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Your laughter can be heard outside the front door, a moment before two shadows eat up the glow through the gap under it. Inside the dark apartment, Bucky pulls to his feet and curls his shaky hand into a fist.
Of all the places in the world, he never expected you to settle here. Brooklyn, New York. According to Tony, you’ve been here for a year now. After everything he’s been through, he couldn’t trust himself while he was still vulnerable to HYDRA. The events that followed the morning after in Bucharest only proved that. He couldn’t risk getting you hurt, so he went under. It’s only now that he’s finally in a place where he feels it’s safe to see you. He owes Tony and T’Challa for their help, but not as much as he owes Shuri for another chance at life. A life, maybe, with you.
It’s this thought that drove him into asking Tony to track you down and T’Challa to borrow his jet. So here he is, in the middle of your dark apartment, waiting for you.
Like a creepy stalker.
Shit.
The door cracks open, but before he can dive out the window, your voice stops him. Stops his breath too.
“You wanna come in?”
(Fuck, how long has it been since that night? Since your touch, your sounds of pleasure. Since he left your peaceful, sleeping warmth alone.)
“Definitely,” a deep voice replies.
The door swings open to reveal the gorgeous view of your silhouette. The light flickers on and your gazes meet across the way.
You gasp.
The man yanks you out and takes a step forward with a scowl that Bucky guesses is supposed to be menacing.
Bucky almost scoffs. He can take this guy with one arm behind his back—or, as it is, without the arm at all.
The man points. “Get out of here before I call the cops.”
Bucky eyes him; the gruffness in his features, his imposing, battle-ready stance—it screams military. But it's the air of superiority and blatant aggression that gives him away.
A Jarhead.
How the hell did you get mixed up with the likes of him?
Your head pokes out from behind his shoulder as your wide eyes meet Bucky’s again. Your brows lift and you mutter an, “Oh my god.” You grip the guy’s beefy arm, and Bucky has to physically swallow down a growl. “Frank—it’s fine.”
Frank whips around. “This bum broke into your apartment, how is it fine?”
Okay, he hates this guy. It must must show on his face because you purse your lips in an attempt to hide the twitching corners.
“He’s a friend.” You step around him with a smile, and goddamn, have you always been this beautiful? “I’ll call you later.”
Frank’s protests fall on deaf ears as you close the door in his confused face. You lean back against the door with hands tucked behind you in an adoringly innocent gesture.
“Hi,” you say breathlessly, and Bucky shudders.
“Hi,” he whispers—he can’t be sure he can say it any louder without his voice cracking like a spider-webbed window. He’s imagined this a thousand times over: before he falls asleep at night, during his rehab with Shuri, while he’s working the fields.
It’s crazy how one day with you can affect him so much. On the flight here, there was a sliver of doubt that maybe he amplified this connection with you and made it out to be more than it was.
But one look at your soft, smiling face, and he can finally breathe through the ache he’s been carrying around in his chest.
Your words fumble out in a garbled sound. You shake your head. “My brain’s on overdrive. I have a lot of things to say to you.”
He cracks a smile. “I’ll bet.”
Your eyes flick to his arm sling, and he shuffles his feet. “Let’s start with the obvious.”
His shoulders pull back and his phantom arm pulses.
“I woke up alone.” Your voice comes out shaky, and it tugs his heartstrings.
“I’m sorry.”
You cross your arms. “Was it important?”
It was just a dumb idea he had, to replace the plums you dropped because of his paranoid ass. But he was made, and Steve… He couldn’t go back, and he couldn’t send word to you. Not without putting you in danger. He couldn’t risk it. “Yes. It was important.”
You close your eyes, and he barely hears your murmured, “Okay.”
“I’ve missed you.”
Something in your face shifts. And then you’re embracing him tight, arms around his neck and face pressed into his hair.
Closing his eyes, he wraps his arm around you and breathes you in, squeezing you fast and steady against him. He kisses your head and smiles at the answering peck you push against the side of his neck through his hair.
“You stink.”
He chuckles. “I’ve been travelling for—”
You pull away. “Come.” You lead him by the hand further into the apartment toward the bathroom. Light floods the cramped space and you turn the shower on as he watches you against the sink. The sharp sound of spattering water ricochets off the tile walls, and steam wafts out.
You approach with eyelids at half-mast. A hand touches his left shoulder, gentle as a falling leaf. He holds his breath as your eyes study his.
“Is this okay?” you ask softly.
He nods, and you begin to remove his sling. His restless heart contends with the pelting water for the most racket.
As his clothes shed, your hands explore his bare skin in tender, slow wanders. A pinky skims over a nipple, and Bucky shudders as the nub puckers.
In some ways, it’s like the first time. Hesitant. Vigilant. Your curious hands exploring as he waits with bated breath. Skin prickling with vulnerability.
His bottoms puddle at his feet, and your touch rests on his hips. Your lips part, and Bucky finds himself drifting forward, yearning for a taste.
You stop him with a hand to his chest. “Shower.”
He takes a whiff of himself. “Am I really that bad?”
You respond with a closed-mouth smile. “I’ll come back with fresh clothes.” You take a step back and gather his clothes before closing the bathroom door behind you.
As soon as the water hits his skin, he melts under the warmth. It’s been a while since he’s bathed in a man-made facility. The stream back in Wakanda has one temperature: cold.
It’s hard to believe he’s here, in your apartment in a city he used to know several lifetimes ago. It’s hard to believe he’s here at all, alive and kicking. He’s died a hundred times over, and by some horrible miracle he can’t fathom, he keeps coming back.
He’s swallowed by the grief of his actions. No matter that it was out of his control—especially because it was out of his control. He and Steve, they’re together to the end of the line. But his line just keeps extending. Steve sees it as a blessing, but it’s really a curse; a sick curse reserved for people who deserve worse than death.
There are worse things than death, your voice whispers along the edges of his mind, something you once said to him. The day you walked into his life, and he stole a piece of you to keep with him for the darker times. Times when he’s in so deep he doesn’t know which way is up, and the only lifeline he has are the handful of good memories. Memories that’s fraying around the edges from the amount of times he’s had to bring them out to remember. Remember himself.
Remember Steve.
Remember you.
Maybe he needed to go through hell and back to kick start a chain of events that led him to you. Maybe he needed to lose himself so he could find you.
If he dies tomorrow… he’d be pretty annoyed, actually—but at least he has another moment with you. Another good memory he can safely tuck away in the jungle of his mind.
And it’s with that thought that Bucky steps out of the shower and towels off. With the towel around his waist, he whips the door open and gets a whiff of his freshly-showered skin. He smells like you. It’s different than the last time you were together. It’s richer, more homely.
He finds you in your bedroom and takes in the clutter of clothes, books and other knick-knacks. With a small smile, he nudges the two-inch tall Captain America action figure on your dresser.
You’re at your desk, keys clicking away at your computer. “Clothes are on the bed,” you say, barely sparing him a glance.
The t-shirt is a size too big and the sweatpants fall short by an inch, baring his ankles. He turns to find you watching him, hands hooked over the back of the chair. He raises his eyebrows. “Frank’s?”
“An ex.”
There are a hundred things he wants to ask, like Did they treat you well? Why did it end? Do you miss them? What comes out is: “You’re too far away.”
The desk lamp behind you paints a deep shadow up the wall and across the ceiling. You drop your head and the shadow retreats behind the crown moulding like a shy child hides behind their mother’s leg at a stranger’s attention.
He pats the bed. “Come here.”
You don’t budge. You’ve barely spoken tonight, which is highly unlike you.
“Did I say something? You’re a little frosty.”
“Is that where you’ve been?” you ask instead. “In the Cryostasis Chamber?”
“How…?”
“I looked you up. Soon as I came back to the States I visited you in the Smithsonian. And internet stalked you.”
“What else did you learn?”
“Not nearly enough.”
He swallows. “So you live here.”
Your gaze sweeps around the bedroom. “I guess I… wanted to feel closer to you. Hoped you’d come back. Pathetic, I know.”
He shakes his head. “No, it—I think about you. All the time.”
You raise your eyebrows, skepticism practically dripping from your face.
He clenches his fist. “The last thought I had before going under was you. The night we spent together after we… You said you wished time could stop. That we could be like that forever.” His voice cracks on the last word and he glares down at his hand, flexing it. Get a grip. “It was the first time in a long—I just felt… safe.” He swallows and meets your gaze. “You did that. Whether or not you knew or it was intentional, you did that for me.”
You shake your head, head tilted back, as if overcome with emotion.
He stands, pulled to console you, but he’s halfway to you when you meet him there.
“Is that why you’re here?” you whisper, eyebrows pinched and turned up in the centre in an endearing look of worried uncertainty. “To repay me or give me the goodbye I didn’t get?”
“No.” He says your name, the sound tasting almost foreign on his tongue. It’s the first time he’s spoken it in years. Though not without restraint; he’s had to fight the urge of uttering your name during lonely nights or to ask Tony to look you up with his fancy tech. But there were a dozen reasons to keep you tucked safely under his tongue, even from Steve.
There are a dozen reasons to stay away from you. Yet here he is, standing toe-to-toe and mere inches away from you that it physically hurts that he isn’t touching you right now.
He says your name again, slow and rumbly. “I’m here because I miss you. Because I want to see you. I—Can I kiss you?”
Your eyes flutter. “If you kiss me you can’t leave me again.”
“Deal.”
Your hand stops him. “I mean it, James.”
“I have people depending on me…”
“I’m not asking you to drop everything in your life for me. I just need to know that we can share one. Together.”
He cups your cheek. “That’s what I want too. I want to be in your life, and you in mine.”
Your fingers curl around his wrist as you nuzzle your cheek into his palm. “When do you have to leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Then kiss me until the sun comes up.”
~&~
His lips are raw and jaw sore, but still he nips at your puffy lips. You’ve been making out for what feels like hours now. Sharing gentle kisses between whispered hopes, fears and other secrets with the blanket over your heads.
He breathes in the little moan you let out, and his mind goes fuzzy so he pulls the blanket away for some fresh air.
You laugh and smooth down his hair.
With a smile, he rolls the both of you until you’re on top of him, thighs fitted between his legs and elbows braced above his shoulders.
You trail kisses across his cheeks. You reach his left earlobe and hum against it, the sound so content he shudders. You prop your head on a palm, and there are no words to describe how wonderful you look hovering above him. Eyes filled with a soft lust as your kiss-swollen lips smile down at him.
“Are you still on the run?” you ask.
He shakes his head. He wouldn’t come here if he were. “Living in a small African country for a while now. I’m a farmer.”
“So would you say you’ve… planted roots?”
He pinches your cheek and you chuckle.
The humour is short-lived, though. You frown down at your fingers tracing his collarbone. “That’s a long way from here.”
“Five thousand five hundred miles.” He squeezes your hip. “We can still talk.”
“Do you even own a phone?”
“I’ll write you letters.”
The corner of your mouth quirks. “That’s… actually quaint. I’d love that.” Your expression gentles and his chest tightens.
“What?” he whispers.
“You’ve been through so much, and you’re still a good person.”
He starts to turn his face away, but your hand cups his cheek and urges his gaze to stay on yours.
“You are, Buck.”
And something about those three words, the earnestness soaked in them, reminds him of Steve. Of the undying faith his best friend has in him. Steve reminds him of who he once was, and you… You inspire him to find out who he can be someday.
He thumbs your left brow. “I wish I could be half the person you think I am.”
You press a kiss to the base of his thumb, and he closes his fingers around it. “I know more than you think, remember?”
“I wanna know you too.”
“I’ll tell you anything you want.”
“I want everything.”
~&~
A text alert tone wakes Bucky. He combs through the web of sleep as he fights the grogginess of having slept for what feels like a hot minute.
His bed is softer and warmer than he remembers, and there’s a weight on his right side that’s strangely pleasant. A car honks in the distance and he frowns.
He peels his eyes open and, instead of twigs and grass, stares up at an unfamiliar, pale ceiling. A deep breath in opens a barrage of memories from last night as the smell of your shampoo takes root in the base of his throat.
The both of you talked until the air turned crisp, birds chirped salutations and the sun sunk its rays through the window. You both shared pieces of your lives growing up. Family, high school, first crushes, what a happy life means. You fell asleep halfway through what you’ve been up to for the last two years. It was so endearing he had to bite back a laugh so he wouldn’t wake you.
The tone trills again.
You twitch in your sleep against his shoulder, and he carefully rolls you onto your back before squinting at your phone for the time, but his gaze catches the name.
6:08
Friday, April 21
MESSAGES 2m ago
Frank 😾
Still alive?
Press for more
Bucky rolls his eyes.
Setting your phone down, he scoots out of bed and goes in search of your dryer for his clothes. He returns to your bedroom and dresses by the desk. You undid the knot in his arm sling so he takes the time to fix it over his shoulder, and by the time he’s done, you stir awake.
Your arms extend high above your head and a strangled, morning-stretch sound squeaks out of you. With a sigh, you roll over to his side of the bed, an arm thumping against the mattress, and your head pops up.
“Hey.”
You turn at the sound of his voice, a sprinkle of relief melts your expression. “Hey,” you croak.
He smiles. “You thought I left again.”
“For a second.”
The air is thick with dread, and he can’t decide if he wants to prolong his leaving as much as he can or make things short and sweet and leave with good memories of last night and a promise of more to come.
He crosses the room and perches on the edge of the bed, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Morning.”
You hold onto his forearm braced across your body, as if anchoring him here. “What time’s your flight?”
“Anytime. I flew here on a friend’s jet.”
“Rubbing elbows with the one percent, huh?”
He chuckles. “Something like that.”
Your hands roam across his chest and rest on the sides of his ribcage. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“I don’t want to leave.” He skims a finger down the side of your face. “I’d ask you to come with me, but…”
The edges of your smile is dulled by a tinge of sadness. “I really like my life here.”
“I’ll write.”
“You’d better”—you grab the knot of his sling and drag him closer—“or I’ll hunt you down.”
“Maybe I won’t write, then. If it’ll get you to come visit me.”
“I’ll look for the plum trees.”
“I don’t actually—”
“Shut up. Let me have this joke.”
He’s mid-laugh when you kiss him.
~&~
A day after Bucky gets home (and he gets some much needed sleep), he pulls up his little table beside his bed. After returning the jet, he borrowed a stack of paper and a writing instrument from Shuri for which he had to suffer some teasing.
“I’ll give them to you,” she said, “if you tell me who you’re writing to. Is it the same person you went to visit? Who is it?”
“A friend.”
She raised a brow. “Friends don’t make you smile like that.”
He can feel that same smile now, thinking about the raspberry he blew on your cheek because you said you didn’t want to cry. You were stood in a tight embrace on the threshold of your front door, a car idling outside to take him to Tony’s private hangar where he’d parked the jet.
A pair of giggling kids burst into his modest hut, ready to watch him work for the day.
He glances down at the page.
Dear [Name],
It’s essentially blank but so full of potential, much like your budding relationship. He’s already lost you once; he’s not going to do it again. But you both have a whole life ahead of you; this can wait a little while. He’ll come back to you.
“We’re moving hay today. You guys gonna help me?”