Archive of Our Own

This first time you realized you wanted him, was during your interview.

It was a deeply unprofessional and uncharacteristically objectifying moment of insanity. There had been nothing said to prompt it, hell, you weren’t even ovulating.

It had been going perfectly too. 

You were sharp, completely on your game. He had asked all of the questions you’d practiced, and your answers were smart and concise. Sure, it was all a little stilted. Sometimes he talked like he was in a competition to use the least amount of words possible. Talked about how he was running for office like it physically pained him to say it out-loud.

He smiled though, once or twice, enough times for your brain to latch onto it and whisper ‘shit, I like that.’

Your almost even looked like a real adult, dressed to impress in your least wrinkled button down.

The meeting was a cafe, neutral territory where you ordered a very respectable Americano (instead of your usual vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso) so he knew you were worldly and mature.

A comment about how you'd be happy to help him find an office space, a cheeky promise that it could be your first task if he hired you.

You shared personal anecdotes, even got him to tell you an old Captain America story (which would be a hit with your friends, even if you didn’t get the job). You were confident, one more perfect answer away from cocky.

Then your composure slipped.

But in your defense, he took off his jacket.

“Warm in here, yeah?” Bucky asks, and before you can answer the snake slips his arms out of the sleeves, shedding his second skin.

You were going to say yes, blame it on the hot coffee, or the sun pounding through the window next to you. Instead, you stare. Utterly useless as he reveals the boring, completely unremarkable henley underneath.

Where you had dressed for success, Bucky had apparently dressed with the intention to fucking kill you.

Not true, he told you that it was casual. You had just taken upon yourself to dress up anyway, first impressions are everything, you’d thought.

Now you wished you had worn a large woolly sweater that could swallow you whole.

“I ummm- a.” You mumble, mouth suddenly very very dry. It clings around his biceps, fabric pulled taut around biceps the size of your fucking head. You clear your throat, take a sip of your (so fucking bitter, seriously how do people drink these?) Americano. “Yeah it’s warm.” You squeak.

When you look back him, it’s like he’s forgotten the conversation completely.

He’s focused, brows pulled tight while he stares at the paper in his hand. You can almost see what it is through the light of the window, small text, bullet points, pink header- 

Your fucking resume.

Your heart rate spikes, anxiety flooding your system like a tsunami. His jaw is tense in concentration, stubble rolling as he flexes it.

It’s as if all at once you’ve become aware of him, aware of just how much there is of him. His stature is huge, his hand is nearly half the length of the paper he’s holding, something you’re startled to realize.

What is he looking at? You wonder. You’ll be honest you don’t have much on it, some leadership positions from school. Then there’s post-grad, littered with volunteer work, a handful of internships with your local government back home, four years working retail, and oh, your picture.

Fuck, your picture.

You’ve been job hunting for months. The city hasn’t been kind and ink isn’t cheap, so you haven’t bothered to update it in… too long.

“It’s an old photo.” You blurt out. It's grainy, something a friend had taken one day. You were outside, wearing something that screamed Instagram, not Linked-In and smiling with all of your teeth. It wasn’t bad per se, but it made you look so young.

Something you were suddenly afraid of him thinking.

Bucky doesn’t answer, and so without thinking, in a moment of total, libido-driven panic you reach across the table to grab it.

In your haste all you manage to do is knock what’s left in your mug straight down the front of your shirt.

It’s cold, so at least it doesn’t sting. But it is dark, and because you just had to dress up, your white button down has quickly become as transparent as the window, which you are now sure is cooking you alive.

Your eyes burn with humiliation. “Shit, shit, shit sorry.” You mutter, quickly standing and using the only napkin to try and mop up some of the spill because of course it hadn’t just gotten on you, it had spread across the entire table and drenched the bottom half of Bucky’s stupid-fucking-Henley.

God has a sense of humor, so your resume is untouched.

If you thought it was distracting without the jacket, it might as well have turned into a disco ball when wet. Dear god it’s clinging, each muscle defined with gorgeous clarity.

Your eyes lock on one spot in particular, the notch of his abdomen where it sticks out over the band of his jeans. You want to touch it so bad your fingers twitch, just hook your thumb between denim and skin so you can pull-

Table! Think about the table, looking for more napkins on the table. Table table table table-

Bucky stands, rising to his full height for the first time since the meeting started and shit.

You’re right at eye level with it.

The picture draws itself, building a framework of what’s underneath. A solid chest, not too overdeveloped, but muscular. He looks like he doesn’t skip meals but has also never skipped a workout.

He pulls down on the hem, unsticking it from his skin (good) and revealing the tiniest bit of chest hair between the top buttons (fuck).

You spiral.

In a matter of seconds, staring at that skin becomes staring at his pecs. Which evolves to thinking about sleeping on his pecs. Which naturally Thinking about how they would feel pressed against your chest as he-

Bucky’s mind is clearer than yours, gone and back with paper towels before you even realize he’s moving. You reach out your hands to them, but he ignores you. Instead of wiping the table or trying to save what you’re sure is a stack of important papers, he starts to dry your shirt.

Your drink was almost full (you really hated it), so it trails all the way from your collar to the waist band of your skirt. You’re sure it’s on there too, but it’s black so thankfully you don’t have to worry about him trying to dry you there too.

He’s dabbing at your collar, telling you something about pre-treating and bleach and how it should come out in the wash.

You’re stuck. Standing there, with your arms dangling limp at your sides while this absolute unit of a man towers over you and gives you tips about laundry.

You wonder what he must think of you now, maybe that if the first half of the interview was all a hallucination and this is actually your first day outside. It’s how you’re acting anyway.

You’re a grown woman, you’ve talked to attractive men before. You’ve had sex with attractive men and bumbled less than this. You need to pull yourself together, if you lose interview because you haven’t gotten laid in a year, you could never forgive yourself.

Then Bucky’s eyes dip and his hands, which had been slowly working their way down, freeze.

Suddenly you remember, you’re wearing white.

To make matters worse, it’s laundry day which meant you had been left with two options for bras. A nursing bra you bought on accident at a Victoria’s Secret bin sale, or the light blue lace push up bra you had bought in a moment of optimism (at the same Victoria’s Secret bin sale).

You didn’t wear the nursing bra, and based on Bucky’s flushed cheeks, he also knows you didn’t wear the nursing bra.

His hands are hovering over your chest, paper towel clutched uselessly in his hand. His mouth opens then closes, then does it again. Finally he clears his throat and just hands it to you.

“Thanks.” You say, voice small and quiet as you begin to dab. The endeavor is useless however, the stain is cemented and your blouse is getting clingier by the second.

Then there’s a jacket in your face, leather offered close enough for you to smell it.

A choice, drown in his cologne and the warmth of his body heat still lingering inside, or take the subway looking like the victim of a surprise wet t-shirt contest.

He waits until you zip it (up to your chin, if you could go higher you would) to finally look at you again. “Good?” He asks, voice steady, as if he didn’t just do his best impression of a goldfish.

“Good.” You agree, mustering a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He answers. Clearing his files (both damp and dry) from the table. One of the baristas has walked over by now, armed with a mop, some towels and a mean glare.

Quiet apologies are murmured while you grab your bag, then again as you follow Bucky outside.

Here it comes, you think, the thank you for your time, but unfortunately we’re going to move forward with another candidate talk. You’ve gotten that talk four times this month and those were the after you didn’t spill an entire large coffee.

“As far as the interview, you had a lot of great answers.” He starts and you brace. “Would you be able to start on Monday?”

You’re already coaching yourself through the denial. Smile, nod, be gracious, say thank you so much for you time-

Wait.

“Start Monday?” You ask, reeling.

Bucky nods, “I know it’s last minute, but I’m jumping in on this whole campaign thing a little late. If you need more time-“

“No!” You interrupt, probably a little too loud, “No, that's fine I can start Monday.” You assure him.

He smiles, nods  and reaches out his hand. You take it, doing your best impression of a professional. You force yourself to ignore the way his hand dwarfs yours. “I’m borrowing some space down at the VA until we get a more permanent set up, meet there at nine?” He asks.

“No coffee.” You promise and give him a little mock salute. He laughs, it’s more of a sigh than a true laugh, but it sends tingles up your spine all the same. “I will also have this-“ you gesture to his jacket which is still draped over your shoulders. It smells so good you think you might be getting lightheaded. “-dry cleaned.”

“Not necessary.” He says. “Keep it.” Then he’s gone.

You watch him walk away while you’re left in his coat with and absolutely no idea where the VA is. Forcing your legs to move, you begin the trek back to your apartment.

His smile is still behind your eyes, lingering like a bright light every time you blink.

You’re so fucked.

The second time it happens is at an ungodly hour. Eight A.M. on a Saturday.

It had been a last minute call to arms. A frantic text from Bucky’s campaign manager, insisting that everyone (which includes you unfortunately) come into the office for an emergency meeting.

You had planned to ignore it, feign sleep or a faulty ringer, but then your phone pinged with a text from Bucky saying he’d grab you a coffee and a bagel on his way in.

So you dragged your ass to Brooklyn, with the drawstring on your sweats pulled tight and last nights mascara still under your eyes.

The room was already buzzing when you got there, everyone else in a similar state of disarray as you. Across the room you can see the intern cluster, all of whom had gone out with you last night, and seemingly none of them had managed to rally either. The past few weeks had already built a strong camaraderie, apparently late nights, shared take out orders, and a common goal does wonders for team bonding.

Plus having a real office was helping too. It wasn’t much, some shitty rolling chairs and those old desks they have in schools. The ones with the Formica tops and a metal shells. There’s one conference table (two folding tables with one extra long blue table cloth thrown over them, it has no chairs), it’s where you all gather now.

Then Bucky walked in.

Two coffees, and a brown bag in his hand. Eyes meet across the room, his almost smile and a your mouthed ‘thank you.’ You’re still twenty feet away when Candace (your fearless leader and right now, the thing keeping you from bread) starts.

“I’m sure you’re all wondering why I sent out the S.O.S. message, we have a problem.” She begins, “An old video of Mr. Barnes stealing a motorcycle has resurfaced and gone viral.” She scans the room as if to make sure she has everyone’s attention. “It’s largely positive attention, but many people are sharing the videos with lewd comments that I don’t feel comfortable repeating.”

You can imagine, you’d seen the video after about three tequila shots last night and made some lewd comments yourself. In your opinion, She was underselling it. Sure, it was nabbed from a grainy security camera, but it was clear as day that it was Bucky.

Bucky, wrapped in leather and kevlar and stepping directly in front of the bike, (which had to have been going seventy maybe eighty miles an hour) before stopping it with one hand.

She also didn’t mention how he immediately climbed onto it one of the most cunt clenching ways possible.

She continues, blah blah blah capitalizing on momentum, blah blah blah engaging with voters, blah blah blah Mr. Barnes’ has thighs as thick as tree trunks.

Okay maybe she didn’t say that last bit.

Honestly Candace had fallen into the background as soon as you realized you’d be called because the internet was, well being the internet.

Your attention pivots to better things.

Big mistake.

Like you, everyone came casual today, Bucky is no exception. He’s in a pair of joggers and a tight black workout shirt. If you thought the Henley was bad, this is so much worse. It’s so tight it almost looks like it was painted onto him. He’s shiny and not just because of the arm, but with sweat. He looks dewey, like he ran here. You analyze his hair, taking note of how it’s just a little damp and beginning to curl at the ends.

He definitely ran here.

After seeing the video, (and wearing his jacket) you were almost immune to this combination. A credit to several hours spent off the clock doing what you call exposure therapy. Scrolling through blogs and histories of his life, watching videos, analyzing photos. You almost have a handle on this stupid, barely there, hardly even worth mentioning crush. Then you notice it, the nail in your coffin.

He has on his dog tags, pulled out from their normal hiding spot behind his collar. They were draped down his chest instead, falling in between his pecs and rising with each breath.

Distinctly, as if a spectator in your own body,  you wonder if they would hit your face while he fucks you.

Would they swing back and forth? Over and over and over again, hit your chin, your cheek, fall over your lips until you have no choice but to bite them? Would he let you touch them? Could you grab him by the chain and pull him down on top of you? That thought is almost as dizzying as the first.

Would he leave them sandwiched between you? Press them into your skin until he leaves their indentation behind.

Then you’re spinning out of control, his metal arm is bared to you for the first time too you realize. You’d seen a sliver of it during your interview, but most days he wore gloves and long sleeves.

You almost forgot it was there.

You wonder how it would feel under your hands, is it a seamless, or does each plate have its own ridge you can run your fingers over? Would he touch you with it? Let it send chills down your spine while he teases you. Or would he use it to hold himself, plant it beside your head like a solid pillar.

Is it cold or does it run hot like him? You’ve sat next to him half a dozen of times, pressed into his side in the back seat of a black SUV. His body heat is intense, like a furnace thats constantly running. Does the arms absorb that heat or could he cup the back of your neck and whisper sweet nothings while the cool helps you come back to earth.

You wonder if you should tell your therapist about these thoughts. It’s probably wrong and immoral to fetishize a soldiers dog tags. They’re probably carving out a special place in hell just for you, the man had been through so much. The last thing he deserves is to star in your dirty day dreams.

He also doesn’t deserve the abysmal existence of living inside American politics, so maybe yours is the lesser of two evils.

The meeting ends abruptly, before you can even try to pretend you were listening.

Finally, Bucky finds you.

“Pretty sure I should be the one bringing you coffee.” You joke, taking your cup from him with a grateful smile.

He chuckles, “I was on a run anyway, no big deal.”

Ten points for female intuition.

He reaches into the brown bag and passes you a foil wrapped bagel, you don’t know when he learned your order but it’s exactly how you like it.

“Thank you.” You hum, taking a bite too big to be polite. “Best hangover cure.”

Bucky bites into his own, “I can’t remember the last time I was hungover.” He says.

“Not a big drinker?” You ask, taking a sip of your latte (you came clean about the Americano after your first week).

He shakes his head, “Couldn’t if I wanted to. My body metabolizes it too fast.”

“Damn.” You say through a mouthful.

He shrugs, “It’s not so bad, I’ve taught myself other ways to unwind.”

There’s something about the way he says it, a double entendre has an offer to help on the tip of your tongue. Instead you ask “Like what?”

“This is my second run of the day.” He admits.

Your eyes widen, “It’s eight in the morning.”

He shrugs again, like it’s not the most unnatural thing you’ve ever heard. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He was probably up all night with this stupid video thing. It makes you wonder if the footage was of him, or of him.

“Don’t let everyone stress you out about the video”. You tell him, trying your best to sound reassuring. “I think Candace is making a bigger deal of it that she needs to, I mean I get where she’s coming from, but the reaction is more positive than anything else.”

Bucky nods, giving you a half-tight lipped smile that tells you he doesn’t really believe you.

“Thank you for breakfast Mr. Barnes.” The name feels foreign on your tongue even though you never call him anything else.

“For the love of god, please call me Bucky.” He begs, for the umpteenth time.

You've been refusing to call him Bucky since your first day. A small barrier of professionalism that you could still manage. In it a way it separates him from the Bucky in your head. Bucky is yours, fictional, brooding, and handsome. Mr. Barnes is your boss.

“I’m trying to be professional here.” You defend, smiling as you take a sip of your coffee.

“I’ll take back the bagel.” He threatens.

You gasp in mock horror. “You wouldn’t!”

“Call me Bucky.” He insists. “I feel old enough already, I’m pretty sure you take a year off my life every time you call Mr. Barnes.”

That makes you laugh, and think about him with grey hair. An image you tuck away carefully for later.

“Fine,” you relent, “Thank you for breakfast, Bucky.”

He smiles so wide you can see his dimples and you feel something crack inside of your chest. Like a ball of light appearing inside of your lungs and sucking all of the air out of them. Something about that smile, knowing it’s there just for you, it turns this lusty, immature thing living inside you into something much deeper. Something real and much more scary.

He takes a bite of his bagel, cream cheese catching on the edge of lips. He nods, pleased and proud. Then, just before he turns to leave, he drops a nuclear bomb in your lap.

"Good girl.”

The third time it happens, you really can’t be blamed.

Lawn signs, the bane of your existence and something you would think is obsolete when campaigning somewhere called the concrete jungle.

You’re surrounded by them, selling them over Instagram DMs (that part of the website still isn’t up) and delivering them by hand.

You assemble them when you have nothing better to do, fussing with metal frames and cursing every-time you break a nail. You go back over them with sharpie, fixing printing errors manually because the money is quickly running out.

You dream about them when you go home at night, more often than you dream about Bucky these days.

You’ve been tasked with spreading them all over the city, throwing them in the windows of any businesses that’ll say yes or stomping them into any of the rare patches of grass.

The least weird part is actually carrying them on the subway.

You had joked to Bucky one day, after you’d spent the afternoon taping, stomping, and selling, that they were going to kill you.

You should’ve known better than to speak it into existence.

The uber drops you outside, waving off your tip with a sympathetic smile and one last offer to take you to the hospital instead.

Determined, you shake your head and hobble inside.

Everyone’s gone thankfully, the lights dimmed and monitors dark. You just need to get your bag, and then you can go home, take three ibuprofen and call it a night.

You curse as you walk, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’ muttered with every step.

Your ankle screams, already swollen to the size of a softball. It protests with every step, nearly buckling when you threaten to put your full weight on it.

“What are you doing kid?” Bucky’s voice cuts the quite like a knife, stopping you in your tracks.

Your bum leg is bent at the knee, hovering above the ground while your good leg holds your weight.

Your desk sits just out of reach, only five feet away. You were so close.

But, there he is, tall and devastating as he fills out his door frame. Yellow light spills from his office, casting his face in a dark shadow.

“Mr. Barnes, what are you still doing here so late?” You ask, taking another hop forward, hoping that maybe he’ll just think you forgot how to walk.

“Bucky.” He corrects, his eyes locked on your leg (fuck) eyebrows pulling together. “And it’s only six.”

You smile, slowly putting your bad leg down until your foot lays flat on the floor. You keep your weight off it, listing ever so slightly as you try not to crumble under his gaze.

“Oh.” You fumble, faux smile still painted on. “Well, I’m sorry to interrupt. I just need to grab my bag and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t nod and go back to his office the way you want him too. No, instead he leans against the wall and waits. “Go ahead.” He says, jutting his chin towards your desk.

Motherfucking fuck.

You bring your leg back up, ready to commit to the jumping bit when Bucky clicks his tongue.

“Walk.” He insists.

You take a deep breath, and then as slowly as you can manage, take a step forward.

The reaction is immediate, your whole body jolting with the pain. You can’t help the cry that escapes your lips, high pitched like a wounded animal.

Bucky’s there in an instant, and before you can protest, he’s everywhere.

One arm beneath your knees pulling your legs out from under you and the other against your back, cradling you against his chest.

Half a dozen objections fall from your lips before you even register that he’s moving, legs kicking in his grip while you try to wiggle your arm free from where it’s pinned against his (very firm) chest.

“Stop.” He says, adjusting his grip. “Gonna hurt yourself more if you make me drop you.”

You grunt, somewhere between pissed off and flustered.

It’s only about twenty steps into his office, but it might as well be a lifetime. His cologne wafts over you, sandalwood and musk. Subtle and masculine, just like him. You can feel his heart beat like this, steady and rhythmic. It’s slow, calm and grounding, the complete antithesis to your own, which is pounding so hard in your chest you think your ribs might be vibrating.

Shit, if you can feel his, can he feel yours?

He sits you on his desk before you spiral any further.

“Bucky really I’m fine.” You try assure him, swallowing around the he-just-had-his-arms-around-me sized lump in your throat.

Bucky does answer, instead he fixes you with a look, or should you say the look.

The one that made your first IT guy admit he had never actually coded before and was just trying to meet the Hulk.

You shrink under it, back curving as if you could escape by making yourself smaller. Your legs hang limp over the side, heels tapping against the hollow tin of his desk.

“Show me.” He says, nodding to your ankle.

You shake your head, convinced you can still get out of this.

“I didn’t know you were into feet Bucky, honestly you should have said something sooner Candace is gonna kill you when she-“

Bucky grabs a chair, pulling it until he’s in-front of you with an exasperated sigh. He looks up at you from his new position, raising his eyebrows in a way that clearly signals it’s your last chance to come clean.

Some reason, you choose to die on the hill.

Bucky shakes his head and grabs your calf in one of his large hands. He holds it still, lifting it just enough for him to get a better angle on the zipper of your boot.

He pulls it down slowly. You’re not sure if it’s because of the closeness or his fear of hurting you, but it’s agonizing nonetheless.

It slides it down your heel, exposing your silly socks and the giant bruise decorating your ankle. It’s damning.

Wordlessly, Bucky gets up and leaves the room.

You half think he’s left you there, too frustrated with your stubbornness to bother with you anyway.

You get no such escape though, moments later he returns holding an ace bandage.

“What happened?” He asks, and before you can even open your mouth he adds on, “No bullshit.”

You hum, and then as quietly as possible you admit the truth. “Fell down a subway entrance.”

Bucky begins unspooling the bandage, straightening any kinks in his lap. He gives you that cocked eyebrow.

“I tripped over a sign post and fell down the subway stairs at the twenty third street entrance.”  You sigh, embarrassed by your own clumsiness and quite frankly the rookie mistake of trying to carry six signs at once.

“And then?” Bucky asks, making the first full loop around the arch of your foot.

“And then someone stepped on my ankle.” You finish.

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” He teases, another loop, this time around the back of your heel.

You groan, face hot and ears even hotter.

He wants to talk about hard?

Something about this angle stirs a fire in your belly, the beast roars to life with no 'Vote for Barnes' signs to distract it.

As Bucky wraps your ankle, another picture takes form. You’re still on the edge of the desk, but Bucky has moved. He kneels on the floor between your legs, a thigh in each of his hands and he holds them over his shoulders.

His mouth, those pretty lips are too busy making out with your cunt to press into that disappointed line he’s giving you right now.

His eyes, they stay the same, unwavering eye contact as he looks up at you.

Dark lashes flutter as he works, careful and meticulous just like he is with your ankle. He watches each expression, only instead of checking for pain, he’s tracking your pleasure.

You remember what his arms felt like, you can still feel them burning against your skin, an outline of where he supported your back.

He had lifted you like it wasn’t even a question, no preparing himself, no jokes about your weight. Just a simple show of strength.

The vision fills out and the desk disappears from beneath you, instead your back presses to the wall. He holds all of your weight on his shoulders now, the hands that had held your thighs now occupy your ass.

Is he an ass man?

Add it to the list of questions you’ll never be able to ask.

You imagine how it would feel, the way his muscles would flex as he works you over. The way you would be able to feel them, under your calves as they pressed against his back. The way they'd ripple between your thighs as he cranes his neck.

“That feel okay?” Bucky asks. His voice is softer than usual, a warmer undertone that you’ve never heard before. It almost sounds like fondness. You melt a little, a soft sigh leaving your lips are you tilt your head back into the wall-

“Hello?” He asks, the warmth is gone. So is your delusion.

You’re back on the desk, knuckles gripping the edge so tight they’re starting to hurt.

“Sorry,” You try to shake it off, literally turning your head from side to side as if it shooing a fly.

You look down at your ankle, at him. Your heel is still on his knee, but the entire thing is wrapped in an ace bandage, it’s tight but not enough to be uncomfortable.

Tentatively, you roll it.

It hurts, but not nearly as bad as before. More like a dull ache than the stabbing from earlier. The compression soothes as much as it supports, gently quieting the sensation as quickly as it started.

“Feels good.” You promise him. “Thank you Bucky.”

He nods, lips twitching with his usual smile. You haven’t seen it in a few weeks, deadlines and events getting to him little by little. You can see it, all the reasons why he decided to do this getting further and further away, weighed down by bureaucracy and minutiae.

“Next time you’re putting signs up, you call me.” He says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You laugh, short and breathy, more in disbelief than anything else. “That’s so not necessary, I promise I’ll be more careful.”

Bucky grabs your boot, putting it back on as gently as he took it off. He pulls up the zipper with firm tug and pats your calf. “Not asking.” He says. “I don’t want you-“ he stops, clearing his throat. “-or anyone else getting hurt for the sake of this campaign.”

It’s hard to tell under the yellow lamps, but you swear you see pink on his cheeks.

“It’s my name on the sign, I should be out there helping anyway.” He finishes, standing up and pushing his chair back into place.

He comes to stand in front of you, holding each of his hands out, palms up.

Hoping your own isn't too sweaty, you take them.

He helps you down, letting you use him as a brace while you lower yourself off the desk, good leg first, bad leg second.

“See?” You asks, pulling your hands away and pretending to dust yourself off. “Good as new!” You smile, trying your best to seem unaffected by him, by his touch, his kindness, his gentle hands and gentler soul.

Bucky makes a noise of approval deep in the back of his throat. It sends a lightning bolt up your spine.

“You’re still taking tomorrow off.” He says, walking back out to the bullpen.

Still limping, you follow him out and thankfully find the air a little less thick in the open area. “Bucky c’mon, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away but don’t you think that’s a little over dramatic?”

That gets you the look again.

“It’s not a punishment.” He explains, “I need my number one at a hundred percent for when we start hitting the fundraiser circuit and that means you need rest and to elevate that ankle.” Bucky grabs your bag, and then your water bottle off your desk.

Number one.

“Thank you.” You tell him as he passes you the items, carefully adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “I promise I will rest.” You acquiesce

Bucky nods, finally appeased. “Don’t forget to ice it too.” He adds, “Fifteen minutes on and fifteen minutes off.”

You nod, straightening your back and giving him your best mock salute. “Yes Sargent!”

Something darkens in his eyes, nearly imperceptible for anyone who doesn’t study them as much as you do.

The conversation dies with a whimper after that, with Bucky walking you to the door and insisting his driver take you home.

He takes you to the car himself, opening the door and watching as you buckle yourself in.

When you turn as give him a big goofy thumbs up he gives you that chest aching smile again.

He sends you off with that and a quiet murmur of “Be careful kid.” That leaves you even more confused than before.

The thing between your ribs grows a little more that night, curling around your lungs and squeezing just enough to leave you breathless as you pull away.

Somewhere between the third and fourth time, you think of him on purpose.

The one time it happened on purpose.

You needed to get him out of your system.

You tried meditation, masturbation (until your carpal tunnel flared up), crystals, and even sage. You’ve done everything but go to therapy.

All because you have a stupid little crush on your boss. A stupid little crush that was getting bigger and bigger each day, that's blossoming inside of your ribs and starting to push down on your lungs every-time he gets within five feet of you.

You turned to the movies, watched ‘LaLaLand’ for a reminder that happy endings aren’t guaranteed. ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’ for a reality check. You even re-watched the third season of ‘Sex and the City.’

None of it worked.

“Fuck someone else.” Your friend (a total Samantha), suggested, as if she was bored of the entire situation.

In her defense you had been talking about it, a lot.

“It’s the easiest way, fuck someone else and pretend it’s him. Fulfill the fantasy, and then you can move on. Without y’know, fucking up your life.” She explained, “Works like a charm.”

You’d laughed it off, citing that sooner or later you’d get the ick.

The next day brought another wave of trouble, your stomach twisting every time he smiled at you. An event at some school, Bucky in gym shorts playing kickball and letting three kids climb on him at a time.

You re-downloaded Hinge when you got home.

You were ready for a Hail Mary.

That was how you met Simon.

He was tall, built, and handsome. Not quite as wide as Bucky, but he would do. He had a cute goofy smile, and he made you laugh enough that if it wasn’t for the anchor tied around your heart, you might have asked him out for real.

Instead he would be your placeholder.

You went through all of the motions. Meaningless small talk, flirty emojis, a plan to get drinks which quickly dissolved into just meeting at his place. You shared your location with three people, shaved, exfoliated and set off on your mission.

You don’t bother to act coy when you get there, no patience for it.

You ignore the pain in your chest when he kisses you, act oblivious to the way your whole body feels like it’s shutting down when he lays you into his bed.

It’s not him, he’s just a boy and he fucks like one. Asking if you’re okay every three minutes, making sure he has permission before undoing every single button. Once he has you naked there’s no preamble. No sweet nothings, no messy all consuming kisses. No fucking foreplay. You close your eyes and pretend. Pretend it’s Bucky’s chest pressing against your back, his lips mouthing at the back of your neck.

If it were him, would he reach around? Find that place between your thighs that Simon doesn’t seem to know exists? You reach for it yourself, eyes squeezed shut as you try to keep the image alive. Try to hear what he would say.

Would he call you a good girl again?

You can almost hear him, gasping into your ear, feel his hand across your back. You let it push you into the mattress. The ghost of it runs up your spine to the back of your neck, squeezing ever so lightly. ‘Such a good girl, always take whatever I give you’ He murmurs.

He’s teasing, slow, shallow thrusts, just waiting for you to beg. His fingers work your clit relentlessly, like they already know how to manipulate it.

‘So tight, squeezing me like it’s your fucking job.’ He pants.

It’s working, you can feel the coil in your stomach, that familiar rubber-band about to snap when-

“Uh you okay?” Simon asks, his mediocre pace slowing. He had no variety, absolutely zero stroke game. Honestly he was giving you nothing to work with. No moans, hardly any touch. “Can you stop doing that clenching thing? It’s totally throwing me off.” He asks, his voice sounds bored- all timidness gone now that he was focused on getting his rocks off.

“I’m sorry?” You ask, still cloudy and mildly pissed off that the illusion was destroyed. Your throat is tight, the way it gets when you feel like you’re going to cry.

“I’ve just never had someone do that before kinda freaked me out.” He explains.

“Oh.” You whisper, frozen against the bed. Your hand pulls away from yourself slowly, like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t. “Sorry.” You mumble, and you’re not even sure why you say it. You should say something like ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ Or let him in on the secret that he’d never made a girl cum before.

You don’t say that though, instead you stay still, arms planted into the mattress, hardly even moving as he fucks into you.

It’s not even thirty seconds later when he finishes. Alone.

He collapse onto the bed, leaving you there on your knees, feeling dissatisfied and stupid.

Stupid for thinking this would work, for thinking that anything would feel half as good as Bucky just looking at you does.

Before you can stop it the thought rings out, it comes from that achy place between your ribs that belongs to Bucky.

He would never make me feel me like this.

It’s a dangerous thing to think. It sets a precedent that you’ve never dared to hope a man could live up to. It cements Bucky on a pedestal, securing his fantasy status.

You climb off Simon’s bed without a word to him. Waddle to the bathroom and use the first washcloth you can find to wipe him off your thighs. Gross.

When you go back to grab your clothes he’s already fast asleep. Guess he’s not one for pillow talk either.

You quietly get dressed, regretting that you wore your cute panties for him. Then you slip out.

On your way home you block Simon’s number, delete Hinge, and order a vibrator.

You call you friend and let her talk you through the subway ride home, you listen and joke

until your stomach aches from laughing and not from the weight of a wasted Saturday night.

You take an extra long shower when you get home, scrubbing your skin until it’s raw. Then you lather it in lotion until it’s brand new, until you can’t smell his detergent on your anymore. Finally you sigh with relief, like it never happened. You put on your favorite pajamas, and start season four of ‘Sex and the City.’

The next time you look at your phone there’s a text from Bucky. A link to a top ten list of all the best bagel places in the city.

Boss Man Barnes 10:49 P.M.

#4 has a matcha bagel, that’s the green drink you like right?

You don’t fight the smile that eats your face.

You 11:35 P.M.

it is!!!! I will grab us ones to try on my way in Monday

You shoot the reply back, and put your phone back down, not expecting an answer

It chimes almost immediately

Bossman Barnes 11:36 P.M.

I’ll bring the coffee.

You like the message, and shut your phone off. Force yourself to swallow around the big feelings in your throat.

You have to remind yourself it’s just bagels.

Bagels that he saw and thought of you.

After a shitty night like this, you’re willing to let the hopeless romantic win. Maybe just maybe.

It means a little bit of something.

The fourth time, you didn’t even meant to text him.

You 1:42 A.M.

106 Greene st

Bossman Barnes 1:45 A.M.

?

You 1:47 A.M.

oh shit
sorry sarg
trying to uber

Bossman Barnes 1:48 A.M.

Where are you?

You 1:50 A.M.

queenz 👑

Bossman Barnes 1:51 A.M.

Where in queens?

You 1:55 A.M.

it has bricks and a green shade thingy

Bossman Barnes 1:55 A.M.

Awning?

You 1:56 A.M.

yes!!!!!!!

Bossman Barnes 1:56 A.M.

What’s the name?

You 1:59 A.M.

Irish
you started sharing your location with Bossman Barnes

Bossman Barnes 2:01 A.M.

Be there in ten. Wait inside.

You’ve never been a good listener.

You pushed your limits tonight, further than usual. You recognized that. You’d gone so far you managed to do a full circle, the very reason why you were out drinking was now on its way to pick you up.

It had been a rough week. Your ankle has long healed, but Bucky the shaped tumor growing in your chest has only spread. Since that night at the office it’s crept in your bones and infiltrated your bloodstream. Like a fever, you needed to flush him out.

You rallied your messiest friends, cleared your entire weekend for recovery, and headed out.

You’d even stopped at Duane Read and picked up some liquid I.V. for tomorrow.

Now here you were, sitting on the curb outside of some dive (Smith’s? Sully’s? Stu’s? You stopped paying attention when you realized they didn’t have Touch Tunes).

You can still taste the vodka-cran and green tea shots on your tongue. You drank so much it turned bitter, the liquor betraying as if to say ‘hey it really is time to stop.’

So you came outside, got the 'b' and the 'u' switched when trying to call a ride and now your boss is picking you up.

You were starting to loose the happy drunk buzz, instead simmering into a puddle of self-pity and exhaustion.

When a black sedan pulls up. Your first instinct is to reach for your pepper spray, a hand halfway to your purse when you recognize his voice.

“Sullivan’s.” Bucky says, approaching you slowly, like you're a feral kitten that might run away if he moves too fast. He looks like a vision, emerging from red fog in sweatpants and henley. You wonder if he has stock in them. Or maybe it's the only cut that fits his broad shoulders? He’s not smiling, but not scowling either, you wonder if you woke him up.

You can’t help but beam when you realize it’s him.  “Bucky!” You squeal, standing up on very unsteady legs- made worse by the heels that had seemed like a good idea six drinks ago. “What’s Sullivan’s?” You ask, voice slurring on the ‘s’ sound.

He huffs, a noise somewhere between a laugh and frustration. “The bar.” He gestures behind you to the very large neon sign hanging above the awning.

“Oh,” That's where the red light is coming from.

Bucky’s in-front of you now, wrapping an arm around your middle as he guides you into his side for support. “C’mon let’s get you to the car kid.”

You cringe, “No, please don’t call me that.” You whine.

Bucky opens the passenger door, “Kid?” He asks.

“Yes.” You tell him, “Not a kid, wo-man.” You enunciate the first half on purpose, really making your point. “Not that much younger than you.”

Bucky laughs for real this time. “I’m over a hundred.”

You huff, crossing your arms as you settle into the plush leather seat. “I have an old soul.” You refute.

“I’m sure you do sweetheart.” He tries to placate.

As far as you’re concerned Bucky just called you too young for him, which right now- in this moment feels worse than death.

“It’s just important to me you know I’m a grown up. Mature woman with a big girl job and everything!”

Bucky already knows this, he is after all, your boss. “I know.” He sighs like he’s in pain. Then he closes your door. When he gets in on the other side he’s still quiet, settling in but still not turning the car on. “S'bout me, not you.”

Then Bucky procures a cold water bottle, you’re not sure where it came from (it was in the cup holder). He breaks the seal on the cap and passes it over to you. “Noticed you’re wearing a wrist brace at work.” He explains, effectively ending the conversation.

He had noticed that?

“Thank you.” You answer, voice softer now. The weight of having been perceived, and taken note of making your voice a little smaller. He was right too, opening water bottles hurts like a bitch.

You take a few small, slow sips as Bucky begins to drive. The low hum of an oldies station buzzing like white noise.

“No motorcycle?” You ask. He’d taken to riding it more since the video, something about how if people were going to connect him with it he might as well get to drive one. He shows up to work in that stupidly handsome leather jacket (a new one since he gave you the other one at your interview) ((it’s carefully folded on your dresser- you haven’t washed it yet, it still smells like his cologne)) (((There's only been a handful of nights where you fuck yourself on your fingers imaging he's fucking you while you wear it))).

He shakes his head, both palms on the steering wheel, ten and two like the good soldier he is. His right hand twitches, like he’s fighting to keep it there. “Didn’t think it was a good idea given your current state.” He explains, voice teasing.

You pout, but nod. “Probably for the best.” Then you look down at the dress that just barely covers your thighs. “Couldn’t in this dress anyway.”

You see his eyes look over- briefly. They quickly snap back onto the road, his hands tightening ever so slightly on the wheel.

You wish he could just take you back to his apartment, you’re dying to see it. Is it all black and minimalist? A fortress of brooding.

Or is it soft, warm yellows, a worn lived on couch. Which Bucky decorates- the one on the security footage or the one who brings you bagels?

“No,” Bucky mutters. “You couldn’t.”

He turns up the radio.

The song is old- sixties or maybe even fifties. It’s one of those slow ones that sound bittersweet, hopelessly romantic, but sexy all at once. You kind of recognize it, like maybe you’ve heard your grandmother hum it while cooking. You don’t know a single lyric but it makes you feel warm all over anyway.

It’s a radio station, not aux or car play. Something with ads and a traffic read every hour. You haven’t listened to the radio since you were kid, it’s almost obsolete, like a living time capsule. 

Like Bucky.

Another thought dances across your kinda distracting you like a shiny object. What kind of music does he listen to when he has sex?

The image refreshes. Bucky fiddling with the knobs on a radio only this time he’s disheveled. His lips are swollen from kisses, and his belt is undone at his waist. What station would he pick? Would it still be the oldies, soft and sensual? Or would he choose something heavier, something with bass and loud drums.

Would he even want music? Or does he not mind the noise, mature enough to embrace the natural rhythm of skin on skin.

Maybe he even likes it, wants to hear every wet slide and soft gasp. He doesn’t want the distraction of the radio.

Besides, what would he do if a traffic report came on halfway through?

You once dated a guy who refused to pay for Spotify premium, and was too proud use your account. He had a special playlist he’d put on every time you had sex. When an ad played he’d stop mid-thrust, insisting he had to wait for it to start again because he ‘needs the rhythm.’

Eventually you added him to your account.

Shit, you should make sure you changed that password.

Your brain slides back to the moment, hazy from the liquor as you speak. “I’ve always wanted to dance to one of these songs.” You admit without thinking. “I wish people still slow danced.”

“They don’t anymore?” He asks, it sounds likes genuinely curious too. You wonder if he has someone he can those kinds of questions, or does it have to swallow them and hope the answer reveals itself naturally.

You shake your head, “If they do, then no one told me.” You sigh. “Even at prom, I ended up hiding by the snack table because I was so embarrassed no one asked me to dance.”

You’re approaching your corner now, at least your sober self left the stoop light on.

“I used to dance.” He says.

“Not anymore?” You ask.

Bucky shrugs, “Not in a very long time.”

You hum, and he comes to a stop in front of your unit. “That’s a shame.” You tell him, far too earnest. “I bet you were a good dancer.”

You grab the water bottle too, and try not to think about how easy it would be to lean over the center console and kiss him. To put a hand on his thigh and see if he explodes. He’s wound so tight these days you think he just might.

Instead, you smile and say “Thank you Bucky. I will apologize profusely for this tomorrow.”

He cracks a smile at that, nodding his head. “Nothing to apologize for.”

“I woke you up.” You push.

Bucky shakes his head, “I was up. You can always call me.” He tells you, voice more serious and pretty than it has any right to be. “You need to get some sleep.”

You think about inviting him up, picture an alternate universe where he’s dropping you off after dinner and instead of worry, he looks at you with want. You picture him in your apartment.

Would he laugh at your silly pillows and threadbare blankets?

You wonder how far you’d make it inside before he’d make a move. Does he act quick? Would he kiss you outside the door and press your back against it until you’re keening into his mouth?

Or would he wait, let you pour a nightcap that you used as an excuse to invite him up. Would he drink from your mismatched cups and then ask to see your bedroom (probably not, it’s a one room studio, but for the sake of romance).

Worse, would he spread you out there on your shitty little couch?

You don’t offer, you feed the beast with something else.

You lean over the center console, just like you thought about doing before, and press a soft, chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Good night Bucky.” You whispered close enough for your lips to still brush his skin. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, he stares straight ahead as if you’ve frozen him in place.

Still drunk, you ignore this, pulling back with a lazy smile and then you get out of the car. By some miracle, you manage to make it inside without stumbling or turning back around to look at him, even though you can feel his eyes on you the whole time.

When you finally make it into bed you check your phone. A series of texts, some from your friends making sure you made it home safe. One from an unknown contact that just says “josh met at sullys.”

You send him a quick “wrong number.” In return and block the number.

The last text is from Bucky.

Bossman Barnes 2:45 A.M.

Take two Tylenol, and drink lots of water.
And for the record, I was a great dancer.

---

The fifth time, he seeks you out.

“Not your scene?” Bucky asks. He saddles up next to you, not looking at you. He matches your gaze, straight ahead studying the expanse of the city.

You smile, tight lipped and tired. “Just needed a minute away from people.” You explain.

You saw a video a few months ago talking about Imposter Syndrome.

At the time, you rolled your eyes. It sounded like people too afraid of their own success, and since you’d yet to taste any, it really sounded stupid.

Then you found yourself working on one of the most talked about congressional campaigns in the last ten years despite the fact that the ink on your degree still hasn’t dried.

Hours of mindless small talk, proposals above your pay grade, watered down drinks and lukewarm small bites had driven you into the fresh air.

A fundraiser, the third one you’ve been too since this all began. Despite the professional shoes, sensible hairstyle, and the fact that you’ve only drank water, you still feel completely out of place.

You just needed a few minutes, a chance to catch your breath and recalibrate. A moment to remind yourself you belong in the room.

That’s where Bucky found you.

He hasn’t mentioned the night he picked you up from the bar, something you are beyond grateful for, especially considering you don’t remember most of it. Given the state you were in, you believe ignorance may just be bliss.

“I can go-“ He offers, “-didn’t mean to intrude.” He’s stiff, more than usual. Or maybe just more than he usually is with you. His shoulders look perfectly straight beneath the tailored jacket, his neck is tense too, making an exact ninety degree angle.

“No, it’s okay!” You answer too quickly. Your body pivots, turning to face him instead of the blinking lights.

You haven’t seen him up close all night. He’s spent his time in conversations with all the right people, any one with influence and a voice loud enough to matter. Which means you haven’t spoken once.

He looks handsome, freshly shaved (so only two days of stubble), his hair is combed back and actually staying in place. He must have used gel.

“You’re different.” You assure him.

Bucky smiles, “I’m not people?” He teases, delivery dry and monotone. If you didn’t know him as well as you do, if you weren’t familiar with the twinkle in his eye you’d think he was serious.

“You know what I mean.”

You fall into quiet, car horns blare below and mix with the music humming from inside. He’s warm beside you, body heat radiating through the layers of his suit and the foot of space between you.

“You look beautiful tonight.” He says it with the same honesty he says everything, no shyness, no polite smile like he thinks it’s what he’s supposed to say.

“Thank you.” It’s hard to say it much louder than a whisper.

You finally turn in, body shifting so you’re facing him instead of the city. You try not to jump when you realize he’s already looking at you.

Calm the fuck down.

You nod to his suit, navy, no tie. “You clean up nice too y’know.” A forced smile, no eye contact. “You look the part.”

Bucky grimaces at that, shrugging his shoulders. “I look like a puppet.”

“A handsome puppet.” You assure. It’s too easy, you like making his face flush.

“Feel like I’ve barely seen you lately.” He says, almost sounding sad.

Your skin buzzes. Proximity like this, it feels more vulnerable than anything else. You feel exposed by his gaze, biting your tongue to stop yourself from saying something else stupid. It’s worse than sitting on his desk with a bum leg, or drunk in his passenger seat.

It’s how you know it’s all out of your control now. The feelings, the wanting, the way your body seems to seek him out. You can’t stop it, can’t distract yourself from it. It’s like you’re in free fall, losing your composure at the drop of a hat. Your nights have been changing too. It’s not just sex that your brain imagines anymore, no it’s going deeper.

You picture his eyes lighting up when he walks through the door and sees you. You imagine dates, nights spent seeing all his favorite parts of the city. You wake up from dreams of a shared apartment and a little white cat. Dreams where he assembles furniture you picked out together. Then it’s the waking hours, he’s everywhere then too. He’s in recipes you see on TikTok, ones you save because you think he might like them. He’s in old movies you find late at night, the way you have to resist the temptation to text and ask him if he ever saw it.

You want to learn him from the inside out and it scares the shit out of you.

You only have a few more weeks until the election, but there’s an email with your resignation sitting on your laptop anyway. Scheduled send for Monday morning.

Distance. It’s the only way to save yourself now.

You want to tell him, give him the respect of looking him in the eyes and hearing it from your lips. Would he ask you to stay?

Worse, would he tell you it’s the right thing to do? That he understands and wishes you the best of luck on future endeavors.

You can’t face either.

“My job keeps me busy.” You joke.

Bucky hums, unconvinced. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you’re avoiding me.”

You don’t answer because he’s right.

But Bucky doesn’t push, because he’s good, and he’s kind, and he knows better.

The song inside changes, it slows down and the chatter dies with it. You peek inside and realize everyone’s sitting down to eat. You can see his empty chair, the one at the largest table in the center of the room. Yours is somewhere in a corner, probably by the bathrooms.

“We should do back in.” You say, already taking a step towards the door.

You’re stopped immediately, a warm hand around your wrist.

“Wait.” Bucky says, he tugs you back. There’s no force behind it, but you move anyway, letting him guide you back in front of him. He lets go of your wrist, leaving your pulse thrumming where he touched. He raises his left hand in front of you, offering it palm up. “Let me give you that dance.”

It’s like the moment freezes, one of those scenes in a video game where your path diverges and you’re suddenly faced with two options.

A. Take his hand, let him hold you to his chest and enjoy being close to him one more time.

B. Walk away, save yourself the pain of knowing what it would feel like to be in his arms. Go inside and eat cold, mediocre catering, then disappear before dessert.

Glutton for punishment, you take his hand.

Bucky smiles. A real one, with teeth and shiny eyes. He pulls you to him, this time hard enough to make you move.

It brings you closer than ever before only inches between you now. His right palm falls to your hip. Unsure, your own lands on his chest, resting on the lapel of his jacket. Then he starts to move.

It’s gentle, a side step back and forth, more of a swaying motion than anything else. He’s still smiling, looking down at you like you’ve hung the moon and you have no idea what to do with it.

He doesn’t look at you like that, or at least he’s not supposed to. A look like that breeds something even more dangerous than wanting, it breeds hope. The glimmer of a chance that shit, he might actually want you too.

“Y’know,” Bucky starts, clearing his throat. “I don’t think I’d have gotten this far without you.”

You laugh, unexpected like it was punched out of you. “I think you’re giving me way too much credit Bucky.”

His hand flexes on your hip, quickly squeezing and then letting go, as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “No, I’m not.”

Bucky sighs, you watch as his expression morphs. You can’t quite tell what emotions cross his face, but you think he’s trying to decide something. It’s the same focus he gave your resume that first day, brows pulled tight, that little line between forming between them. You wish you could flatten it with your thumb.

“You make me better.” He says, “You keep it all straight so I don’t have too, I still use those flash cards you gave me of important people.”

That’s was a joke, something you made your first week to try and warm him up.

“They’ve kept me from making a total ass of myself, even tonight.”

Your neck feels hot, your ears too. Why is he saying this now? Your stomach twists with guilt, you can feel your palm getting clammy against his. You still can’t seem to pull back.

Deflect, deflect, deflect, the panic inside you screams.

“You’re good at this on your own Bucky, you don’t need me, I just gave you the right tools.” You don’t mean to minimize his words, his honesty, you just don’t know how to match it. You have no idea what to say that wouldn’t give it all away.

Bucky shakes his head, huffing a breath of what almost sounds like frustration. “I’m not, that’s not what-“ he stops, voice tight as he tries to find the words.

He doesn’t find them, instead his leaves hand your hip, pushing you away slightly. He keeps his other hand holding yours though, lifting it up above your heads. It’s a silent instruction.

Spin.

You do, clumsy little steps in your heels until you’re back to his chest. This time his head goes past your hip, resting on your lower back, just above the curve of your ass.

It sends lighting up your spine, a white hot jolt of want.

The weight of his hand on your skin, it’s the most he’s ever touched you, the longest he’s ever touched you. The zipper of your dress is just a few inches higher, you imagine what it would be like for his hand to find it. How would he take it off? Would it be slow and teasing? Or would he break the seams and leave it a wrinkled mess on the floor.

Would you taste whiskey on his tongue? You saw him drinking it earlier. You’ve never liked it, never had much use for it. Expensive, bitter and deep. It suits Bucky though, worldly and mature (the alcoholic equivalent of an Americano). All your past experiences with the drink don’t matter, you’d try it again off of his lips.

“The other night, when you texted me?” He snaps you out of it, posing it like a question, as if you could forget.

“I really am so sorry about that Bucky, it was wildly unprofessional and I promise it won’t-“

“Stop,” he says, he starts to brush his thumb over the top of your hand, absentmindedly soothing you. “I don’t care about any of that.” He shakes his head, “It reminded me why I’m doing this.”

He’s not looking at you, his eyes are somewhere on the skyline, as if it might give him a cue card to read.

He finds the it somewhere to your left, “I like being needed, feels like good penance.”

He turns back to you, and suddenly your faces are somewhere much closer. You can feel his breath fanning your lips as he speaks. “I like being needed by you.” He admits.

You don’t know what to say, not sure there even is anything to say. Instead you look at his lips.

It’s unabashed, the first time you’ve allowed yourself such a luxury while he’s close enough to see.

They’re chapped, pink and irritated as he wets them with his tongue.

He knows.

It hits you like a ton of bricks.

He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows.

He knows and he’s baiting you.

Bucky doesn’t lean in, he doesn’t close the gap but he lets his words hang there. His eyes are hooded, nearly closed as he watches your reaction.

It’s be so easy to cross the bridge and to burn it behind you. Just lean in and kiss him, just once, to know what it feels like. If you’re quitting anyway-

Are you? Are you quitting?

That thing, the hope, it bubbles back up.

It’s doubled in size now, brimming with new-found-strength as it screams-

He wouldn’t be baiting you, if he didn’t want you back.

Except he’s not ready, it’s obvious now. His entire body is stiff and unsure. All his talking, is nervous rambling. He wants you and he’s afraid of it

So, with self restraint worthy of a gold medal, you pull back.

The email will be cancelled by morning. You’re not going anywhere, not where there’s a chance. Not when it’s a matter of waiting and not a matter of if.

You give him a smile, and for the first time all night it’s real, hell, it’s borderline flirty.

“Thank you for the dance Bucky.” You tell him, squeezing his hand one more time before you drop it.

You leave him on the balcony, heels clicking as you force yourself not to look back.

The fifth time is when you realize he wants you too, even if he hasn’t admitted it to himself yet.

It’s late when Bucky realizes he wants you.

He’s alone in the office, or at least he thinks he is. The lights turned off hours ago, his shut door meaning no one leaned into say goodbye as they left.

Not even you.

That makes his chest ache, just a little. He can see your smile now, the way you’d tap your nails on the door jam to get his attention as you’d tell him not to stay too late.

Maybe that’s why he’s ignored the clock, the way it ticked past five, then six, then seven, and all the way to now.

Ten, forty-three. It blinks at him, digital numbers reminding him that he really should just go home.

Home to his empty apartment, his empty fridge, and his king size bed and that the pile of blankets where he actually sleeps on the floor.

Hard pass.

He gets up for another cup or coffee instead, finally breaking the seal between his ass and his chair.

His back is tight when he gets up, knees clicking as he stands. Age. It’s creeping up on him with grey hairs and stiff joints. Something he thought he’d never be able to do, and something he dreads now that he can.

He cracks the door, but instead of the expected darkness, he finds you. The soft light of your desk lamp glowing from just a few feet away. Your back is to him, slouched, tired and unmoving. He’s pretty sure you didn’t hear him.

You’re doing a crossword, or at least trying too. More than half of it is empty.

Afraid to startle, Bucky clears his throat.

Your head jolts up, a sudden intake of breath as you spin to face him.

You were asleep, he realizes with no shortness of fondness.

“Hey boss.” You say through a yawn, stretching your arms above your head.

He nods, watching you blink the sleep from your eyes.

The monster, the one that lives behind his breastbone, roars to life.

What would it be like to wake up next to you?

As he looks at you now, sleep still in your face he can’t help but picture it. You in his bed, one of his shirts over your shoulders. Maybe he’d be able to sleep through the night if you’re next to him, it’s strange, how much calmer your presence alone makes him feel.

He’d pull you into his chest, greedy to touch and kiss the skin of your neck. Especially that spot under your ear, the one he watches you massage when you’re stressed.

Bucky shakes the thought off, something he’s gotten far too used to.

They’re never anything more than that, snapshots of domesticity. The dream of having you all to himself, all the time. He’s just taking what he sees of you during the day, the little things and putting them in a different context.

Like the time you made him tea with honey and he spent an five minutes staring at it, thinking about how you’d look in his kitchen, holding his kettle and wiping your lipstick stains off of his mugs.

Or that day you left a heating pad on his desk with the note, “for rainy days,” because he told you how the weather affects his shoulder. He blinked and saw you curled up next to him on the couch, thunder booming outside and the two of you untouched under a blanket.

It’s borderline pathetic just how vanilla it all is. Not only does he have a thing for his cute assistant, he wants her to take care of him.

He could puke.

“Tension.” Is how Bucky decides to answer you.

You cock your head

"Seven across.” He explains, nodding back to your screen.

You swivel back around, reading the clue yourself.

7. Something felt between two people, or an emotion held in your shoulders.

“Thanks.” You whisper as you type it in, the screen lighting up with an excited ‘correct!’

Bucky makes his way over to you, his mission for coffee long abandoned. “What are you still doing here?” He asks.

You shrug, “Had a lot to catch up on.”

His mug lands somewhere at the end of your desk. As he leans in over your shoulder to get a better look.

“Ah, important stuff.” He snarks.

Three tabs, the Washington post crossword, New York Times games, and the available cats section of pet finder.

He straightens, moving to lean against the edge of your desk. Your eyes follow him, chair tilting as you shift to look up at him.

“What are you still doing here?” You ask.

Bucky shrugs, “Keep forgetting to leave.” He takes you, closer this time. Your wrinkled blouse and smudged mascara. You look exhausted, like you’re hardly sitting up straight. “You should go home.”

You give him that smile. The one that convinces him to do damn near anything, “Only if you go too .”

Bucky Barnes has kept his want behind ice. Hard as stone and just as cold, it’s not something he’s sure he knows how to feel anyway, not something he’s sure he deserves. Nothing deeper than passing attraction or the occasional flirt. Excuses to feel with pressure of delivering.

Ever since he met you it’s been fracturing.

You give him an expectant look. You with your warm eyes, sweet smiles and soft skin.

Another cracks appears.

“I’ll give you a ride.” He says, no question in it.

Bucky watches you pack, tote bag, water-bottle, and sweater all tucked under your arm.

He reaches back into his office, pulls the chain on his lamp and grabs the keys.

His fingers pause as they hover over his options. The sedan, safe, appropriate and what he actually drove to work today.

The bike, still in the building garage from he tucked it off the street during a storm.

He remembers that night, your disappointment and short dress.

The crack widens, and his fingers curl around the latter.

You’re excited, he can see it bubbling under your skin as you wait for him to get on first.

You’d nearly squealed when he told you he only had the bike. Any sleep gone from you as you all but vibrate with anticipation.

Bucky had no idea you liked motorcycles so much.

“C’mon.” He says, holding his hand out to help you keep balance, “Climb on.”

You fill out the seat behind him, only a few inches of space between you. Your legs, brushing against the back of his knees as you slot into place.

He guides the hand you gave him onto his torso, a silent instruction to hold on there.

You listen, but poorly, a loose grip as your other hand comes down to mirror it.

His back straightens anyway, and it only gets tighter as he reaches down to pull your wrists further across his stomach. Bucky pulls until your chest is blush to his back, until he can feel your heat through the leather of his jacket.

Your fingers interlock in front of him and he turns the key.

The bike roars to life, and Bucky does his best to keep his mind on the road.

Three red lights. Three times where Bucky reaches back to massage your thigh. Three times where his hand stops just before making contact, as if remembering himself.

Two right turns. Two times where your grip tightens around him as the bike leans. Two times where your chest freezes as you hold your breath. Two times where he feels it fill back out, pressing yourself into him as you sigh with relief.

One offer to come up for a hot coffee. One joke about how he never got his cup at the office. One nod, as he smiles and follows you inside.

You turn on the drip pot and busy yourself long enough for Bucky to look around without feeling weird.

Your apartment is small, but it’s homey. A studio, basically a giant square room with a bathroom the size of a closet. Everything else is open, he can see your bedroom from the kitchen. He can look at your bedspread and think about how fitting it is that you’d pick something so fluffy.

He can stare at your dresser, at the pile of leather on the edge and think, is that-

Bucky can’t help but investigate, leaving you to the task of finding two clean mugs. Once he gets closer, he doesn’t even need to unfold it to know what it is.

Worn leather, a pulled thread on the left sleeve from where it got caught in a plate of his arm.

He picks it up, letting fall loose from its neat fold.

He’d almost forgotten he gave it you to.

That day is blurry for him, a mess of papers, a ruined shirt, and you.

The most potent memory is the way his blood ran cold when you first put it on, like a trigger he didn’t know he had.

He remembers turning back to watch you walk away, swallowed by it as you headed in the opposite direction.

He had shaken it off, refused to let it affect him as much as it did. Refused to picture you smelling like his cologne and stealing his shirts too. Refused to remember how the your blouse clung to your skin and left a disastrous outline of everything he shouldn’t want.

He turns back towards you, thumb rubbing over the collar where some of your makeup had gotten on it. A sign you’d worn it since.

“Oh, you found it.” You say.

The coffee starts to drip behind you. Between the jacket, the coffee smell, your pretty smile and his nerves. It’s like a mirror of your first meeting.

“You kept it?” He asks. His voice is softer than he expected, like disbelief.

“Of course I did.” You answer, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like it normal to take a piece of him home and keep it on your dresser. Like you’d do it again.

There’s no confetti, no explosions or fireworks. There’s no confession in the rain.

Instead there’s leather held in a metal hand and the sound of ice shattering somewhere in the distance.

Bucky doesn’t remember crossing the room, he doesn’t remember lifting his hand to hold your face or even leaning into kiss you.

Suddenly, his lips are just on yours, the jacket is on the floor and he’s all but stepping between your legs in an effort to get as close as possible. He cranes his neck, curling around you as he kisses with seventy years of want.

You melt. It’s the only word he can think of to describe it, like your entire body has no choice but to fold into him.

Your hands curl around his biceps like anchors. Your knees bend, nearly gone slack as he wraps an arm around your lower back.

Like a fire catching on dry leaves, Bucky kisses you like he couldn’t stop if he wanted to.

Your back hits the counter, pinning you between it and the hard wall of his body.

You break away then, a hand pushing at his chest when he tries to follow.

“Wait.” You tell him, nearly breathless.

Carefully you untangle yourself, your arms unlatching and reaching behind you to push up onto the counter top. A quick jump and then you’re seated, spreading your legs for him to step between.

Your hands pull him back, grabbing at his neck and whispering “Okay, keep going.”

Bucky obeys, hands falling to your hips and pulling you to the edge, until your chest presses tight against his.

The kiss is messier despite the better angle. A chaotic mix of spit, teeth, and tongue.

Bucky deepens it, tilting your head back so he can memorize your lips from every angle. You make a little noise, strangled from the back of your throat. Your pulse jumping under his thumb as he cradles your neck in his palm.

It’s all consuming in a way Bucky hasn’t felt before, not like this. He's used to being consumed by guilt, by grief, but this? Feeling like close isn’t close enough, like oxygen means nothing if he has to lose the feeling of your lips

His cock twitches his in slacks, making itself known as you lean even harder into him. One hand is on his neck still, but the other is on his hip. A finger pulled though one of his belt loops, tugging on it until he's pressed tight enough for you to lock your ankles behind his back. Giving him nowhere to go but flush against your cunt.

Heat blossoms over him, rushing up his chest and into his cheeks. Flushing his skin while he tries to catch his breath. 

He pulls back this time, not far, but enough distance to see your face. 

Your breathless, lips swollen and covered with his spit. Your chest heaves, a rapid rise and fall under your blouse that makes your buttons strain. It leaves him aching to touch you there too. Your eyes, smart as ever as you watch him drink you in. What shocks him is your pupils, blown wide and wild. 

You're hungrier than he is.

Bucky has to stop himself from leaning back in.

It doesn't matter how hungry you look, how well you kiss him back, how he can feel the warmth of your cunt through his pants. How it makes him twitch. He really shouldn't do this.

Slowly, he pulls his hands away, setting them down on either side of you, palms flat on the counter.

"You okay Bucky?" You ask, voice soft, silky and innocent like you're not putting it on for show.

Bucky swallows around the glass in his throat, "This is a bad idea." 

You nod, nonchalant. "It is." You agree, "Do you want to stop?"

"No." He admits. "But, look kid-"

"Don't call me kid," you interrupt, one of your hands finds itself in his hair, twisting it around your fingers. "Not when you just had your tongue down my throat."

"But you are, compared to me you're a-" A sharp tug and his sentence is lost again. "Young!" He corrects, "Boss thing aside, you're young."

You look at him, deadpan and bored. "Do you want to leave Mr. Barnes?" You ask, and despite the threat you make no effort to release him. 

"God don't call me that." Bucky groans, his head falling into your shoulder. 

Your fingers tap on his skin, as if to say 'see?'

"No." he says, finally touching you again, hands find your hips, curving around to hold the meat of your ass in his palms. 

"Do you want me?" 

Another, tortured groan. His cock twitching against you as an answer.

"I want you." You whisper, lips catching on his ear as you lean into the side of his head. "You have no idea how badly." 

His hips roll into you on their own accord, like a spring wound by your words. Your breath hitches, catching at the friction. Bucky's not much better, rolling them again by choice this time. Desperate to hear it again. 

"Fuck it."

His lips are on back, but this time he's lifting you off the counter. 

He's thankful your apartment is small, that he doesn't have to guess which door is the bedroom. He probably would have ended up fucking you on the counter if that was the case.

You land on the bed with a thump, back bouncing as Bucky drops you onto it. 

His shirts already off by the time you catch up, fingers hastily working your own buttons as he stands at the edge of the bed and watches. 

Blue lace that he had tried desperately to block out of his memory. A soft curve and a little bow in the center. "Shit." He breathes, rendered useless by the reveal. 

"Look familiar?" You joke, reaching back for the clasp when Bucky grabs your wrist. 

"Wait." He's gone, nearly running back to the kitchen to grab his jacket off the floor. He tosses it to you on the bed. "Put this on."

He doesn't have to convince you, doesn't have to explain himself. You smile so wide it's like you already know, shrugging your arms through the sleeves like you're more excited than he is. 

This time you leave it unzipped. 

"Good?" You cock your head to the side. 

Bucky nods, reaching for his belt as he takes it in. "Didn't get a good enough look last time." He says. 

"At the jacket or the bra?" You ask, pushing down your own waistband, elastic snapping all the way down your legs. 

"Both." He grunts. 

The second his pants hit the floor he's on you, crawling over top of your body and pressing it into the mattress.

You kiss him this time, a hand on either side of his face as you drag his lips down to you. Your nails dig into his skin, like you're afraid he'll pull away. Even going as far as to catch his bottom lip between your teeth, running your tongue over it like a soothing balm after.

Bucky's hands are greedy, one pushed under the cup of your bra, thumbing at your nipple until he feels it harden beneath his touch. 

The other is barely holding his weight off of you, the hard press of his hips as he slots himself between your legs once more. 

The friction is even better now, the lack of layers upping the ante. All that's left is cotton so thin Bucky swears he can feel your slick with ever grind against your cunt.

You moan into his mouth, a breathy little noise that acts like gasoline to the flame. Your knees bend, falling flat onto the mattress as if to give him more room. 

The drag of his hips is even longer this time, his bulge catching of your folds and highlighting the way your panties cling to you. 

Wishing he had more hands, Bucky abandons your tit. He slides it into your waistband now instead, feeling the material between his index and thumb and making an educated guess. 

"These need to go." He whispers.

Sitting back on his haunches, Bucky takes the band between his hands and tears it. 

One hip, then the other, and suddenly he's pulling them out from under you. 

You squeak, Bucky's not sure weather it's with surprise or pleasure, and he's not currently capable of looking at your face to try and figure out which.

You cunt is far too distracting.

Puffy, wet, and shining she calls his name. You're absolutely fucking soaked, looking so achingly turned on he wonders if you're actually pulsing his name in morse code.

God how long did he ignore it? 

And why?

He can't remember anymore.

He needs to put his mouth on you, already leaning down when you grab his chin. 

"Please skip it." You ask, "Need you inside, we can do that later."

Bucky really wishes he had it in him to argue, but the promise of later makes it easy to agree.

Before he can crawl back up, you're pushing him off. Its clumsy, too busy pawing at each other that it takes five minutes of making out on your knees before Bucky lets you push him down. 

You hardly get him out of his briefs, pushing the elastic down just enough to be able to grab is cock in your hand. 

Just as susceptible, you fall into the temptation to touch, making his shape with your palm while your thumb traces a vein. 

You sweep over his tip and Bucky nearly levitates off the bed, his hips jerking so high he swears he hears the springs in your shitty mattress creak.

He's taking you to his place next time. He'll let you spread your warmth there, and then he'll fuck you through his king.

A perfect plan.

You swipe over his slit again, spreading his pre with your thumb and bringing it to your lips to taste.

"Please." He asks, teeth gritted as he tries not to lose it all over your fingers. "Not fair you get to touch and I didn't."

You shush him, ignoring his ask as you bring your hand down to his base once more. "You have no idea how much I've thought about this, let me enjoy it." 

How much you've thought about this? 

Bucky's eyes nearly roll back, his hand rushing to grab your wrist. 

"Later." He steals your line. 

You nod, lifting your legs until you're straddling his hips. 

It's slow from there, not quite gentle but slow. Once you line yourself up with him. You wait until the head his cock notches inside, and then your hands claw into his shoulders. 

Bucky should ask about a condom, he knows he's forgetting something but god, as you sink down onto him he's not sure he even knows how to think.

You're so tight, squeezing him in a vice-like grip before you're even halfway down. 

"Shit." He hisses, his hands sit on your waist like a belt, his fingers splaying over your ribs as he helps guide you down. 

You're just as inconsolable, eyes squeezed shut as you slowly work yourself onto him. He can feel your pulse, your heart hammering from the inside. 

It's a closeness he hasn't felt in years, and drives him crazier than it ever did then. 

It's you. He realizes. 

The months of dancing around you, of stealing touches and convincing himself they're professional. Months of believing there was no chance in hell, so why even bother. 

He bottoms out, your cunt twitching around him as you rest pelvis to pelvis. You slick slides down his balls, pooling around the base of his cock as your body works overtime to accommodate him. 

"So fucking-" you gasp, out of breath like he's pressing the air out of your lungs, " -big."

Bucky coos, one of his hands slides down, coasting over the planes of your stomach as he travels thumb down to where your bodies are connected. 

"Doing so good." He promises, his thumb sliding between your folds as he looks for your clit. "Taking so good, so perfect."

You jolt, a pathetic whine falling from your lips when he finds it. 

"There she is." His draws a circle around it, using the pad of his finger to apply pressure.

The reaction is instantaneous, your cunt relaxing just enough for him to buck his hips up into you. "Bucky!" You gasp, knees pulling tight against his hips. 

"Gonna take good care of you." He says, bracing his legs on the bed as he cants his hips for another thrust. "Don't I always make sure my girl has what she needs?"

He does, now that he thinks about it. He worries you won't eat so he brings breakfast. He's afraid you won't get an x-ray so he calls in a favor to make sure you get one for free. He knows you only drink Moscato, so he buys a bottle and leaves at the bar of every fundraiser. 

You're clenching, body humming as Bucky bullies your cunt, his cock head dragging over that spongy spot inside you until you're doubled over in his chest. 

His efforts double, his thumb moving faster while his hips work in time with the hand on your waist to aim each thrust perfectly. 

You're hiccupping against his neck, body trembling as he pulls you closer and closer to the edge.

Bucky's not much better, his thighs shaking as he fights off his own orgasm.

"Where should I cum?" He asks, his balls pulling tight as he tries to stave it off just a little longer.

You lift your head, eyes hooded as you grab his face and slur "It's safe, cum inside."

Then you're kissing him, catching the corner of his lips before you readjust. 

Bucky loses it, his hips losing rhythm as he blows it. A strangled moan of your name falls off his lips, punched from his chest as your entire body goes taut in his arms.

It's seismic, like an earthquake as you both finally let go. 

Bucky's vision nearly goes white with the force of it. It's all too much as he feels your slick gush around the base of his cock while his hips keep messily fucking up into you. You're shaking in his arms, blubbering his name between whispers of "oh god," and "so good." 

Bucky feels like he should be the one talking about god, thanking him and asking what repentance he did to possibly deserve you. 

Maybe god didn't have a hand in it all, maybe it was just luck and the funny way life gives you a second chance. 

As he tucks you into his chest, heart racing with the after shocks he wonders if you'll let him keep you. 

"Stop thinking." You murmur into his chest, voice already heavy with sleep. Your bodies gone slack into him, cunt still spasming with the after socks as you already start to drift. "I'm yours, we'll figure the rest out later."

Bucky thinks that heaven must smell like leather coffee, and your detergent.

Then your voice, sleepy and distant rings in his ear, "Are you an ass man?"

God, he thinks through his laughter, he is so fucked.