Chapter 1: The One With The Cookies
Notes:
please enjoy :)
Chapter Text
Bucky’s new Brooklyn apartment was everything he could ask for. Quiet. Close to a diner he used to frequent decades ago. A place he could call home—or something close to it. Somewhere he could find even a moment’s peace from the world.
He was free. Technically. Free enough to walk down the street to grab a cup of coffee. But never free enough to avoid the concerned murmurs, the way parents would tuck their children close as he passed, or averted their gazes—as if he were a walking time bomb.
Maybe he was.
Maybe that was all he’d ever be.
What he never expected, was his neighbor across the hall to be the reason his heart stuttered like a faulty engine—you. The one who first welcomed him to the apartment with a large container of freshly baked cookies.
Had he burned his tongue on them because he was too eager? Yes. Yes he had.
And if there were a few tucked away in his freezer for nights when the past grew heavy—well, that was his little secret.
Sam and Joaquin encouraged him to say something—maybe even ask you to coffee—but fear always clamped the words in his throat. Whatever charm he once possessed was now long gone.
You were the stars lighting up the night sky, with a radiant smile that made his knees weak. And he…he was a man carrying enough baggage to fill an airport, with blood on his hands that would never truly wash away.
And yet, whenever he passed you in the hall—coconut and vanilla perfume clouding his thoughts—he couldn’t help but smile. Though, most times, it probably looked more like a grimace.
Let’s not even mention the times he had tried to speak, only to stand there with his mouth open like a fish gasping for air.
The only consolation? You were as quiet as he was. In fact, if this was a competition, you were winning by a long shot.
Which wasn’t surprising. People weren’t exactly lining up to chat with the Winter Soldier.
Still, it never failed to catch him off guard when he opened his door and found another container of baked goods that could’ve put him in a coma if he didn’t pace himself. Maybe this was the plan all along—take out the ex-assassin through excessive amounts of sugar.
There was just one teeny problem.
Okay…maaaaybe a big problem.
You were taken. By a man who didn’t deserve you in the slightest. Not that Bucky thought he did either…
But that’s beside the point.
The real gripe? That limp noodle of a boyfriend did not worship you enough. And the thin apartment walls only proved that.
Bucky never meant to eavesdrop. Enhanced hearing had its downsides…or upsides. Depending on the occasion.
For this? It was a massive downside. Because every time he tried to ignore your bed squeaking, or your boyfriend's constant self-praises—as if he was God’s gift to women—he just couldn’t.
Not that it was to indulge his own fantasies. Because how could Bucky indulge in your silence? Despite your incompetent boyfriend believing he was bringing you to the highest levels of ecstasy, you never made a sound.
Not a moan. Or a whimper of a name. Nothing.
Sure, Bucky was a bit rusty in that department—decades rusty—but one thing was absolutely certain: he would worship you on his knees until he drew the most beautiful sounds from your lips.
When fall arrived, the brisk breeze carried the scent of spiced treats from neighborhood cafes. A carpet of orange-hued leaves covered the sidewalks. Pumpkins were carried like priceless treasures. Families gathered for home-cooked meals and lively conversation. The city hummed with life and excitement for the approaching holidays.
That is, until this particular day. Rain cascaded in sheets, deep puddles splashed beneath passing cars, and gray clouds blotted out the setting sun.
Not that the weather affected any of his plans—which included another night in staring into oblivion and maybe finishing off the leftover pizza in his fridge. The furthest he went from his apartment was to check the mail in the lobby. The hum of the old chandelier bulbs filled the silence and rows of bronze recessed boxes lined the wall.
His was empty. As usual.
Just as he shut the box, sliding out the key, the front door’s hinges creaked against the sharp gusts of wind. In a blur of rain and swept leaves, you stumbled in—clothes drenched, hair plastered to your face, shoes squishing with every step.
For just a moment, his eyes met yours. Then, of course, he looked away too quickly, clearing his throat and pretending to study a flier attached to the community board. The two for twenty-five special at Happy Tacos had apparently captured his full attention.
God. Food is so expensive nowadays, he thought.
Not that the paper actually held his focus—not when you stepped up beside him, puddles forming around your shoes, your perfume mingling with the scent of rain. Somehow, that made it even more intoxicating.
Just as he opened his mouth to—maybe say something, maybe choke on air, the world will never know—you shut your box with a loud clang.
Unfortunately, the boxes had a bit of a sticking issue.
Which is why now, you were yanking against the key, fingers slipping every time you tried to get a better grip. Even with a small huff, the metal refused to budge.
“I…uh…” His voice cracked—wonderful. “I can help with that,” he finally managed, extending a hand slowly, as though he was in the presence of a skittish deer.
Of course, you looked at him like he had lobsters coming out of his ears. Not the wildest look he’d gotten. But then—that radiant smile spread across your face. Even drenched to the bone, you were the prettiest thing he had ever seen.
With a nod, you stepped aside to give him room. As expected, he managed to pull the key free almost instantly. Your soft breathy laugh nearly short-circuited his brain. And as he handed back the key, the brush of your fingers had his heart pounding like drums.
Then your lips parted and, for a split second, Bucky was certain he’d finally hear your voice. But all that followed was silence, caught on a shaky breath. The building might as well have crashed down on him the moment your smile faltered.
In the blink of an eye, you had turned on your heel and bolted for the stairs. By the time he regained his bearings, you were gone.
The lobby shrank to a suffocating silence. His hands fell to his sides, eyes still glued to bottom of the staircase—like if he held his breath for just long enough, you might reappear.
But you never did.
The day couldn’t possibly get worse.
It was supposed to be a normal day. That is, until fate decided to intervene and provide an obstacle at every corner. Everything had gone wrong.
By the time morning arrived, sleep had eluded you like a ghost. A shower didn’t help—not when the water went from perfectly warm to icy halfway through. When you dressed—a comfy cardigan included—things seemed to be looking up. Until your favorite coffee cup hit the floor. So did the precious caffeine you desperately needed.
Work was the usual. Snap a few pictures for the local paper, bask in the beauty of the city—maybe snag an empanada and takeout coffee along the way.
Then came the rain. Before you could blink—or realize you had forgotten an umbrella—you were drenched. Cardigan sopping. Pants soaked. Shoes waterlogged.
The apartment lobby wasn’t spared the storm. Not when you swept in, leaving puddles on the polished floor. Of course, after a shitstorm of a day, your mailbox key declared war.
Time slowed the moment your neighbor so sweetly offered to help in a deep rasp that made your pulse spike. But it had to be a hallucination. This was the first time he’d spoken to you since he moved in four months ago.
Then again, you hadn’t spoken to him either.
That’s when you knew—the day could, in fact, get worse.
The brush of his fingers as the key slid into her palm made your skin tingle. Your lips parted to thank him—but all that slipped free was a pathetic strangled sound.
Of course. Of course your first real interaction with him was at the worst possible time.
So, here you were, pacing your living room until you were dizzy, cursing yourself for bolting like a startled deer. But he wouldn’t understand. No one did.
Eventually, you pressed your face into a pillow and let out a muffled, guttural scream. Not that it was loud enough to sound like one.
Hours had passed. Another shower didn’t help. Braiding your damp hair didn’t help. Nothing soothed the gnawing guilt.
Slipping into soft pajamas and a pair of bunched up socks, you were the epitome of comfort on a fall night.
And yet, comfort was nowhere in reach.
As darkness draped the sky, rain continued to stream against the window, blurring the city lights, muffling the hum of traffic. Tucked into the sill, knees bent to your chest, head tilted against the frame, you desperately tried to lose yourself in a book.
Why did it bother you so much? Your neighbor hadn’t spoken to you once. While you always offered a kind smile in the hall, he always seemed to recoil at the sight and quickly look away.
But something…something about the way he offered to help, rescuing your key with ease, kept replaying in your mind. It was such a small gesture, but for the first time today, he was a sliver of sunshine breaking through the storm.
Determined to make things right, the book was shut and abandoned on the coffee table.
An hour later, the scent of vanilla and chocolate hung thick in the air, spatters of flour dusted your pajamas, and Nat King Cole hummed through the radio.
Package in hand, you quietly opened your door and crossed the hall. Once everything was neatly arranged on his doormat, you knocked twice and hightailed it back into your apartment.
Door shut, breath held, you rose to the tips of your toes to peer through the peephole.
To say Bucky spiraled…would be an understatement. The moment he finally peeled himself away from the lobby, trudged up the stairs and locked himself in his apartment—he broke.
…
Broke a few things that is.
The first one wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t hit fault that freezer handles were so damn flimsy.
The second was. Your precious cookies—the ones he’d saved—crumbled in his grasp. His hands trembled as he squeezed the plastic-wrapped treats until they were nothing but crumbs scattered on the kitchen floor.
He should’ve known better. No one would ever look at him and see a normal man. Because he wasn’t. Even with the cybernetic weapon hidden, he was still the Winter Soldier.
And he should've known better than to expect you to see him as anything else.
But as soon as the red blurring his eyes faded, the cookie crumbs stared back at him mockingly. A shuddering breath left his chest. Knees meeting the hardwood, he gathered the broken pieces, holding them like they were the only lifeline tethering him to reality. To an ounce of kindness he didn’t deserve.
When he finally swept the crumbs into the bin, cursing himself for acting so irrational, he collapsed onto the couch, burying his face into the pillow.
Knock. Knock.
The sound reverberated through his mind like gunfire. At this hour, no one ever had good intentions. Head lifting, his hand slid between the couch cushions, curling around one of the many guns he kept hidden around the apartment.
Quietly, he crept to the door and peered through the peephole.
His brows rose.
The deadbolt gave way with a click. The chain clattered. Then the other deadbolt released. And finally, after the crossbar was lifted away —so maybe he’s a little paranoid—he eased the door open a crack.
Whatever air was once in his lungs was ripped away in an instant. On the welcome mat—not that he welcomed anyone—sat a container wrapped with a neatly tied lavender bow and a heart-shaped post-it stuck to the lid.
For a moment, he eyed the gift like it might bite him. Because he already knew who it was from.
When he finally gathered the precious delivery, his gaze lingered on your door. It was the only barrier keeping him from doing something irrational.
Like dropping to his knees with thanks.
As soon as his door was shut, all restraint was out the window. The ribbon fell away, lid popped open, the smell of your freshly baked cookies making him dizzy.
Halfway through the third cookie, he finally remembered the note. Crumb-covered fingers peeled it off the lid—your neat penmanship staring back at him:
I’m sorry about earlier. After you helped me with my mailbox, I wanted to say thank you, but then no words came out and I panicked. Before I blinked I was already back in my apartment, and I’m just really sorry I ran away like that. I have selective mutism and, unfortunately, I let the embarrassment get to my head. Please accept another batch of cookies as an apology, but I totally understand if you hate me. Anyway, thank you for helping me.
He might have reread the note five times. He might have stared at your neat signature at the bottom for far too long. Such a beautiful name, he thought. He definitely whipped out his cell phone and immediately texted the group chat:
The phone continued to buzz against the coffee table, but Bucky was a man on a mission. Ripping off the top of a pizza box, he scribbled down his own note. Though somehow he managed to get more ink on his hands than the cardboard.
With a grumble, he tore off another piece and managed to get something down that sounded…decent.
Quietly opening his door, he crept across the hall and leaned the grease stained piece against your doorframe.
This is stupid, he thought.
But before he could go back on his plan, Mrs. Kowalski’s familiar humming drifted from the stairwell. With a quick knock—and all the grace of a startled deer—he hurried back into his apartment.
By the time the clock blinked 12:00 a.m., you were positive your neighbor hated you.
Buried under a mountain of blankets, arms thrown over your face, you knew this night was going to be a long one. Every time you closed your eyes, it was just a replay of how embarrassingly the whole situation had gone. The way his steel-blue eyes were so soft, so gentle.
It really shouldn’t bother you. Not like this. How your neighbor felt about you should not have been on the forefront on your mind. After all, you were in a—
An absolutely mundane relationship.
Not that you had a choice.
Knock. Knock.
The sound shattered your daze. Eyes wide, the room tilted from how quickly you snapped upright. Like a moth drawn to a flame, you were already at the door before thought could catch up, peering through the peephole.
Your brows rose.
The deadbolt gave way with a click, door creaking as you eased it open, catching the flimsy piece of cardboard before it fluttered to the floor.
Door shut, your eyes instantly locked on the shaky handwriting staring back at you:
You have nothing to apologize for. I understand words being a bitch pain. But, I won’t lie, getting more cookies out of this was a plus. You must have some kind of magic, because they are so addicting. If you ever need help with your mailbox again, just holler knock on my door, or send a pigeon. Whichever works.
P.S. Your smile says more than words ever could.
— Bucky.
Lip caught between your teeth, heat flushed your cheeks, a small giggle slipping free. Despite it being a grease-stained piece of cardboard, you pressed it to your chest and collapsed onto the bed, smiling so wide your cheeks ached.
Who knew such a shitty day could end so well?
And if Bucky managed to hear your heart-stopping giggle through the wall—well, that was his little secret.
Chapter 2: The One With The Boyfriend
Notes:
please enjoy :)
Chapter Text
Night gave way to day, though the sun remained hidden behind thick gray clouds. Raindrops slid down the windowpane, the steady patter a gentle lullaby. Buried beneath soft sheets, a thick blanket, hair splayed over a satin pillowcase—it was the perfect day to stay curled up in bed.
Until your phone buzzed against the nightstand.
Sleep mask half-lifted, you reached across to tap the screen. Blinking away the blur, the messages came into focus—your wish granted, courtesy of your editor.
Lips curving with a smile—the day was already starting off better than yesterday
Dressed in a comfortable sweater and jeans, your socks were a whisper against the hardwood on the way to the kitchen. As blueberries were folded into batter, muffin tin filled and set in the oven, the apartment soon smelled of sugar and heaven.
Then came the speed bump.
Not only had you dropped your precious coffee yesterday—that was the last of it. With an exasperated sigh, you lowered your head to the counter, a gentle thump following.
“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, setting the empty coffee tin to the side.
Knock. Knock.
You froze.
Was this the universe throwing another wrench your way?
But, in fact, that wasn’t the case at all. Because once you looked through the peephole and eased open the door, you realized the universe had chosen mercy today.
Sitting on the welcome mat—dotted with raindrops—was a cup of takeout coffee and a neatly tied plastic bag. But that wasn’t what caught your attention—it was the blue post-it attached to the paper cup’s lid.
Coffee and bag in hand, your gaze briefly flicked to Bucky’s door, smile widening. You wondered if he was possibly watching you. Which should’ve been something that made you uncomfortable, but it didn’t.
Deep down, you were hoping he was.
Back in your apartment, you untied the bag and blinked in disbelief. He’d brought you every kind of creamer—almond, oat, half-half—and a copious number of sugar packets.
Peeling the note off the lid, it read:
Good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you. I wanted to get you something as a thank you for the cookies yesterday. And all the other containers of cookies you’ve left me. I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee, so I went a little overboard with the creams. There are so many options now. Anyway, thank you for all the cookies.
— Bucky
A soft giggle slipped free as you set the note aside and fixed yourself the perfect cup. The first sip was heaven—warm, a little sweet, a little creamy. Maybe it was because it came from him, but it was the best cup of coffee you’d ever had.
When the timer dinged and the muffins were set on the cooling rack, you reached for another container…and a note of your own.
Earlier that morning at the bodega —
As soon as Bucky had set the coffee and the bag on your doormat, he went back to his apartment and paced.
He paced so much he was certain he’d wear out the flooring. But he couldn’t help it. This was going against every rulebook. You were a taken woman, but God did he want to continue doing whatever it took to make you smile, to hear that adorable giggle.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Like a man who had seen too much—and he had—Bucky dropped to the floor, chest against the hardwood. As if you could somehow now suddenly see through the peephole while he army crawled to the door.
Back flush against the doorframe, phone in hand, his fingers trembled as he typed out his message of distress:
Sucking in a deep breath, Bucky—finally—eased the door open. All air left his lungs when his eyes landed on another container of baked goods.
If this continued, he’d be a walking baked good by the end of the month.
This time, with every ounce of restraint, he looked at the note attached first:
Thank you for the coffee. Without even knowing it, you saved my day. As a thank you, some fresh blueberry muffins.
P.S. I like your new post-it notes.
The muffins were instantly forgotten, because no matter how delectable they smelled, or how his stomach growled in anticipation, his eyes still lingered on the words you saved my day.
Promptly pinned to the fridge with a car insurance magnet, he stared at that note for what might have been hours.
Then it hit him like a brick wall. He had to do something in return now. This was a bitter war of thanks, and one thing was certain, Bucky never forgot to say thank you.
But when he looked around the apartment—a couch, a bed he never used, a few books, a record player—he realized…what was he supposed to give you now?
Later that day—hours after searching for something to give you.
Bucky had only just come up the stairs, potted snake plant in one hand, brown bag in the other, when he saw him—your boyfriend at your door, standing there in his sweater vest. Hair shiny and stiff like he used an entire tub of gel. His obnoxious cologne clouding the hallway.
By the time Bucky was pushing the key into his deadbolt, your door had opened and he was desperately trying not to engage, to not acknowledge. But—God—did he want to. God did he want to know if you smiled with your boyfriend like you did him.
Against all better judgment, he glanced back over his shoulder and his heart plummeted like an anchor. You weren’t smiling at all. Not when you opened the door, not when your boyfriend gave you a kiss on the cheek, and definitely not when he stepped into your apartment.
It was then that your eyes met Bucky’s and time stood still. The thrum of his heart muffled the world as your lips curved into a smile—but it wasn't the same. It was strained, wavering at the edges, threatening to fracture like fragile glass.
He would crawl over that glass for you, let the shards dig into his palm and knees if it meant your smile was genuine.
Frozen, boots glued to the floor, he stayed still as a statue long after your door shut. Gaze locked on the wood with such intensity he might have burned a hole through it if he had the power.
And when he finally did go into his apartment—the space colder and emptier than ever—he set down the potted plant and bag on the kitchen counter. Hands shaking, blood like melted metal, his eyes burned. The stupid plant and bag stared back at him mockingly. Every fiber of his being wanted to rip it all to shreds, to break it all apart.
Night came—and you didn’t.
It was the same as always. This wasn’t love. It was all give and take—he didn’t give a fuck about your feelings, just about what he could take.
Curled up on your bed, back flush to the wall, head bowed, tears stained the tangled sheets. You were more than grateful that your boyfriend was long gone, probably grinning to himself, believing himself to be the best you’ve ever had.
He was the only one you’d ever had, and common sense let you know that he was not the best. Not when you were left still on the edge, not even finished. But as long as he shuddered with pleasure and spilled into the condom with an obnoxious moan—he was satisfied.
That’s when your mind slipped into dangerous territory—imagining what it would be like with someone else. Anyone else. No. That’s not true. You knew who you were imagining and that was enough to make your stomach clench and the ache between your thighs worse.
It was wrong. Wrong to imagine what Bucky’s hands would feel like, how he would hold you, touch you, kiss you…
Your head fell back against the wall with a thunk, hands covering your face—cheeks burning like the need that had yet to be quelled.
And in the adjacent apartment, back pressed to the wall, head tilted back, Bucky closed his eyes and imagined just how gentle his hands would be against your skin.
Every time he heard your self-absorbed boyfriend muttering, no one else could give you this, Bucky wanted to smack that cocky grin off his face and show you just what someone else could give. What he could give.
Untangling yourself from the sheets, sore and trembling, your feet dragged on the way to the bathroom.
The reflection in the mirror made your teeth clench. Long gone was the girl who had hoped for love and happiness. Now stood the woman with hollow eyes and bruises from rough hands along your thighs and hips.
Fingers pressed into the counter, a shaky sob slipped past quivering lips.
Just as quickly as the emotions had clawed their way up through your throat, they were locked away to the depths. Scrubbing your face with the back of your hand, you turned the squeaky shower knob, waiting for the water to warm.
Despite being utterly alone, being bare was excruciating. Every inch of skin burned, like you were a specimen beneath a microscope—gawked at by some curious observer. But the only observer was the mirror and yourself.
The hot water did nothing to help.
And for Bucky—a cold shower did nothing either.
By the time you dressed, covering the bruises and ache well, a knock on your door pulled you out of the daze.
No. It wasn’t just a knock. It was three knocks.
And that alone was enough to make your heart flutter. Because you knew exactly who it was.
Easing the door open, a potted snake plant and a brown bag sat on your welcome mat. Accompanied by another blue post-it. One you knew would join the growing collection in your nightstand drawer—pizza box note included.
But you didn’t collect the items…not yet. For a moment, you simply stared at his door, smiling wide.
Little did you know that Bucky was there, at his peephole, pulse hammering in his ears the moment that soft smile appeared. Because he knew right then he had something your boyfriend didn’t—your beautiful smile.
And he would wait a thousand years until he had all of you.
Closing the door, bag and plant set on the kitchen counter, your fingers trembled peeling away the note that read:
Thanks for the muffins this morning. I would bake you something in return, but the last time I tried the fire department was called. And I hadn’t even turned the oven on yet. So, instead, I present a collection of CDs from my era. Or the ‘dinosaur era’ as my friends call it. I know everyone uses that digital music stuff, but nothing beats physical media.
P.S. If you can believe it, I only just now realized you might not even have a CD player. If this is the case, you can leave the CDs at my door and I’ll try again.
— Bucky
Giggling softly, you shook your head and set the note aside. Sure enough the brown bag was overflowing with CDs—some were Nat King Cole, others Bing Crosby, one Etta James.
With a soft sigh, your gaze drifted to the corner of the living room where a record player sat, a stack of records beside it, with almost all of the same CD titles. If only he knew.
That’s when the lightbulb went off.
Bucky had only paced for a few minutes this time—which was progress.
…
Until he started panic cleaning his guns and talking to himself. “Shouldn’t have listened to Sam about the CDs.”
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
He froze, hands hovering uselessly, eyes widening. Four knocks? Was he even still breathing?
This time it only took him gulping twice before looking through the peephole. Deep down, he couldn't deny that he wished you were standing there at his door. But what really confused him was the single heart-shaped note on his welcome mat…and that was it.
His heart did a traitorous little flip. Who knew someone not returning CDs would be so exciting?
And when he finally retrieved the note, it read:
I really like your taste in music. We have more in common than I realized. Maybe you should open your window and see.
Vibranium plates whirred as his grip tightened on the pink paper. Until—finally—his brain caught up with his heart. He scrambled to the window, the pane creaking loudly as he lifted it—almost too quickly.
And as he did, the faint voice of Etta James reached his ears. If he leaned any further out of his window, he would likely face plant the grate balcony. The air rushed out of his lungs when he noticed the record player precariously balanced on your windowsill.
There beneath the moonlight, as the city hummed with life below, both lonely souls listened to Etta James sing of Sunday love.
Chapter 3: The One With The Mother
Notes:
*had to repost this chapter due to an error
Chapter Text
When night gave way to morning, sunlight spilled into the apartment, pooling across the hardwood like puddles of gold.
Curled up on the unforgiving floor, Bucky shifted, blinking away the haze of sleep. Beyond the fog-coated window the city hummed with life—the rumble of engines, the occasional blare of a horn, laughter and a shouted greeting.
The routine was normal. A long stretch, blankets pooled around his waist, hair pushed up in different directions from restless tossing and turning.
And yet, the morning felt different than the others.
Pink notes were pinned to the fridge. His usual cup of bitter, black coffee was joined by a toasted muffin, butter pooling in the crumbly crevices. Jazz continued to echo through his mind. A small smile forming behind the rim of his mug.
He didn’t know how many hours you'd spent listening to music. Eventually Mrs. Kowalski’s complaints had grown loud enough and your shared moment came to an end. But that didn't stop him from imagining you curled in the sill, eyes closed, maybe even humming along with Etta James’s crooning.
At 7:45, the coffee was finished, but not as quickly as usual. No. He savored it. The earthy, bitterness hitting his tongue, mixed with the sweet burst of blueberries. Everything felt slower—softer. Touched by the softness of a neighbor who took the time to care.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Bucky froze, hands wet and sudsy, sponge pressed to the coffee mug—the only one. His heart swam behind his ribs, threatening to burst free.
God—please let it be you. Anything from you.
It was a small envelope taped to his door, but he was grateful for anything you gave him. He’d crawl on his knees over hot coals collecting whatever crumb of attention you tossed his way.
The paper was warm and smelled faintly of your perfume. And if he possibly took a moment to just inhale that scent, close his eyes, and imagine it was you standing there, well, that was his little secret.
When he finally shut the door, he ran his thumb under the flower shaped sticker—careful to keep it intact. A note and a polaroid slid into his palm.
Preserved on film was the snake plant, tucked into a corner. It was the first time he’d seen the inside of your apartment—a small bookshelf lined with well-loved novels, your record player perched on top, a wire basket overflowing with records, delicate trinkets, and among it all, the snake plant sat beside a potted aloe.
Even this small glimpse into your home—your heart—made his knees go weak.
Then came the note to shatter him completely:
It seems that the snake plant is enjoying its new home and making new friends. I don’t have anything to deliver this morning, but I might whip something up when I get home from work. Also, I want to say thank you. Usually when people find out about my selective mutism, they tend to pull away. I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, even if it’s through notes.
The air left Bucky’s chest in a rush.
You…you appreciated him? The man with the dark past and the social skills of a potted plant?
Fuck.
He was so screwed.
Evening painted the sky with ribbons of purple and orange as the sun slipped behind the skyline. Your walk home from the office was short, as usual.
But it was different.
The air was crisp. Laughter was melodic. Rust-colored leaves swept by in perfect spirals.
Even though night was slowly approaching, the world was brighter—softer.
And when you finally stepped into your apartment—after staring for a little too long at Bucky’s door—even there something had shifted.
It was warm. And for once, it felt…safe.
The note he had stuck to your door was grasped in your hand, eyes skimming the words carefully:
Anyone who doesn't take the time to talk to you is missing out. Hell, you could talk to me in morse code and I’d still listen. Don’t worry about whipping anything up for me. And I promise I’ll get those tupperware containers back to you. Just taking my time with the delicious things you’ve sent me. I hope you had a nice day at work.
Your heart fluttered, palm pressing the paper to your chest. It smelled faintly of him—the scent of cologne and traces of gunpowder.
At 5:30, you were at the stove, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, hair pulled back, humming softly to yourself.
Oil sizzled in the pan, the scent of garlic and onions permeating the apartment. Perfectly golden cutlets lined a wire rack. Crushed tomatoes hit the pan. A gentle stir gathered the deep red sauce on a spoon, brought to your lips for a taste. Salt sprinkled. Another snowfall of parmesan and it was perfect.
Just as you reached for the box of pasta, water reaching a rolling boil, a knock fractured the peaceful trance.
The door was barely cracked open before a tornado of Chanel No. 5 and perfectly teased hair swept through.
“Sweetheart,” your mother—Cora—began in that all-too-familiar condescending tone. “I was expecting you at the country club an hour ago.”
“Moth—” the first silly attempt.
“You know that on Thursdays the ladies get together,” she continued, barreling over you like a speed bump. “But I don’t know why I expect you to care about your dear old mother’s reputation.”
“I—” silly attempt no. 2.
“There’s talk, you know?” Cora huffed, tearing off a paper towel and setting her designer purse on top of it—like the counter wasn’t holy enough for pristine leather. “Your father had that deal go bad and now there’s rumors that you and Morris are just a publicity stunt. Not that it’s you turning heads. It’s a wonder he looked your way at all.”
The words struck like a slap.
“You know how important it is that you and Morris are together.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand why you can’t just suck it up and be a good daughter for once.”
Any attempt at explanation was pointless. No one listened anyway. At least the tomato sauce didn’t bark at you like an overexuberant seal while you stirred your nerves away.
“Are you even listening to me?” Cora snapped, heels clicking against the hardwood as she stalked to the stove. Perfectly manicured nails sunk into your wrist as she pried your hand away from the spoon, ignoring the way you winced. “This all you care about, hm?”
Before you could stop her, the saucepan was in her grasp, halfway to the sink until it slipped from her frail hands. The pot hit the floor with a metallic clang, splatters of red coating your socks, legs, the hardwood, the cabinets.
“Look what you did.” Cora clicked her tongue, managing to remain unscathed from the eruption of Mount Tomato Sauce. “You got me all worked up. You know how bad that is for my heart.”
Brows creased tight, she grasped your chin roughly, forcing eye contact. “You better start acting right. Our family cannot afford a daughter that brings nothing to the table.”
Releasing your face, she went for the final blow, grabbing the wire rack of cutlets and tossing them into the bin. “You know you’re supposed to be watching your figure,” she huffed, carelessly tossing the rack aside with a clatter.
Lip caught between your teeth, tears burned your eyes, words tangling on the barbed wire lining your throat while she collected her purse.
“I rescheduled lunch with the ladies for tomorrow. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be there with a smile and a better attitude.”
Just as quickly as she’d swept in, your mother disappeared out the door—leaving a cloud of awful perfume and back-handed remarks behind.
You didn’t move. As if that somehow could make the previous twenty minutes less real. When you finally did break, tears coating your cheeks, the weight of constant failure pressed on your chest like a boulder.
Dishrag in hand, tomato sauce coating your knees, soft sobs slipped free with every pointless attempt to wipe up the mess your mother—you had made.
Bucky had only just opened his door when a woman, in a pepto-bismol pink jacket and skirt combo, stormed out of your apartment. Her weathered face was puckered so tight, one might’ve thought she’d done a round of pickle-juice shots. The hallway was clouded with sickening synthetic perfume long after she disappeared down the stairwell.
Of course, she had also left your apartment door wide open.
That was when your soft sobs reached his ears. His feet carried him forward before thought could catch up. In the threshold, he froze at the sight—you on your knees, covered in tomato sauce, tears falling into the mess on the floor.
It was the gentle knock and the soft, “Hey,” that snapped you from your blurred daze. His hands instantly went up the moment you flinched and gasped sharply. “Sorry.”
Your shoulders just barely loosened. And yet, you still looked like a stray kitten backed into a corner. He slowly lowered his hands, brows furrowing. “Are you okay?”
You nodded, wiping your face with the back of your hand—which inadvertently smeared red sauce on your cheek.
It took every ounce of willpower for Bucky to bite back a smile.
“You have a little…” He gestured to his own cheek to show where, but your thumb missed.
Stepping inside, he tore off a paper towel and wet it, ringing out the excess. He took a tentative step closer and slowly knelt beside you. “May I?”
You nodded, staying as still as a statue when he pressed the damp cloth to your cheek, wiping away the splotch of red.
It was impossible for him to miss the flush of your cheeks—which had nothing to do with the sauce.
When your gaze finally met his, soft irises glittering under the kitchen lights, his pulse spiked. The gulp that followed—adam’s apple bobbing—was so loud it was comical.
“So…uh…” he cleared his throat, tossing the towel into the bin, frowning at the pile of perfectly golden cutlets among the trash. “Dinner didn’t go as planned?”
Before you could answer, he reached for the heart-shaped post-it stack and pen on the granite island. You blinked, stunned, as he pressed them into your hand. Shaking yourself out of the daze, you clicked the pen and scribbled a note:
It didn’t taste right. Maybe the chicken was bad. And I’m just clumsy when it comes to sauce.
His eyes skimmed the paper. He didn’t buy it—not completely. But who was he to push someone he barely knew into a confession?
…
Well. Okay. Maybe he had done that once…twice…that’s beside the point.
But the note wasn’t where his gaze lingered. It was the indents on your wrist and the thin lines of blood that filled the crescent shapes.
Instinctively, you tucked your arm behind you and forced a sheepish smile—pointing to yourself. Taking the blame.
Bucky’s brow rose, his lips thinning to a line.
“Can I see, please?” His voice dipped to a gentle whisper, eyes soft, hand extended.
Your smile wavered and slowly faded. With a small nod, you extended your arm, letting your wrist settle against his palm.
A low hum rumbled from his chest as he examined the broken skin.
He knew. The signs were always louder than a siren.
“Do you have a first-aid kit?” he asked, thumb tracing over your fluttering pulse.
You pointed to the cabinet under the sink and he retrieved the small red box, setting it on his lap and rummaging through it.
Ripping open an alcohol wipe, he took your wrist once more, murmuring. “This will sting.”
When you nodded, he pressed the wipe to your skin, pausing for a moment when you winced. Goosebumps dotted your skin from the cold.
“You know,” he said, running the wipe over your wrist, gloved hand gently holding your arm. “I used to clench my fist so hard I broke skin.” A huff of bitter amusement left his chest. “Steve…a friend, used to catch me and tell me one day I’d scrape my palm off.”
The faintest laugh slipped past your lips.
Bucky’s chest tightened at the sound and he tried desperately to steady his trembling hands. “So, I get it.”
He ran his thumb over the bandage, smoothing it down, letting the touch linger. “There…”
When he looked up, catching your eyes studying him so carefully, the world faded—falling away into muffled static.
“Thank you.” Your voice was so quiet, Bucky was certain he was hearing things.
But he hadn’t. He watched your mouth shape each syllable, curving into a small smile that ripped the air out of his lungs.
Maybe he wasn’t breathing at all.
Not after hearing that sweet voice—soft like freshly dried sheets, sweet like honey. A sound that rendered him speechless and still. One he would hear in his thoughts and dreams forever.
“You’re welcome,” he finally choked out with a breathy chuckle.
The fragile moment was shattered by a set of knocks from across the hall. But before either of you could move, Joaquin was already peeking through your door, brows raised, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “He’s over here, Sam.”
Bucky groaned softly as Sam joined Joaquin in the doorway. “I thought we were going out—” His gaze dropped to the tomato sauce crime scene. “What—”
“Oh, I…that was me,” Bucky piped in, continuing despite your mouth falling open and Sam’s eyes narrowing. “I knocked a little too loud and startled her.”
You blinked. No one had ever taken the blame for something for you…and with such a wild excuse.
“That’s a shame.” Joaquin frowned. “Smells delicious.”
As red as the sauce, you offered a half-smile. Yes, it was going to be delicious. The smell of cutlets still clung to the air and that alone was enough to make your stomach grumble faintly.
“Hey!” Joaquin snapped his fingers. “Why don’t you come out with us?”
Bucky’s eyes widened. “Oh…well…” But his words halted the moment he caught the curve of your plush lips. He just knew they tasted as good as your cookies and muffins. All while tilting your head at him—the silent question somehow louder than gunfire.
“Yeah…” Bucky managed, almost blacking out when your eyes lit up. “You should come with us.”
Because what could possibly go wrong with two anxious people going out for dinner with two extroverts?
Or, maybe, what could go right?
Chapter 4: The One With The Uncle
Notes:
this one kicked my butt tbh. i hope you like it 🧡
Chapter Text
The light bulbs hummed low. Illuminating the small bathroom, the hollow eyes boring into the mirror.
No.
They weren’t hollow—not completely. There was a flicker. A match catching fire. In the depths of your reflection, something was simmering beneath the surface. A need you didn’t dare name.
The pad of your thumb traced over the band-aid, catching on the textured cloth. Bucky’s kindness seared onto your skin. His voice was a wildfire consuming your mind. The warmth of his touch stirring something deep within—an incessant throb that threatened to unravel you like a fraying rope.
Ever since he moved in across the hall, you’d done everything in your power to ignore the pull. The magnet tugging you closer and closer.
Ignoring him was no use. Not when the hallway lights always highlighted his chiseled features. The stretch of seams over his biceps. The hug of fabric defining the span of his abdomen. Eyes that had seen too much—oceanic depths that beckoned like a siren guiding you out into dangerous waters.
Maybe drowning wouldn’t be a bad thing.
Maybe collapsing to temptation wasn’t damnation, but deliverance.
It didn’t matter. Those feelings were locked away, forcefully pushed behind the precarious walls around your heart. Though deep down, you knew, one small breath, and those defenses would come crumbling down.
Their voices drifted from the living room. Waiting. His voice, gravelly and deep, only heightened the pulse—a traitorous internal throb.
You forced a swallow and a steadying breath. Giving in was not an option.
The rest of the tomato sauce was cleansed away. Red-stained clothes now lay in a heap on the floor. Replaced by a soft pullover and jeans. Practical. Necessary. Covering fading bruises you couldn’t let him see. Couldn’t let anyone know. You had once. It was the last time.
Another steadying breath and you emerged from the bedroom. Their eyes were like beacons highlighting every secret, every thought. But it was different. Sam studied, Joaquin stared, Bucky admired.
Maybe it was the way your hair loosely framed your face. The curl of your lashes. Perfume clouding his senses like the deadliest sedative—shutting off all rational and proper thoughts.
He didn’t know what to do with his hands or body then or in the car on the way to the restaurant. Joaquin made certain to grab shotgun, Sam drove, leaving Bucky beside you.
There was plenty of room in the backseat. But that didn’t stop Bucky from folding in on himself, trying—absolutely failing—to make himself as small as possible. Knees pressed together, shoulders rolled forward, gloved hands clasped tightly in his lap. Eyes locked on the window—lest his gaze strayed again.
Not that he could help it. The city lights cast an ethereal glow over your soft features. Perfect vision allowed him the dangerous luxury of catching the thump of your pulse—an uneven rhythm that drew his attention to the delicate curve of your neck.
Oh. He could only imagine how heavenly it would be to bury his face there. To inhale the sweetness of your skin. To take a bite of the forbidden fruit.
His mouth ran dry at the thought. A wave of heat spreading through his chest. A barely hidden strain behind a zipper.
And how could you possibly do any better? Not when warmth radiated off him in waves. Not when your heart paced like a caged animal. When the ache between your tightly pressed thighs was impossible to ignore.
Oh. You could only imagine how divine it would be to let his arms envelope you. To be held by him. His heartbeat thrumming against your ear. Skin pressed against skin.
The drive was short. Thankfully. The chilly night air was a sharp wake-up call—quelling the licking flames. For now.
Bucky couldn’t be more grateful when Sam took initiative to open your door. It provided just enough time to adjust himself. Did it hide the obvious bulge? No. But at least, for now, zipping his jacket half-way covered it enough to avoid unwanted attention.
The sidewalk was packed. A line of people waiting to dine at one of Brooklyn’s hottest restaurants, Franco’s.
You had been so lost in thoughts and desires, it only just registered where you were.
Tugging gently on Bucky’s sleeve, you pointed to the glowing neon sign then back to yourself.
His brow arched, mouth opening to speak, but Sam beat him to it.
“This place is slammed. I don’t even know if we can get in.”
But then you were moving with a confident stride toward the entrance—Bucky's hand hovering uselessly. So close to catching your arm before he hesitated.
Should he have stopped you? Was that his place?
Their brows rose in sync when you approached the bouncer—a bulky man with enough muscles he could probably snap a plank of wood just by looking at it. And to their shock, he greeted you with a hug.
Something hot flared in Bucky’s chest. His eyes locked on the bouncer’s hand still splayed across your lower back.
“What—” Joaquin didn’t get to finish. You were waving to them, beckoning them to follow you inside.
“Well…guess we are getting in,” Sam huffed with amusement.
It was unlike anything they were expecting. Glossy dark wood paneling, dim, ambient lighting washing everything in hues of pink, small, round cocktail tables covered in velvet, tea lights illuminating glasses of wine and cocktails. In the center, on a raised stage, the band serenaded patrons with sultry jazz. The thump of the bass mingling with murmured conversation and light laughter.
A reflection of a time long gone. Nostalgic. Comforting in a way Sam and Joaquin didn’t quite understand.
“Whoa—” Joaquin’s eyes went wide. But he wouldn’t get the words out in time when a set of sharp squeals cut him off.
A rush of feathers, sequins, and fishnets swarmed. Surrounding you with giggles and the reach of gloved hands.
The three of them blinked, brows almost to their hairlines while the women doted and fawned.
Stunned and mouth agape, Bucky only just considered a rescue mission (did you even need rescuing?) when a booming voice drew their attention.
“Ladies, ladies.” A tall man in a bright blue suit, seams straining around his arms, buttons pulled taut across his chest, appeared behind them. “Give the girl some space to breathe.”
Still giggling, the women pulled back, revealing the damage they had done. Your face covered in different shades of lipstick and a dazed grin.
Joaquin and Sam’s mouths dropped open. Meanwhile, Bucky’s heart was doing parkour behind his ribs. You looked so at ease. Happy. The tears from earlier left long behind.
“Wow, this was the place to come to,” Joaquin mumbled under his breath.
Then you were being hugged again, and Bucky’s jaw clenched tight enough his temples throbbed.
The man’s arms enveloped you with a squeeze so tight your giggle turned into a wheeze. “How’s my Piccina?”
You didn’t have a chance to recover before he pulled back scanning you from head to toe, lips thinning into a frown. “You're looking thinner, sweetheart.”
His words sank like a blade into your ribs. But he wasn't wrong. You grimaced, chin tilted down, shoulders lifting with a small shrug.
“It’s your mother, isn’t it?” The man huffed, clicking his tongue when you gave a reluctant nod.
Bucky’s head tilted. So it was the lady in the pepto-bismol get-up that ruined your dinner.
“This won’t do,” the man continued, shaking his head.
You reached up to cover your ears, flashing an apologetic smile to the others.
They didn’t have time to ask. The whistle that left the man’s chest was like the crack of a whip reverberating off the walls. The band and patrons paused for a split second before continuing like nothing had happened—despite Sam, Joaquin, and Bucky still wincing.
Joaquin snapped his finger by his ear. Sam rubbed his temple. Bucky brows stayed creased tight. The man’s voice a distant muffle. “Louie, fix the shortstack special!”
“You got it, boss!” The chef called back, head stuck out from the pass-through for a brief moment before vanishing again.
That’s when the man’s eyes flicked to Bucky, then Sam, then Joaquin. “I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” He extended a hand, giving them each a firm shake. “I’m Franco, restaurant owner and favorite uncle.”
Uncle? The title hit Bucky like a brick. Knocking some sense into his brain.
“Pleasure to meet you.” Sam gave a nod.
“Great place.” Joaquin was definitely still staring at a sequin-clad woman.
Bucky returned the firm grasp, catching the subtle glint of recognition in Franco’s eyes.
Thankfully, you had tugged your Uncle’s sleeve, drawing his attention away as your hands moved at a measured pace. Signing something that made Franco chuckle—a deep, gravelly sound.
Franco straightened to his full height, hands grasping his lapels, gold rings and watch glittering under the lighting. “Your neighbor, hm?”
The air felt thick. Bucky’s back went rigid. A soldier’s posture under a scrutinizing eye.
One protective uncle was enough to make Bucky sweat. But, one approving nod was also enough to make him exhale a breath he might’ve been holding for decades.
“Well, I’m glad to see you’re making friends, Piccina.” Franco cleared his throat, waving his massive hand, beckoning a server. “Ruby!”
A woman dressed head to toe in red sequins, fishnets, and gloves, appeared at his side. Red lips spreading into a smile. Joaquin’s heart stopping.
“Take my niece and her friends to their table.”
Tucked in the back of the restaurant, your table was perfectly placed for a view of the band. And just across the restaurant, Franco had an eagle-eyed view from behind his podium. Which looked ridiculously small in comparison to his wide frame.
The warmth in Franco’s green eyes was overshadowed by a posture coiled tight, arms folded across his chest—his jacket seconds from ripping due to the strain.
Joaquin and Sam were far too interested with Ruby reading off the specials for them to notice. But Bucky did.
And when Franco jerked his head toward the back of the restaurant, Bucky moved.
Your brows rose when he abruptly stood, but he flashed a reassuring grin, giving a quick excuse. “Just need to use the restroom.”
The smell of leather and cologne hung thick in Franco’s office. Velvet curtains framed the panoramic window giving a perfect view of the restaurant and content patrons below. And, to no surprise, your table was perfectly visible.
Beyond the glass, the muffled music thumped—nowhere near as loud as Bucky’s heart.
“So, Mr. Barnes.” Franco reached across his desk, lifting the lid of a richly, grained humidor. The scent of tobacco escaped around the neat rows of cigars. “Care for a smoke?”
“No, thank you,” Bucky replied, turning away from the window.
Franco hummed low, snapping the lid closed and pushing the box aside. “I think you know why I wanted to talk to you.” He sat back, pressing his fingers together and exhaling a long breath. “How does the Winter Soldier end up living across the hall from my niece?”
Leather groaned beneath his weight as Bucky sank into the seat across from him. “It was the only apartment, in my budget, available in Brooklyn.”
His mouth drawn into a thin line, Franco extended his index toward him. “And does she know who you are? What you have hidden under that glove?”
The question hit like a slap. God he hoped you didn’t. And yet, a part of him hoped you did. Hoped that maybe you saw him as just a man and not a monster.
Bucky’s gaze held firm, betrayed only by a subtle draw back of his shoulders. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“I see.” Franco leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the desk. “So, since honesty is my preferred response in this office. Who’s paying you to watch my niece?”
Bucky’s jaw would’ve hit the floor if he hadn’t clenched it tight enough that his eye twitched. It wasn’t that being asked such a thing was new. But you? Someone paying him to watch you? That was as absurd as believing everything in life was as it seems.
Slowly, he sat forward, matching Franco’s posture. Elbows braced on the desk, the lamplight casting harsh shadows across hardened features. “No one is paying me to watch your niece. I don’t do things like that anymore. The Winter Soldier is my past, not who I am now.”
He nodded slowly and clicked his tongue. “That so?”
“Seems it is.” Bucky’s head tilted slightly. “Maybe you can explain why anyone would pay someone to watch your niece?"
“I suppose fate really does have a far reach.” A heavy sigh flowed from Franco’s chest. “Look, my niece, she’s a sweet girl. And there are a lot of people that take advantage of that. I’m sure you’ve noticed some stuff by now.”
Bucky swallowed hard. Sure, the tomato sauce incident seemed trivial. But he knew better. It was subtle. He was nothing if not an expert at picking up subtle cues. The hunch of your shoulders, always making yourself smaller, always prepared for a blow. Small flinches at loud noises or sudden movement. The unease that clung to you like phantom chains.
“Yeah,” he finally admitted, voice low and strained. “I’ve noticed.”
“Good.” Franco ran a hand over his perfectly set jet-black hair. “Because she needs someone to notice. Someone that her family can’t keep away.”
Bucky’s brows creased. “What are you saying? What is going on with her family that has made her this way?”
“I’m not saying anything.” Franco quickly shook his head and waved his hands. “Just that things go on and I can’t be there for her like I want to. It’s already bad enough she’s here. They’ve got eyes everywhere.”
Bucky’s stomach dropped. His gaze slid to the window, to the busy restaurant below. To your smile. So bright. So sweet. But who else was looking at that smile too? The spacious office shrank to a suffocating size.
“Listen, Mr. Barnes.” Franco rose from his chair, smoothing out his jacket, the chair scraping faintly. “Just please, keep an eye on her.” He retrieved a crisp, white business card from a wire holder, extending it between two fingers. “If there is ever an emergency, please, call me.”
Bucky rose, taking the card, mouth open to speak—to ask more questions—but Franco was already at the door, holding it open. “I’m afraid there isn’t anymore I can say,” he said quietly, creases lining his forehead.
The restaurant was a blur. Dread hung like thick fog, the music faded into static, voices grew muffled and distant. Bucky’s eyes scanning every dark corner. Every face. Every smile. Every eye that strayed your way.
Suddenly every gaze was suspicious. A threat. Only a select few seemed interested in you. Was it a coincidence? Paranoia? Franco’s words ringing in his ears?
How was he supposed to unveil any further information from an uncle sworn to silence, and you, who had only said two words to him since he moved in?
And there you were, at your table. A plate with a stack of grilled cheeses and a bowl of ice cream in front of you. Sam and Joaquin were mid-laugh, heads tilted back, hands pressed to their chests. Surely it was something Joaquin said.
The card burned in Bucky’s hand, searing into the vibranium.
He didn’t remember the rest of the evening, the servers flirting with Joaquin and Sam, Franco bidding you goodnight. Only the way you looked so happy when he returned to the table. At ease. But at what cost?
“Bucky…”
Reality rushed back. The apartment stairwell came into focus. Your hand on his arm, burning through the leather sleeve. Concerned etched on your face.
It was only then that he realized he had dented the railing, leaving an imprint of a clenched fist.
“Shit…” he muttered under his breath. “I didn’t…”
The world tilted violently. His stomach clenched. Your voice ricocheted through his mind like loose shrapnel.
“It’s okay…” you murmured, curling your hand around his.
Whatever trance you placed over him with that soft smile, he managed to make it to your shared hallway. Somehow standing in between your doors, your hand slowly sliding out of his. His fingers twitched, fighting the urge to capture your hand before it was too late.
And then, it was too late.
His heart beat like an uneven drum behind his ribs, a choked laugh leaving his chest. “Thanks. I…that happens sometimes,” he lied, hand falling to his side. The loss of your touch left him hollow and cold.
You nodded. Understanding. So understanding for someone who apparently was being watched by vultures that he hadn’t spotted yet.
Faint jingling brought him back to the present as you rummaged through your purse, retrieving your keys, and pushing one into the deadbolt.
“Wait…” Bucky called out softly.
You turned, brow arching, key abandoned in the lock.
“Do you…” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Do you know who I am? What I used to be?”
Your head tilted slightly, as if that question was the wildest thing you’ve ever been asked. “I know.”
God—it felt like the floor was constantly being ripped from under him every time your sweet voice hit his ears. All honey and velvet. And for him. Of all people. You were taking the time to talk to him—pushing through the doors that locked your voice away.
“You know? And you know…about…” He gestured to his left hand, the vibranium whirring beneath the leather glove.
You nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“And you’re not afraid of me?”
A small laugh of disbelief left your curved lips. “No.”
The amusement in your voice was almost enough to make his hundred year old heart give out. As if he didn’t used to be one of the world’s deadliest assassins. And now he’s a man who goes to court-mandated therapy weekly to be considered a good person.
“May I?” you asked softly, extending your hand, letting it hover by his.
The air rushed out of his lungs. Yet here he was, letting his hand settle in yours, giving a small nod. He held his breath as your fingers slid beneath his sleeve, hooking around the glove’s cuff.
It was agonizing. The slow pull of fabric, vibranium glinting under the hallway light. You tucked the glove into the pocket of his jacket, admiring the prosthetic like it wasn’t a weapon that had caused so much harm.
He swallowed thickly, tensing as the pads of your fingers traced over his knuckles. The back of his hand. His wrist. Pausing at the hem of his sleeve.
The air thickened when your gaze met his. A silent question pulled like a taut thread between you.
He swallowed hard, managing a small nod and a barely audible. “Yeah…”
Your gentle grasp of the jacket’s zipper made his breath still, the metal teeth slowly parting. Your hands slipped under the lapels, easing it off his shoulders, eyes still fixated on his, palms searing through his shirt like a brand.
The sweet scent of your perfume clouded his senses. If this was how it felt to be under a spell, he never wanted it to be broken.
The jacket dropped to the floor with a soft thud, baring his arm to your gaze.
You slid your hand under his. A gentle cradle while the other began its slow exploration of every dip and ridge, metal plates whirring and shifting beneath your fingers. Phantom tingles skittered across his shoulder and chest. He grit his teeth—desperately trying to withhold the whimper clawing at his throat.
Your touch skimmed from his forearm to his bicep. Slowly moving back down once you reached the edge of his sleeve.
“I like it…” The gentleness of your voice cut through the trance, head tilted back to look up at him—close enough for him to count every lash that framed your glittering eyes. Close enough for his cologne to cloud your senses. Something woody. A touch of amber.
Silence shrouded the hallway. His gaze briefly flicked to your parted lips. Your chest dipped with a trembling breath and his heart did a traitorous flip.
“Come on, Princess.” Mrs. Kowalski’s voice shattered their daze.
You stepped back immediately, hands held stiffly at your sides. Bucky stayed frozen, eyes locked on you as Mrs. Kowalski and her German Shepherd, Princess, rounded the stairwell. She only cast a brief glance your way, barely noticing the suffocating tension.
Or maybe she did. But she didn’t point it out, and, instead, continued up the stairs to the next floor.
A shared breath of relief left your chests. Tucking your hair behind your ear, you bent, picking up Bucky’s jacket. He barely had a grasp on it when you placed it in his hand.
You knew better. God you knew better than to let yourself get so close to giving in. To giving in to what every fiber of your body craved.
Words dying on your tongue, you gestured to your door, turning the key.
“Yeah…” Bucky nodded a little too quickly, jabbing a thumb at his door. “Right.”
Hours had passed, and yet, Bucky’s blood still felt like liquid metal. His hands flexing uselessly every time he imagined what it would’ve been like if he had closed that distance and kissed you like it a drowning man needing oxygen.
But he hadn’t. He couldn’t.
It was wrong.
Forbidden.
That only seemed to make the blood rush south immediately. His chest heaving.
A cold shower didn’t help. It never did. Not when he could hear your shower running as well. Not when he could imagine the droplets of water cascading down your skin…your curves.
It wasn’t just arousal that clung to him like chains he couldn't shake away. What kind of danger could you possibly be in that made a man like your uncle—a walking mountain—concerned for your safety? And why couldn’t he get involved?
Biting the inside of his cheek, he set the phone on the nightstand, head falling back against the wall with a faint thunk.
Of course it was suspicious. Which was why he now sat in his bedroom against the wall, legs stretched out before him. Still on the floor. The bed staring back at him mockingly. A king sized behemoth. He did not need that much space to sleep on. Hell, he didn’t sleep on it. But maybe if he had someone like you beside him…maybe he would.
He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining it—sinking into a soft mattress, tucked under warm covers your body pressed against his, his arm curled around your waist, holding you close. Keeping you safe. Your soft breaths tickling his skin. A sleepy moan catching in your throat.
His eyes opened and the dream was gone. There was just him. An empty king sized bed. Untouched, still neatly made. The faint hum of a lamp on the nightstand. Light flickering occasionally from the TV in the living room—left on at night per Sam’s suggestion. “It’ll make you feel less alone,” he had said.
It didn’t.
He didn’t sleep. There was no point. Sleep stayed out of reach like a ghost slipping through his grasp. The least he could do was listen. Just in case. If anyone or thing did try to threaten your safety, he’d be ready.
Then he heard it. Soft knocks.
No.
Not just knocks.
His brain processed it automatically—a pattern of taps. Some long. Some short. A pause. Goodnight.
A wide smile spread across his face. He rapped his knuckles against the wall in the same pattern. Goodnight.
And in your apartment, sat up against your headboard, you listened to his soft taps. You slid down into the covers, burying your face against the pillow, muffling a giggle.
Whatever these little moments were—
You were absolutely screwed.
Chapter 5: The One With The Motorcycle
Notes:
sorry this one took a little longer, i got lost in my mind a bit and struggled to get the words on paper. please enjoy :)
Chapter Text
“So, James, how are things going? Your amends? The nightmares you claim you don’t have.” Dr. Raynor tilted her head.
Bucky shifted, the faux leather squeaking faintly beneath him.
Sunlight spilled through the vertical blinds in parallel stripes over the hardwood and gray area rug.
Everything was gray. The sofa he sat on week after week, gray. Dr. Raynor’s arm chair, a darker gray. The walls—take a guess—gray. The only thing that wasn’t solid gray was the mural of a birchwood forest behind him. “To make the room feel wide and peaceful,” as Dr. Raynor had said during his first appointment.
It didn’t.
Neither did the melting lavender wax cubes for “tranquility”.
Every tick of the clock brought him closer to another completed session. Though, he already knew she would give him homework. She might as well come home with him, stand in the corner of his apartment and repeat her motto—”Healing can only happen when you let it.”
A crock of shit, if you ask Bucky. No one did.
“James.” Dr. Raynor’s voice coaxed him back to reality.
His hands tightened on his lap, leather gloves stretching tight, vibranium plates whirring. “I’m still working on my amends.” A heavy sigh left his chest. “It’s a long list, Doc. And, I don’t have nightmares.”
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. It was incredibly irksome when she saw right through him—despite his carefully maintained neutral expression. At this point, he might as well just stay quiet and let her read him like a book.
In fact, she did in the previous session when he refused to talk. A typical response when she continued to press about his nightmares.
Which he definitely did not have.
…
As often.
Her lips twitched subtly—a telltale sign that she didn’t buy it. “What about socializing? Have you been actively texting Sam, Joaquin?”
He nodded stiffly, letting his gaze stray to the clock. Only fifteen more minutes.
Thank God.
“Have you tried making any new friends? Or talking to any of your neighbors?”
His pulse spiked instantly, the throb just barely covered as he swallowed thickly.
Answering outright would’ve been easier. Easier than Dr. Raynor’s pen scratching against paper.
That damn notebook of hers.
“Yes,” he finally admitted gruffly. Barely audible, but enough for her to pause and arch a brow.
“You have? And do they know about your past and accept who you are?”
His knee bounced subtly, the sole of his boot hitting the carpet with muffled rhythmic thuds. “Yes.”
Dr. Raynor hummed low, nodding slowly. “That’s good to hear. And how does it make you feel that someone outside your bubble accepts you?”
The faintest twitch of his lips gave it away immediately.
She shut her notebook and tucked the pen into the wire spiral. “You know, you are allowed to date people.”
Bucky choked on air, his face nuclear under the fluorescent lighting. He cleared his throat, pressing his fist to his mouth. “Doc, that’s not…”
“It might be good for you to have someone—a constant. Someone to wake up next to. To share the mundane moments with.”
Mundane. There was nothing mundane when imagining waking up beside you. Drinking coffee in the quiet hours of the morning. Coming home after a mission to your smile, and not an empty, cold apartment.
“Just consider it.” Dr. Raynor rose from her chair, smoothing her cardigan and blouse. “It’s not a requirement for our sessions, but loneliness is the deepest ocean to drown in, James.”
He did consider those words. He considered them the whole way home—lost in thoughts of what a future could look like with you.
If only that lanky sweater vest wasn’t standing in the way.
Fifteen. Fifteen bobby pins total to keep your hair pulled back out of your face. A ridiculous endeavor to earn a crumb of favor from your mother.
Definitely won’t happen.
Another few swipes of mascara, a pair of pearl drop earrings and you were ready for battle—with the ladies of the Montauk Club. Vicious older women hell bent on finding any flaws. God forbid a hair is out of place, or there’s a run in your stockings. Yes. Stockings. Per your mother’s request.
More like badgering.
At least the ladies only spent an hour or two conversing over untouched meals, since they had so many other things on their schedule: ogling their pool boys, yelling at a housekeeper, downing copious amounts of wine—their main source of calories for the day.
With the strap of your purse settled in the crook of your elbow and a deep, steadying breath, the march to the battlefield began.
With too humorous of timing, your door and Bucky’s opened simultaneously. Your stomach swooped and his jaw almost hit the floor.
Your eyes honed in on the blue post-it in his hand—his glove free vibranium hand, the hallway light reflecting off the metal plating.
His gaze locked on your outfit. Pearls and tweed. And a lot of them. The skirt, the matching jacket, a blouse buttoned to your neck and a delicately tied ribbon around the collar, sheer black stockings, and heels. You were a Chanel ad come to life—”To maintain a pristine image,” your mother had said.
A crock of shit if anyone asked you. No one did.
Bucky exhaled—though it was more of a broken sound that caught in his throat. “You look…”
Your soft groan and the small scrunch of your nose made him pause. He knew that reaction all too well. It was the same face Rebecca used to make when his ma forced her into a frilly outfit for church.
The jingle of your keys pulled him out of the tweed trance as you closed and locked your door. It was then that he noticed you staring the blue post-it he was still holding.
More like crushing now.
“Oh…” His gaze snapped to the paper and then back to you. A sheepish grin spread across his face while he crumbled the paper. “I…I was just…taking my trash out.”
You didn’t buy it.
The arch of your brow told him so.
With a defeated sigh, he smoothed it out as best as he could and held it out. “It’s just…in case you need it. Or for whenever.”
Taking the crinkled blue note, his phone number stared back at you.
Warmth flushed your cheeks.
Bucky held his breath when you pulled your phone out of your purse and typed in his digits. Then his phone buzzed and his knees nearly gave way.
With a shaky, sweaty hand, he withdrew his phone from his pocket, the screen awakening with a notification. His heart slammed against his ribs as he read the message:
His chest rumbled with a small chuckle, and—despite you standing right in front of him—he texted a reply.
Your little giggle made his face burn hotter than the sun. The melodic sound faded into a disappointed sigh when you noticed the time. You tucked your keys and phone into your purse. “I have to go, unfortunately.”
Unfortunately? The word was like cupid’s arrow hitting him square in the chest.
“Oh…yeah.” He cleared his throat, willing his legs to move. Though he kept a respectable distance—unsure how close was too close in a narrow stairwell. “Me too.”
“Yeah? Do you also have a lunch with cranky old ladies?” You slowed your pace so he was beside you—close enough that his arm brushed yours.
The contact was akin to a jolt of electricity through his veins and sparks skittering through your chest.
He instinctively shoved his hands into his pockets, willing the sensation away. An amused grin spread across his face, his boots thudding against the worn wooden steps. “I don’t. Sounds like I’m missing out on an exhilarating experience.”
A small laugh slipped free. “Oh, you are.”
When you reached the lobby, he quickened his stride. Butterflies stirred in your stomach when he propped open the front door. “Well, then you’ll have to fill me in on all the cranky lady gossip later.”
“I will,” you promised, stepping through the threshold.
The hum of the city greeted you, snippets of conversation from people strolling by, the occasional honk of a horn, or rev of an engine punctuating the crisp air.
Parked by the curb was a sleek SUV. Waiting patiently beside it was your trusty driver, Verne. Dressed in his usual black suit, cabby hat, and perfectly polished shoes. His eyes crinkled with delight. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”
You gave him a small nod and smile as he popped open the back door. “Good afternoon, Verne.”
For a moment, you hesitated, lingering beside Bucky—caught in a tide that wasn’t possible to escape. One that would eventually drag you into the car. But, oh, how you couldn’t help but imagine what the mundane things would be like with Bucky.
Maybe a stroll, side by side, admiring charming fall decor dotting the rows of brownstones, carved pumpkins glowing in windows, golden and sienna leaves spiraling by on a gust of wind.
“Hey…” Bucky’s voice coaxed you back to reality. “You okay?”
You blinked away the daydream and nodded. “Yes, sorry.” A soft laugh barely covered the way your voice cracked. “I’ll…see you later.”
“Yeah,” Bucky said softly. He offered a steadying hand as you slid into the backseat of the SUV.
Your fingers slowly slid away, a delicate brush across his palm that made his every breath impossible. The urge to capture them before it was too late nearly overtook him.
But then…it was too late.
Helplessly spellbound, he stayed right there as the car pulled away from the curb. His stomach swooped when you rolled the tinted window down, giving him one last little wave.
He did the same until the vehicle vanished down a side street.
The Montauk Club was a time capsule of old-world elegance— gothic architecture, mahogany paneling, stained glass windows, glittering chandeliers, the scent of wood polish and perfume.
Hushed laughter, murmured conversation, and the clink of silverware permeated the quiet atmosphere. Servers, dressed in crisp, timeless black and white uniforms, glided through the dining room with quiet, practiced efficiency.
Before you, porcelain teapots, cups, and saucers were perfectly aligned atop the cloth-covered tabled. A silver tiered stand bore tiny, crustless sandwiches—cucumber, watercress, egg and dill—each one garnished with fresh herbs. Another tray was a tapestry of confections, petit fours, scones, and other pastries.
All untouched. All for show.
Your posture was as straight as an arrow, hands clasped in your lap. The faint grumble of your stomach beckoning your mother’s sharp gaze like a bugle horn blown to signal the commencement of a battle.
It was a blessing that her only retaliation for a bodily function was the pointed toe of her heel being driven into your ankle. At least it wasn’t her purse nearly giving a you a concussion this time.
Gertrude, one of your mother’s friends with perfectly coifed red hair—and a mug mean enough to make a baby cry—leaned forward, wrinkled lips spreading into a wicked grin. “So, Cora, I heard your daughter was at Franco’s club last night.”
Oh no.
Cora’s eyes flashed dangerously. “That’s not possible. My daughter knows better than to step into that man’s seedy establishment.”
Ruth, who always wore ridiculously frilly hats—which didn’t distract from the smudged edges of her lipstick—hummed and tilted her head. “Well, she was. My son saw her going inside.”
“Wouldn’t want Franco spreading more rumors about your family,” Gertrude murmured from behind the rim of her teacup.
You clutched tightly at the napkin on your lap, the only anchor as the tide shifted violently.
Cora’s nostrils flared, her cakey makeup sinking into tightly crinkled features. She didn’t say anything, just glared daggers in your direction.
Despite the embarrassment that would follow, you preferred being chided in front of the entire club over retribution behind closed doors.
The conversation shifted, thankfully. Relief washed through every muscle—though you outwardly remained as stiff as a board. Your mother and the ladies chatted like sniveling hyenas, discussing their prey: new members being inadequate for the club’s pristine history.
Figures. No one was ever good enough for your mother and her cold-hearted friends.
Hidden beneath your napkin, your phone buzzed against your thigh. You slid it forward just enough to be visible, the corner of the fabric folded back. The screen lit up and your stomach plummeted.
The club faded into sharp static, closing in like an inescapable storm that would eventually break and leave destruction in its wake.
Your throat tightened, your lashes fluttering around the sting of unshed tears. Dread sank its claws into your stomach when another notification appeared.
But then the name caught your eye and warmth spread through your chest.
If only you knew how long it took for him to muster the courage and hit send.
You bit your lip, barely stifling a smile—grateful for how distracted the ladies and your mother were with judging other people while you discreetly typed out a reply.
A gray bubble appeared on the screen, three dots rapidly pulsing from left to right.
Then it vanished.
Your brows furrowed.
Surely he was just reconsidering the message, figuring out another way to word it…right?
Fifteen minutes went by and the text bubble didn’t reappear, no matter how hard you stared at the screen—just tiny letters reminding you that he read it.
And left it that way.
Had you read all of this wrong? What exactly were you trying to read into? You were in a relationship. Yet here you were, knowing for an absolute fact that you felt something simmering beneath the surface between you and Bucky. A comfort you hadn't known with anyone before.
Maybe you were wrong.
Swallowing hard, you grasped your purse and quietly excused yourself from the table. The burn of your mother’s gaze bore into your skull as you strode with hurried intent to the restroom.
The polished wood floors clicked beneath your heels, the sound like a hammer against your head with every quickened step. You rounded the corner by the server station, just barely ducking in time to avoid a collision and a tray of dirty dishes.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Judy’s bright eyes and bubbly giggle greeted you, her gray streaked curls already springing free from her bun. She set the tray on the marble counter with a gentle clatter. “Wouldn't want to ruin those expensive clothes of yours.”
You exhaled a breathy laugh, palm pressed over your chest, your rapid heartbeat settling. “Please do.”
Judy affectionately pinched your cheek, eyes crinkling with mirth. “Oh, you’re bad.”
“But, we agree,” Florence mused, lining a gilded tray with a floral porcelain tea set, meticulously moving around the other servers. A delicate dance of reaches and hands gliding over lower backs to signal a passing presence.
“Do you need me to accidentally spill your wine on your mother?” Dorothy asked while polishing silver, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Florence snorted. “That’s a surefire way to be sent home without pay.”
“Not before her mother berates you like an over-energized chihuahua,” Judy chimed in with a hearty laugh.
Another server swept through the doors, empty tray held high, leather jacket…
Wait a minute.
You blinked, certain it was some kind of hallucination. But then the light caught on vibranium plates as he brisked by—like a man on a mission.
“Bucky?”
He stopped instantly, boots scuffing against the hardwood as he spun around to face you, his eyes widening in surprise. “Oh…hey.”
Heat flushed your cheeks. He was real…and here. “What…”
“Sorry.” He set down the tray, flashing an apologetic grin to the servers—who were all now watching with intrigue. “I…I thought you might want an excuse to escape.”
Your heart stuttered and the servers all collectively sighed dreamily. As if they were watching a romantic film play out.
“Hey!” Nancy, the pastry chef came barreling through the swinging door.
More like a romantic comedy.
She shook a finger at Bucky, glasses slipping down her nose. “You can’t be back here.”
Bucky smiled sheepishly, like a kid being caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His mouth opened to speak, but you beat him to it.
“He’s with me.”
Nancy immediately deflated, adjusting her glasses. “Oh…well, I’m still watching you, young man.” She gave him a pointed stare before disappearing into the kitchen.
The thump of hurried footsteps came from around the corner, followed by a lanky server, Orville, skidding into view. “Your mother is coming,” he whisper-yelled.
Bucky instantly caught the way you went rigid, the color draining from your face. Just the idea of being caught by her kept you rooted in place.
You were only vaguely aware of Bucky taking your hand, cold metal lacing with warm skin, and his distant gravelly voice. “What’s the quickest way out of here?”
“Kitchen,” Florence replied.
“No,” Dorothy quickly stepped in front of Bucky as he started to move. “The manager is in there now.”
Sure enough, through the glass was a woman with a tight face and even tighter bun inspecting things.
Judy cursed under her breath, ushering you and Bucky down the hall. “You’ll have to go out the bathroom window. There’s a closed dumpster.”
“I’ll keep watch.” Orville propped open the bathroom door, eyes locked on the end of the hall like a hawk.
The bathroom was empty—thank God. Despite its spaciousness, and gilded features, it felt more like a marble coffin.
Bucky was already at the window, unlatching the lock, while Judy brought over a step stool, unfolding the frame into place with a series of clicks.
Orville peeked his head in and hissed, “Hurry.”
Bucky straddled the sill, swinging his leg over and dropping down, his boots hitting the dumpster’s lid with a hollow thud.
Judy guided you up onto the step stool, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “You can do it, sweetheart. It’s just a little ways down.”
Standing on the tips of your toes, you peered down at Bucky, then to the dumpster, then to dizzying blur of gray pavement below.
You gulped so loud it was comical.
“I won’t let you fall,” Bucky promised, his arms outstretched, ready to catch you—his eyes certain and utterly calm.
You leaned back into the bathroom, adrenaline pumping through your veins like liquid fire.
This would’ve been a great time for your fear of heights to vanish.
Judy gently grasped your chin. “If he was willing to sneak into the country club, he’ll catch you.”
You nodded, inhaling a steadying breath. You swung your leg over the sill, straddling the cold, narrow stone. The wind whistled past your ears, amplifying the hum of the city. Your grip on the window felt dangerously insecure as you swung the other leg over, sliding out until you were dangling, arms trembling, palms slick.
“Let go,” Bucky commanded gently. “I’ll catch you.”
Holding your breath, you released your grip. The moment you dropped, Bucky was there. His arms enveloped you securely, stopping your momentum in one controlled, smooth motion—all solid muscle pressed into your back, his soft words of assurance whispered in your ear. “I’ve got you.”
Your stomach was still somewhere in your throat when your feet met the solid dumpster lid, legs like jelly—but you didn't fall. Not while he was holding you, even as you turned, grasping his biceps for support, his arms solid, unyielding.
“Get going,” Judy whispered urgently. “We’ll keep her distracted.”
Bucky pulled back just enough to take your hand, guiding you to the edge of the dumpster, ensuring you were sat before he let go. In one smooth motion, he slid off the side, his boots striking the pavement.
“Just one more,” he murmured, reaching up to grasp your waist.
Your pulse spiked when he lifted you like it was nothing. Instinctively, your arms wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeline as he set you down—despite the drop only being a few feet.
The air was thick, crackling like a storm threatening to break. But this one, you wanted. This one, you would dance in the rain. Your eyes found his—calm, certain blue irises. A light laugh from both your lips filled the charged silence.
But there was something else in his gaze. Something you hadn’t seen before—absolute boyish delight. As though sneaking out a window and into an alley reminded him of days long gone. Which only seemed to spark brighter when Judy urged you both on.
His hand found yours once more as he pulled you into a sprint, your giggles misting the air.
Staggering out of the alleyway like two mischievous children, he tugged you toward a glossy black motorcycle parked against the curb.
You came to a breathless halt, chest heaving, adrenaline singing in your ears. Nerves fluttered in your chest when Bucky swung his leg over the seat—panic overriding awe.
“Hop on,” he said so casually—as if he wasn't asking you to get on a beast of a machine—until he noticed your stunned hesitation and the furrow of your brow. “Oh…you’ve never been on one?”
You shook your head, unable to help admiring the sharp chrome and dark leather. It looked fast, dangerous, exposed.
And yet, when he extended a hand, promising it was safe, you took it, letting him steady you as you settled onto the seat.
Every nerve in Bucky’s body lit up like a Christmas tree at the proximity—your thighs against his, chest pressed close enough to feel every rise and fall and the thump of your heart. You slid your arms around his waist, your hands splayed across his abdomen, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt.
There was something different about his posture, a radiating confidence. His broad shoulders drawn back, his jaw set with a newfound determination to make your first ride one to remember.
The low rumble of the engine starting up sent a shiver down your spine, one that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. The raw power vibrating through the frame was immense, overwhelming.
“Hold on,” Bucky called back over his shoulder with a small smirk that made heat curl in your chest.
You clutched at his jacket, knuckles whitening as the bike surged forward. Rigid with fear, you squeezed your eyes shut, burying your face into the back of his neck—a helpless sound catching in the back of your throat.
Slowly, you eased your eyes open as the city rushed past—a blur of brownstones, rays of sunlight shining on trees painted with autumn gold. The wind whipped past, cool against your skin, carrying the hum of the city, muffled by the roar of the engine.
The tension in your muscles unraveled, your body melting against Bucky’s.
Although you couldn’t see it, his grin was wide, triumphant.
And if he took a few turns a little sharper than necessary, just to feel you cling tighter to him and hear your breathless little gasps—that was his little secret.
Chapter 6: The One With The Nightmare
Notes:
please enjoy :)
Chapter Text
The motorcycle slowed to a stop beside the curb, kickstand scraping the pavement. Even when the engine was silenced, vibrations continued to ripple through your body. A lingering heat clinging to your legs like a phantom embrace.
Townhomes with ornate facades and raised stoops with iron railings stood parallel to Prospect Park’s sprawling woods. Maples and oaks tinted with orange-hued foliage.
With his hand for support, metal plates cool against your palm, your feet finally met blessed solid ground.
This was certainly how a baby deer felt when taking their first steps. The sidewalk shifted like bobbing concrete waves, your knees wobbled, and the ache between your thighs had nothing to do with previously straddling a vibrating leather seat.
With a practiced, fluid motion, Bucky followed, straightening to his full height. That heart-stopping grin still glued to his face.
When you went to lunch today, there were multiple scenarios you imagined. None of them included a stroll through the park with Bucky.
He was so easy to talk to. And when you spoke, he listened.
No.
He absorbed everything that fell from your lips, everything you did, no matter how big or small. Like he was etching every detail into the archive of his mind.
That was more than anyone had ever given you.
You clasped your hands before you, taking slow steps—never wanting this moment to end. “So, are you a mind reader, or do you also like to come here to escape the world?”
A chuckle rumbled from his chest. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. The only way to refrain from doing something stupid—like reaching out and lacing his fingers with yours. “I like to come here to escape.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I guess we just think alike.”
You ducked your head and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I guess so.”
The moment was shattered by the ungodly rumble of your stomach.
Bucky’s mouth twitched and your cheeks flushed a deep crimson.
You choked on a fractured laugh. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He nudged your arm with his elbow. “There’s a hot dog cart up ahead that can fix that.”
A hot dog cart? If only the earth would have mercy and swallow him whole. “We don’t have to get a hot dog, we can go wherever—”
“Bucky…”
He froze when your hand landed on his arm. The toe of his boot was definitely plotting his demise when it caught on a dip in the pavement.
Thank God for super soldier reflexes.
Your stifled giggle made his chest seize. “I’d love a hot dog.”
“Great,” he managed through a lopsided grin.
Under a blue and yellow umbrella, steam from the steel cart clouded the crisp air.
The vendor, a broad shouldered man with a slight stoop, moved with efficient ease, serving customers with a friendly smile.
Just as you reached into your purse, Bucky quickly stepped in front of you, already fishing cash out of his wallet and passing it over.
“Bucky,” you huffed under your breath, sliding the strap of your purse onto your shoulder. “I do owe you after today.”
“Please, it was the easiest mission I’ve ever had.” He took both of the paper wrapped and mustard covered hot dogs, keeping them just out of reach when you tried to take one. He was nothing if not a gentleman. “So, really, I owe you.”
You folded your arms loosely over your chest, falling in step with him. “Well, I’m paying next time.”
Next time? The words fluttered through both your minds like a frenzied hummingbird.
Before you could backtrack, or find the nearest hold to fall into, Bucky was already opening his mouth to add to the moment. “I’m counting on it.”
Heat flushed your cheeks and the tips of his ears burned a bright red.
When you finally settled on a bench, it overlooked a picturesque pond. Shaded with a canopy of red and gold leaves. Swans glided gracefully across the water, the occasional turtle peeking its head above the rippling surface. The city, and a life you never wanted, felt a world away.
The first bite of your hot dog, wrapped in a pillowy warm bun, was followed by a small moan of satisfaction.
Bucky froze as the sound hit his ears, a dial up tone playing somewhere in the back of his mind while he rebooted.
If only you know what you did to the man.
Actually, he was relieved you didn’t seem to notice exactly what you did to him. But—God—what he would give to hear a sound like that from you again…and again…and again.
The universe provided the perfect distraction from the sudden suffocation of denim—a dollop of mustard on the corner of your mouth.
You felt him staring before he chuckled. A deep, rich sound that made heat curl in your chest.
“What?” you asked with a perplexed smile and an arched brow.
“You have a little…” He reached over, swiping his thumb across your lower lip, tracing the plush skin—slowly, deliberately.
He was close enough for his warmth to wrap around you like sunlight on a summer day. Close enough for him to see that subtle scrunch in your brow—your eyes a storm of longing he dared not let himself believe in.
Quiet settled between you when he pulled his hand away, swiping the mustard on a napkin.
He stared out at the pond, the two swans circling each other, heads pressed together. Not a care in the world.
Your gaze strayed to a nearby gazebo where a band was setting up speakers, unraveling wires, and tuning their instruments.
You sat back and sighed softly. “So, Bucky. Tell me more about my kind neighbor across the hall.”
A huff of amusement left Bucky’s chest. “I’m sure every media source has covered most of my life.”
You hummed softly, lips pressed into a thin line. “What about the you the world doesn’t know?”
For a long moment, he considered his life before the train. Before the fall. Before the Soldier.
When he finally spoke, his voice strained and eyes wistful, he talked of his childhood. Moving from Shelbyville, Indiana to Brooklyn. Meeting his best friend Steve. Taking care of his sister, Rebecca. Getting into mischief as a teen. Charming the ladies with his quick wit.
He reminisced about quiet evenings at the diner with Steve, enjoying a chocolate malt and fries. Seeing the new technology at the Stark Expo. His comradery with the Howling Commandos. Until he reached the point where everything changed.
His gaze dropped to his lap, the crinkles around his eyes fading.
You gently nudged the conversation back to a time he still ached for. “Tell me more about dancing. I’m sure the ladies were tripping over themselves to dance with you.”
The faintest smirk lifted his mouth. “Well, I was pretty good. I won’t deny that.”
From the gazebo drifted the tunes of soulful jazz. A singer with a velvety voice hit the first notes of Etta James’s At Last. Park visitors slowed their pace, drawn in by the rich melodies.
Swallowing the last bite of his hot dog, he crumbled the paper and tossed it into the bin with perfect precision. “I miss it sometimes. Life was slower then.”
A dreamy smile tugged at your lips as an older couple held each other close, swaying in time to the music. Reliving a time long gone.
When you took your final bite, Bucky stood, taking the paper from your hand and throwing it away. You swallowed hard when he extended his hand, that boyish grin making a reappearance on his face once again. “Dance with me?”
You exhaled a soft, hesitant laugh, sliding your hand into his. “I’ve never danced before.”
He guided you to your feet, drawing you close. “Just follow me.”
The world around you dissolved into music and slow sways. His hand splayed against your lower back, the other clasped with yours against his chest, your feet moving in time with his.
With a turn of his wrist, you turned outward, giggles bubbling over as you unraveled like a thread from a spool. Another tug and you found yourself in his arms once more, wrapped in his warmth, peering up at him through your lashes.
Somewhere in the distance, the sun was starting to set behind the skyline, and the world was waiting for your return.
But right now, pressed close to him, lost in his smoky blue eyes, nothing else mattered.
The fragile moment was shattered by Bucky’s phone. Pulling you both out of the trance.
God—he didn’t want to let go. Not when your smiled faded and your eyes flickered with melancholy.
There were only two people that would send message after message when they needed him. But what if what he needed right now, was you?
You slowly pulled away, fingers tracing across cold vibranium plates before settling at your side.
The space between was small, and yet, it felt like an uncrossable chasm. One that would certainly lead to pain.
Maybe you were willing to endure it for a shred of joy—more than just a moment dragged away.
Bucky grumbled under his breath, scrolling through his messages and typing out a reply. “I have to go, unfortunately.”
Unfortunately. There was that word again. Swimming through your minds the whole ride home.
You clung to Bucky a little tighter this time. Not because it was terrifying, but because you weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to do this again. And you wanted to remember it. Molded against his body. The way your hearts thumped in sync.
The way he—one time—set his hand on your thigh, checking to make sure you were okay. He felt your nod against his back.
But it was a lie.
You hesitated at your apartment door and he quietly stood beside you while you pushed the key into the deadbolt. The silence hummed with every unspoken word, flickering like a flame that could be snuffed out at any moment. Or, possibly, consume you both.
“Thank you,” you murmured, drawing him out of his daze. “Today was nice.”
A strained smile tugged at his mouth, wavering at the edges. Threatening to break. “No problem.”
Once the door was shut, you leaned against it, eyes squeezed shut around hot tears. On the other side, his palm was pressed to the wood.
It wasn’t until the thud of his boots grew distant, and the rev of his bike faded, did you finally peel yourself away.
The apartment felt hollow. Even beneath a cascade of warm water, it did nothing to keep the claws of reality from sinking into your flesh, cutting into your heart.
You dressed in soft pajamas. Curled up with a cup of tea. Turned on a holiday movie that ended with impossible happily ever afters, and pretended it interested you.
It didn’t. Not when Bucky filled every space and every thought.
The hum of the Quinjet was nowhere near as loud as Bucky’s pulse pounding in his ears.
“You climbed out a window with her?” Sam huffed with disbelief and shook his head.
Joaquin snorted softly. “You’re really gone on this girl, huh?”
“I’m not gone on her,” Bucky argued, zipping up his jacket and clipping the strap. The warmth of your touch still lingered like a phantom embrace. “She said lunch was boring, and I fixed it.”
“Mhm.” Sam settled on the bench and leaned back, arms folded over his chest. “You’re doing everything but asking her about what her uncle said.”
Bucky’s jaw ticked. “She just started talking to me.” He sat across from Sam, elbows braced on his knees. “I don’t want to push her and be the reason she retreats into silence.”
Sam exhaled sharply through his nose. “Well, we can’t pretend like it wasn’t a red flag.”
Bucky let out a long breath and nodded. “I know.”
The thing is, he was thinking about it. Every second he was with you, and every second he wasn’t.
When he broke free from Hydra, answering questions about his past was too much to bear. And all the while, Steve was patient with him. That meant more than any of the comforts of his new life.
So, like Steve, he would be patient with you.
That didn’t mean the knot of worry in his chest ever loosened.
The room was quiet. Dimly lit by the glow of the city and slivers of moonlight slicing through the curtains. The soft creaking of the building settling was like an elongated sigh of content—familiar and oddly comforting.
Though you couldn’t put your finger on what had drawn you out of sleep. Out of dreams you didn’t dare confess out loud. Ones that left you with an aching throb between your thighs.
Just as you let your eyes shut once more, three quick knocks hit your nerves like a bolt of lightning. Instinctively, you sat upright, hair standing up on the back of your neck.
Your stomach swam as you slid out from under the covers, socked feet padding across the cold floor.
You hesitated for a moment before standing on your toes to peer through the peephole.
Your breath caught, hand flying to the chain and knob. Wrenching open the door, you found Bucky—his chest heaving with shallow breaths, eyes distant and glassy, sweat dampening his henley and beading his brow. One hand shakily clutched his leather jacket—as if he believed he could’ve gone anywhere in this state. The other gripped the doorframe tight enough the wood creaked.
He whispered your name on a fractured breath. A plea for a lifeline as he shuddered from the remnants of his nightmares.
“Bucky…” you breathed, cupping his face, scanning over every inch of him. His skin was like ice against your palms. “Are you hurt?”
He shook his head, keeping his gaze astray. He hoped you’d never see him like this. Weak and drowning in the guilt of his past. But there was no one else he could turn to. No one else he would turn to. His mouth opened, but all that spilled out were broken sounds and fractured exhales.
“It’s okay.” You gently grasped his wrist, guiding his hand to your chest, your heart thrumming against his palm—steady, alive, real. “I’m right here.”
Your voice, gentle and soothing, guided him back to the present. Like a lighthouse guiding a lost sailor home.
“Come inside and I’ll make you some tea, okay?”
He knew he should say no. Should go back to his apartment and pretend this never happened. But he couldn’t.
He was only vaguely aware of being led into your apartment, the door shutting with a click. Sinking into soft couch cushions. A blanket being draped around his shoulders—the scent of fabric softener wrapping around his senses.
“I’m right here if you need me,” you assured him before making your way to the kitchen.
Even as you filled the kettle, setting it on the stove, and turning the dial, you kept glancing over to the living room. Bucky sat on the edge of the couch like he feared if he let himself sink into the warmth of your home, he might not ever leave.
His gaze drifted, taking in every little detail of your space. Scattered stacks of books. An easel with a half-finished painting of a little frog on a leaf. Your record player and a wire basket filled with sleeved vinyls. The gifted snake plant among other potted greenery. Throw pillows shaped like fall leaves. Lamplight washing the room in a golden glow.
It was comfortable in a way his apartment never was. Softening the rough edges of his mind. Thawing the ice that clung to his heart.
When you returned, he looked at ease. Like he belonged here. Even if his blanket-wrapped broad frame took up most of the sofa.
He accepted the floral mug, metal fingers brushing yours. Steam curled around the rim as he brought it to his lips, taking the first sip. Floral, citrus, and a touch of honey met his tongue. “It’s good.”
“It’s chamomile and lemon balm.” You settled beside him, legs folded under yourself. “It’s what I drink when I have nightmares or can’t relax.”
His blue eyes flicked to you briefly, sharpening with understanding. “Who do you go to, when you have them?”
Your gaze strayed to your lap, fingers tugging at a loose thread on your sleep shorts. “I don’t go to anyone. Not even my therapist.”
His brows creased. An ache…no, understanding tightened in his chest. “You can always come to me,” he mumbled, shoulders tensed like he expected instant rejection. “But, I can’t guarantee the tea I make will taste this good.”
A small giggle bubbled from your chest. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched like he won the lottery.
You weren’t sure how you ended up with The Wizard of Oz playing, humming softly along to the songs while Bucky admired you quietly.
He didn’t watch the movie. Not when his gaze continued to stray to your face, the glow of the TV highlighting the curve of your cheeks and the slow flutter of your lashes.
And when you started to sway, sleep overtaking you, he caught you before you slumped. Easing you down, sliding a pillow under your head.
For a long while, he watched you sleep. The steady rise and fall of your chest. Your face soft and peaceful. Your lips twitching occasionally around a sleepy mumble.
When morning arrived, golden rays spilled through the foggy window. The hum of the city and the earthy scent of coffee brewing slowly pulled you out of sleep.
A sleepy moan caught in your throat as you stretched. Then the memories of Bucky knocking on your door blinked through your mind like a flashing neon sign.
You sat upright with a soft gasp.
Bucky froze mid-step in the kitchen, smiling sheepishly. “Morning.”
You ungracefully untangled yourself from the blanket, hair all mussed, and stammering like a fool. “I’m so sorry. I don’t normally fall asleep that easily.” You paused by the kitchen counter, brow arching at the two plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, and triangle cut toast. “Did you…”
“I wanted to say thank you, for last night.” He lifted the pot from the coffee maker, pouring you both a cup.
A small smile spread across your face. He moved through your kitchen like it was his, like it was a place he felt comfortable in. “Are you feeling better?”
He nodded, rummaging through the fridge and setting a carton of half and half on the counter. “I am.” He leaned against the granite and chewed the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry I woke you last night…I…”
“Bucky…” You rested your hand on his. “You are always welcome to wake me.”
His heart kicked against his ribs, a jagged lump forming in his throat. “Thanks.”
A rumble rolled through the ground, slamming into the building. It groaned and shuddered from the force. The windows rattled and car alarms blared.
It was over before either of you blinked.
You both moved in sync toward the window, sliding it open and stepping out onto the fire escape.
Just down the street, the Brooklyn Museum was clouded with smoke and odd bursts of green energy. Sirens wailed and people screamed as they ran from the building.
Bucky’s phone rang loudly. He answered it quickly, putting his hand on your lower back and guiding you back into the apartment. “Yeah?”
“Man, you need to turn on the news.” Joaquin’s voice spilled through.
You reached for the remote, changing the channel. Live footage of the Brooklyn Museum on fire filled the screen. A banner beneath it read:
Mysterious group steals the Serpent Crown.
“Yeah.” Bucky nodded, the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder as he tugged on his boots. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
He ended the call and slid on his jacket. “I have to go.”
You followed him to the door. He paused, lips pressed thin, his brows furrowed. “Stay inside, okay?”
It was more command than plea.
“I will, I promise.” You gently took his hand before he could go. “Be careful.”
He paused in the threshold, stormy blue eyes fixed on your like he was seconds from caving into temptation. “I will,” he finally managed, just barely nodding.
Hours had passed and you spent most of the time following the unfolding new updates.
Three knocks pulled you from your quiet daze.
Your heart fluttered as you stood, hoping it was Bucky returning.
When you opened the door, you were met with Morris’s sharp eyes. His grin was predatory, a slow, deliberate upturn of his mouth that made your stomach drop.
Chapter 7: The First Fracture
Chapter Text
Four months earlier
The clock ticked relentlessly, each one striking your skull like a chisel, carving sanity away with every passing minute. Cold air nipped at your cheeks and nose, seeping through your sweater and jeans. As if it was hellbent on freezing your bones.
Everything was gray. The office walls, the sparse furniture, a desk in the corner, the books—Dr. Marvin’s tightly pulled back hair.
Beside you, Morris was a picture of innocence. Blonde hair neatly styled, dressed in a sweater vest and pressed slacks. Wide puppy eyes and a slightly pushed out lower lip.
“I try, Dr. Marvin,” he explained, exhaling slowly through his nose, deflating like a slow leaking balloon. “I try so hard to be understanding, patient. But…she won’t let me in.”
Dr. Marvin hummed under her breath and nodded. “I see.” She turned to you, a saccharine grin stretching across her weathered face—as if someone were pulling on strings behind her ears. “You know, dear. You could try letting him in more. After all, it takes two people to make a relationship work.”
Quiet settled like thick snow, cold and unyielding. Their eyes seared into your skin. Watching, waiting. Your fists clenched, scraping against denim. Rage curling like thorned vines in your chest.
“I don’t want this to work…” you seethed through clenched teeth.
Morris and Dr. Marvin blinked, stunned as you forced out word after word, voice scraping from your throat as if it were covered in barbed-wire.
Tears gathered in the corners of your trembling lips. “I…I don’t want to be in this relationship…” your voice thinned to a fragile whisper, fracturing on the last word.
Morris cleared his throat and rested his hand on your arm. “Sweetheart—”
“No!” You jerked away, scrambling off the couch, bolting for the door.
Morris was quick to follow, lanky legs carrying him forward, already reaching out to grab your arm.
“Alert security,” Dr. Marvin tapped her earpiece, exhaling heavily. “She’s trying to escape.”
You thrashed in Morris’s grip, the seams of your sleeve tearing, your elbow colliding with his nose. He staggered back with a high-pitched yelp, releasing your sleeve.
You staggered through the door and sprinted down the long hall, the white walls closing in, your breaths shallow, muscles trembling with exertion.
At the end, two broad-shouldered men rounded the corner, shouting, “There she is!”
You spun, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. But, it was too late. Two more guards were already there, advancing, cutting you off from escape.
Large hands took hold of your arms, holding you still as you kicked and squirmed, unleashing a hoarse scream that reverberated off the walls. A needle was pressed into your neck, silencing your cries.
Heat seared through your veins, weighing down your muscles. Your vision blurred.
The last face you saw was Morris with a smug grin he desperately tried to hide behind faux concern. But you knew you hadn’t imagined it.
When you woke, groggy, hopeless—reminded that escape wasn’t an option, the ride home was quiet. Verne tried his very best to make you smile. But, it was a futile attempt.
You never wanted this. A forced relationship for business, to repay gambling debt. A desperate attempt to save face, you were offered as payment.
When you returned to your building, dragging your feet up the stairs, your apartment felt more like a coffin than a home.
Hands trembling at your sides, chest heaving with shallow breaths, a sob tore free. If this was life, then you no longer wanted any part of it.
You rummaged through your kitchen drawers, gathering any bottle of pills you could find, dumping them all out onto the granite island. Tears streamed down your face, burning your cheeks.
Grasping the edge of the counter, you exhaled shakily.
This was the only way? Right.
You knew better. No one was coming to save you. To wake you up from this nightmare. To love you.
Closing a hand around the pile of tablets, you brought them to your mouth, a fractured sound catching in your throat as you hesitated. Eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, an odd scraping sound made you pause.
Your head turned at another scrape and a thump. You set down the pills, curiosity getting the best of you.
Palms pressed to the door, you stood on your toes and peered through the peephole. Three men were in the process of moving furniture into the apartment across the hall.
“Joaquin, stop trying to lift the couch by yourself,” one said from behind the bed frame.
“Sam, you act like the couch is going to crush me or something,” Joaquin retorted with a playful roll of his eyes.
Sam peeked his head out, lips pressed thin. “You’re not a super soldier, kid.”
Joaquin huffed, muscles flexing as he bent and slowly lifted one side of the sofa, until it was at a precarious angle over his head. He stumbled back, barely catching himself and ducking out of the way before it hit your door with a vibrating thud, nearly knocking you off balance.
You squeaked, hand flying to your mouth.
A man with broad shoulders, dark hair, and a leather jacket emerged from the stairwell. Already shaking his head and nudging Joaquin to the side. “Could’ve just waited for me.” With a huffed grunt, he lifted the couch with ease, pausing to look up, his gaze drawn to your peephole.
You froze and held your breath, certain he could see you. His eyes a storm of blue and gray boring into your soul.
“Bucky,” Sam called from the adjacent doorway while dragging the bed frame through the threshold. “Wanna lend a hand or stare at a door?”
Bucky blinked himself out of the daze, swallowing thickly. “Yeah, coming.”
For the rest of their move, you continued to watch. Though, there wasn’t much else they brought in. A couple of boxes, and a safe rolled in on a dolly.
“I wonder who lives across the hall,” Joaquin said, taking a swig of water.
Bucky looked back at your door. “Yeah, I wonder.”
Your heart stuttered. You had sworn you’d never experience feelings like this. Yet, here you were, blushing and smiling like a fool, butterflies ricocheting around your stomach.
When you were certain Bucky was done moving in, and his friends were gone, you crept across the hall.
After you knocked, you retreated to your apartment.
When Bucky opened his door, his heart was already pounding like an uneven drum behind his ribs. And when he saw the container of cookies and a note, his breaths ceased.
Holding the paper carefully between two metal fingers, his eyes skimmed the delicate penmanship:
Welcome to the building. I hope you feel at home here.
Despite there being no name or apartment number, he knew it was from you. Because as soon as he was finished unpacking—which didn’t take long—curiosity drew him to his peephole like a moth to a flame.
He just had to know who lived across the hall. And when you had emerged with the tupperware in hand, hesitant and skittish, he knew you didn’t leave your name and apartment number on purpose.
It was also then that he knew—as a man who believed he would never fall for anyone again—you were the only exception.
Present
Quiet settled over the bedroom like thick fog. Suffocating and cold. Carving a hole into your chest with every passing second. Head tipped back against the headboard, bare, and arms limp at your sides, tears slipped from your eyes, dampening the crumpled sheets.
Beams of moonlight sliced through the curtains and the city hummed beyond the window.
The scent of sex and sweat clung to the air, hitting the back of your throat like acid. The aftermath of Morris’s visit.
Numbness sank into your bones, hell bent on eating you alive from the inside out.
On the other side of the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, Bucky’s clenched fists trembled against the mattress.
He shouldn’t have listened. It was torture. And yet, he did, every time.
Maybe he was terrified that one time you would make a sound, a sign that Morris was bringing you pleasure.
It never happened.
Maybe, that made him happy. It meant he could cling to a shred of hope that maybe one day, you’d leave that lanky sweater vest.
He knew it was a silly dream to have. But he held on to it like it was the only lifeline keeping him tethered to earth.
In your bedroom, you let your eyes shut, imagining what it would feel like to be with Bucky.
Dreaming of his hands skimming over your curves, his mouth tracing your collarbone, breath warm against your skin.
Your eyes opened and the dream was gone.
Pushing the thoughts aside, you slid off the bed. Messy sheets were peeled away and tossed into the hamper, replaced with fresh ones. Your hands shook as you stretched the satin across, tucking it under the corner of the mattress. It didn’t fully remove Morris’s presence, but it was the best you could do.
In the bathroom, when you flicked on the light, your reflection in the mirror pulled a soft sob from your chest. Tamped down by your teeth cutting into your lower lip until you tasted iron.
Bruises and red patches covered your chest, arms, hips, and thighs. Crescent indents from where Morris had bitten you repeatedly marked your neck.
He had always been rough. But this time, it was different. It wasn't from heat, or need—it was malice. A bitter rage that seeped into his every hold and thrust.
On the other side of the wall, Bucky stood in his bathroom, hands gripping the edge of the sink tight enough the ceramic creaked. He breathed out sharply through his nose, his jaw ticking.
In perfect sync, you both turned your shower knobs. The pipes groaned, and water flowed from the head.
Bucky stood beneath the icy cascade, you waited for it to warm.
He ran a hand over his face, exhaling heavily. After the day at the park, the dance, the way you slept beside him on the couch—you were on his mind more than ever. Close enough he could touch, close enough he could hold.
You tipped your chin, letting droplets dampen your hair. The only image on your mind was Bucky showing up at your door, seeking comfort from you. Waking up to his presence filling your apartment with warmth it never had. It was all you could ever dream of.
The wall was thin. Thin enough that Bucky knew you always took a shower after Morris left.
A ritual of cleansing away the shame, the hurt.
It was routine. Your routine. And now—it was his too.
Water tumbled in streaks down the walls. Ribbons of steam curled around bare skin. Clinging to every curve. Every chiseled muscle.
Your palm met the cold tile. His pressed just inches higher. Separated by a wall. Drawn together by unyielding temptation.
The wall was thin. Thin enough for you to hear a sharp inhale that covered a choked groan.
Beads of water rolled between your breasts, down your abdomen, gathering where your thighs were pressed tight.
The wall was thin. Thin enough for him to hear your shaky whimper.
Cascading water mingled with the sweat beading his brow, dripping onto his hand. Each drag of his fist was slow, deliberate, prolonging the sensation.
Prolonging the image of his length in your hand. Of him on your tongue.
The wall was thin. Thin enough for you to hear his muffled grunts. Thin enough for the symphony of skin gliding against skin. Of restraint snapping.
Slick gathered on your fingers. The sensation overwhelming. New. A discovery of the pleasure you craved, of every place that made heat glide along your spine.
Imagining his hand. His calloused fingers exploring every dip and ridge. Warm breath on your neck. Whispered words in your ears.
The wall was thin. Thin enough for him to hear the catch of your breath. Thin enough to hear your nails scraping against the tile.
Imagining those pretty fingers dragging down his back. Pressing into his biceps. Using him as an anchor for each deep thrust. How velvety tight your walls would feel. Enveloping him. Drawing him in deeper.
His hips jerked, chasing the friction. His thighs trembled. The pressure building, clawing into every muscle, pleading for release.
The wall was thin. Thin enough to hear his willpower fracturing. Thin enough to hear muttered curses under his breath.
A broken gasp left your lips. Your finger sliding into your fluttering depths. Sensitive and used. Once a hallowed hall. A place of holy pleasure. Now desecrated by another. Stripped bare.
It was slow. A press. A curl. A reclaiming of your body. of sensations long since denied. A thread pulled taut by need.
It wasn’t enough. Not for either of you.
The wall was your barrier. The only thing keeping the temptation from fully taking root.
The body craved what it could not have.
It was wrong.
Listening to him.
Listening to you.
This couldn’t happen again.
The wall was thin. Thin enough for him to hear you stop. His hand halting, ear pressed to the tile, hair plastered to his forehead.
Your fractured sob echoed off the tile.
The wall was thin. As thin as your resolve. Thin enough to hear his heavy breathing. Thin enough to hear him slowly start again. Coaxing the sensation back into your core.
Palm pressed to the cold tile. You let your finger sink into your depths once more.
The wall was thin. Thin enough for him to hear the symphony of moans that you let spill free. Serenading the warmth back into his veins.
Palm pressed to the cold tile. His chest heaved. Each stroke in sync with your whimpers.
The wall was thin. Thin enough to fade. Thin enough for two lonely people to find sanctuary. To find the pleasure you craved.
Palm pressed to the cold tile. Only inches apart. A crescendo of shaky breaths and guttural moans clouded the air.
Until the thread snapped.
You shuddered. Warmth flooded your palm.
He shuddered. White coating his hand.
The wall was thin. Thin enough to know, nothing would be the same again.