Chapter Text
The whipping winds outside pushed you through the large revolving door and into the equally cold, emotionless structure that housed your mandated therapist. You sighed as you readjusted your jacket and scarf, as they had found themselves in a state of disarray after you had run from the subway station to the heavy glass door of the building, trying to avoid your nose freezing clean off your face. Every winter, you questioned your decision to live in New York, when warmer and kinder places existed. With a heavy sigh, you made your way across the marble lobby to the elevator, smiling kindly at the older man who worked at the front desk; after several weeks of your regular Thursday visits, he had started to recognize you and would occasionally wave hello or ask how your day was going. It took a lot of effort to bite back the retort of, You know who I’m here to see, so what do you think? But you held back the sarcasm and painted on a smile for him, reminding yourself to appreciate the small gestures of kindness, just as Dr Wallace had taught you.
Your life wasn’t exactly a disaster , per se, but it was a bit of a mess... to put it lightly. Having been one of the fifty percent to vanish during the Blip, you were faced with quite the chaos when you suddenly found yourself in existence once again. You hadn’t had much of a tie to your own life even before the Blip, but now that years had passed without your presence — your apartment was gone, your cat was gone, your collection of vinyls was gone — you were basically starting over fresh, a daunting and overwhelming thing to grapple with.
And after a breakdown at work one day, it was clear that you needed some sort of help, and you would be getting it whether you necessarily wanted it or not — because coming here every week was the key condition for your ongoing employment. Since your job was the only piece of your old life that you had managed to return to, you decided to comply, needing some sense of stability as the world around you continued to unravel and be pieced back together. And since you needed your job, you found yourself at the eighteenth-floor office every Thursday, seated in the bland and uninviting waiting room, never later than 1:45PM.
There wasn’t much to look at in the waiting room, aside from some crappy, mass-produced artwork on the walls that hung crookedly, and colorful flyers advertising different support groups. After your fifth visit, you were fairly certain you would have those flyers burned into your memory for the rest of your life.
Coming Home: How to help your loved ones navigate the new normal.
Social Reintegration Workshop - Mondays from 6-8PM.
Housing resources for displaced persons: Call below!
Having memorized the flyers and the crooked painting of a tree, the only thing left to look at in the unnervingly quiet room was the tall, dark, scowling man who always sat in the corner, sprawled across the pleather sofa; however, noting his demeanor, you kept your eyes down and instead focused on the hangnail on your index finger. The intimidating man was here every Thursday afternoon, same as you, but he usually stomped in much closer to 2PM. His heavy footsteps echoed throughout the room, shaking the colorful assortment of pharmaceutical pens that sat at the end of the receptionist’s desk. He typically kept his head down, but the few short glimpses you had caught in the passing weeks had shown you that he was objectively quite attractive — you couldn’t help but notice, particularly when there wasn’t much else to be noticed.
Another Thursday spent here, somehow passively dreading the entire ordeal. You checked your phone screen as you slumped lower and lower into the uncomfortable, plasticky leather armchair; 1:57PM. Dr Wallace would be calling you back any minute now, for another hour of somewhat helpful but also somewhat agonizing conversation. You continued to zone out while you waited, until you heard Dr Raynor’s voice call out across the room. “Mr Barnes?”
You looked up, curiosity getting the best of you; the only other person in the waiting room was the brooding brunette, so you assumed that he must be Mr Barnes. He rose from the blue pleather sofa with a sigh, and as he stalked across the room his eyes caught yours — they were an incredibly deep blue, the color taking you back to the oceans you had visited during past vacations. And you couldn’t help but realize that he didn’t glare at you — which was honestly quite surprising, given that he always looked like he was in pain — but, he didn’t exactly smile either. He just looked... neutral . Or maybe bored. Or maybe you were just reading way too much into this. But then again, you had never seen him look anything other than agitated — so a departure like this, a step into neutrality, clearly meant something. Right?
He disappeared behind the door, following Dr Raynor down the same softly-lit hallway you had now walked several times. The door closed behind him softly, but somehow the gentle click of the lock felt louder than a gunshot. This would certainly make your fifteen minutes in the waiting room all the more interesting in the coming weeks, knowing that you’d be anxiously awaiting the next time your eyes locked, endlessly curious about what was going on behind those piercing blue eyes. You couldn’t help but be intrigued by the man now known to you as Mr Barnes, and as you half heartedly mumbled your way through your therapy session, the color of his eyes was the only thing you could really seem to think about.
Dr Wallace had let you go early for the day, understanding that something else was on your mind; something you weren’t quite ready to share. And as you stepped back out into the bone-chilling wind, you realized that maybe you weren’t entirely dreading your next trip here.
***
The week between appointments passed with little excitement; you went to work, you went to the grocery store, and you mindlessly flicked through the overpriced records in the store down the street before buying a few of them, in an attempt to feel somewhat like your old self again. It had been Dr Wallace’s suggestion — you griped about it because you had already paid for those records once before, why are you going to repurchase them at a higher price now, but you begrudgingly gave it a chance. That weekend, you listened to Fleetwood Mac as you fixed yourself dinner, and for the first time in a while you noticed yourself dancing and humming along to the music that played.
It wasn’t a massive change, but it felt kind of nice — maybe Dr Wallace was finally cracking you. But you couldn’t tell her that .
And you certainly weren’t going to tell her about the Wednesday morning when you sang in the shower, the easy and familiar sound of Ben Folds coaxing a bit of life out of you while securely ensconced in the privacy of your bathroom. Nobody needed to know that.
***
It was Thursday again, as the day always came back around; and as you got yourself ready that morning, you decided to put on a little bit of makeup and something nicer than the oversized sweater and weather-worn jacket that you typically chose. You lied to yourself, saying that you didn’t know why you were doing this, that maybe you just impulsively felt like it, or maybe you were starting to feel better — but deep down, you knew . You knew that Mr Barnes would be in the waiting room once again, and something squeezed around your heart as you thought about seeing those fiery blue eyes.
***
You fiddled nervously with your necklace as you leaned into the red pleather armchair, looking down at your phone screen — 1:43PM. You had made it here a little early, despite having traded your sneakers for a pair of ankle boots. You felt your face grow hot, progressively realizing that you must look absolutely absurd , showing up early and dressing to impress the stranger in the shrink’s office; you contemplated hiding out in the bathroom until Dr Wallace called you back, but the front door to the office opened and it was too late. You’d have to face your fate.
Mr Barnes walked across the office slowly, not as heavy-footed as he usually was; his dark hair was combed back neatly and the hint of shadow around his jaw made you realize he had shaved recently; truthfully, he looked a little less terrifying and even more handsome today. Was that intentional?
He didn’t make eye contact with you as he stared off into the distance, a flat and impassive look on his usually stormy face. You didn’t push it, and busied yourself with updating your calendar on your phone; you hadn’t noticed how much time had passed when the receptionist called out to you softly.
“Sweetheart, Dr Wallace is running a bit behind today — shouldn’t be too long.”
You sighed in exasperation, grimacing as you knew you’d now have to sit in this room full of awkward tension even longer than you had expected. “Alright, Sheila, thanks for letting me know.”
You winced at the biting tone of your voice; it wasn’t her fault. And it wasn’t like you exactly had anything else going on this evening, but you would’ve rather been watching Netflix than sitting here, stewing in your own embarrassment for dressing up for therapy . You sank back into your chair, unlocking your phone to try and find something to keep you distracted.
“Seems like I may not be the only one who’s not thrilled t’be here.”
A shiver ran down your spine as a velvety, baritone voice carried across the room to you. Looking up, you saw that Mr Barnes had folded his hands across his lap nervously, his eyes locked on you as he waited for your reaction. The corner of your mouth twitched up in a semblance of a smile, your heart racing at a million miles a minute as you tried to formulate some sort of response. “Yeah, there might be a few things that I’d prefer to this.”
Biting his lip as he smirked, you heard Mr Barnes exhale, something akin to a laugh. “So then what brings you here?”
“Is it really appropriate to be asking somebody that?” You pursed your lips, teasing him a little. You just barely caught the flash of nervousness on his face — if you hadn’t been watching him so intently, it would’ve been easily missed. “It was either this, or lose my job. So — here I am.” You shrugged nonchalantly.
He hmm’ed , dark sapphire eyes still watching you closely. He didn’t seem to have any response, but wanting to hear his voice again, you nervously decided to try and keep the conversation going. “Anger management,” you offered with a wry smile.
His brows pulled together as he thought about your response. “Y’don’t exactly seem the type to be needing that.”
You laughed, knowing that he was likely picturing someone very different from you when hearing the words anger management . “Yeah, I — well, typically you’d be right. But after a particularly poor joke from one of my coworkers, I might’ve, ah,” you cleared your throat, suddenly feeling very sweaty and nervous. “I might’ve broken his nose. And his wrist.”
Mr Barnes’ eyes grew large, and you stared into those very same intoxicating blue eyes that you had been trying to avoid thinking about. He probably thought you were crazy, if he hadn’t thought so already; how did you always manage to overshare with the wrong people, and undershare with the right ones?
“Must’ve been a helluva joke.”
Hit with a sudden wave of relief, you smiled reflexively as you picked up on the subtle bemusement in his voice. Your eyebrows quirked up as you carried on with your story, feeling marginally more comfortable; he at least wasn’t running away, so that was a good sign. Your nerves somehow already felt shot, frayed like the ends of a rope, so you took a deep breath before speaking again.
“I was... I was one of the fifty percent that vanished. And when I came back, my entire life was gone — my apartment, my cat, all my stuff. My old job was basically all I had left — and they were happy to bring me back on, I had been at the top of my field before, well, everything . I came back to work, but Reggie couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut — said that it must’ve been nice to take a five year vacation and hop right back into my senior position.” Your lips curled as you thought of the sneer that had been painted on his smug face — at least, until you had knocked it off of him.
Mr Barnes whistled lowly, his eyes widening in surprise as his gaze locked onto you. “Sounds like he had it coming, then.”
“You’d think so — and everyone else did too, honestly — but regardless of who’s right or wrong, there’s appropriate procedures that you have to go along with to keep the job.” You shrugged, finally breaking the prolonged eye contact — it felt too intense, too intrigued, too personal. You hadn’t had someone be genuinely interested in talking to you in so long, the feeling was alarmingly alien. Dr Wallace didn’t really count, because she was being paid to listen to you. Trying to shift the attention, you posed a question of your own. “What about you? What brings you here?”
He shifted, looking nervous as he prepared to speak. But just as the first words came out of his mouth, you heard Dr Wallace’s voice call out your name. You scrunched your face in annoyance, upset that this moment had been interrupted. “Well, guess that’s a story for another day.” He said, hands clenching nervously as he watched you stand up from the squeaking pleather armchair.
You smiled back at him as you moved to follow Dr Wallace. “Same time next week,” you joked dryly, something in your chest feeling warm as you heard him laugh for the first time. You liked the sound — you wanted to hear it again.
“You know where to find me,” he called out, as the door closed behind you with another impossibly loud, but soft click.
“I’m happy to see you’re making friends,” Dr Wallace commented, trying to keep her tone casual. “We’ve talked about how important that can be for you...”
The hour-long session focused heavily on your loneliness and withdrawal from social engagement, with Dr Wallace having to forcefully pull every response out of you. You didn’t want to talk about suggesting a happy hour with your coworkers — you wanted to go back to that bland, blank waiting room and talk to the one person who had managed to make you feel real again.
Your passive loneliness didn’t feel quite so comforting anymore.
***
The next few weeks came and went with a little more ease; you now had some enthusiasm and energy in your step when you passed through the revolving door of the building. The man at the front desk, who you came to know as Frank, now often spent a minute or two chatting with you about the Yankees before you made your way to the elevators. Mr Barnes made his way in a few minutes after you, just like always, and the two of you would exchange dry jokes and personal anecdotes for the eleven or so minutes before one of the doctors inevitably showed up to interrupt. With each week that passed, he started to arrive earlier and earlier.
It was awkward at first, as the two of you tiptoed around how much to share, how much to divulge; eventually you were the first to open up, and as you shared more, it seemed to put Mr Barnes at ease as well. You told him about your distanced family, who you hadn’t seen in at least a decade; your previous cat, Jonathan; and your work as a museum curator, including your ongoing strife with Reggie. In turn, he shared a few significant stories of his own — ones that left you brimming with questions, none of which could be answered within your short time together.
During your fourth pre-therapy conversation, Mr Barnes finally shared why he was here each week — he was here in an attempt to make amends for his past. A past that included a great deal of violence, a past that extended well beyond your own — by eighty-some years. He didn’t offer up a great deal of detail, and you had no right to ask for details; but you came to understand that what happened was never by his own choosing. You couldn’t begin to imagine the kind of havoc that would wreak on a person, and yet here he was, living and trying despite it all. Trying to apologize for a tragedy he had never once wanted to be a part of.
He had looked absolutely terrified as he spoke, his words coming up from somewhere distinctly broken, and he twisted his hands nervously while he waited for you to respond. You hadn’t expected the curious stranger in your therapist’s office to be a 107 year old super-soldier and former assassin, and yet you took this information in stride, never flinching. Had someone told you something like this ten years ago, you never would’ve believed them; but after the last few years of alien attacks and Avengers interventions, you were much more… open minded , and weren’t shocked by much of anything at this point.
“Y’know, you don’t look too bad for 107,” you joked, smiling widely at the nervous man seated across from you. Now, rather than sitting on opposite ends of the waiting room, the two of you often sat one chair apart, or on opposite sides of the small coffee table that was covered in outdated health magazines. And although the two of you had moved considerably closer, there was something inside of you that now wanted to reach out more , to try and smooth away some of the fear and guilt that plagued him. But you understood the importance of boundaries, and that boundary didn’t seem up for testing just yet. So you tried to offer him some measure of comfort through your words, feeling the need to do something.
“Really, though, I’ve come to learn that this universe is a lot crazier than I ever would’ve expected. And compared to half of the universe disappearing for five years, meeting a super-soldier is fairly low on my list of crazy.”
He snorted, and you watched his nose wrinkle as he laughed. “Maybe that’s part of the reason you’re here — your gauge for crazy is broken. I think any sane person would run screaming from me.”
You shrugged nonchalantly, noticing the way that he continually talked down about himself and deciding right then not to let that shit fly. “Well, broken gauge or not, you’re much better company than anybody I know that’s sane.”
He looked as though he was trying to fight a smile from edging its way onto his face, the corner of his lips turning down while the remainder of his face lit up brightly before you.
“So, how’s that senior citizen discount?” You asked playfully, fighting off a smile of your own.
“Wouldn’t know, nobody ever believes me when I tell them I’m 107,” he laughed, a real smile finally breaking through. “But, you did say I’m lookin’ pretty good for my age.”
***
The days slipped by, as your idea of the week had evolved from Sunday - Saturday, to Thursday - Friday. You had started to progressively feel less like a shell of your old self; you knew you’d never be able to be that same person again, but you were at least now starting to feel like a person again. You picked up more records, you read a book at the coffee shop down the road, you baked banana bread for your elderly neighbor, and you were spending progressively less and less time moping on the couch. Your entire idea of normalcy had to be redefined, but you were starting to make peace with where you were at, shifting from sulking apathy to maybe the smallest twinge of contentedness.
And as the weeks flew by, the cold weather eventually passed, being replaced by a bit of sunshine and warmth that you found that you actually quite enjoyed. Dr Wallace had started to notice the small changes that were adding up within you, and as your day’s session came to a close, she tapped her pen on the table repeatedly as she looked on at you. “I think that our time together has come to its end. Not just for today, but for the future. You’ve made some progress to be proud of, and you’ve met the mandated number of sessions. I don’t believe you’re any danger to yourself or your coworkers, and you’ve got some coping skills in your toolbox that you can use moving forward.”
Was this over? What would you do with your Thursday’s now?
“And you’ve also got a friend. That’s a big step.” Her eyebrow raised as she smiled at you knowingly.
You blinked, confused. “Friend?”
“Mr Barnes. The two of you talk frequently — I believe it’s been good for the both of you.”
“I don’t know that I’d call us friends —“
Dr Wallace placed her hand down on the desk gently. “Take what you’ve learned here, take it forward, and take care of yourself. The world lost your light for five years — so now go out and share some of it.”
Heat rushed to your throat and your cheeks, and you felt the threat of tears hovering close by. You nodded slowly, extending your hand for a final handshake before turning to leave the office for the last time. And as you shifted your bag on your shoulder, you bumped into Mr Barnes — you stumbled a bit, but his hands reached out to catch you, keeping you from toppling over entirely.
Staring up into those eyes that looked like the sky before an afternoon storm, you found yourself completely breathless and entirely speechless. Your mouth opened, and you intended to say something , and yet nothing came out except for a breathy gasp as you sank into the feeling of his hands against your body. How long had it been since you had such intimate physical contact?
“Might wanna be careful, doll. Not sure Sheila’s plant would’a taken too kindly to being crashed into.” He chuckled lightly, a smile dancing across lips that were perfectly pink and surely so very soft — “I’m finishin’ up for today, so I’ll see ya next week?”
You shook your head, noticing that his hands were still securely wrapped around you; the pressure felt unfamiliar, but in the best way. “N-no, I actually won’t be here.”
Seeing that you were upright and steady, Mr Barnes let you go, stepping away before stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets; something inside of you cried out at the loss of contact. “Y’gonna be out of town next week?” He asked, brows pulling together in concern; you noticed the few lines that were present on his forehead, that were now deepened by the idea of your absence.
You shook your head again, almost sadly. “Wallace is letting me go — said I’m reliably ‘ not a danger to myself or others ,’ and that I’ve improved enough to call it quits.”
Barnes’ eyes widened, a hint of sadness flashing across them before he laughed shakily — you knew him well enough by now to know that this laughter was uncomfortable and forced. “Lucky you,” he grimaced, looking on at you as his feet shifted against the grey carpet. “Not sure I’ll ever get told something like that. Got a feeling I’ll be here every Thursday. But, ah, congratulations, for — I don’t know, graduating therapy?”
You laughed, the pressure and nervousness in your chest making it louder and more intense than truly needed. “Not sure what I’ll do with all this free time in my schedule,” you mused, something inside of you needing to drag out this conversation — something inside of you didn’t want this to be your goodbye. “Had gotten pretty used to scheduling you and Wallace into my day.”
Barnes smiled, almost in amusement and disbelief. “Well, it’s a shame Wallace decided t’let you go today.”
“Why’s that?” You asked curiously, a feeling of nervousness blooming in your stomach.
Barnes shifted on his feet, clearing his throat as he stammered for a moment — you had never seen him so scattered, so nervous. “Y’always tell me you’ll see me next week — and I... and maybe I was finally gonna say, it’s a date.”
He looked at the floor, pointedly avoiding eye contact with you; you felt heat rush throughout your body as the word date echoed and reverberated within you. Your heartbeat felt impossibly fast but also impossibly strong, as the feelings that had previously been buried now crashed through the layers of numbness and suppression before you could stop it.
You had stopped fighting your attraction to him weeks ago, but had worked to keep those feelings to yourself, keeping them hidden and close to your chest. Surely therapy wasn’t the place to meet someone — so much emotional vulnerability existed in a place like this, and quite honestly, attraction should’ve been the furthest thing from your mind as you showed up each week to tell Dr Wallace about your dysfunctional family and asshole coworkers.
But on more than one occasion, you had found yourself moving through your apartment, cooking, cleaning, watching Netflix — imagining what it would be like to have him there with you. Imagining what it would be like to have someone care for you, to have someone love you again, to have someone to share day to day life with. Would he make the coffee each morning? What movies would he rewatch endlessly, never growing tired of them? Would he put the knife in the dishwasher after making a sandwich, or would he set it to the side as he contemplated if he might want another? What snack would he keep stocked at all times, that you’d find him eating at 3AM on the couch after a sleepless night? Your mind had played out countless, self-indulgent scenarios, although they lasted only seconds before you chided yourself for losing yourself in thoughts about a stranger.
Honestly, had he not said the word date first, you likely would’ve walked out of the office and out of his life entirely, dooming yourself to a lifetime of what if’s that would creep in when the moon sank low above the city and your clock displayed another lonely hour ticking by. You wouldn’t have had the bravery or the courage to speak up; but he did, and now that the seal had been broken, now that the dam had been released, you felt yourself giving in to the excitement that coursed through you like the powerful ocean tides.
“What about a real date?”
You searched his blue eyes nervously, barely able to believe that you had said such a thing; your heart hammered so hard against your chest that you were certain you’d see bruises the next day. It was so dumb, so ridiculous, borderline offensive that you would use something as emotionally vulnerable as therapy to ask someone out on a date — but you had to ask, as you didn’t want to go home and cry silently into your takeout because you had walked away from the one connection you had made, the one person who had ever been saddened by the idea of you leaving.
“You’re not afraid to go on a date with someone you met in court-ordered therapy?” He asked curiously, a hint of hope breaking through.
You pursed your lips into a wry smile before responding, now feeling emboldened that he hadn’t rejected you. “Are you? Y’know, I broke a few bones before ending up here,” you laughed, heart feeling lighter as the two of you laughed together. “But honestly, most men I’ve met wouldn’t come within a mile of therapy— so you’re leaps and bounds ahead of them already. And the fact that you’re still here every week speaks pretty loudly to the kind of person you are, or at least the kind of person you want to be.”
A confident smile danced across his lips, the very same smile that you had been secretly thinking about for weeks. “Well, alright then, sweets. How about we trade our Thursday afternoon for a Friday night?”
You pretended to pause and think about your answer, already knowing what you intended to say, as you would’ve leapt on any chance to see him again. “Well wouldn’t ya know it, my Fridays are free too — so how about you give me your number, and I’ll talk with you later about some plans for tomorrow?” You pulled your phone out of your pocket, intending to create a new contact. “Y’know, I don’t think I ever actually got your name — or at least not your full name? I’ve heard Mr Barnes, but past that —“
He scoffed, eyes rolling back in a way that made something within your stomach twitch with interest and excitement. “Mr Barnes is my father. I’m Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th, but my friends call me Bucky.” He stood a bit straighter, a bit taller, as he formally introduced himself to you after weeks of anonymous, casual friendship.
You hmm’ed , boldly reaching out to wrap your fingers gently around the edge of the dark denim jacket he was clad in. You weren’t sure what was suddenly making you so uncharacteristically brave, but you sank into the heady feeling — and he didn’t seem to mind, as he never pulled away. “So what do I call you, then? Sergeant Barnes? James? Mr Barnes —“
He cut you off abruptly, his hand coming up towards you quickly but in a very controlled fashion; you closed your eyes at the intimate touch, as the warmth of his palm came to cradle your cheek, his thumb just barely ghosting the corner of your lips. “Bucky. Call me Bucky.”
You reflexively leaned into his touch, relishing the feeling of connection, the feeling of hope and optimism that bloomed within you. “Are we friends , Bucky?” You asked curiously, the smallest hint of devilishness playing across your lips, the same ones that his thumb just faintly rested against. You stared up into crystalline blue eyes, quirking up an eyebrow at this break in formality, this step into intimacy. He stepped in closer to you, and you were able to smell his unique and intense scent of cedar, smoke, salt, and bergamot; you felt your eyelids flutter at the unexpected sensation now threatening to overwhelm you.
“Well, sweets, I sure as shit hope we’re not just friends, ” he chuckled lowly, and you loved the confidence that he now radiated. His husky, rough, baritone voice sank deeper as he continued to speak, and you hung on every word that fell from his perfectly pink lips. “Hope we’re something much more than friends — but let me take you out tomorrow, doll, and I’ll show you a good time.”
You grinned excitedly as you stared on at the impossibly handsome man standing before you. If this was your present for graduating therapy — well, fuck, you’d have started coming here years ago. You certainly never would’ve imagined that the letter you received from HR following your incident would lead you into the gentle touch of an incredibly handsome, powerful, and slowly-healing man, a man who somehow saw something worth seeing in you.
“I’ll be looking forward to it, Bucky.”
“I’ll be seeing you, sweetheart.”
***
You had waited anxiously by your phone that night, debating on whether you should call him , or if you should wait for him to call you — and your phone’s battery drained rapidly as your thumb hovered continually over the button that would bring the sound of his baritone voice into the walls of your apartment. The poor rug in your living room was certain to show the wear of your nervous pacing, and even the background noise of your favorite podcast couldn’t distract you from the nerves that were tearing their way through your stomach like acid. You picked up your phone every few minutes, wrestling with yourself about what to do as you saw the notifications tab was perpetually empty, as per usual — but shortly after you sat down to eat, the phone buzzed loudly, reverberating through the wooden table it was sat upon. The startling sound made you gasp out a curse, dropping your fork loudly onto the ceramic plate beneath you.
Your heart now leaping up and into your throat, you grabbed the phone and looked for the caller ID — Bucky Barnes.
Taking a breath to try and steady yourself, you answered the call. “Y’know, I’m pretty sure finding a date through therapy is a HIPAA violation —“
Bucky’s laugh echoed through the speaker that was pressed impossibly tight against your ear, sounding a little more lighthearted and relaxed than it ever had in the office. “I’m sure it’s some sort of ethical violation, but I won’t tell if you won’t,” he promised, his voice still intoxicating despite the interference of the phone. “And if you recall, you were let go before the word date even came up. Bit of a technicality, but I’ll take it.”
You laughed with your whole chest, a sense of warmth and excitement radiating through you, from your now-burning cheeks all the way to your toes; it was like sitting by the warmth of a fire, after enduring hours of biting cold. You resumed your pacing, albeit with slightly less nerves this time. “I’m going to preemptively apologize, because I’m sure Raynor’s not going to let this go without a fight. Her and Wallace have been talking about us.”
“Guess we might as well give them somethin’ t’talk about then, sweets,” He said, his voice sounding progressively more confident and energetic, standing out in sharp contrast to the sulking rain cloud of a man that you had crossed paths with just a few months before. Maybe therapy just made him that miserable ? “Speaking of which, what would you say to a Friday night at Coney Island?”
Your heart skipped a beat at the unexpected sweetness of the suggestion; you suddenly felt like you were fifteen all over again, excitedly awaiting your first date. “You don’t get sick on rollercoasters, do you?”
Bucky laughed again, and you reveled in the warmth of it — only a few months ago, he had been the terrifying shadow in the room, and now he was laughing and smiling and offering to take you on the sweet kind of dates you had only ever seen in Hallmark movies. If you hadn’t been so thrilled by it, the sudden shift certainly would’ve given you whiplash.
“I’ve survived much worse than rollercoasters,” he replied, and despite the lightness of his voice you could tell that the words breezed over something that was much more painful than he’d let on. That was something for another day, but for tonight, you’d appreciate the spirited conversation that you shared, a conversation about a future that existed outside of the office you had met in.
“Good, because if you’re taking me there, I’m looking to ride all of them — don’t want to have to worry about you getting sick if we go upside down or through a loop.” You smiled into the phone, somehow getting the feeling that he could sense the grin on your face. “Weather should be nice tomorrow — want to pick me up around seven?”
“How about 6:45? You were always fifteen minutes early anyway.”