Chapter Text
He did come back. Once a week the same day, the same time as when you first met. The place was always deserted around this time and you suspected that was the reason why - and the incredible food, of course. You were slowly learning more about him little by little. He was some kind of spy. At least you thought he must be. Instead of leaving after finishing his lunch, bring out his very expensive looking laptop, his small notebook, and he would work with intense focus.
Government contracting , was the only explanation he gave when you lightly inquired.
It all came across as very clandestine. You had seen enough spy thrillers to know and you had an aunt who dated a guy who was retired FBI so you were certain.
Not to mention the gloves, the drama of his pinched brow, and his impressive performance answering the phone. He did not say hello , just Barnes and under no circumstances did he say goodbye .
In fact, that’s what he was doing now as you prepped some veggies for pickling just behind the counter. You could hear him asking questions with a tone of Hollywood exigence. You set the knife down to grab a solid, plastic catering container from the shelving beneath the butcher’s block. Maybe, you should have kept your entire focus on the task at hand. Maybe you should not have been trying so hard to overhear his conversation.
The edge of the container bumped the handle of your chef’s knife, which you had left hanging over the edge only by an inch or so. It spun to fall. Your damned cat-like reflexes kicked in (why, oh why did your instincts have to be so finely honed?) and, without thinking, you reached out to catch the knife before it fell.
“ Son of a- ”
The large container thundered across the tiles floor, and the knife clattered beside it. The perfect rimshot to the perfect fuckup. You held your right hand, palm up, and continued to curse as you tried to figure out what to do about the inch long cut beneath your pointer finger.
You grabbed a clean flour sack towel out of the bin beside you and squeezed it in your hurt hand, hissing as you turned around in search of the first aid kit under the register.
“Jesus Christ!” Your eyes snapped open and you stumbled backward. There was Bucky, leaning over the counter, eyes searching.
“Everything okay?”
He looked almost more on edge than you. Perhaps it was the sudden crashing that startled him.
“How the hell-” you shook your head, “it’s nothing, just a job hazard.”
You knelt down to search the cabinet with your clumsy left hand, your fist balling around the clean towel. The stinging was starting to make you wrinkle your nose and you were, admittedly, a little more frantic than you would like to have appeared.
“Do you need any help?”
“Nah, nah, go sit down,” you said, as it went against all your instincts to inconvenience a customer. You had found the first kit after all. You placed it on the counter.
“You sure?”
“It’s fine, just a knick.”
There was that bad habit of yours to undersell the seriousness of your various assortment of predicaments. Bucky remained in place. You popped open the kit and dropped your head in despair.
Medical tape, anti-bacterial spray that expired in the 90s judging by the aged branding, and - the real chef kiss on top of the whole disaster - a packet of ketchup. You sighed and leaned against the counter before pinning your onlooker with your most serious stare.
“I trust you won’t be going to OSHA with what you have just seen?”
He soberly nodded and drew an ‘X’ over his heart with his finger.
“Great,” you said, lifting the counter flap beside the register, “now I’m gonna need help getting inside my apartment.
Bucky was only momentarily taken aback but it must have been your natural authority that had him following you through the kitchen and up the backstairs to your walkup. His footfalls were surprisingly quiet as you both made your way up the creaky old steps. You almost jumped when you saw how close he was behind you.
“Alright,” you said, catching your breath and offering him the key, “the lock is a real pain in the ass. I have to use both my hands.”
He stepped past you, taking the key in his gloved hand and sizing up the lock.
“You sort of have to pull and-”
The deadbolt ground against the mis-mounted strike plate and swung open in the same instant. You both stared into the open threshold. Bucky, watched you expectantly.
“Okay, well, it usually sticks but I probably loosened it for you. I don’t know.”
You rushed in before him to escape the awkwardness without saying a word. So what, huh? So he was just as strong as he looks? That sweeping black peacoat didn’t hide the fact that he was built like a brick shit-house. Or did it? Perhaps you had been engaging in a little unprofessional bodily leering. Who was even keeping score anymore?
It was only a few short steps to the kitchenette where you kept a few supplies in your designated junk drawer. You muttered to yourself as you rifled through it.
“Do I, uh-” he cleared his throat and the sound echoed throughout the modest foyer.
“Huh?” you said gathering the few stray band-aids and hardly registering anything else as the stinging in your palm took all your focus.
“Do I come in or?”
“Shit, yes, of course. Sorry. Sorry about the mess.”
Your apartment was small, creaky. The windows were starting to warp and let in an unpleasant draft. You were, nightly, soothed to sleep by the sound of drunken verbal arguments from the bar across the street and, daily, awoken by the shuddering rumbles and squealing brakes of the bus stopping across the street.
You loved it. It was yours, all yours. You had let your creature comforts stack up on the coffee table. Books, some records, a tiny potted plant that was struggling because you always forgot to raise the blinds.
He joined you in the kitchenette, his boots squeaking against the peeling linoleum.
“I don’t think that’s gonna do it,” he said, looking at the things you set before you on the counter.
Two (2) band-aids and One (1) tube of neosporin. You looked down at your hand. The flour sack cloth was completely ruined with blood. You were afraid to take it away but found the courage to peel it away from your palm. He leaned over to maintain your personal space while also scrutinizing your cut.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s not gonna do it.”
You tried to switch on the tap, missing the handle a couple times as you stared down in mild horror.
“Looks like stitches,” he said. You were not listening. He said your name for emphasis. You chuckled but it was utterly joyless. Carefully you washed around the cut as the bleeding ebbed.
“Do I look insured to you?”
“It’s deep, is all I’m saying.”
“I know what you are saying but there is no way in hell I am paying for stitches.”
“Well…” he rubbed the back of his neck and looked around your apartment. You, not at all comfortable with being perceived in this way, saw fit to interrupt him.
“Well, what?” you turned off the tap.
“There’s the way we used to do it in the army.”
“I have the whiskey if you have the bonesaw.”
“I didn’t mean amputation.”
“I know, I was being an asshole.”
He snorted despite himself.
“Can I see it?”
You held your hurting hand to yourself, assessing his sincere blue-eyed gaze for any spark of ill-intent. You acquiesced when he took his right glove off, suddenly very curious how warm his fingers were. He took your hand in his, and cocked his head. Very warm, as it turns out.
“Easy,” he murmured, although you weren’t sure why until-
“Owowow,” you howled and hissed as he pressed one side of the cut with his thumb, “what gives?”
“Like I thought,” he said, nodding and shrugging, “tendon’s not cut.”
“That’s good right?”
“It’s not good that I can see it.”
You could scream. Or cry. Possibly vomit. You really didn’t budget for bodily harm this month (although maybe that would be a good idea going forward) and the economy was pretty screwed up as it was with the Blip and all.
“Alright, alright, I see the wheels turnin’ up there. You’re not going to the emergency room. Where do you keep the superglue?”
You shot him a skeptical glance and pointed to the junk drawer. You helped him paw through it with your free hand, moving aside memo pads, defunct phone chargers, and a few mismatched screwdrivers. You found it, hiding in a sneaky cranny behind a package of AAA batteries.
“So,” he paused and bounced the small crumpled tube of glue in against his fingers, “I better wash my hands. I’ll just…” he pointed behind you and brushed past you to reach the sink.
It was a tight fit so you opted for hopping up on the counter and waiting patiently. You watched his shoulders move up and down as he, presumably, took his gloves off to wash up. What a strange scenario you found yourself in this afternoon. And what a broad figure he cut in your kitchenette. It struck you, the bizarre generosity he was showing. What a little helper, this Bucky was turning out to be.
The tap hissed off.
“Do you have another clean towel?” he asked the window above your kitchen sink.
You pulled the drawer by your calf open with your left hand and flicked the towel over his shoulder. It snaked out of view as he took it. Then, in one fluid movement, he took your right hand in his left with the clean sack towel between them. He used the draped cloth to dab your cut dry with his right hand.
“Now, just as a disclaimer,” he said looking up at you, “I am not a medical professional.” He wore a crooked sort of weary smile. You never noticed how dark the circles under his eyes were.
“Don’t worry, if I lose the hand, it won’t come back to you.”
He sucked air in between his teeth as he carefully pressed the clean edges of your wound together.
“Don’t even say it,” he said and with such unexpected gentleness.
When he was satisfied with the evenness, he had you take over holding everything in place. Then, he uncapped the glue. With a steady hand, he let a modest amount dribble out of the tapered tip and let it hover millimeters above the skin as he traced along the length, only slowing when gasped at the tiny stinging you felt.
“There,” he said, maintaining focus. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as he blew softly across your palm. He glanced up at you.
“Er, uh. Sorry,” he said, when he realized what he was doing. He released your hand and turned to replace his gloves. The silence was strange. You looked down at the sealed and shining line on your hand. He did a clean job. You had heard of using super glue for a cut before, and you were pretty sure one was meant to use medical glue but this entire operation only took ten minutes and was completely free.
Well, not completely.
“Hey, I owe you one,” you said. Bucky chuckled.
“It’s nothing. Was happy to help.”
“No, really. You name it. Free sandwiches for a year?”
He shook his head, smiling.
“I don’t think you can afford my appetite.”
You wanted to burst out laughing at that. It certainly read like an innuendo but his delivery was so boyish and unaffected.
“There’s gotta be something,” you said, hopping down from the counter and crossing your arms so he knew you meant business.
He rubbed the dark stubble on his chin and turned his head.
“Well, maybe there’s one thing. That table in the window - the one I like - maybe you can reserve it for me around this time every week?”
“You mean the table that is almost always empty when you come in?”
“ Almost always.”
You waved your hand and grinned.
“Done. I’ll make a cardstock plaque and everything.”
You just could not resist being playful with him. Something about getting his sad eyes to crinkle and that shy smile to appear was addictive.
“Don’t go that far. It’s just nice to have something after…” he took a deep breath and nodded as if to reassure himself, “-therapy. I like to come to your place after my sessions.”
You remembered to not let your mouth hang open like a buffoon. It’s not that there was anything wrong with therapy. The opposite, obviously. Therapy is great and everyone should get some. You just never would have pegged him for the type, taciturn as he was. He seemed to sense your shock.
“I’m- I thought it felt right to be honest just now, I guess. I’m not trying to unload on you or-”
“No, no,” you interrupted him, having finally come to your senses, “I actually think it’s great and super courageous-”
“Well, it’s court-mandated so you can keep the medals.”
It got a little quiet. We were being very honest today, weren’t we? Even though reason dictated that you should have been deeply concerned, you decided to ignore reason for now because you had something clever to say and in your hierarchy of values that ranked higher.
“Wow,” you said, smiling blankly and shaking your head, “add that to the list of things I wish I knew about a man before letting him into my apartment.”
He smirked. You did too after making sure there were no hard feelings.
“Right, I shouldn’t have said that. Listen, it’s complicated but you don’t have to worry about me.”
It sounded mad but you believed him . He was so polite in your every interaction with the occasional hesitant warmth. He never left your store without buying a coffee for the folks who sat on the street corner - displaced and disenfranchised by the Blip. There was something about him - you couldn’t name it. Sometimes you felt like you recognized him from somewhere.
“You don’t have to explain it,” you said, grabbing your keys from where he had set them on your counter, “just don’t let the executive table privileges go to your head. Wouldn’t wanna add megalomania to the laundry list and overwork that shrink of yours.”
He surrendered a forced nod and a tight smile. The subject seemed touchy. You got the feeling he didn’t go around just telling anyone about it. Luckily, you knew the best cure to a sore subject was steamrolling right over it with good-natured japery.
“Alright, well, I’m gonna go down to the kitchen and break into the coconut macaroons. You want one? C’mon, c’mon.”
You didn’t wait for an answer, striding out of your little apartment. You were determined to force one on him either way, as was customary.