about to leave when he saw your eyes flutter open a bit.

“Buck buck,” you muttered.

He faces you again, and you rub your eyes.

“Stay,” he says.

“What?” you mumble, squinting to see him.

“Don’t leave. Stay here.”

You snort, your senses still not your own. “I know what ‘stay’ means, dumbass. We have Art History together. I’m not an idiot. Idiot I am not.”

“You kind of are.”

“I know, I know,” you mumble, your eyes closing again. You blink open. “What, you don’t want me to leave? Did the frozen plum yogurt I made for you work? Is it magical?”

He studies you, watching as you yawn. “You made yogurt for me?”

“I did?”

“Yeah, you just said that.”

“Oh,” you gulp. “Yeah, yeah. Do you want me to go?”

“What?” he coughs. “No, that’s literally the opposite of what I want you to do.”

“I want you to go?”

“No! I — agh. I want you to stay.”

“Why?” you ask, but you were already about to drift away, and trying hard to stay awake is now becoming more of an easy discard option than something you were willing to do.

He turns away from you, taking the remote once more to fumble with it to relieve whatever stress was gnawing at him.

“Because . . . I like your company. And I don’t think I’d want to be alone again, much less replace you because — you’re gonna hate me for this — I have learnt to love you.” He grimaces at the word. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s so frustrating trying to tell you this because I know you had just gotten out of a relationship and now I don’t know if I want to yell at you or kiss you for being so stubborn! It’s just —”

You snore out loud just as he was gaining the courage to face you, and he realizes you have fallen asleep.

“Oh, thank God,” he breathes, unable to compose himself. His hand is on his chest in a desperate attempt to calm down. Wishing you hadn’t heard anything at all, he takes five long seconds to get it together before running back to his room, trying to convince himself whatever he had said was part of a dream.

-----

VI. When You Caught a Cold

About two days after that, you find yourself seated on the couch, taking up most of the space. You’re about to fall asleep but you hear the door opening, so you pat yourself awake, trying to focus on the random tacky rom-com you’d put on the TV.

It’s way too early in the morning.

Like, way too early: 4:28 A.M.

You’re eating a plain cone in hand with another plain cone in another, your throat not in the best case to have ice cream at the moment.

The door to his bedroom opens and closes and you hear the faucet sink running. You don’t have to turn around to know he’s making hot chocolate.

Heck, you could smell it.

He takes a seat right next to you, and as he sets down his mug, you lift your feet up and he just naturally sinks in and lets you rest it back on his thighs.

He doesn’t react and nor do you. It’s become so natural already. The lights are off and the only light is coming from the television.

It’s platonic.

Totally platonic.

All painfully platonic.

He snorts, gesturing at the TV. “You like this crap?”

“Nah,” you say back as you watch the characters on the movie exchange lines that don’t even make sense.

“I’m meeting up with Steve for this architecture field trip thing.”

You wipe your nose with your sleeve. “I know, you haven’t shut up about it.”

“I’m just thrilled is all,” he shrugs as he takes a sip from his mug. “We gotta be there by seven. It’s a whole day thing, you know. I might be home late.”

You laugh. “It’s four in the morning.”

“Again, I’m just thrilled.”

“No shit.”

It doesn’t take that long for you to feel the penetrating gaze of his eyes. He’s staring again. With that . . . thing.

“What?” you say, wiping your face. “Is there something on my face?”

“No, it’s your face itself.”

You raise a brow, groaning. “Well, how very nice of you.”

“No,” he dismisses, his brows furrowing in worry. His hands are on your feet, patting you there. You try not to flinch. “You’re warm.”

“Yeah, you’d be surprised to find out that I’m a warm and caring person, big deal.” You flinch away, bringing your legs back to yourself.

He brings the back of his palm to your forehead. “No, what I’m trying to say is that you’re hot.”

“Took you long enough to notice.”

He glared at you, and you had to raise your hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up.”

“You’re not feeling well.”

“Look at you telling me how I feel,” you joke, trying to subtly wipe away your nose only to cough. “Sorry. I’ll just take some from the medicine cabinet.”

“Yeah, there’s nothing there. You shouldn’t have had fun in the rain. Are you mad?”

“Am I mad?” you repeat to him. “I bought you meds when you were sick and told you to stop leaving it empty!”

You cough again, having been trying to halt it the moment he got into the same room as you. “You should just distance yourself if you don’t wanna catch it, idiot. I’ll just get some pain relievers later.”

“You can’t go out, you’re sick!”

“Well then let me just do my little magic trick and pull one out of my magic purse.”

“That’s good enough.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

James looked at you again, noticing what you were holding. “Are you eating a plain cone?”

“Well, yeah. Can’t have ice cream and even if I can, I didn’t feel like scooping then washing the spoon.”

“Wow,” says James with a laugh, worry visible in his voice no matter how much he passed it off with a nonchalant smile. “I’ll just go out and get you some meds, I’ll call Steve and let him know I’m gonna have to take a rain check from—”

“Hell no. You’re not missing out on something you’ve been planning on going to for the past month just ‘cause your /roommate/ is sick. That’s just peak stupidity.”

“Tough talk from someone who went out at night, got drenched in the rain, got drunk, and got sick.”

“Friendly reminder that you have to be there by seven and you’re just wasting time right now.”

James checks his watch. “Yeah, I gotta shower. You better not go out.”

And as he disappears from view to get into the bathroom, you yell back, “I can’t promise you that!”

You eat up the two cones you have and shift whatever attention you had left to the TV but as soon as you decided to at least try and give the movie a chance, you found yourself gambling with your eyes that you’ll only rest them for a while. . . .

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

You awoke to the shuffling of feet and something being moved on the table and you looked down to find a glass of water and James’ favorite mug with hot chocolate in it.

See? you thought to yourself. Just a mini eye rest.

You’re about to stand up but a hand holds you in place, interrupting you. “No, you’re staying.”

He seems so . . . calm.

“James, what time is it?”

“Eleven.”

“At night? I slept for” — you counted on your fingers — “NINETEEN HOURS?”

“No, I just got here. It’s noon.”

“Why?”

He stares back at you, pointing out what you already knew. “Because the clock says so?”

“No, I mean, why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be on your grand architecture expedition or something?”

“Oh, I bailed.”

“What — ? Why? Did you catch my cold?”

“No, I got you pain relievers and I made you hot chocolate.” His voice was steady and relaxed, as if this was some normal routine.

It’s not, but it feels like it that way nonetheless for some reason.

He bent over to grab his mug, handing it to you with an unreadable look on his face. “Drink.”

You sat up straight, stretching your neck a bit before taking the mug in your hand. This was your first time using it, but you don’t point it out in fear that he might change his mind. The warmth the handle gave to your hand alone was refreshing, to say the least.

“Your bed head’s pretty cute,” he says.

After you take a sip, you laugh, rolling your eyes at the random comment. “Are you flirting with me right now? And I think you mean ‘couch head’.”

“No, I’m being a nice person,” says Bucky with a sense of gentleness in his voice. “And you’re making it really hard.”

“Oh, come on, man. I’m going through a break-up, go easy on me.”

Something in him changes. “Right, sorry, do you want to talk about it?”

You sniff.

“I was just kidding, go bully me as much as you want.” You take another sip from the mug, relishing the taste of the hot chocolate.

“No, seriously, go on. Lay it on me.”

“Fine. Okay, uh — It’s just . . . Jack thought I had a thing for you and you had a thing for me.”

He doesn’t admit to himself he’s expecting something, anything to happen. “What’d you say?”

You take another sip, and it seems to take so long for him that he was about to say something but you had finally spoken first.

“I said you’re just a roommate,” you tell him, but you both knew that wasn’t true; but you don’t admit that to each other nor yourselves. “And that you won’t even let me call you by your nickname,” you add to ease the tension. It does. “I wanted him to introduce me to his friends, you know”

Just a roommate, the phrase sticks to his head.

James looks down at the paper bag of medicine. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod. He wanted to ask. He doesn’t have to. “He kept putting it off until I eventually dropped it and suddenly I was the bad guy for not spending time with him more.”

One more sip.

“But, hey, it’s for the best. The trash took itself out. He’s probably going out with someone else now and I couldn’t care any less.”

He wanted to say something about Jack, really.

After all, he always had something to say about the lad. But this time, it felt like the time to confess something else.

Not his feelings, no. At least, not yet.

James cleared his throat. “Okay, listen, this has been eating me up inside and I can’t keep it to myself any longer but I never called the landlord or went by his place or tried to bribe him, I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“I know.” You are met with a confused expression, and so you explain further. “Look, you could’ve told me so I could've done better to look for a new apartment to stay in.”

He began to wave his hands in the air, shaking his head. “No, no, it’s not like that, alright? I—”

“Like, I know you’re not a big fan of the situation like you said so right from the start, and I know I’m not exactly the easiest person to deal with and that you have—”

He stops you, placing a hand on your thigh. You go rigid and he slowly retracts it away before clearing his throat, dismissing the awkward tone of that specific moment.

“No, [Y/N]. It isn’t like that at all. Just listen, okay? I just — uh — I just didn’t want you to leave. That’s it.”

You sipped from the mug again, this time consuming much more since it had cooled down a little bit. “Of course,” you laughed nervously.

“James, I cannot thank you enough. I swear, I really wouldn’t have had any other place to crash to and everyone in this building pretty much hated me for the whole fire thing.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about the fire thing,” said James, causing you to laugh in your seat. “They didn’t hate you.”

“Right,” you muse, rolling your eyes.

“What makes you think I don’t hate you?”

You sip the last of the contents of the cup and as it slowly empties, you can finally read the bottom: “You’ve been poisoned.”

“Oh, you’ve made your hatred for me quite clear. I just think you hate me less because you finally let me use your mug.” You sip the last of the contents of the cup and as it slowly empties, you can finally read the bottom: ‘You’ve been poisoned.’ “Wouldn’t you look at that?” you exclaimed. “I’ve been poisoned, apparently.”

You put the mug down, giggling here and there. “Oh, my chest feels a little bit better. Thank you, James. Seriously.”

“Bucky will do,” he noted.

Your face lights up with a bright smile. “Really? I get ‘Bucky’ privileges now? Thanks, Bucky. Bucky, I really appreciate it.”

Bucky grins. “Shut up before I change my mind.”

“Does that mean you see me as a friend now, Bucky?”

And in one small second, his grin had turned into a harrowing glare. “I skipped a field trip I’ve been planning to attend for a month to go and take care of you and you think I see you as a friend?”

“I mean, yeah? Don’t you?”

“Do you want to know why I didn’t contact the landlord at all?”

“Because you’re lazy? I don’t know.” You laughed. “I would have just lived a door away, you know.”

He shrugs. “A door away’s too far, [Y/N]. I’d rather see you eating the last of the cereal from the fridge or hogging the remote than come up with some petty excuse just to see you.”

You looked at him with uncertainty, unsure of what to say. “What?”

“You are all kinds of frustrating,” he laughs loudly, standing up to pull out the pills he’d bought for you. “It means I like you, [Y/N]. I like you a great deal. And you can just pretend this never happened if you want to.”

“I don’t just make frozen yogurts with ingredients that are a hassle to find just to pretend you were never all up on me,” you tease.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever you want it to.”

“Good to know,” he says, relief very much audible in his voice. “But I am gonna have to take away mug privileges from you now.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Get your own. It’s been way too long already.”

“Wow, I hate it here,” you say with mock enthusiasm. But no matter what kind of teasing you threw at each other’s way, it felt more like home than any house you’ve both been to, and that much is true.

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ladyvesuvia · 2 years

Text

where dust devils are made

PAIRING: tfatws!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Hydra!Reader

SUMMARY: Being tasked to seduce the ex-Winter Soldier to add him into HYDRA’s recovering arsenal turns into a wreck when the fine line between mission and reality blurs as you begin seeing him as your beloved instead of your ticket out of doom. (Loosely Based on Valentine, Texas by Mitski)

WORDS: 6.6k

REMINDER(S): usage of she/her pronouns. allusions to sex. manipulation. brainwashing. alcohol. trauma. major character death. cursing. major angst. fires. kidnapping. blood. abuse. violence. description of hair changes. hurt…no comfort hehe. errors. please let me know if i missed anything else!

ALTERNATE ENDING IN THE WORKS

-> for @pellucid-constellations’ love letters writing challenge! thank you for holding this challenge omfg this is what i needed to motivate me to finally write again. don’t forget to also check out their works !! <3

A/N: @maggiebuchanan sent me this fic idea and just knew i had to write it out so here it is. it looks a bit rushed tho cos i wanted to post on 2/22/2022 22:22 :’) || reblogs and comments are appreciated :*

—

“It’s been you and me since before I was me. Without you, I don’t yet know quite how to live.”

— I Guess by Mitski

Being left behind to exist was a travesty of a luxury, a future lie to be written on history textbooks of high school students. Some think that life was better when half the population was gone, while some think so otherwise.

You, on the other hand, barely had any idea. How could you if you spent most of your five years in a chair for what you were told was going to become the greater good?

HYDRA had once been so overwhelmingly big, you’d know because you’ve witnessed it grow right beside the man who took you in when he found you a week after you escaped juvenile prison with no home to return to when you were reduced into a lowly lost orphan in the middle of nowhere.

Elrich Aslanov, the man who dared to renew and revive HYDRA, had fed you, raised you, hoping to turn your abilities accompanied by your fragile trust into a future weapon.

“My beloved child,” he had called you on the umpteenth downfall of the organization, determination and purpose clear in his voice. “We’ll rebuild all of this and make it ours.”

And then the Blip happened.

It was a dreadful situation and yet you had just wished you had disappeared as well rather than training to become a weapon for your so-called guardian’s greed.

You hated yourself for having complied in the first place.

You sensed the end coming forth until everybody came back and your new assigned purpose emerged.

“Lure him,” you were ordered.

By the time you had set foot outside to fulfill your mission of earning the ex-Winter Soldier’s trust with false promise of a romance, you had nothing else in mind but letting go of gratitude towards Elrich Aslanov and just surviving.

You had a plan to convince whoever this James Buchanan Barnes guy was to go somewhere far away with you. You didn’t know how to do it, but that was the idea.

Right now, you sat right next to your target, who was occupied in a conversation with an elderly man you did not recognize.

You hadn’t watched any rom-com movies or any movies at all to begin with, but knowing how to blend in was part of the job description.

You purposely ‘accidentally’ bumped elbows with his, letting yourself take on an innocent but playful demeanor. “Oh, sorry,” you say with an apologetic laugh.

The guy only barely nods, but the elderly man encourages him. “Why don’t you ask her out?”

“Yori,” he argues politely, refusing to return your insistent eye contact.

“Excuse me, this young man would like to ask you your name.”

Most of the time, you’d come up with some random alias or pull one out from your list of fake names but this felt like one of the times that you felt you should be genuine. “[Y/N]—”

You were about to say Aslanov, but it didn’t feel right, nor did your real surname. You did a quick scan of the place, your eyes landing on the drink the pretty bartender just handed to one adult at the other side of the counter. “—Whiskey. [Y/N] Whiskey.”

It sounded stupid, you knew that, but it gave you just the right amount of fake and real enough to stay true to your goal. No going back now.

Yori grinned, patting your target on the shoulder. “This young man here would also like to ask you out on a walk.”

“I would love that,” you said with the sweetest smile you could ever muster. You wondered if it looked real enough, because you knew /he/ was your ticket out of here. “Hey, I just moved into your apartment building. Maybe you could pick me up at five?”

Your target finally spoke, and it must be the two sips of alcohol from your glass but his smile was contagious even though it didn’t even reach his eyes. “Five’s great.”

And that’s where it all began.

That fateful late afternoon when one young woman and a not-so-young man separated by a wall had been nervous in the false comfort of their new homes.

The two of you had stepped out of your rooms at the same time, and you waved with more enthusiasm than you had intended to show.

“Shall we?” you said.

Your target nodded, and the two of you walked out of the building, shoulder up to shoulder as you went on a walk as the sun was minutes away from setting, the landscape about to dim soon.

“I’m [Y/N] Whiskey, by the way. You know, just saying again instead you’ve forgotten to save you from having to call me so and so,” you joked.

He seemed to find that amusing because a small smile tugged at his lips. Come on, give me a big one. “I don’t think I could forget that name. For starters, your last name’s literally Whiskey.”

Not really. “Yeah. Well, what about you?”

“Me? What about me?”

You shrugged, grinning. “You know, your name.”

“Oh. Right. Well, I’m — I’m James. Or Bucky. Whichever one you prefer.”

“Well, which one do you prefer?”

James or Bucky considered this, but he finally decided. “Bucky would be just fine.”

“Alright, Bucky would be just fine,” you started, racking your brain on what people usually talked about on dates. “How are you this fine afternoon?”

“Bearable,” he answered truthfully. His hands were in his pockets, and you absentmindedly did the same.

The sun was already setting when the two of you made it to the Brooklyn Bridge, the dusk a pleasant grandeur upon you. A lovely but polite conversation had come and gone and now silence hung, but it’s a comfortable one.

Cars bustling close by below made it a lot easier.

Bucky didn’t look at you when you spoke, but you looked at him, studying whatever facade he had on or let go of. Were you talking to the Winter Soldier pretending to be the remnant of himself or is he really who he claims to be?

All you could think about right now was how you only had to pretend to like him for the mission until he likes you back enough that you could convince him to go with you somewhere far away for a while so you could slip away from watching eyes.

You’re my ticket out of here, James.

He chose his words carefully, pausing. “I don’t think times are good enough just yet for this to be something I think you might want it to be.”

I can wait longer for a ticket.

“No big deal,” you said back, tracing the tight ropes with your fingers. “We did say it was just a walk, now, didn’t we?”

You could tell he was relieved as he nodded, seeing that all the tension from his eyes seemed to disperse. “Yeah, yeah.”

“So do you want to get out of here, go home, and get some unhealthy fast food on the way?”

And he nodded.

Maybe he really was just Bucky. And maybe he really would be just fine.

You could only hope that you would be, too.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

Making him smile had been a guilty pleasure hobby.

The jokes you’d tell were more often than not unfunny, and yet a tug on his lips or a mini smirk was just enough to keep you going for a couple of extra minutes for the day.

You’d been spending more time with him and it surprised you a great deal that it wasn’t against your will.

He was . . . good company. You weren’t sure what you were, but it wasn’t ‘something’ enough to be considered a relationship but not ‘nothing’ enough to be regarded as nothing at all.

There were days when he was unapologetically distant, and you didn’t mind. You always used his frequent absence to justify your inability to ask him about his days as the Winter Soldier, because you knew he hated that part of him and rightfully so.

He’d never mentioned any of it, but the drought of it was reasonable enough for you to theorize it so.

You had listed Elrich as ‘Dad’ on your contacts. He was the only one there along with Bucky’s number and Sam’s.

You almost dropped your phone when it started ringing, and it took you a while to register that an unknown number was calling. You picked it up after two more rings.

“Hi?” you answered.

“Mr. Aslanov would like to know the status of your mission, Miss [Y/L/N].” Your last name felt like a harsh reminder that you belonged to your past.

You gulped, pretending to not have been affected by the name. “Fine.”

“We’re gonna need a lot more than fine, Miss [Y/L/N].” There it is again.

“I’m spending more time with the target. No further information gathered just yet, Hans.” You knew exactly who you were talking to: Elrich’s right hand man who thinks he’d be in all his better’s glory.

“It will do you good not to refer to me by my first name.”

“Then it will do you better not to refer to me by my last. Oh, and have a wonderful day, Hans. It was most certainly a pleasure speaking with you, what was it? Hans. Farewell, Hans.”

And you unapologetically ended the call, slipping your phone into your bag as you turned off the TV just right after listening to the news about the new Captain America.

As you stepped out of your apartment room, Bucky’s door opened and you called out to him.

“Where you off to?”

Bucky looked back at you, slowing down his walk until you caught up. “To tell a birdie off.”

“Oh, I’m coming.”

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

The day you met eyes with Zemo, you knew exactly what he could know. You’d been denying it to yourself as Bucky told his story of using Zemo as a valuable asset in their task and you had pleaded with your eyes not to tell anybody anything of what he knew about you.

When the plan to travel to Madripoor had been set in motion, you were having a debate with yourself on Zemo’s plane.

The you before you ever set foot in the bar James Buchanan Barnes was in would’ve fled the country the moment you stepped out of the plane and have taken a new identity but the you sitting right across from the same James Buchanan Barnes wouldn’t.

Something’s changed.

You had went from a loyal servant to your so-called pretend father during the entire period half the population of the world disappeared and long before that regardless of the cause to this young adult desperate for freedom, not giving a damn about anybody but yourself to some pathetic idiot blinded by the closest thing to love you think you could ever possibly have.

When you finally found yourself alone with Zemo, he had spoken first. “I see you’ve taken a liking to this life, Aslanov.”

And now that name sounds all too fake. Heck, all your names sounded so fake as did your real one.

“Would you snitch if I ran away right now?” you asked, looking around the indoor space Sharon had provided that not so really reflected what Madripoor really was like.

Zemo took a sip from his glass. “Would you run away if given the chance?”

You considered this, afraid of finding out where your loyalties truly lied. “I don’t think so.”

“Then I believe there is nothing to snitch about.”

He crossed his arms, and none of you met each other’s eyes as you studied a framed piece of artwork that was objectively not the most interesting one of the lot.

“Zemo?” you said. His light nod told you to go on. “Do you think I stand a chance at leaving my past behind while it still exists?”

“If the Winter Soldier can, then it is safe to say that it is not impossible. That is, if he really has. It would appear that breaking noses still come easy to him, I’m afraid.”

You chuckled lightly, taking off the navy blue blazer with sharp shoulders of sorts and toying with it. “Who was I supposed to play again?” you asked, thinking back on what your fake name was again to no avail.

“My mistress, Marina Fischer,” Zemo answered.

“You don’t have a wife — at least none that I know of — so you could only mean that I was meant to play your whore.”

“I was being polite, but if it is what you want it to be, then so be it.”

“I’m not keen on pretending to be someone I’m not anymore.”

“Then do you plan on telling your — what do you call them — your boyfriend who you are, Miss Whiskey?”

“He’s not my boyfriend and no, I’m not telling him,” you said. He didn’t say anything, and so you continued. “At least, not yet.”

“Then will you flee tonight to desert your mission?” Zemo asks, but it sounds more of like an evaluation for yourself than a question he wants to be answered for his own curiosity.

“Would that be a better option?” you laughed mirthlessly. “It’s just — it’s stupid but I think I—”

“Love him, perhaps?” he suggested, and the words almost sound bitter in his tongue.

“No, I don’t know. I care for him, alright? They put a price on our heads tonight but I was most concerned for his and it was such an odd thing. Probably the oddest thing, even.”

“Love is admittedly amusing but oftentimes harrowing. And might I say: misleading.” He stepped away from the painting to set down his empty glass on the table from across the frame. “Do what you will and must with that information. I’ll see you tomorrow or never, Miss Whiskey. Good night.”

Zemo began to walk away until he disappeared into the hall, leaving you stranded alone right there in front of a painting. You changed your mind; it was impressive. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t exactly the best or anything, but it was mesmerizing.

You finally stepped away from the piece of artwork to study the frosted windows.

You could leave now despite the price you had on your head; you’d find a way to get out of there like you always do.

You could be yourself. Get away from all this HYDRA and super soldiers crap and just take on a last fake name to finally live your own real life.

But you don’t.

“[Y/N]?” Bucky said, snapping you back to reality. “I’ve been looking for you. How’s that bullet graze treating you?”

Because who am I without you now?

“Bad,” you said, patting your thigh. “You should’ve followed Sam, man. Like, come on, it’s in every action movie.”

He gave you that intense stare again, and you had to laugh. “Aw, it’s like you want to shoot me right in my leg. How very romantic of you.”

“Yeah, always a pleasure. Now, come on.”

His assisting metal hand on your elbow as you walked was comfort like you’ve never had before.

And you simply figured that that alone was already a good enough reason to stay.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

It’s been one of the most satisfying weeks of your life, you think to yourself as you toasted your own beer bottle with Bucky, Sam, and a couple of more people by the docks.

You haven’t been updating Elrich or anyone about your mission, but you’ve been reassuring yourself that it will all end well.

“To Captain America!” you cheered, encouraging the others to celebrate.

A while after that, you sat alone on one of the dock sections, your sandals set aside behind you as you let your legs play with the cold water.

Bucky took a seat right next to you, dipping in his water as well. The rest seemed to be preoccupied with rejoicing and having fun.

“Thought you were busy flexing,” you teased before swinging your beer bottle and chugging the remains down your throat.

He shrugged, sipping the last of the beer from his, too. “I could use some tranquility.” He set down the bottle. “Listen—”

“Look, I know you’ve picked up on me feeling something for you for a while now and that’s on me but. . . You don’t have to return anything, really.”

Bucky paused, comprehending what he’d just heard. “You have feelings for me?”

“What?” you froze. “No, I’m kidding, I’m just—”

“Will your answer be different if I said I do, too?”

“Yeah. In that case, no, I’m not kidding.” You put your empty beer bottle behind you right beside your sandals. “But if you’re kidding, then I’m kidding, too.”

“Well, I’m not kidding,” Bucky declared.

“So it’s settled, then. Nobody’s kidding.”

“Yeah, yeah, nobody’s kidding,” he repeated.

And the silence that followed made you want to drown yourself in the very water you had dipped your toes in.

But then your conversation with Zemo came to mind once more.

Your own words bothered you.

“I’m not keen on pretending to be someone I’m not anymore.”

You hated yourself for being a hypocrite. Here you are now, lying to him.

And so you decided to tell him.

Perhaps tell him your real name. That you didn’t disappear during the Blip even though it felt that way as you had spent most of the five years trapped in a hangar, training to be a better weapon.

You opened your mouth to confess all the lies you’ve been living since the moment you met but it was overpowered by another intense feeling you’ve been meaning to let out for another time.

“I’m just glad you’re safe, Buck,” you said. “I know you think that times aren’t good enough just yet for this to be—”

Adrenaline stronger than what any alcohol could give you pumped through your veins as his lips pressed against yours, your limbs becoming stranger to you, unsure of what to do next.

When he pulled away, you were left astonished, certainly uncertain.

“I know what I think,” he said. And for the umpteenth time that day, thankfully, he smiled. It was genuine and true, and it was comforting. “Times will get better if this turns into something I think we want it to be.”

And all felt as if it was well; that it could be better what with the smiles and laughter that followed.

Nobody bothered you, and you treated the mission like some lost sticky note, letting yourself be taken into this paradise you’ve let your ignorance built.

As the night settled after a long conversation with your Bucky, the two of you finally stood up. You thought of ‘Dad’ listed in your contacts and for a moment you considered throwing your phone away.

But you don’t, preferring to keep the photos you had just taken that day.

Instead, as you followed behind Bucky, you swiftly opened your phone and deleted and blocked Elrich.

You’d been behind by a few steps so Bucky slowed down until you kept up, and he held out his metal hand out to you, and you took it.

Because all would be well. He was the promise itself, the reassurance. And that was enough.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

He was more present in your apartment room than in his, and you didn’t mind. You’d let him fall asleep right next to you in your bed as you patted him until he did, let him help you clean the living room and change sheets. . .

It was lovely to need and to be needed for no selfish reason other than wanting to.

There were a lot of walks together, hanging out at the docks, and more for the past six months and so far, nobody has bothered you.

How would you know? You’ve never been alone, never been active on social media, or literally anything.

All your friends like Bucky and Sam were under the impression you had also been snapped away, and you’ve lied about this life so hard that even you had started to believe it.

“Goodnight, Barnes,” you’d say at night when sleep time is due.

And he’d unknowingly remind you of your innate fraudulence by simply calling you by a name not yours. “Goodnight, Whiskey,” he’d whisper as he fell asleep right next to you, his half-steady breathing the only consolation of the grim truth of who you were.

Every night, every single time he called you by that, you had willed yourself to come clean to him.

It’s just Bucky. He won’t hurt me.

But then you’d look down at him dozing off on your chest, his arms unwilling to let you go, his closed eyes peaceful as ever as it twitches.

But it’s Bucky. And I could hurt him.

And at every twitch on his face, you could feel your throat close, guilt eating you up slowly like a parasite.

You had no clue what happened to your mission and why your ‘Dad’ was not at all concerned about your whereabouts.

You’d almost forgotten you were there for the sole reason of taking back Bucky to be at the mercy of the very organization that treated you more of a weapon than a person.

But you let it be, locking that thought and letting it be summoned whenever someone called you by your name.

You never tell him about the nightmares of being tortured to be at HYDRA’s own beck and call, about the memories of being forced to remember each and every single time you took your seat at that damned chair without a single serum pumping your veins and agony one level from what your body would consider too much.

He never asked you about the scars and the remnants of bruises on every surface of your body at nights when love was fervent, just as you never asked him about his.

He knew you knew his story as the Winter Soldier very well, as well as the list of people’s names who he wanted to make amends with.

You could still remember the guilt and loathe in his face when he confessed the part of his own story he wasn’t aware you already knew.

If you knew who I was and why I’m here in the first place, you’d hate me forever.

It didn’t matter, though. At least, not right now. Not when nights are spent in the comfort of your Bucky.

Not your target nor mission. Just Bucky.

Again, all was well.

At least, until the evening of the next day.

You tried to ignore the star necklace you had found slipped under your door last week as you walked on our way home, carrying a crumpled paper bag filled with donuts to apologize to Bucky for a small disagreement you had, a peaceful night with your beloved in mind.

All this is disrupted by arms you don’t recognize hauling you off your feet and another set covering your mouth with a cloth that, for some reason, brought you to a sleep.

You awoke in a familiar place you recognized immediately.

It’s not easy to forget something when you’ve spent so much time trying to become someone you thought you were and someone you could be in that very place.

Hands tightly bound together behind you and tied around the backrest of the metal chair you were on, you tried to break free to no avail.

You were no super soldier, you knew that, but you were also aware that desperation, while pathetic, could be a genius alternative amplifier where escape was concerned.

“I thought you would have at least put up a fight, girl,” said a familiar voice. You had yearned for that voice to tell you you have done perfect, done great. But now? You wanted to rip apart the throat of the speaker. “You have been weakened.”

“No, I’ve become less stupid.” You looked up to find him standing beyond your reach even if you weren’t in shackles. A wet puddle separated the two of you, leaked rain dripping from the high ceiling.

“Weakened, nonetheless. But never mind your failure, because you’ve built a foundation well — finally something in your mission that you did not screw up.”

You hated to admit it, but the little girl who craved his validation was crumbling, and you tried so hard not to let her show up in your face.

“What do you want me to do, Elrich?” you mocked, and you took pleasure at the offended disbelief that flickered in his features for a second. You’ve never referred to him as anything other than Mr. Aslanov. “Your plan to rebuild HYDRA is a failure. You’ve got a hundred people including yourself and that’s it. Your pathetic dream’s nothing but a drawing of a kindergarten who thinks he’s cool. Give up.”

Hans emerged from the shadows, stepping right next to Elrich with a taunting smirk.

One of Elrich’s henchmen followed Hans, bowing. “The chair is ready, sir.”

The damned chair.

“Oh, we have a video to record first,” Elrich said; and it was weird to hear him without the endearing facade he’d worn back when you’d been ignorant. “Consider it as an invitation to the Winter Soldier.”

“He’s not the Winter Soldier, not anymore.

Elrich spoke as one of his henchmen prepared the tripod. “And you are no longer my loyal servant and yet here you are, soon to follow instructions once again. You are a coward, child. I expected more from you and you’ll now be painted blue and purple.”

Nothing new. Same old, same old. You could only watch as you waited for what would draw bruises on your skin and wait for it to end as the red dot blinked and blinked on the camera.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

Bucky Barnes received a package in front of his doorstep after three days of no answers at your door or your phone or any updates about your whereabouts, driving him crazy.

“[Y/N]?” he had always called out thrice each day, knocking on your door with hesitation.

He’d only figured you’d been busy or simply keeping your distance. You haven’t been yourself for the past week, and it threw him off.

He called Sam over, asking to borrow his laptop. And the two of them opened the only file folder, clicking one of the two files in it, the video first.

Bucky clenched his fist and his jaw, utterly disturbed by what he’d just seen.

There you were in the same chair, wearing the same clothes he last saw you in, skin marred by bruises and scars.

The video ran for only ten seconds, but each shudder of a breath you took and let go haunted him. It was a new kind of torture.

Sam turned it off, rendered speechless. Their brows were furrowed as Sam silently clicked the other file, the location written on it and the familiar star attached to the top part, and he immediately knew.

Bucky stood up in a second, and Sam had to hold him down. “Oh, you’re not going alone.”

“I am because I said so.”

“These folks are bad news, man. Them coming back for you can’t be good. You gotta think this through.”

“I already did.”

“For ten seconds,” Sam challenged.

“That's all I need. I’m going.”

“Well, not alone.”

As the two prepared, Bucky had gone into your bathroom to turn off the lights to make sure all was off as per your constant instruction embedded into his habit.

He was about to close the door shut when he looked up at the ceiling and saw one loose tile not quite fitting into place. He had used his own loose tile ceiling in his bathroom as a storage, and he figured that you probably did.

Bucky, desperate to find more things to remind himself of you, pushed it aside, finding a small tin box. He opened it with hesitation, uncertainty filling him up upon seeing the same red star that had been marked on his metal arm a while ago in the form of a necklace sitting on top of a collection of cards.

He pulled out the cards, your picture was on each and every one of them but the names were different.

Five driver’s licenses were under the names of Lauren Balskate, Mary Royce, Susie Lewis, Paulina May O’Brien, and Jules McConell.

Several more ID cards he could not count followed, names he did not recognize listed right next to your picture, each one unique from the other.

Sometimes, you had curly hair, sometimes straight, sometimes cropped, sometimes buzzed, and sometimes a vibrant color while sometimes not.

When he finished going through all the cards, Bucky slumped on the cold tiles of your bathroom floor, your face tormenting him.

“Who are you?” he says out loud, the past year flashing before his eyes, doubt clouding it all.

And yet he still stood up to look for you.

Whoever you were did not matter right now. What did matter, however, was who he fell in love with, and so Bucky left the apartment building with Sam, sworn to prioritize his determination over his confusion.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

The pair soon found themselves in a long hike up to what seemed to be in the middle of nowhere despite knowing it was in the Appalachian. Straying from the trail wasn’t recommended, but it was required to find the location, and after a few more minutes, the two glimpsed a hangar directing out a cliff with only an overly large runway separating it.

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier parted ways temporarily, Sam manning from above, following along and watching as Bucky approached the open and exposed entrance.

Bucky hasn’t even stepped inside when he heard Sam curse over their comms.

“Redwing’s been deactivated! Keep going, I’m—”

A bullet rang through his ears, the sound deafening and from a distant height of the sky, Bucky saw Sam’s figure fall for a couple of seconds.

“Sam!”

“Grazed a wing! I’m fine! Keep going, I’m gonna scout!”

As soon as Bucky stepped inside the hangar’s surprisingly modernized tech had the wide door shut in a quick moment and he sensed the hands before it reached him, but the hands still managed to rip the earpiece off his right ear.

The silhouette of a huge aircraft distracted him for a split second, but he swung his metal arm to the perpetrator, missing the assailant by an inch.

When his eyes adjusted to the dark and hanging lights flickered on his eyes met. . .yours.

You’d been dressed in combat gear, all your limbs covered as well as your neck.

Bucky found questions swimming in from everywhere as he dodged each hit from your dagger.

But you weren’t a super soldier, weren’t you?

How could you have taken that chair’s torment?

He slammed your hands away, sending the dagger skidding and so you pulled out your gun, pointing it right at him.

“You double-crossed me,” he said out of disbelief he could no longer hide. He immediately disarms you, and he lifts you by your vest, sending you skidding across the floor, your dagger across the floor.

His eyes flickered to the chair in the middle of the room. It was different from the one he’d always sat in, but its purpose was familiar.

“Get in the chair,” you said.

Fury pulsing through him, Bucky let the Winter Soldier and himself become one, not talking as he ripped off his sleeve to reveal his metal arm unabashedly this time.

“No,” he answered.

And soon there was clanging of metal against concrete, flesh against hard rusted posts holding the hangar intact.

He had sent you flying, and you crashed into the door shielding the entrance to the underground base of HYDRA, and he had to pause for a double-take to see a long hall stretch far into the other side of the room, make-shift offices probably inside.

You used the temporary distraction the base had gathered to aim for his jaw.

And the fighting took place once more above the hangar, the light from the hall he’d uncovered letting you see each other with much more visibility.

The ship took a huge portion of the hangar’s space, and when you recognized the pain coming from everywhere in your body, you realized you had some sort of control and with Plan B in mind, you refrained from reaching out to Bucky in fear of losing control of yourself once more.

You found the cockpit and you immediately took over the controls, preparing to launch it and setting your plan of destroying the base and letting it crumble into ashes and debris into motion.

When he found that it was within reach, Bucky grabbed the dagger you’d dropped a while ago and followed you up the ship, grabbing you by your neck just as the ship had begun to move.

The usage for autopilot was too soon, but you had gone for it anyway, the launch manned by a half-assed attempt at destruction.

“Buck — Bucky. . .”

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice tense with disgust. Another voice ruined for you. His grip tightened on your neck.

“It’s [Y/N]. Please. It hurts.”

The pleading in your voice almost let him do so, but he kept his guard up.

He hated the way his throat was constricting as he spoke and how his eyes threatened to become a broken dam.

“Are you sure you’re not Paulina? Susie? Jules?” he mocks. “Was it all just a mission to you?”

He tried.

Tried so hard to ignore the pleading in your voice. “No, Bucky, please, listen.” But your hands were moving of your own accord, and a goal you could never in a million years have presented itself. The chair. “Kill me,” you instruct in a plea for apology and redemption.

His grip loosened, and the part of you you did not own grabbed the dagger from his hands, aiming it at his neck, but you took hold of it as fast as you could, letting it drop on the floor.

You ignored him as you ran to the cockpit, steadying the ship, ignoring everything else.

It hurt everywhere.

The fresh bruises. The old ones and the new.

But most of all, the bruises you painted on his skin.

That part of you again.

Hurt him, it said. Do whatever it takes to get him on that chair.

“Bucky,” you said under your breath, but it sounded more like a wish than an attempt to call him.

But you were standing up again, and you — no, — your hand grabbed hold of the dagger, aiming it at him.

He stood up, and you were there, frozen right in front of him as a fight erupted within yourself.

It was like watching yourself from afar. You could only watch as you launched your body to him, and Bucky defended himself from the sharp blade threatening to pierce his skin.

When you finally found that you were in control of your own self, you spoke. “You decide if it was real for me too, because I’ll make sure you’re the one who gets to be free.”

And you let him turn the handle around and two gasped breaths came up from the two of you, your eyes locked.

It was almost like you were in each other’s arms in bed again and if you just squinted your eyes a bit, you could almost see it.

Only that red drenched your stomach, the handle peacefully resting against his.

You fell against him, and you felt and heard everything. Like the engines within the walls of the ship. Like the moving of the ship and the churning of your stomach and the weight of your faults.

You looked up at him again.

He expected you to say the words he’d dreaded and wished to hear just so he wouldn’t have to live with the thought that all the blood yet to be spilled would be for nothing.

He willed you to say Hail HYDRA in your last moments.

But you didn’t.

The wind gushed against the open doors of the ship to your left, and Bucky felt the howl of it too.

“My name is [Y/N],” you said as you tasted the blood on your lips. “And it’s been a pleasure to meet you and love you, Buck.”

Spotting familiar wings from afar, you pushed him off the door of the ship, aware of the life that awaited him after this.

You will yourself to move, the mind control fading away at every single step especially as you took your seat and manned the ship, taking a sharp turn and aiming the ship at the hangar where the underground base awaits.

Clouds had looked like mountains from where you were, and it was a good enough consolation as you abandoned the gratitude you held towards Elrich.

You thought of those inside the underground base and how all of this would be over soon and you tightened your grip on the handle as you watched the clouds from underneath while passing by.

From down below, he watched as your ship disappeared from tree to trees, headed for the base. He shut his eyes as tight as he could as if it would make it all better.

And he could only listen to the deafening booms erupting from the collapsing land from the ground he had landed on as Sam practically dragged him away.

He couldn’t hear his own voice as he called out for your name.

It’s been a pleasure to meet you and love you, Buck.

His eyes glimmered upon the distant sight of a forest fire.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

[Y/N] [Y/L/N].

That was your real name.

It was almost as if he had loved a stranger he knew with all his heart.

Bucky spent the entirety of his days the following weeks in your apartment room where fragments of where your presence had used to be a permanent resident to cope.

He finally stood up from the bed to open the fridge, knowing there was nothing there at all, but he did anyway.

He was overwhelmed by a surprise he could not determine whether or not it was a good type.

Yes, it was a good one, he decided as he picked up the box of cake with only one slice left. A sticky note that had gone cold was attached on the top of the cover.

This is all I left you. Sorry. I love you, I swear. I just love this cake more. Kidding.

Bucky chuckled, the handwriting so you.

He then put the cake into a plate to eat it in silence only to leave the plate on the counter to run his fingers on the pictures and notes on the fridge held up by cheap magnets.

Stop emptying my fridge, idiot. Buy groceries.

That night, he went out for the first time to spend all he had to get groceries and restock the fridge.

The cereals, the milk, and everything. . .

You would’ve wrapped your arms around him and jokingly teased him for taking too long to do it.

Comfort, it seemed, was still in this room and wherever else you’ve been.

And that was enough for Bucky to help him sleep a little less worse for this night, and this time, he was no longer afraid to dream of you.

His [Y/N]. And he’d listen to all the voicemails you had sent back then to lull him to sleep. . .

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ladyvesuvia · 2 years

Text

Somethings

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x Reader

SUMMARY: A staring contest on the rooftop leads to the two of you deciding to kiss on your birthday to find out if something is there. (Based on The Way I Feel Inside by The Zombies)

WORDS: 1.9k

reblogs are appreciated !! :’D

A/N: a belated gift for my beloved birthday girl because i forgot to greet her because i have a shitty memory so here’s a fluffy just a bit of angst fic with bucky because i know you loathe angst but will eat up fluff every single time so hear you go i love u @maggiebuchanan also i rushed this for four hours i’m sorry here u go ilysm

Long after everyone has come and gone from your birthday party in your apartment, you’re left alone with one more guest who, for some reason — the reason being that he hadn’t gotten you any present and showed up late — felt guilty and obliged to help you clean up.

“Seriously, you can go, it’s okay,” you tell Bucky with a lighthearted laugh as you wipe the tables. “It’s no big deal.”

He doesn’t respond, being occupied with rearranging the chairs. “Where does this placemat go again?”

You drop the rug on the table, not saying a thing as you just watched him. You cross your arms in an effort to be noticed. “Wherever it goes.”

He nudges one chair into place before mimicking your stance.

He.

Stares.

You snort. “Alright, I can live with that.”

“Can you?” he challenges.

“Uh-huh, I say we take this to the rooftop.”

And the two of you climb the fire escape stairs, finally making it to the fine breeze of the busy night. There’s nobody else upstairs but there are the foldable chairs you and your friends had set up way earlier that you have yet to clean up after later on.

The two of you finally stand in front of each other, face to face, prepared to win.

He blinks for a long while and so do you until you finally count to three and the staring contest begins. You don’t let his stoic expression faze you as well as he doesn’t let yours distract him.

“You better wish yourself luck because I can do this all day.”

You laugh, walking closer to him. He doesn’t blink. “You know what you can’t do all day?”

“Oh, yeah?” he nods. “What?”

“Think about what to get me for my birthday,” you joke.

He then groans, visibly embarrassed and begins to apologize without doing so much as look away from you. “I said I’m sorry!”

“I’m just kidding, don’t worry,” you laugh, patting him at the back.

He doesn’t bother to inform you of the weeks he had prior to this moment that he had, in fact, been brainstorming of what to get you.

Which brings him to today, where he’s carrying . . . two things.

Just because.

There was the tiny box of daisy earrings resting in the pocket of the bag he’d brought along with him and a projection pendant necklace he’s keeping in the pocket of his jacket.

You turn away from him, leaning on the rough balcony of the rooftop. “It’s just . . . I know you haven’t been the biggest fan of me lately and I’m not sure if it’s something I said or did but—”

He starts to blink fast, comprehending what you’d just said. “Wait, what?”

“I mean, I’ve noticed you’ve been avoiding me for a while,” you mutter, referring to the times he’d leave the room when you enter and vice versa.

Silence.

He frowns as he thinks back on the past few weeks. “I haven’t been avoiding you. It’s just that. . .” It’s just that I refuse to ruin something so good by just looking at you in a new light.

“It’s just that what?”

He sighs. “Listen,” he starts. “I actually got you something. Or somethings. I don’t know, I just thought you might think it was over the top and everything.”

He stuffs his hands into his pocket, hesitating. “I, uh, got you these daisy earrings at the last minute which is why I’m late but they’re downstairs. I’ll go get it now—”

You pull his jacket, shaking your head so as to keep him there. “We can get it later. I just want to know why you’ve been so keen on not being in the same room with me even now.”

“See, the thing is,” he starts. Bucky then pulls out the pendant necklace from his pocket, which he then hangs in front of you, displaying it. “I got you this, too.”

“A necklace?” you say, taking it into your own hands to study it.

“It’s a projection pendant necklace. Ordered it some time ago.” Some time being literally two months prior, but he doesn’t say that.

You laugh in amusement. “What does it say inside?”

Just after you peek through the pendant, he snatches it away, stuffing it back into his pocket again. “Nothing cool, just—”

You began to wheeze, and it was more than just enough for him to go rigid. “A picture of a donut?”

“Well, yeah, because you set aside a donut for me and — I don’t even know. It- it sounded a lot better in my head.”

“No, no, it’s thoughtful. I love it. Thank you.” You turn around with your back to him, and he puts on the necklace on your neck. “A donut pendant would’ve done well.”

“Thought you might like the fancy one on the outside.”

“And I do, thank you.” You face him again with your arms crossed, as if the stance alone could help you decipher whatever he was trying hard to say and not to say. “Why were you trying to keep this a secret?”

“Because I assumed you might think that the necklace means something and that something being that I liked you which I do, but not that way. I don’t know.”

“Okay,” you acknowledge, looking out at the hustled background of the city.

He gulps. “It’s simply that I assumed people might think of it that way as well if I had given you that necklace and I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

You look back at him. “What do you mean?”

“That they might think that I have feelings for you. I just wanted to prove them wrong.” And prove myself wrong as well.

You had to see it for yourself. “So do it.”

“What?”

“Prove it,” you say with an outward confidence. “Kiss me. See what’s there.”

He only stares at you with a contemplation you couldn’t decode no matter how hard you tried.

“If neither of us feels anything, we can pretend none of this ever happened and we can rest knowing that we’re just friends because this has been eating me up since, like, ever and I just—”

No mechanics are furthermore explained for you had found yourself somewhere else far away from the rooftop of your apartment building. It takes a while to register to yourself that his hands are on your neck, and was soon cupping your cheek with his palm as his lips press against yours.

It’s a gentle kiss, but somehow the very essence of the moment lingers even long after the very scene as you had never hoped it would. You pull away, looking back out at the city, and so does he.

You can’t look him in the eye.

He doesn’t say anything.

Why isn’t he saying anything? Say something, damn it!

You decide to get it over with, seeing that it was a now or never situation. “What did you . . . think?”

“Given the circumstance, I don’t think I’d have had the capacity to have even done so much as think.”

You laugh. “So is that a good thing?”

“Depends on how you see it.”

“But how I see it depends on how you see it.”

Bucky grins, and that smile of his just makes that memory of that kiss come back to you, ricocheting at every second, telling you that how you saw it was, in fact, a lot more than just another friend.

He leans on the balcony, looking at you instead of the vast landscape ahead. “It’s. . .”

“You know, if it was a bad kiss, you can just say so,” you joke, hoping to lighten the mood but he only sighs.

Uh oh.

“You want to know how I see it?”

“Do I?” you consider.

“I hope you do.”

“Let me see for myself, then.”

“See, I have done so many things in my life,” he starts off, considering the next thing he was going to say over and over in his head as if it would make the outcome as he wishes it to be, “and the easiest would be falling for you and the hardest was trying not to. And I guess what I’m trying to say is that after almost a century, I’m finally getting the kind of thing most people thought they could find at first sight and I must say, it’s quite worth the unexpected wait.”

You don’t know what to say.

After all, how do you even respond to that? How does one even begin to say something that’ll match that?

He clasped his hands together in light of the pause you’ve taken. “I should go,” he tells you with an apologetic smile. “Happy Birthday.”

“No,” you say, just as he’s about to go down the fire escape. “No, stay.”

“Okay.”

“I think this would be a better response for a second opinion,” you say as you take a deep breath before taking three quick strides to pull him into another kiss, only this time, you were trying to get your point across.

You linger there, but only enough for Bucky to let the thought sink in and for yourself to grasp a better perspective of how you felt.

You had felt sure for a long time now, but this only solidified it as you had hoped it would, and so you pulled away, your hands never leaving his face and his never leaving your waist.

“Hi,” you breathe. “You still think the same?”

“Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “Yeah, I do.”

“I should hope so because I almost tripped on the way here.”

“Mhm, I saw that.”

“Does it make you like me any less?”

He rolls his eyes, mockingly frowning at you. “If anything, it makes me like you even more.”

“Good, good,” you say, relieved. “Because you know what they say: two kisses are better than one.”

He furrows his brow in mock thought. “Nobody has ever once said that.”

“Well, I have because I said so.”

“Fair enough,” he nods. He then leans on the balcony again. “Hey, I know it’s two in the morning but I was wondering if you wanted to stay up here for a little while longer?”

“No, I don’t think so, sorry,” you pouted, patting his shoulder.

His smile falters. “Oh, alright, that’s fine.”

“You idiot, I’m just kidding. Just go grab some cake from downstairs. Of course I wanna stay out here more.”

“Oh,” he says, and he finds himself grinning, also a lot more relieved. “I thought—”

You wave him off. “Yeah, yeah, shut up, go get us some cake.”

He gestures at himself. “I have to do it?”

“You want me to take back everything I did?” you tease.

“On my way,” he jokes back, jogging over to get down on the fire escape.

“Oh, and, Bucky?” you call out just as he’s about to leave. “I think you’re worth the unexpected wait, too.”

You watch as he disappears from view with the most comforting smile you’ve ever seen from him in a long time, and you sink down into a chair and think about it the whole time.

And soon the two of you found yourself seated on two of the foldable chairs, talking about everything and nothing all at once, and it just might be the simplest yet most memorable birthday you’ve ever had so far.

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ladyvesuvia · 2 years

Text

i lied

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

WORDS: 3.9k

SUMMARY: He’d sworn that he’d become a better man and you had made a vow that you would stand beside him ‘til the day you died but alas, you had both grown to become liars. (Loosely Based on I Lied by Lord Huron and Allison Ponthier)

REMINDERS: drinking. intoxication. keg. parties. unhealthy relationship. angst. hurt no comfort.

A/N: please say you guys missed me

–

—

He’d sworn to become a good man if not better as his grip on his shirt drenched in sweat tightened. All for you, he claimed; to which you assured him with all the acceptance one could muster: “It’s okay,” you said, your arms wrapped around him as he wept all the sorrows he’d tried to douse with alcohol away. “You’ll be okay, Buck. We’ll be okay.”

Was it foolish? Quite so, someone with logical thinking would say. However, it’s what made you strong enough to listen to Bucky with one knee down on the floor after driving hours you could not count just to get to Vegas with only closest friends you considered family in tow.

“[Y/N],” he had started, holding the wedding band between his fingers with a grin, “I’m changing all my ways for you. Become the man you deserve, you know. Now, with this terrible, terrible ring,” he said, his smile widening even more as he caught your laugh, “I’m promising to be with you until we’re bones. With that in mind, I hope you know I could never love anybody else but you.”

“A bit of a stretch, isn’t it?” you asked with a teary grin, disbelieving the sight in front of you.

“No, a promise is a promise, my keg lady. And I wouldn’t want you to die without my love, so.”

“Shut up before I change my mind,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“So you’ve made up your mind?”

“Yeah, so just ask the question, idiot.”

“Alright, will you do the pleasure of dancing with me until we’re bones? That sounds horrible. Sorry, I swear I practiced, I just . . . you know. It’s you.”

“Oh! So that’s what the scrap of paper with ‘bones’ written on it meant. Oh, good heavens, I thought you murdered someone or something,” you joked. “And to answer your question, my keg gentleman, I will.”

You celebrated later on with Natasha, her raising a toast in unison with the others.

“Huh,” Sam started, “why don’t you guys just get married here right now?”

“Oh, you’ll pay for it?” you quipped. “Hand over your wallet, Wilson!”

He raised his hands in surrender, and the night went on with the light honor of an engagement.

It was a fun time, laughs from your friends, tokens being tossed, and the promise of a bright future where love can prosper.

But it was either time just hadn’t been kind or it had just worn out your love enough for the truths the two of you had faked in the practice vows you wrote in a piece of memo pad. It was difficult to tell when it happened, but it did — the falling out. The part where the only reason for staying is for the sake of false comfort and pathetic convenience.

About a while after the engagement, the two of you had made it a must to look into a life in the suburbs. Heck, you still weren’t sure if you wanted it but . . . if it gave a little nudge of motion to your relationship and a little tap of relief at the sight of progress, you thought, why not?

So in a less than interesting visit to the suburbs after snagging a lovely two-storey three-bedroom home with a pleasant lawn, you ran into a couple of women out of your league.

Alischa, the woman next door with one four-year old daughter, had stopped by when you came to check out the house with Bucky.

“Kids, am I right?” she’d mused as she crossed the lawn, dusting her hands on her sweatpants.

“Excuse me?” you answered politely.

“Honey, with those branded bags under your pretty eyes, I could tell the little rascal hasn’t been kind to you, too, huh? I’m Alischa, with an ‘s’ and a ‘c,’ people often misspell.”

Right, you thought. Is this what the suburbs do to people? Or were you already fucked up way before?

“Oh, we don’t have kids yet. We’re planning it, though, so. . . I guess I got the bags early in the game.” You grinned as real as you could. “You know, like a head start.”

“Ah, yes. Husband not treating you well, darling? I actually have a blog, I think you’d really benefit from it. I mean, talk about life in here, right? Good thing I know just how to keep it—”

Yada, yada, yada. Nod. Nod, just nod and smile. You wanted it to end, for some saint to just pick you up and take you out flying or something. Just away from this suffocating place. And alas, your saint came in the form of a four-year old little girl dressed in a Cinderella costume to come take her insufferable mother away. “I stepped on Gus’ poop,” she called out.

Soon, Alischa with an ‘s’ and a ‘c’ bid her scripted goodbyes and was on her way to clean off the turd from her child’s makeshift glass slippers. Soon, that’ll be you, a voice in your head said. And you tried so hard not to think much about it on the way home as Bucky drove, the silence steady and craving mess.

“You okay?” he said, putting one hand on your leg as the car slowed down to oblige with the traffic.

You nodded. “Just tired.”

He looked like he was to say something, and you wished him to do so, but he only swallowed it up as he took off his hand to keep driving, catching up with the green light. “Okay,” he settled.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

Back in your first year of college, you’d attended your first party in an unfamiliar dorm as your new roommate, Natasha had suggested as she’d been meaning to introduce you to her friend Steve.

You’ll like him, she said. He's a little shy but that’s just a part of his charm, she said.

He’d seemed too occupied on your date. But to be fair, having a first date in a college dorm party is not exactly the wisest thing to do. Especially when you noticed the reason for his absence of mind — the very person that brought you there.

He’d been silent for a long time, and he hadn’t taken a sip from his cup of booze. “You like her, don’t you?”

His fragile look was hilarious, and you wanted to elbow him or just pat him on the shoulder but he looked far too fragile just as his eyes. “Me?”

“No, I mean the ghost beside you. Yes, you. And it’s fine, I just think you should’ve made it clear to her that it’s her you like. She wouldn’t shut up about you to me. You sounded good on Nat’s record, so I’d say she thinks you’re pretty cool.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, duh. Now how about I take your cup and pour the remains of it on mine before I chug it down and get a refill?” He reluctantly handed it to you, still unsure and confused. “Where do I get a refill?”

He once again pointed out the buckets at the counter, and you saluted him — which he did as well — before you headed out on your way. Here’s the golden moment: in five steps, you bumped into someone who reeked of alcohol and sweat and tobacco.

The stranger mumbles “Sor sor” as he goes about his eventful night as you went on with yours.

After chugging down the last of Steve’s drink, you poured yourself another. With the burn very much present in your throat, you looked out ahead only to find some dude performing the very first time you saw a keg stand in real life. Cheers erupted as he dropped back down, arms in the air, eyes meeting yours and a wink making a guest appearance before a muffled thud sounded as he collapsed on the carpet floor.

Nobody seemed to notice, as all were preoccupied with the intense blasting of music and, of course, the booze. Your better judgment would’ve said, “Find Nat, tell her you’re going home, and sleep early to have a fresh Saturday tomorrow.”

Your better judgment was absent, though; thus you found yourself hauling up the dude who’d just chugged on the keg upside down. “How did you do that?” you asked, and he looked up from the floor, his white shirt stained with food, alcohol, and . . . you didn’t want to know if that was blood or hot sauce. Hopefully the latter. “Are you a keg wizard?”

“Practice, little macadamia nut, practice,” were the first words out of his mouth, and that would’ve been the end of it if he hadn’t hiccuped before ralphing on your shirt. “Sor sor,” he mumbled, and good sense returning to you only half a minute later was a curse.

The following morning, you’d awoken in your own bed in Nat’s shirt. “What happened?” you asked her upon seeing her combing out her damp hair. She’d just showered.

“Bucky puked on you.”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” you asked with a yawn.

“I think you’d remember him better as the keg dude,” she said.

You rolled your eyes, stretching your arms as you stood up to get yourself together. “Right.”

“After all, you are his keg lady now. Would you care for a tap dance, m’gent?”

You threw your pillow at her, trying hard not to laugh as she did. “Shut up,” you called, catching the pillow just well as she threw it right back at you. “So tell me how it happened.”

Natasha set down her comb, running her hands through her hair instead. “How what happened?”

“How — you know,” you said suggestively with a teasing grin, thinking back to Steve’s confession to you about Nat. “Oh, come on. Don’t be so secretive, it’s just me. I know.”

But Nat knew nothing. Not even a single clue.

Steve hadn’t told her anything. But they’re thriving now. They bring out the best in each other and even out the worst; and all you could think about is where you’d gone wrong. Sure, you started off on the wrong foot but you were so sure that the worst was over the moment you sealed the deal.

Because didn’t things always end with a happily ever after or some bullshit? Why, just why, can’t that bullshit be reality? Why is that when you look at him, you see a tragedy? Why is that when he looks at you, he sees a stranger?

“Sorry I’m late,” you’d say.

“Sorry I’m late,” he’d say.

“Sorry I’m late,” you’d say.

“Sorry I’m late,” he’d say.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Sorry.”

The decency of apologies just . . . went extinct. From constant excuses to only sleeping in the same bed to nothing at all. And being in the same room was suffocating, intoxicating. In all the wrong ways; it’s not the same at all.

One lazy eleven in the evening, he rose from your bed, waking you without intending to. You groaned, half-asleep and half-awake. The suburbs would be quiet at this time, dismissing the stupid lies they call for themselves and their spouses and their neighbors whom they believed to be less than them; a threat in betterment.

The city was a comfort. The noise. It might be cruel, but it’s comforting to be familiar with the cries you couldn’t hear from fellow miserable people.

Why were you planning to move into the suburbs anyway? You’d been so deep into pretending to want to live the life you’d been told to want that you’d missed on so many things such as the life you actually gave a shit about.

You lost the man you wanted to keep loving, too. And you’d begged in your dreams so much for him to love you again, to apologize with a shower of kisses on your cheek, to make corny gestures your way, to try and throw a pancake to your from the pan and fail miserably, to at least feel like you had even just a friend. You could settle for that.

You’d be moving in in a couple of weeks but you had pressured yourself to pack up some boxes to be done with it as soon as possible.

“Bucky?” you called out to him, still groggy. Your eyes adjusted to the dark, and your eyes met his, both troubled and burdened. “Where are you going?”

“Just . . . going to get some water,” he said from the doorway, and you ignored the bulky backpack set just outside the door frame.

“Okay,” you said. “Will you come back to bed after?”

He stared back at you, a flicker of doubt and consideration in his mind. You didn’t ask, for he spoke for himself: “Yeah. Of course I will.”

You pretended to still be lost in your senses and you went back to bed, eyes closed with your tears your only company as you heard the door shut just moments after he’d promised he’d be back.

Morning passed, and he hadn’t. The afternoon heightened the noise of the city, and yet he was still gone. Twenty-six missed calls rest in your call history, all from you to Bucky. None were picked up.

You considered calling Natasha, but you hadn’t talked to anyone since . . . sometime now but you settled for sending her a small message asking if Bucky stopped by.

Your phone lit up. Natasha had responded: no, why?

You stared at it. It beeped again: is everything okay?

You didn’t respond.

You opened your laptop when night fell, the city below still busy as ever. While obsessively reviewing all the pictures of the neighborhood you’d be moving into, the pictures of the house, the other houses identical to the one that you’d soon refer to as ‘home,’ you found the notepad app open in the background. You minimized the window of the house’s listing pictures.

Did it matter what he wrote? Heck, of course it does. But just as you were about to do something you knew you’d regret, you met the aftermath of his. Your phone rang. Still dumbfounded, you answered. “Buck? Please come—”

“Hi, is this [Y/N] [Y/L/N]?” said an unfamiliar voice in the midst of angry howls of people and things being tossed around.

“She’s speaking to you right now. May — May I ask who this is?” you asked back, looking at the clock. It’s eleven in the evening, and any news right now can’t possibly be good. Lottery announcements don’t occur at this hour.

And the speaker briefly explained the situation, and you rushed to take a cab to a restaurant about fifteen minutes away. You kept calling Bucky on the way, but he didn’t pick up.

The wall-height windows revealed a drastic mess: One wooden table had two of its legs broken, leaving it to look like a slide in the middle of all the clutter that surrounded it. Bucky blended in badly well, passed out on a chair you assumed he’d been forced to behave in. Holy fuck.

You dashed inside as fast as you could, ignoring the small sign that indicated that it was closed, hurrying over in front of him, your hands gripping his shoulder as you tried to gently wake him up. The ring he put on your finger felt haunting. Like it spoke to you in the ways he couldn’t. I don’t belong here, it said. And neither do you.

“Bucky,” you started, swallowing the lump in your throat and trying not to touch your face to deny the possibility of another shameful batch of tears. “Bucky, let’s go home. Please.”

He grunted. He reeked of alcohol and his own perfume, like he’d been trying to cover it. The staff watched as the person you assumed to be the manager approached you to tell you about the damages you’d need to pay for. It was the person you spoke to on the phone, and you pulled out your wallet to find it empty until you ended up handing over two credit cards.

You swung him over your arms, few of the staff helped you out as you steadied him to walk out with you, and you had to utter several apologies on the way out.

When you were already — miraculously — a block away and only vehicles kept the night loud enough to keep you from going crazy, his own insanity tested your patience. Bucky dropped to the floor, almost dragging you with him, but you held him with your strained arm.

You pulled him up, but he wouldn’t cooperate. “Bucky, come home with me. Let’s go,” you said, your voice cracking. This is so stupid, I’m not gonna cry. I’m not.

I’m changing all my ways for you. Become the man you deserve, you know.

Bucky coughed, the stench of alcohol vibrant again. “To where? To your suburban dollhouse?”

You let go of him on the ground, and he finally had enough of his sobriety (ample, but enough to process what he has to) steady himself. “What’d you say?”

He wiped his mouth on his shirt.

“Tell me what you said just now,” you started, your hand going up to your forehead. You’re going to pop. You knew it. That vein in your forehead’s gonna kill you. Not unless the racing beat of your heart does so first. “Tell me what you just fucking said.”

Bucky only stared at you with that frown you knew all too well.

“Suburban dollhouse? I never wanted any of that.”

“This is ridiculous, [Y/N]. Then why are we moving there in the first place? You should’ve just said so.”

“Should’ve just said so?” you scoffed. “I know you’ve been wanting to call things off with me. I just thought if we hit another stupid milestone you’d think it would be worth staying for. You made me. You did.” You dug your finger to his chest repeatedly, and you could feel everything. Back then, he always knew how to make your heart beat so fast. Good to know at least one thing never changed.

“What makes you say that? Just — why do you even think that way? I’ve been there for you, haven’t I? I did everything you wanted me to be. What more do you want from me?”

You wanted to slap him. But you don’t . You just stood there in front of him, waiting for something to happen. For him to say this was all just some sick joke. For you to wake up. For anything to happen.

You waited for your chest to stop heaving fast and heavy breaths before taking a seat in one of the ledges of a closed boutique store. He took his seat next to you.

“Do you know why I hate myself right now?” you said first, thinking about the note he’d written, but you could only recall two sentences: I won’t be coming back. I’m sorry.

He didn’t answer, maybe out of respect or uncertainty, so you went on. “When I read your note,” you said, “I felt like a weight had been taken off my chest. Like I wanted it to stay there, but it felt so good to be twenty times lighter.”

Silence.

You spoke again. “Why didn’t you leave me, Buck? Why not just end it right when you wanted to?”

“Why didn’t you?” he asked.

“Fair enough. I guess I thought it was just a rough patch. I guessed wrong.”

A faint hint of a somber smile as he nodded. “Me too.”

You held out your hands to him, and he held out his, thinking something else less heavy to the chest. But you didn’t hold his back. Instead, you dropped the ring you’d worn for a while now, leaving with him the promise you’d held on for such a long time.

You guided his fingers to shut over it. With a smile, you turned back to the busy road. “We’re both liars in a way.”

I can’t live without your love, you’d said like the pathetic lovesick believer you’d been when you actually hit a rough patch in your first year of dating.

Turns out you can.

He hadn’t said anything since you left the ring in his hand. You faced him, looking him in the eye. In it, you found sorrow and you had to wonder if he could see the same in yours.

“This is the end now, huh?” he breathed.

You nodded in response. “Mhm.”

“Sor sor,” he said under his breath, his hand tightening on the ring even as he laughed. He tucked it into his pocket.

You also laughed, but still wiping your nose and the tears that had dried on your eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

Silence once more. When you realized you could speak steadier than before, you dusted your hands on your pants. “Let’s just maybe not see each other for a while. I think that would be the best for both of us.”

“What about the — uh — apartment?”

“I’ll handle everything from the lease to picking up all my stuff this week, so maybe — er — you could stay at Steve’s if that’s okay?”

“Yeah, that makes sense. I’ll come by the apartment to pick up my stuff when you’re . . . you know.”

“Yeah, okay, yeah,” you said, nodding, trying to get a hold of yourself still. “Sorry, this is all very new to me. You see, I just got out of a really long relationship. Yikes, am I right?” you quipped, your eyes shiny with guest tears.

“Totally get it,” he said with a chuckle.

And you sat there together again for another three minutes until you decided it was right to leave now. You turned to him once more, this time really holding his hand, taking in the most of what was just once the guy who you witnessed chug keg upside down, memorizing every feature of the man you loved even though you’ve already had it down to every last detail due to all the time you’d spent tracing the moles that rested in his skin like little constellations, and finally, you wrapped your arms around him, and you felt his around you, too.

He’d been doing the same, but he pressed a kiss against your hair, taking in everything of you for the last time. No more future fences to fix in your home together. No more embraced to share. No more pancakes to throw. No more movies to argue over. No more anything. No more you.

And he just had to learn to be okay with that as he watched you jog to the cab you’d called over, not turning back. He could only watch as you disappeared into the stream of passing cars, further and further away from him than you’d already been when he had you in his arms.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

The apartment looked bland when he finally visited to pick up his own stuff this morning a week after you’d come by. Turning the lights on was like a reveal of how empty the entire place looked without everything he wanted to remember you with.

But more so when his boxes were finally in the truck. The couch you’d both argued over which movie to watch countless times now left lighter shades where dust couldn’t have reached it in places where it was the heaviest.

The balcony where you watched fireworks explode up in the sky together remained unfurnished, dust the only thing keeping it alive.

Nothing remained here except where shadows were once etched, and he couldn’t see anything left of you.

The final blow hurt more than it should, and it was as he stood by the door, just as he was to shut it close. He wanted to swing it open again, declare he might have forgotten something, but he knew it had been swept clean already. He would know for he had watched every single thing in it each for lingering moments in time, desperate to find something.

He spared one last glance at where the couch once stood and the chipped edge of the kitchen counter before finally shutting the door, bidding his farewells to the apartment itself. And to the closest he had to what remained of you that he could still reach was soon left behind as he stepped away, memories in tow.

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ladyvesuvia · 2 years

Text

That Old Feeling

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x 40s!Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Even decades later, where his eyes go, your face follows. (That Old Feeling by Doris Day)

WORDS: 5.3k

REMINDER(S): cursing. death. angst. fluff. piggyback rides. mentions of reader’s hair and pigtails. reader is born 1919. usage of she/her pronouns. sometimes switches to third person. intentional grammatical errors in letters. graves.

FIC PLAYLIST (yes this has a playlist cos each part has a song because i am very extra deal with it)

A/N: this is my first time writing for the mcu szmdS i’m only at the second ep of tfatws rn sorry if this doesn’t line up with it well ALSO SPECIAL THANKS AND LOVE TO @pogueslandia FOR GIVING ME IDEAS FOR THE ENDING mwa

I. PRELUDE: Dinosaurs in Love - Brooklyn 1928

It’s almost time for the sun to set yet the streets remained abuzz with people, but the two young children both of which were a decade old paid no mind at all, preoccupied with their typical routine: eating chocolate, knowing they’d regret it later on when their throats will begin to hurt.

Well, maybe it might be too early to call it a routine given that both had just met each other two days earlier but you’d gotten used to it already that the thought of doing it for more days to follow wasn’t so bad.

You rip open your third Butterfinger of the hour, continuing your conversation with your new friend. “I want to be famous someday, James. What about you?”

“Bucky’s alright.”

You stopped chewing on your Butterfinger. “What’s a bucky?”

“Oh, it’s my name,” he says with a smile, taking another Butterfinger from your tiny bag. You resist the urge to berate him, scared to lose a friend so quickly. “You can call me ‘Bucky.’”

“It is a cute one, I guess. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“What does what you said have to do with anything?”

You took a while to process it all. “What?”

“What?” he said, mocking you as he continued on eating.

Scoffing, you took note of his banter. “You know, my Aunt Betty said that when a boy pulls a girl’s pigtails it means that he likes her.”

“Your Aunt Betty is stupid,” Bucky snorted.

It was hard not to laugh, so you just took the opportunity to close your bag, hiding it behind your back. “She bought me these Butterfingers. You should stop eating ‘em, then. On top of that, you should quit pulling my pigtails.”

“I’m not pulling your pigtails,” he said, shrugging. Bucky took one bite of the last of his chocolate.

You turned away. “Maybe you should.”

“But I don’t like you.”

“Good,” you said, arms crossed. “Because I don’t like you, either.”

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II. Time Moves Slow - 2023

Even outdoors with no four walls suffocating him, James Buchanan Barnes could not help but feel his throat constricting and the world itself collapsing upon him at the sight of that face.

He hated the world for depriving him of the days he could’ve spent being woken up with a kiss on his forehead.

The world was and still remains to be cruel up to this day.

He could see you.

One billboard picture equated to lifetimes of you remaining somewhere and everywhere in his mind. It didn’t help that the best he could do to dismiss it all was to walk ahead as straight as he could.

The world knew your face so well, having recognized you as a revolutionary actress of your time — [Y/N] [Y/L/N], a timeless icon.

You had achieved your dream, compared to James who hadn’t. Both dreams could not co-exist in the same time and place, not when his dream is to accompany you along the way.

“Watch it!” hissed a man he’d just bumped into. Bucky muttered a hushed apology.

He halts, trying to catch his breath.

It does him no good to find that he had stopped in front of a jewelry store, the glass window the only thing separating him from the luxurious rings that rested upon its own cushion.

He had bought a ring twice: Once when he played pretend with you when you were younger and once when he thought to bring the fake stories you’d acted out together into reality only to have that very moment snatched before it could even happen.

“Where are you now, [Y/N]?” he says to himself, and yet he could not bring himself to look you up on the net properly.

It had been too much lately: the next channel of the television, the advertisement on a cheap game he’d just installed which he uninstalled right after. . .

He hated that it was as if the world was trying to convince him you were some sort of punishment to him for dying.

As if he were to blame for something of which he had no control over.

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III. First Day of My Life - 1928

June 12, 1928

Dear Bucky,

Hello this is my first time writing a letter i like you i kind of like you. do you want cookies i am making cookies. write back and slip it under my door :)

P.S. specify if yes or no

Yours truelly,

[Y/N]

——

Rereading it over and over, you groaned. It’s way more pathetic than you had imagined it to be.

Common sense would tell you to throw it away but . . .

Deciding against yourself, you stashed it into an envelope and hid it in between your notebook.

You grabbed another piece of paper from your pack and began writing again, this time leaving out the liking him part.

——

June 12, 1928

Bucky,

Hi. do you want cookies pls write back with yes or no then slip it under my door so i can prepare much thanks.

Sincerely,

[Y/N]

——

A knock on your door.

You rushed to open it while carrying a bowl of undone dough.

Bucky walked in, carrying his own empty plate. “You got cookies?”

“I told you to slip a note!”

“Why?” whined Bucky. “What’s the point?”

You put the bowl down to set his plate on the counter. “It’s practice for when we’re actually apart.”

He couldn’t imagine such a time. “Like when?”

“Like when we’re grownups! We’re not always going to be living next door, you know.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am going to be a famous actress and it will be hard for you to reach me. This is your fan-mail practice.” You grabbed the bowl again, jogging to the tray with parchment paper you had prepared moments ago. “Now stop asking questions and help me out over here.”

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IV. It’s Up To You - 1942

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Howard Stark!”

Shit, that’s my cue, you thought to yourself. With a gulp, you flourished your hands, posing as rehearsed with one hand on your hand and one hand gesturing to Howard Stark. With a hesitant and not so subtle glance, you skimmed the tons of crowds before you, searching for that one familiar face.

You told yourself to focus, realizing that Stark and your leader had kissed already, giving you the cue to follow and walk until you reached your spot at the back.

Soon you’d be taking one of the wheels off.

Alright, that’s not so hard, you note.

Just before your next task, you caught sight of Bucky in his uniform. He made it. He’s there.

He tips his hat off to you with a cheeky grin. You subtly roll your eyes but immediately smile afterwards.

This, you thought, is what friends do.

It was just a crush, you had told yourself when you finally considered yourself all grown up, insisting that those feelings were long gone and only effects of having only him over most of the time growing up.

Sure, there were several pathetic confessions on your part while growing up with Bucky and several letters you decided not to send whenever you were apart but. . .

It’s all silly. Just stupid. Childish, that’s the word.

But there’s no denying that his mere ability to be present in little moments of your life brings this indescribable joy within yourself, like something you yearn for in—

“[Y/N]!” one of the girls hissed through a gritted smile, reminding you to grab the wheel.

You mouthed an apology before complying, putting on a picture-perfect smile before the audience. You kept your eyes trained on a spot just above his visor, but there were a couple of times when you’d slip up and just stare at him and he’d be looking back.

Took you a while to notice that he wasn’t alone.

Oh.

He brought a date.

That’s fine.

In a spot backstage, you caught your coach gesturing for you to straighten your posture. You do. Or at least, you try to.

The red car started to levitate and exclamations of awe from the amused audience helped you keep your feet on the ground. Your gaze kept going back to the girl right beside him, leaning a bit too close to his chest as he watched the car.

One more second of thinking about all the sweet things he told her on their way to the Stark Expo and you’d be higher up in the air than the demo car itself.

You were far too frozen that it caught you off guard when one of the front wheels sparked in error, causing the car to crash back down. You jumped and as you did so, you saw the girl he was with laugh and move a bit back closer to him.

“I did say a few years, didn’t I?” Howard Stark pointed out with a grin. Applauses and laughter scattered among the crowd, and you could tell they were still awed by what they’d just watched — a flying car!

For the rest of the presentation, the smile you have been practicing until this very moment takes its toll on your face muscles.

You tried not to look his way the entire time.

——

You’re left alone in the dressing room later on, finally getting to take off the tall black heels and black blazer.

The tables are cluttered with opened makeup and all of the lights of nearby makeup tables are turned off aside from yours.

You watched your reflection hesitantly, picturing what it would’ve been like to be in her place.

Nope.

No way in hell you’re doing that.

To distract yourself for a while, you began to braid a tiny section of your hair at the side.

After realizing you’d been wasting time, you turned off the lights on your makeup table before carrying your black heels with you as you walked in the sandals you’d outgrown a while back.

On your way out, you take a seat on one of the stairs just beside the now empty stage, pulling out a Band-Aid from your bag to put one at the back of each heel.

“How’s the aspiring glitterati holding up?” said an approaching familiar voice. You looked up from your seat to find Bucky.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sergeant Barnes. I’m fine, thank you.”

“You need help with that?”

“No, no, I got it,” you said with a dismissive hand. You finally finished putting the last Band-Aid and Bucky sat down right next to you.

“Familiar?” he asks, referring to the uncanny resemblance of the present to the past; how the two of you had sat in front of your apartment stairs, waiting for the day to turn into night. It’s a lovely parallel, truly.

And the urge to excessively comment on how much you missed those times was hard to resist, yet you did.

He rested his elbows on his knees, looking at nothing in particular just like he always did when you were kids.

“D’you want to switch hats, Sarge?” you say with your arm stretched out, the top hat you’d worn moments ago at the other end. “It must be the booze I had a year ago talking, but I think you’d look quite dashing in a top hat.”

He took your hat from your hands right before taking off his own visor. He dusts it on his uniform. “How can you be certain a rabbit won’t come out of it?”

“The same reason why I’m certain a war won’t come out of yours,” you reasoned, snatching his hat from his hand. “You know, common sense. Most of us have it.”

Bucky laughs, and that smile’s enough to forget you had limbs in the first place.

The moment lingers, and it’s easy to pretend you hadn’t just almost messed up the whole Stark Expo upon seeing him with some other girl.

“So, where’s . . . you know,” you said, immediately regretting it as soon as you said it. “Your date, I mean. Where is she? She was pretty.”

Bucky laughed, slapping you in the back repeatedly in the process just like he does with Steve. Just like he does with his buddies.

“Is it just me or is Miss Hollywood jealous?”

“How very arrogant of you!” you said with mock amusement, shaking him off your back with a laugh. “I’m just saying that she deserves better than a guy whose name is ‘Bucky.’ I mean, come on, that has to be the stupidest name ever to be invented.”

Bucky rubbed his chin, feigning to be in thought. “If I recall correctly, you once said it was cute.”

“You recall incorrectly,” you spat back, giggling.

“I beg to differ.”

“Well, things change.”

A pause.

Bucky shifts in his seat. You remain frozen, and it’s a mystery whether it’s because of your aching feet or his very presence.

It’s now as if the world refuses to move.

You clear your throat. “Don’t you have anywhere you have to be?”

“Oh, right,” he starts. He clears his throat. “There’s that dancing thing.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again. There’s hesitation in there.

Definitely must be the exhaustion of consistent rehearsals and the lack of sleep but you could’ve sworn his gaze lingered on your face.

No, you weren’t imagining it. He really is looking at you back.

This close. So near.

Right before you almost did the worst thing you could’ve ever done (look down at his lips), he pulled the minimal braid you’d given for yourself down hard.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“That’s me asking you to come with me to go dancing.”

“What? Why?”

He looked anywhere but you. “Your Aunt Betty.”

Snorting, you kept your eyes on him. “Right, what does my Aunt Betty have to do with any of this?”

He went rigid. “You know what? Forget about it. How about I walk you home instead?”

You looked at him with narrowed eyes, suspicious. “What do you want?”

“What do you mean, ‘What do I want’?”

You set the black heels you’d been holding on the stairs to cross your arms. “Why are you being nice all of a sudden? Do I have to loan you or—”

He stood up in disagreement. Bucky shook his head. “What? No! Of course not! I just . . . you know.”

To your surprise, he turned around and squatted, patting his back, gesturing for you to get on.

“What, you don’t want a ride?” he grins. “I’m actually pretty comfy, I think.”

You laughed, remembering the time he’d carried you that way several times when you were both younger: he had said him being older meant he was practically the hero, which you said made no sense at all.

You didn’t mind though, because the dreams that followed for the next few weeks after that were immaculate.

“James, we’re not kids anymore.”

“I can see that. Get on, doll.” He patted his back again.

This time, you obliged, albeit hesitantly. He hauled you up, and as soon as he stood up, he let the back of your knees rest on his hands. You tried hard not to flinch.

“Wouldn’t your girl, uh, get jealous, though? Or something like that?”

“You mean you?”

“What?” you blurt out in response.

He started walking now and for once, you’re just a bit glad he couldn’t see you.

“Okay, put me down.”

“No way.”

“I’m gonna make you.” Grinning, you started flailing your arms about, making as much movement as you can until he was forced to set you down.

Bucky raised a brow, looking at you with feigned annoyance just like he always does. “Now what?”

“What’s with you lately? Are you drunk or something?”

He shakes his head, laughing. “Nothing! However, ‘or something’ would be a reasonable category.”

“Be honest,” you say, pointing a finger at him.

“Always am.”

“Do you,” you started, trying hard not to laugh, “James Buchanan Barnes, have a thing for my Aunt Betty?”

“What?” snorted Bucky. He adjusted your top hat on his head. You almost forgot that you were wearing his hat.

“You know, when you mentioned her out of the blue, I was worried you were going to ask me if you could take her dancing. I must admit, you two would make quite a grotesque and questionable pair.”

“That was not out of the blue,” he says with a grin.

“Oh, really? How come? Explain yourself.”

“I only wanted to say that your Aunt Betty might not be as stupid as I thought she was,” he admitted. Bucky rubbed his hands together. He didn’t dare look at you, but you couldn’t blame him for refusing to do so. In fact, you were doing just the same thing. He finally talked again. “Just — alright, just get on my back.”

You hesitantly obliged, not saying a word aside from the awkward ‘Okay’ you’d just managed to say out loud.

“Hey, [Y/N]?”

“Hm?”

“I like your Aunt Betty’s niece,” said Bucky. You were glad he couldn’t see you. “Specifically the one who wants to become famous. I’d like to ask her to dance with me, too.”

“She’d like that.”

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V. The Brooklyn Bridge - November 1944

The two of you are leaning on the railings of the street, the view of the Brooklyn Bridge standing tall not so far away. He handed you the paper bag he had been holding since he picked you up, telling you to get some of the Butterfingers he bought.

You turned away from him a bit, spotting the trash bin from afar. You put your attention back on the paper bag, putting your hand in but . . . you felt something else.

When you pulled it out, you were more than just surprised to find a velvet box.

Turning around, the sight of Bucky down on one knee greeted you.

“Yeah, I should’ve thought this through,” he laughed. “I mean, I did think it through, it’s been what’s on my mind for a long time and — right, sorry, I’m talking too much — I’m aware I’m not holding the ring, that’s on me.”

Stunned, you opened the box to find the ring you had told him you wanted from years back.

You opened your mouth to speak, about to thank him. “Bucky, I—”

“Do?”

“You idiot, of course!”

And so you pulled his hand, forcing him to stand up for you to pull him into the warmest hug he’d never forget. It’s the only thing that matters now. No honking of cars or ships would have the right to interrupt, no pigeon, nothing.

“I didn’t even get to ask the question,” he pouted after pulling away.

“Do you want to?”

“Will your answer still be the same?”

You chuckle. “Find out.”

“That’s scary.”

“Then yes, I assure you it’s the same.”

“Then will you marry me?”

“You idiot, of course.” You press a kiss on his cheek, the weight of all your fears melting away into the noise of the cars passing by in the distance.

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VI. Soldier Boy - December 1944

Under the dark night sky, Bucky had prepared a blanket on top of the grass for the two of you to lie down on. He’s holding your hand, playing with your fingers and you’re looking up at the stars, waiting for one to shoot past.

“I’ll marry you when I get back,” he says, kissing your hand. “Then I’ll make you cookies afterward.”

“Can you?” you tease.

“[Y/N], I’m willing to do anything for you. If baking cookies is what it takes to make you happy, then baking cookies it is.”

“Maybe this time, they won’t get burnt.”

“It won’t. Because we’ll have James junior guarding it.”

You snort. “Oh, there’s a James junior now?”

“Of course there is! Who’d be guarding the cookies, then?”

“Well, what if it’s a girl?”

Bucky scoffed. “Pfft, who cares? We’ll do both!”

“Wow, you are so in love with me,” you joke, squeezing his hand.

“Glad you noticed, doll.”

“I’ll miss you, you know.”

“I know,” he nods.

Bucky sat up a bit, enough for him to turn your way and rest his head on the palm of his hand.

“It’ll be quick, I promise. I’ll be back before you know it. You’ll get to wear your pretty dream dress and we’ll even have your Aunt Betty in the front row and give her a specialized thank you card. She’d be so confused.”

“I like that,” you reply with a grin. “Yeah, maybe even have her as my maid-of-honor.”

He kisses your hand. “You better not stop loving me while I’m away, alright?”

“Bold of you to assume that’s even possible.”

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VII. INTERLUDE: Last Night on Earth - January 1945

It’s true that your life flashing before your eyes in death is a predictable cliche, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s true.

Take this man falling to his death, for example.

See, when you fall, there’s no time to think for yourself, so your head does it for you. Your fragile, little mind filled with stories one always assumes they’d tell in years to come.

He doesn’t see the wintry landscape unfurling before his eyes, no.

What he does see, however, is a burnt cookie on his plate and he could hear a mumbled apology somewhere.

He sees a striped vest. Black heels on a tiny staircase.

His hat on someone else’s head; that someone else’s hat on his.

The Brooklyn Bridge.

The wars he’d fought so hard to survive in to come back home and see that someone instead of writing letters that constantly fail to represent himself.

He’s still falling.

The best he could do is to wish she knew.

Knew that his love is more than just the ring he’d bought her, more than the Butterfingers they’d once shared; more than the hat they’d exchanged; more than the burnt cookies he accepted nonetheless; more than the fake telephone they made together with tin cans they got from canned goods they’d collected and thread from her mother’s sewing kit; more than everything.

The last thing he saw was not the snow on the rocky ridges of the mountain. Instead, he saw that face. Yours.

And it all went dark.

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VIII. Lonesome Town - 1945

It has been a total of twenty-three days since Steve broke the news to you. Twenty-three days of madness.

You had opened your box of unsent letters, mixes of both rejected drafts and complete ones.

You had lost him once already.

If I had sent all of these, would we have had more time to spare?

——

November 13, 1937

Dear Bucky,

This is just a brief note to apologize for my lack of responsiveness for the past month. I hardly know what to say! It sure does cost a sweat to bump guns, doesn’t it?

See, it has been quite a busy few days. Now, don’t blow your wig just yet but I have tried auditioning for a play. I would be lying if I said it was even remotely close to bearable; ten more busted auditions and I am more than certain you’d call me a crumb.

In response to you writing, ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ worry not because I’ll try very hard not to.

You must be missing my voice enough to write to me twice in a week. Might I suggest the telephone? Kidding, Buck.

I hope this letter finds you before the month ends. Hoping to run into you sometime.

Your friend,

[Y/N]

——

You hadn’t responded at all to those two letters he’d sent back then.

And drifted apart you did.

Around the first time in a long time you met, you had blamed it on your hectic schedule.

The next time you met again, you had blamed it on the post.

But now you only have yourself to blame. At least, that’s what’s been running in your head for some time now. Your friends tell you otherwise but it’s just . . . difficult to not hold it against yourself, not when you had made up excuses for your cowardice.

It’s the multitudes of good possibilities that could’ve turned out that makes the loss even greater.

The ring on your finger is now but a mere false promise to paradise. There will be no furniture to arrange. At least, nobody to arrange it with. There will be no walls to paint. There will be no such thing as growing old together.

But you wouldn’t deprive yourself of hope. Your friends would call it denial but the tiniest possibility of him still being out there . . . you did not mind.

There is a fine line between hope and denial, you just happened to be in between.

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IX. Museum of Flight - 2023

The sheer curiosity finally allowed him to want to find out about what has become of you. It’s been, what, seventy-eight years since he last saw you?

Must be the shows he’d been playing in the background but a part of him he considers the pathetic part is still hoping.

Maybe, just maybe, you were more than just a grave or scattered ashes.

Bucky had found a museum dedicated to you in the process of his hesitant research, a discovery he found nerve-wracking.

The [Y/N] [Y/L/N] Museum.

He knew you’d have laughed at the irony of it, maybe even teased him how your nine year old self would have lost her shit.

Which brings us to this moment, with Bucky standing before another exhibit. Just like he did with Steve’s.

How many more exhibits of people who are gone does he have to attend?

He barely notices there’s other people in the room. Once again, he mumbles an apology before proceeding to one particular figure in the room.

There you stood, holding a withering bridal bouquet.

You’re wearing a wedding dress with a sweetheart neckline and cap sleeves. The dress is soiled with mud at the bottom but he found you as beautiful as the day he lost you.

“[Y/N]?” he manages to say out loud, waiting for you to speak.

You didn’t blink, much less look back at him.

He’s convinced he’s dreaming until he looks down to find a plaque indicating a quote.

“With the misery of grief, I am glad I had the luxury of being a bride after being deprived of being one,” the plaque reads, and under it, in much smaller text, was your name and 1950 right beside it.

Another plaque right beside it states something else — Bride in Ruins.

He returns his gaze back to you.

A wax figure. All of you reduced to that of sculpted wax.

It’s hard not to hate those who’ve created this imposter, but he couldn’t help but be grateful to see you.

His throat constricts, his eyes redden.

Apparently, the role you played became your biggest break, and this outfit and pose in particular had been a classic since then.

Posters of movies you’ve starred in lined the walls along with . . . what?

Bucky stepped out of his daze to approach the numbers of yellowed papers attached to the wall inside the glasses.

He stood before it, starting with the one right in front of him.

——

March 10, 1940

Dear Bucky,

One half of the folks would regard this letter cowardly and the other romantic, but I’ll let you decide.

Firstly, Happy Birthday, Buck. It’s unfortunate that we are apart. I haven’t got a clue on what I want to say and I’m trying to save my new fountain pen’s ink so here goes.

Night by night, I am conflicted by the fear I could never seem to shake that whatever might come after I reveal myself to you you would leave and frankly, I have no intentions of losing a friend.

The thing is, James, adoration and other words would never be able to express how I feel. how much I lo

——

The rest is illegible what with the several crossed out sentences.

Beside it, several papers are attached, and his eyes skimmed over each and every one.

There’s no book or tutorial written for how one should react on the instance that you find unsent letters of your fiancée from the past when she thought you were long gone.

——

June 15, 1928

Buck,

Come over bring tuna the one in can

Sinserely,

[Y/N]

——

He could remember that day. You hadn’t sent any letter at all. You did, however, come over with a brand new looking sewing kit and one empty can of tuna. You had pulled one of the chairs in his dining room to the kitchen counter to help yourself reach another can of tuna from the upper cabinets.

The large screen at the other part of his room drew his attention, and so Bucky made his way towards it.

A plaque under it read, “Interview 1951.”

Your face once more. “. . .Oh, I’ve had my fair share of romance six years prior and the years before that.”

“Is it true that you were engaged?” asked the host.

You stiffened in the screen, yet kept your smile on nonetheless. “Why, I see no reason to deny an epic romance I once had — Yes, I was. On the Brooklyn Bridge, might I add.”

Bucky turned away.

Clothes you wore once surrounded him along with pictures of you from movies you starred in.

You made it.

And he knew it would only be fair if he did, too.

No matter the circumstances.

Bucky spent a good half hour roaming around, studying the posters. He would have attended each and every single play in the start and watched every movie of yours on the first day of it at the theatres. Though it pains him a great deal to miss out on every milestone you’ve achieved, he’s proud.

If it makes it any better, he’d have bragged about you to his friends and colleagues.

My wife is a star.

All those pretend stories you’ve acted out together was and still remains up to this day worth it, to say the very least.

1919-2000, the writings read.

He had kept a picture of you in his chest pocket and one stuck right on the walls near his bunk bed and in his barrack’s closets and here he now stands in an exhibit dedicated to remembering you.

Bucky pays one last glance at the wax figure that represented you before leaving with a fair closure before leaving the exhibit.

A beautiful bride, indeed.

Maybe one day, he’d be able to bring himself to watch all those movies you’ve made but right now. . .

He could only wish for everything to stop haunting him first, you included.

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X. POSTLUDE: Old Times - 2023

He went a long way to see you, just like he’s always done countless times before.

Here he stands now, with no wax figure or a face. Instead, a tall stone cross marked where you lay. Aside from the rough foundation, flowers surrounded the remaining grass.

Untucking his hands from his pockets, he pulls out a paper bag.

This time, it wasn’t a ring.

Bucky pulled out one piece of cookie he’d made and pulled another one for himself. He sets the other one just tucked in the abundance of the flowers and takes a bite from the piece he saved for himself.

Weirdly enough, he found that an engraved marking of your name gave him a lot more solace than a wax figure.

He crouches down to re-adjust how he’d placed the cookie. “An unburnt cookie as promised for you, doll.”

As soon as he got on a bus, Bucky finally crossed out your name on his list, the weight in his chest being crossed out along with it.

A/N: yes i put a how to train your dragon reference and what about it???

click here to be added to my MCU taglist.

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#ves.writes #ves.writes bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes x 40s!fem!reader #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes x fem!reader angst #james buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #bucky barnes #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfic #mcu x reader #bucky barnes angst #40s!bucky #tfatws!bucky #bucky barnes fluff

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