Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You’d forgotten the target’s name. In one ear, and out the other - you’ve known too many targets to remember them all. This one, with his watery eyes and lippy smile, responds well to sweetie, honey, and baby. Most do, to be fair. This one gets handsy. You’re used to it. You’re handsy back - the flash drive in his pocket slides into your fingers, and beneath the thick golden bracelet you’re wearing. He doesn’t notice. How could he, with your lipsticked-lips breathing hotly in his ear? 

You pull away with a sensuous smile.  

“I’m going to freshen up,” you say, tracing his knee with a fingertip. Your eyelashes flutter. His Adam’s apple bobs in a swallow.  

“Go ahead.”

As if you need his permission. But you stand anyway, letting your fingers trace up his arm to his shoulder before you pull away with a final glance. The crowd swallows you as you glide across the club floor, and you let out a long breath as your strides go from languid to brisk.  

Bathroom. You slide back out the flash drive, and secure it on the bottom of your high heel. It’ll be safer there. Now the only question is: return to the target so as not to look suspicious, or cut and run? 

Cut and run, definitely. You have all you need. 

A click-click of heels on the tile floor, and you move with your chin in the air towards the back of the club. Emergency exit. Holding your bracelet to the sensor, it gives a tiny beep! and glows green.  

Ah. Fresh air. Well, as fresh as it gets in New York City, in a back alley after dark.  

The sidewalks are fairly busy. It’s only about ten p.m., and the clubs and bars that line the streets are flashing lights, spilling people, and thudding deep music. There are a few stares your way - drunks, mostly, and a few envious girls at the dress swishing around your legs. Doesn’t matter. It’ll be in a dumpster by dawn, and so will your wig.  

Passing by another dark alley, something heavy lands on your shoulder. Immediately all your hair stands on end -  a hand. Pulling you back. You swivel ‘round beneath the arm, flinging out a small switchblade from your bracelet to back up against the person standing against the brick wall, hidden from view.  

The blade is pressed to a stranger’s throat. Unshaven throat. Blue eyes blink back at you, and slowly two hands lift into the air. One reflects glowing club lights into your eyes, which you narrow.  

“Who are you?” you ask abruptly.  

“Nobody,” a very low voice says. You don’t believe him for a minute. Because there’s only one person you’ve ever heard of in the world with a silver hand. And you like to keep tabs on the Avengers. They wouldn’t like what you do. Maybe that’s why he’s here now.  

There’s a baseball cap obscuring the upper half of his face. Knife still at his throat, you lift a finger and tap it back the cap to study his features better.  

Bad move. His handsomeness is…disarming. The scruffy chin, the perfect nose, those eyes - just everything together. Or maybe it’s the expression on his face. A little wild, a little tame - a little admiring. How is it that everyone thinks Captain America is the best looking Avenger? It’s not even a competition. 

“Can you put the knife away, darlin?” he asks next, and there’s a slight smile on his lips. “I don’t have a weapon.” 

“You are a weapon.” 

A pause. “True. But I ain’t here to hurt you.” 

Slowly, your eyes never leaving his - you lower your knife. The blade flips back in, and you slide it back behind your bracelet. You take a single step back.  

“Then why are you here?” you ask frankly. “And why me? Were you going for someone else, and found someone to fight back just out of bad luck?” 

“Funny,” the man says, and he rubs his neck ruefully with his flesh hand. “I was going for you. Wanted to talk.” 

“I’m sure we have nothing to talk about.” 

But your thoughts are going a hundred miles an hour - so you apparently are on the Avengers’ radar. Time to cut and run. New city. New alias -  

“Stark wants me to bring you in,” he says without preamble. “Been watching you. But I don’t think jail would suit you.” 

Your head tilts to the side, as you consider him. Stark. The hand. This is Bucky Barnes. Even if he looks different in the shadows than on the news. The leather jacket suits him. And the jeans. And -  

You’re getting distracted.  

“Such a thoughtful judgment for you to make,” you say sardonically. “But I have no interest in going to prison, whatever your opinion or anyone else’s.” 

“Which is why I’m here talkin’ to you, and you’re not on your way to Avengers Tower,” Bucky Barnes says. You quirk a brow, waiting for him to go on. He shifts his weight, his gaze never leaving yours. “We could use someone like you on our team,” he says carefully. “Your skills - I mean, I don’t think any of us could pickpocket like you. Or run a con.” 

“How flattering.” 

“It’s meant to be. We could use you.” Bucky’s eyes are very blue, and very piercing. You study him a moment, and then open your mouth. 

“No.” 

“No?” he repeats. There’s that hidden smile again, and your urge to either slap it off or kiss it off.  

“No,” you say again, voice steelier this time. “I’m happy where I am, thanks.” 

“You gonna leave town? Now that I’ve found you?” Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets. Perhaps attempting to look casual. It sort of works. Still looks like he’s considering jumping you. In a fight, or something else. You smile. It really is a shame you do have to leave. To deliver the flash drive to your employer, and to escape the eyes of the Avengers.  

“Why? You wanna come?” you say boldly.  

A grin blooms on his face. His teeth are bright in the shadows, and his huffing laugh is warm. “Don’t tempt me, darlin,’” he says lightly.  

“Then I’ll leave now. Before you change your mind.” With a little wave and a winning smile, you turn on your heel and head back to the sidewalk. There are no footsteps following you, and after a few moments you look back over your shoulder.  

He’s still there, watching you.  

And then he’s gone.  

Your stomach is fluttering. 

Chapter Text

Bucky is humming as he rolls out dough for turnovers. It’s a quiet night, late enough in the year that all the lights are on by evening in his apartment (his best kept secret from the rest of the Avengers, apart from Steve), and with some Billie Holiday crooning in the background, he’s as content as he’s likely ever to be.  

The swoosh of the rolling pin, the cloud of dusty flour floating in the air, the feel of dough stretching under his hands - it’s familiar. It’s comforting. It’s home. It’s his ma and sisters, alive again. 

A clanging and a strangled grunt reach his ears from outside the nearest window. Immediately all his hair stands on end - wiping his hands on the kitchen towel of his shoulder, Bucky flings out a drawer to pick up a Glock. The weapon cocks easily in his hands as he sidesteps around the kitchen island. Back against the wall, he strains his neck to peer through a crack in the curtains. He can hear breathing through the glass. Ragged breathing. Pained breathing. But only one person - if it was Hydra, there would be multiples. And he can’t hear anything from the directions of the front door or any other window. 

Billie still croons. Bucky nudges aside the curtain with his elbow, gun poised. Ready for a trap. 

But it’s not Hydra. It’s you.  

Features wan, eyes hollow, and a hand pressed to your shoulder, smeared with blood. Ignoring the leap of his heart in his chest, Bucky clicks the safety forward on his gun and sticks it into the pocket of his jeans, unlocking the window to push it open. A burst of chill night air, tinged with the acrid taste of blood and sweat.  

“I’m sorry,” you rasp through dry lips before he can speak. “I - I don’t know anyone else - ” 

“Come inside,” Bucky says briskly. You wince as you start to hoist yourself through the window, favoring your right side - he catches you beneath your arms, gently tugging you through the rest of the way. A good thing he did, too - because your legs give out as soon as they’re on the ground, and he tightens his hold on your waist.  

“Sorry,” you mumble again. He can smell the blood stronger now; in your hair, on your clothes. Yours? Seems like it. Bucky steers you to a chair at his tiny table, setting you down as you let out a long breath, and he closes the window and locks it, yanking the curtains back closed.  

“Thought you left town,” Bucky says by way of conversation, making for the cupboard where he keeps his first aid kit. Well, one of them.  

“I did,” you reply, and he arches a brow as you wince in pain. “I - I just came back. Had a job to do.” 

“Did it go well?” he asks, only a little sardonically. You cast him a glare - a very cute glare - and Bucky is grinning as he opens the plastic box to dump out supplies.  

“Got stabbed twice. Left shoulder, left thigh.” 

“Impressive. And you made it all the way here from…?” It‘s a long shot of a question, he supposes - so he’s not really surprised when you don’t answer. Bucky shakes his head, and returns to the kitchen for some water and paper towels. “And you know where I live,” he calls over, filling a cup at the sink.  

“Anyone with enemies should know where they live,” you state. Your voice is low.  

“Didn’t realize we were enemies,” Bucky remarks. 

“We’re not friends.” 

“I’d still love to have you on the Avengers team. I think that counts as being friendly, at the very least.”  

This gets him a smile. Bucky returns it, sliding the glass of water to you.  

“Thank you,” you tell him, and chug it. Empty glass back on the table, and you wipe your mouth with the back of your sleeve. You’re not wearing one of those fancy dresses you seem to favor for your gigs - but dark jeans and a sweater. Dirty jeans and a filthy sweater. A blood-stained sweater. 

“Do you think we’re friends enough that you’ll let me take a look at your wounds?” Bucky asks next, as your eyes flit to his. There’s hesitation in your face - but then you nod, and take your hand away from your shoulder to unzip your sweater. 

A tank top underneath. He can see the smeared brown of old blood, and he hears your hiss as air hits the ruined flesh just below your clavicle. Bucky frowns, kicking a chair close to you as he picks up a pair of latex gloves. Are those tears he sees glittering in your eyes? That’s not good. Pretty, but not good. 

“Oh, please,” he says lightly to break the tension, choosing next a container of hydrogen peroxide. “Doesn’t look bad at all. I’ve had worse. Many times.” 

You blink. He casts you a grin to show he’s teasing, but you just shake your head.  

“I don’t doubt it,” you say back. “But not all of us are soldiers.”  

“You don’t expect to get stabbed in your line of work?” Bucky leans forward, wiping away some of the dried blood as you shift in the chair. Then you squirm away, and push the strap of your tank top over your arm so that he has better access. Bucky swallows, and keeps his eye on the wound.  

“I’m a grifter, not a thug,” you say through gritted teeth. Antiseptic hits the worst part of the stab wound - it’s long but shallow, though Bucky doesn’t doubt that it hurts - and by the foam forming on the skin, there’s plenty of bacteria going around.  

“You won’t need stitches,” he informs you, pressing the gauze into the wound. You’re biting your lip very hard, and Bucky frowns again. “Why didn’t you go to a hospital?” he asks.  

“Because I’d be found there.” 

“Oh.” He pulls the gauze away, and chooses some fresh stuff and some medical tape. “People after you?” 

“Yep.” 

“So you brought them here instead. Didn’t think to call ahead and warn a fellow?” 

Your expression is clearly miffed as Bucky tears off some tape with his teeth. “How clumsy do you think I am?” you demand. “I took the long way. Didn’t see any for five blocks before I climbed up your fire escape.”

“What a comfort.” 

“Figured you’d have better security than a hospital, anyway.” 

Bucky chortles as he wraps the tape around your shoulder. It stays in place, and you sigh as you gently touch the bandage with your fingertips. “Fair point,” he says lightly. “Next.” 

The other wound is more awkward. You hoist yourself painfully to your feet, tugging off your belt and pants as Bucky tries not to look. One long, shapely leg emerges from your jeans, streaked with blood and looking far nastier than your shoulder as you wince, sitting back in the chair clumsily.  

“This one’s still bleeding,” Bucky reports, and he splashes some peroxide on the gash before pressing paper towels into it. Your groan is louder this time - and your hand covers your eyes. Your lip is trembling, and Bucky frowns again. He keeps the pressure on your thigh.  

“Well, how many guys did you get, at least?” he asks nonchalantly.  

A pause. Your lip isn’t quivering anymore. Is that a ghost of a smile? “Three,” you tell him in a shaky voice.  

“Good girl,” Bucky approves. “As long as you get them worse than they got you.” 

“Sounds like something an assassin would say.” 

“You got me there,” he chortles. He pulls back to study the wound - oh good, it stopped. Wiping up the blood around the gash, Bucky chews his lip in concentration as he tries not to notice your gaze on his face. A surge of self-consciousness makes him clumsy, and he clears his throat.  

“Got somewhere to stay?” he asks briskly, filling the wound with clean gauze. 

“No.” 

Silence. He wraps tape around your thigh. Your skin is buttery smooth and warm - he wants to run his hands up and down your leg to feel just how soft it is -  

“I plan on catching a flight somewhere,” you add. 

“Huh? In this condition?” Bucky breaks the tape with his teeth again, smoothing it over. A fair job, and you move your leg experimentally.  

“I don’t have much choice,” you tell him with a wry smile. The strap of your tank top goes back over your shoulder, and Bucky forces himself to look at your face. 

“Stay here,” he suggests, rolling off the dirty gloves from his hands and totally ignoring the fact that he’d told Steve he’d be back at Avengers Tower in the morning. “For a few days, until you feel better.” 

“What about the guys after me?” you counter. 

Bucky snorts. “Like a coupla bad guys are gonna scare me off.” 

You lift a brow.  

“Just lay low for a while,” he urges, latching the first aid kit back closed. “You’ll be safe here. I won’t turn you in.” 

“Will you forcibly recruit me to the Avengers?” 

“Only if you want me to.” 

“I don’t want you to. I’ll stay if you promise to forget I was ever here.” 

“Done,” Bucky says at once, and stands. Trash to the can, kit put away. He pulls out some painkillers next, and tosses them across the room - you catch the bottle in your good hand. “Good stuff,” he comments. “Even works for me, if I take enough.” 

“Great,” you mutter. But you shake out two pills and take them dry, anyway. Bucky grins.  

“Don’t bother putting those filthy clothes back on, either,” he tells you severely. “I have some spare sweats.” 

“Wow, great service,” you deadpan, favoring him with a smile as he ducks out of the room. He’s grinning giddily to himself as he rummages through drawers for some clothes - wasn’t expecting a beautiful, irresistible, slightly-terrifying woman to stay overnight at his place - but who is he to complain?  

Drawstring sweatpants, a loose t-shirt and a clean hoodie - neatly folded, and tossed onto the table.  

“Go change,” Bucky half-suggests, half-orders. “You’re gross. And I can finish dinner.” 

“You’re going to feed me, too?” you ask, eyes twinkling with bemusement as you examine the clothes.  

“What, do you need me to put the fork in your mouth?” Bucky snarks.  

“Please. Let’s have some boundaries.” 

“Fine. Close the door when you use the bathroom, then.” Bucky sends you a wink - and you’re huffing a laugh as he offers a hand to help you stand. Your fingers curl around his arm as you hobble, and patiently he helps you to the hallway, his clothes under your arm. He flicks on the light in the bathroom, and you let out a long breath.  

“I’m fine,” you insist, bracing yourself on the bathroom sink. No weight on your injured leg. 

“If you say so,” he says, and retreats.  

Bucky is whistling along to Glenn Miller as he returns to his waiting turnover dough. Guess there won’t be any leftovers for tomorrow after all.  

He sets the table for two, the moment heralded by sultry trombone.  

The turnovers are baking nicely, and smelling fantastic, when Bucky hears a thud and a grunt from the hallway. Sighing to himself, he dumps the rest of the dirty dishes in the sink and wanders off - the glare you cast him, braced against a doorway and looking more than a little adorable in his rolled-up sweatpants, doesn’t deter him.  

“Come on, gimp,” he jokes, half-hoisting you on his shoulder to keep your weight off your bad leg.  

“I’m not a gimp,” you retort.  

“Keep pretending, sweetheart.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Okay, sugar.” 

Bucky is relieved not to get a punch for his teasing - but it just goes to show how rotten you’re feeling as he lowers you back into a chair at the table. Your glare is just as fierce, and he grins back.  

“Sit back and relax,” he says as you wince, shifting your weight. “Dinner’s almost ready.” 

“I still don’t know why you’re letting me stay,” you say blandly, as he returns to the kitchen for drinks. Water. Nothing stronger with the pain meds he gave you.  

“Two years ago,” Bucky muses, smiling to himself as he gets ice. “You pickpocketed Sam Wilson in Atlantic City.” 

You blink at him. “Huh? Oh.” A look of focused thought crosses your face. “I…” 

“I suspect you were hired to do it.” 

A pause. “I was. I, um - needed his military ID. Long story.” 

“He was real worked up about it,” Bucky chortles to himself, winding to the table to refill your cup. “It took all my self control not to laugh about it every day for the next six months. That’s what put you on Stark’s radar in the first place.” 

“Oh.” Another pause, and Bucky goes back to check the turnovers. Perfect. He pulls them out of the oven with his metal hand, closing the oven door with a swing of his hips. A clink of ice behind him. Then you speak up again. “And…you don’t think I’m grifting you? For a place to stay?” 

“How about my great nursing skills?”   

“Hey, I’ve had worse patch jobs.” 

Bucky slides the turnovers onto a couple plates, liking the light teasing in your voice. Very much. “You can grift me for a place to stay, if it’s that important to you,” Bucky says after a moment, carrying the plates to the table before sliding into the empty chair. Your eyes don’t leave his face, and he shrugs. “Like I said, you’re safe here. And if you try to threaten me, I think I can take you on.” 

Your brows lift. “Maybe you’re my target,” you tell him evenly.  

Bucky chuckles. “Fat chance.” 

Without warning you laugh, and it’s music to his ears. “Fair,” you admit, your smile not fading. “Well - thank you for the nursing, then. And the clothes. And…dinner. This smells great.” 

“Thank you,” Bucky says, a little smugly as you break the crust of your turnover, and fragrant steam floats up. “My ma’s recipe.” 

“Really?” Your gaze darts to his face, somewhat surprised - and he grins.  

“Real as I’m sittin’ here.” 

You blink, open your mouth as if to say something - and close your lips again. And finally slice off a bite with your fork, to stick in your mouth. Bucky, already chewing, waits patiently for your reaction. 

“Wow,” you say, mouth full. “This is…surprisingly good.” 

“Surprisingly?” Bucky asks, amused.  

“Well, yeah. I mean, you’re…you,” you tell him, a little lamely, and as your eye twitches slightly, Bucky starts to laugh.  

“I think the medicine is kicking in,” he teases. 

“Yeah, my brain is starting to feel floaty.” 

“No nodding off over dinner,” Bucky says severely, as you smile again. Eyes slightly unfocused. “Bad manners,” he adds.  

“Okay, okay…” 

Bucky finishes eating in silence, but he isn’t really noticing how great his turnovers are. His eyes are on you, watching every little tick in your movement, in your face. You don’t look back. Probably aware of his scrutiny. Maybe too tired to care. Maybe refusing to appear disturbed.  

Hmm. He’s not really sure how grifters work in real life. But he’s probably not meant to. 

Your bites slow. Bucky leans back in his chair, arms crossed as he watches your blinks get slower, too. Shaking yourself, you take a long drink of water. You rest your chin in your hand, fork hanging limply between your fingers - 

Yep. You’re out.  

After your eyes have been closed for eight seconds, Bucky takes pity. Sliding back his chair as quietly as he can, he bends over your prone form to fit his arms beneath your knees and around your shoulders. You don’t protest - you don’t even flinch when your fork falls with a clatter - and when he straightens your head lolls against his shoulder. Then he pauses. 

He hadn’t thought this far.  

Well, you’re the guest. Bucky wanders down the hall to his own bedroom, wishing he’d thought to wash his sheets. There hadn’t been enough time, anyway. For the first time, he thinks he should have a spare set.  

He tucks you in, limbs arranged in what he hopes is the most painless shape. He doesn’t linger over those adorable little puffs of breath from your lips. Blinds drawn, and Bucky closes the door quietly on his way out. 

Chapter Text

You jolt awake in a start, heart hammering as you realize that you have no idea where you are.  

The first hints of sunshine are coming from around a dark pair of curtains, lighting the room just enough to get a vague impression of your surroundings. Moving your head and wincing at the stiffness in your neck, you see an old-fashioned dresser, empty white walls, and a chair with clothes draped over it. Two closed doors. There’s no rug on the floor or any other hint of decoration. You take a deep breath, and a somehow-familiar, spicy scent fills your lungs and mouth. Familiar? How could it be familiar?

You’re in a bed. Alone. Rumpled white sheets, a few flat pillows, a dark blue blanket. There’s a nightstand to your right with an old-fashioned lamp and a glass of water. Oh, and the bottle of medicine you recall from the night before.  

Bucky. You’re in Bucky’s apartment. He’d gotten you to agree to stay - what were you thinking?  

Immediately you start to move, intending to escape from the apartment as soon as possible - but a sharp pain in your leg makes you groan, and your shoulder screams in protest. The painkillers must have worn off. But there’s more, all ready.  

Bucky…is thoughtful. Too thoughtful. What kind of assassin is he, anyway?  

Leaning over to grab the pills and water hurts. But you’re parched and sore - greedily you gulp down the medicine and the water. Better. Had the thirst woken you up, or the pain? Doesn’t matter. You fall back against the pillows with a whimper, rubbing the crustiness from your eyes as you try to think.  

Seriously, why had you let Bucky coerce you into staying at his place? It’s a bad idea from every angle - the fact that you need to keep moving to stay out of the reach of the guys after you, the fact that Bucky is essentially a stranger and you don’t trust strangers - or anyone, really; the fact that your heart does funny little stutters around him, and your head swims and your confidence seems to be on a different planet entirely.  

He’d fed you. Bandaged up your wounds. Given you a safe place to lay low. No wonder your stomach is clenching with butterflies. Even the memory of your first, and previously only encounter with the Winter Soldier - in that dark alley all those months ago - has your eyes closing as you bite back a smile. He’d been so handsome and so…so… something. Irresistible, maybe. The admiring look in his gaze, his tongue-in-cheek humor.  

And now you’re sleeping in his apartment.  

This is a really, really, really bad idea. 

A few more minutes of beating yourself up for feeling so weak (both physically and emotionally), and a fuzzy, numb feeling is starting to spread over your body. It hurts less to move now, so you grit your teeth together to swing your legs out of the bed, untangling yourself from the blankets that smell like Bucky - which you’re pretty sure are trying to persuade you to snuggle back in and go back to sleep.  

Bucky’s sweatpants are so soft, so warm. How had you gotten into this mess? Couldn’t you have forced yourself to leave town and find a safe house instead? 

Well, hindsight is 20/20.  

A few limping steps to the door - you open it as quietly as you can, because you don’t want to wake Bucky up, wherever he is, and you make your way down the hallway with a hiss of breath on each step of your bad leg. Bathroom. Close door. Deep breath. 

Your reflection in the mirror is…not great. Of course, who would look great after being stabbed and chased halfway across New York City?  

Splashing some water on your face, you dry it with a hand towel that smells clean. It’s kind of impressive, really - Bucky Barnes lives a pretty clean and tidy life. You’ve seen much worse. You’ve lived much worse. This is nice.  

You hadn’t seen a second bedroom where Bucky must be, so when you limp out of the bathroom, you wander the small apartment, studying the features closely. Down the hall from the bedroom you’d stayed in, you find the dining nook and kitchen. Clean, and empty. Unsurprising. A right turn, and into a living space - and you press your lips together to keep from yelping at the sight of a body on the couch. 

It’s just Bucky. Sprawled out and limbs hanging out from beneath a faded quilt, his head is propped up against a throw pillow, jaw hanging slack. He’s snoring softly. You smile. No need to wake him. Even though it’s impressive he’s still awake with the sun shining in through the blinds.  

Across from the couch, a cabinet with a record player on the top. Impressive. The neat stack of records next to it, even more so. There’s even a bright-green plant. You wonder if Bucky bought that plant, or if someone else had. Is he the type to buy plants?  

Why are you even wondering this?  

Wait - he’s sleeping on the couch? Had he given you the only bedroom? His bedroom? His bed? You’d slept in his bed -  

As you stand with your weight on your good leg, hand against the doorway to keep yourself upright, Bucky gives a grunt and stirs. You jolt, and make as if to run away, but his thick, rough voice has you frozen. And you couldn’t run even if someone was chasing you with a knife. Again. 

“You there?” 

“Um - ” you swallow before answering. “Yeah.” What are those shivers up your spine? 

He shifts more, eyes blinking blearily open and across the room at you. Then he gives an enormous yawn. “What time is it?” he asks, rubbing an eye with the palm of his flesh hand. Staring at the white t-shirt stretched across his chest, you blink stupidly for a moment before your brain catches up.  

“Oh - it’s seven.” There’s a clock in the kitchen you’d checked.  

“Ugh. Good morning, then.” There’s a sleepy smile on his lips as he pushes himself up to sit. You watch as he flicks out the blanket, neatly folding it over his lap before tossing it over an armrest of the couch.  

“You didn’t have to give me your bed,” you blurt, and his eyes flicker over to you, a single brow arched. You swallow again. “Next time, I get the couch.” 

Bucky chortles, his voice still deep and gravelly. “Not a chance, sweetheart. Times have changed, but I’m not gonna let a woman crash on this old thing. It’s not comfortable at all. And you’re wounded.” He runs his fingers through his mussed hair. Are you forgetting to breathe? It’s a distinct possibility.  

The growling of your stomach breaks the silence, and you feel your face turn hot as Bucky grins. Why is he making you feel so out of your depth -  

“Hungry?” he asks lightly, and hoists himself up to stand. He’s very tall, isn’t he? 

“I guess,” you say with a shrug.  

“I wasn’t plannin’ on staying here too long before you showed up,” Bucky admits. “I’ll run out for some groceries. I didn’t want to go last night with you conked out from the meds with all those bad guys after you.” 

An automatic protest forms in your brain - but you keep your mouth shut. It’s not like you can go. You can barely walk. And you’re probably still being searched for.  

“What do you mean, you weren’t planning on staying here long?” you ask, curious as he combs through his hair again.  

“I’m just on a break from Avengers stuff,” Bucky says, his eyes very blue as you stare up at him, baffled and a little aggravated. “Was gonna return to the Tower today, but I changed my mind.” 

You open your mouth - this time, you’re gonna protest - but he doesn’t let you.  

“I’m not leaving you here alone for that long,” he points a finger at your nose. “And I’m not gonna let you try to change my mind, either. You’re stayin’ here until you can take care of yourself, and that’s final.” 

“Are you always this bossy, or do you just like to make me crazy?” you retort.  

His returning smile is slanted. “Maybe both,” he says back easily. “I’m gonna shower.” And he brushes past you to make for the hallway, and you suck in that Bucky scent that you’d slept in all night. You probably smell like him, too.  

Weirdly, it’s not an unpleasant thought.  

Since your good leg is starting to tremble from carrying all your weight, you take a limping step towards the couch and collapse with a sigh. It’s still warm, but you don’t think about that as you prop your legs up to rest. A yawn. Oh, right - the pills had made you drowsy last night, hadn’t they? You can’t even remember getting from the kitchen to bed. Huh. 

Your eyes close as you hear the sound of the shower being turned on.  

A plan needs to be outlined, and fast. It seems like a few days at Bucky’s is on the books whether you like it or not - but as soon as you can walk again, you’re out of there. There’s a matter of deciding where to go that you won’t be followed - your safe house in Miami is seeming a good bet. From there, it’ll be easy to get in contact with your employer. He won’t worry for a few days, so you have that, at least. You’ll have to stop at a bank in Manhattan for some new IDs and cash - your Brooklyn stash had been cleared out months ago when you’d deserted New York.  

It feels better to have a plan. A bit.  

Pleasant drowsiness is weighing down your limbs when Bucky’s footsteps return to the living room. You peek open an eye to see him shrugging on a jacket, his still-damp hair tied back in a loose knot. Those jeans look great from behind.  

“Be back in a few,” he says, glancing over at you with - is that amusement in his eyes? Jerk.  

“Take all the time you need,” you mumble back. “If anyone shows up, I’ll kick their butt.” 

Bucky is chortling as he heads for the door. “You’re cute when you’re dopey,” he calls back, and you hear the door open and close. And lock.  

Your head lolls against the armrest, and another yawn as your brain feels totally, completely, fuzzy.  

The light through the blinds darkens from a pale yellow to a rich gold, though you don’t notice. Eventually you grab the blanket Bucky had folded, unfurling it over yourself as his scent envelopes you chin to toes. No complaints there, you suppose.  

When the door to the apartment opens again, you don’t move - you can’t move, with the medicine making things heavy and lethargic, but you do notice Bucky’s chuckle and the crinkle of paper bags. He doesn’t say anything, which is good - but you plan some great retorts in case he does.  

A hand on your face has you moaning, and you turn away from the heat. But none of those perfectly planned retorts are coming out. 

“Come on, sweetheart - you need to eat or you’ll be hurling up your pills.” 

“What’d you bring me?” you mumble back, burying your face in the back of the couch. 

“A bagel from the coffee shop down the street.” Bucky’s voice sounds amused. “Well - a few bagels. I wasn’t sure if you like sweet or savory.” 

“Coffee?” 

A pause. “I don’t think coffee’s such a good idea with that medicine.” 

“I smell coffee.” 

Another pause. “That’s mine,” Bucky says. Definitely amused. “Do I need to carry you to the table, or what?” 

“Can’t I just eat here?” 

“On the couch? It may be stick and bones, but we’re not heathens,” he teases. “My ma would have a heart attack for you to even suggest such a thing.” 

“Fine. I’ll go.” The haziness in your head makes it hard to judge how much time passes before Buck is laughing again - maybe a minute or two. You haven’t budged. Sighing, you roll over, forcing your eyes open. Ugh, the room is so bright. Blink until your eyes adjust. Sit up. The blanket falls to the ground, and Bucky picks it up - he’s crouched beside you, as if waiting for you to teeter. Which doesn’t take long - you sway, and he catches you around the waist before you fall back to the couch. His chuckle in your ear is warm, and makes you shiver. What gives him the right -  

“Come on. On your feet, darlin.’” 

It’s a good thing Bucky is no weakling, because he hauls most of your weight - you barely manage to put one foot in front of the other. When he plops you in a chair at the dining table, you sigh in relief, but blink around at the white spots. 

Drowsy barely begins to cover it.  

“Weren’t you supposed to get groceries?” you ask, as Bucky unrolls a brown paper bag. 

“I did,” he says, casting you a grin. “Put ‘em away already.” 

“Already? But you just got back - ” 

“Yeah, twenty minutes ago.” 

Resting your elbows on the table, you cradle your head with a soft groan. “No way.” 

“It’s the medicine,” Bucky says wisely, and on the table he sets a plate piled high with bagels and a container of cream cheese.  

“Might be worth the pain not to be so out of it,” you mumble. 

“Hmm,”  he says in response, and he’s smiling as he pushes the plate towards you. He crosses his arms to rest on the table, eyes expectant. “Eat,” he commands, and you obey with a yawn.  

The bagel is good. Really good. Good enough to keep you semi-conscious for the next few minutes. It doesn’t escape you that Bucky eats two and a half bagels in the time it takes you to eat one - but hey, you’re drugged out of your mind.  

“Good work,” Bucky says when you’ve finished, and he’s forced a tall glass of water on you, too. “You can nap the rest of the day, if you want.” 

“I do want.” 

“What sounds good for dinner? Pasta? Soup?” His arm is snaking around your back again - eager to help, this one - and you clutch him around the neck as your brain swirls with dizziness while you’re hoisted to your feet. 

“Pasta.” 

“Any other special requests?” 

“Yeah,” you mutter, focusing on keeping your feet moving down the hall to the bedroom. What are you saying? “You’re not allowed to sleep on the couch anymore - it’s not comfortable. And way too small. You were dangling off like an octopus this morning.” 

Bucky’s low chuckle rumbles in his chest. “The bed’s for you,” he says, hauling you through the door.  

“Don’t be absurd,” you say crossly. “It’s your bed. I should take the couch.” 

“You’re my guest.” 

“And you’re gonna get a crick in your neck - ” 

“You’re sweet to worry. But I’m not arguing. You get the bed.” 

“Then sleep with me. We can both be comfortable.” 

“At least take me on a date first, sweetheart,” Bucky teases. 

“It’s not like I’m gonna get fresh with you,” you add, as he lowers you for the bed to swallow you up in a soft embrace. “I’ll be knocked out from the pills. And if the bad guys show up, you’ll be closer to protect me.” 

Bucky’s laugh rings out - it makes you feel warm all over for some reason. Or is that the blanket he’s pulling over you. A sleepy smile steals across your face.  

“I bet you’d like me to sleep with you,” he jokes.  

“That’s not what I meant,” you protest. “And I bet you’d like that.” 

“I like you on drugs,” Bucky says, and is that fondness in his voice? You can’t tell - too drowsy. Curling up on your uninjured side, you yawn an enormous yawn, and listen to the vibrations of his chuckle as his footsteps fade away. The door clicks. Your heartbeat takes a minute or two to calm, and then sleep. 

Chapter Text

A four-hour nap, and you’re tired of sleeping.  

Dragging your feet and gritting your teeth to keep from limping, you wander out of the bedroom and through the golden-bright apartment, desperate for something to do. The pain is present, but bearable - though the jolt as you see Bucky sitting at the dining table with his nose in a book sends a fresh shock of pain through your thigh. 

“Afternoon,” he says, lifting his head with a smile that nearly jolts you again. “Feeling better?”

“Alright,” you say shortly. “Do you have a laptop I can borrow? I have some purchases to make.”

Bucky’s smile turns a little sly, a little searching - he stands to move into the kitchen while you take an empty seat with a sharp intake of breath.   

A silver laptop clatters on the table. Dismissive of technology, is he? You eye him for a moment as he slides back into his seat and picks up his book again. “What?” he asks, noticing your scrutiny. 

“Nothing.” 

Bucky’s lips twitch. “Uh huh.” 

Why does he always make you feel like you’re swimming out of your depth? You’ve never felt that way around millionaires, business moguls - any number of targets. With a frown you force all your attention on your task.  

It’s slow going, with only one good arm for typing. Your wounded shoulder throbs; aches and pulses with pain. Shopping is a good distraction, though.  

“What are you buying?” Bucky flips a page of his book, not looking up. Just casual. Which doesn’t account for your heart skipping a beat at the sound of his voice. 

“Supplies,” you say vaguely. “Um - I left all my stuff at the hotel I was staying at, but I don’t doubt by now it’s been ransacked. I need clothes. And a toothbrush.” 

Blinking, Bucky glances up and meets your eyes over the rim of the laptop.  

“I haven’t brushed my teeth a couple days,” you shrug. “It happens.” 

“Gross. You should’ve said something.” 

“What, you would’ve let me borrow yours?” you snark. 

Bucky’s smile crinkles his eyes at the corners - distracted, you stare at him while he chortles. “Maybe I have an extra,” he teases. “Ever think of that?” 

“Um, no.” 

“You’re determined to think of the worst of me, aren’t you, sweetheart?” 

You study his face for a moment. “You don’t have an extra toothbrush, do you?” you ask at last.

“Well, no.” 

The laugh that bursts from you can’t be stopped - and then Bucky joins in, and the dining area is so warm. That must be the afternoon sunshine coming in through the windows, right?  

Your purchases are made with a memorized credit card number, and set for overnight shipping. Soon you’ll be able to get out of Bucky’s sweatpants and shirt. And wear underwear again, because if there’s anything more awkward than wearing a handsome stranger’s clothes, it’s wearing his clothes without underwear.  

“Hungry for lunch?” Bucky asks, when you’ve shut his laptop.  

“Yeah. Still gonna cook for me?” 

His smile is crooked over his book. “You’re the guest, sweetheart.” 

“Got any pain meds that won’t knock me out, by chance?” 

He’s laughing as he shoves a bookmark into his book. “I’ll see what I have.” 

What he has is gulped down with some water, and the twinging in your leg and shoulder go down as Bucky makes a few sandwiches. No drowsiness yet - and even when lunch is over there’s none of that bone-deep exhaustion weighing you down. In fact, your dirty hair is beginning to itch, and realizing that you haven’t showered in 48 hours is deeply distressing - so while Bucky is doing the dishes, (he’d insisted; you hadn’t argued), you ask him where the spare towels are and hobble to the bathroom.  

Stripping down, a study in front of the mirror shows Bucky’s skill at bandaging your wounds; with light fingertips you trace the bandage on your shoulder. Your flesh throbs in response, but it’s bearable - and without asking for it, the memory of Bucky’s furrowed, concentrated brow as his fingers had gently fixed your stab wounds replays in your mind.  

A shaky breath, and you turn away to start the shower.  

The only soap is generic and a little spicy, and breathing in the hot soapy steam reminds you of Bucky’s bed. Warm bed.  

Why are you thinking about this, anyway?  

A knock on the door as you’re toweling yourself off nearly has you jumping out of your skin, Bucky’s voice through the door: “Hey, I washed your clothes - I’m leaving them outside the door.” 

“You washed them just now?” you call back, peeved at the interruption and how your heart is racing.  

“Um - no.” Is it even possible for awkward silences to work with a door in between. “Earlier today. I just - forgot to get them from the dryer.” 

“Oh. Well.” Another awkward silence. “Thank you.” 

“You can borrow my deodorant if you like,” Bucky adds, and you can hear the quiver in it - he’s laughing. “My comb. I ran to the corner store for a new toothbrush, though.” 

“You’re disgusting,” you say, because you don’t know what else to say. Wrapping the towel tightly above your breasts, you open the door very slightly to peer out - Bucky’s back is turned as he walks away, but at the noise he glances back. Pervert. You stick your tongue out, but he just laughs, and disappears around a corner.  

Back in the bathroom, you regard your clothes with a frown. Underwear and tank top - fine. You pull them on, and grimace as your finger goes through a hole in your jeans. There’s another hole in your sweater. Well - that’s how knives work.  

After some thought, you tug Bucky’s borrowed sweats back on.  

Back in the kitchen, unsure of what else to do to fill your time (a glass of water to combat what feels like dehydration creeping on, from all that sleep), you nearly yelp aloud to see Bucky sitting at the table, metal arm propped up on the surface with a panel opened on the forearm - wires stick out every which way as he fiddles with a small screwdriver. There’s a box on the table full of techy-related things. His brow is pinched in concentration.  

“Um,” you say.  

Bucky glances up. There’s a trace of smile on his lips as his expression clears of frustration. “What, never seen anyone do surgery on themselves before?” he jokes.  

“Nope. And I’ve seen a lot of weird things.” The Winter Soldier messing with his arm is a new one to add to the list. You hobble to the sink, and fill a glass. “What are you doing, anyway?” you ask nonchalantly, as you hear a spark and a curse.  

“Ah - the calibration’s off. Happens a lot. Stark showed me how to fix it, if it isn’t too bad.” 

“Calibration?” you ask, curious. 

“I was trying to open a stuck door from the laundry room downstairs and ripped it off its hinges.” 

“You - what?” 

“Like I said, it happens a lot,” Bucky sighs, and you watch as he tosses the screwdriver aside, and sticks his flesh fingers beneath the panel. Oh boy. “I forfeited my security deposit within like, two months of living here.” 

“Does this mean you can’t make me dinner?” you tease. He glances over at you - again, the irritated line of his brows smooths over, and he grins.  

“Maybe you should cook for me,” he says, his voice a drawl. “Earn your keep.” 

“You think I cook for just anybody?” 

“Anybody? You think I’m just anybody?” Bucky’s mouth falls open in mock offense - you can’t help laughing. “I have been your doctor, your launderer, your chef, your crutch, your maid, your - ” 

“Stop, stop!” you wheeze, clutching the edge of the counter for support as the belly-laughter makes your shoulder ache in protest. Tears are burning your eyes, and you press a hand into the wound.  

“Are you okay?” Bucky’s tone changes in an instant, and before you can even move he’s at your side. Through your tears, you can see the pinch of his brow as he grips your arm with his flesh hand - metal arm hanging at his side, still open and spilling wires. “No cooking,” he says firmly, his eyes raking over your face. “I’m sorry for teasing.” 

“No,” you say in surprise. “It’s just - you made me laugh - ” 

His lips twitch, but his voice is stern. “You need to sit. Come on.” 

“I’ll sit with you,” you tell him, without running the offer by your brain first. “Keep you company.” 

A pause, and a few halting steps take you to the table, where you lower yourself into the chair with Bucky’s help.  

“And when I say keep you company,” you blunder, since your mind is finally catching up and your face is burning as he takes his seat again. “I mean, pester you out of your mind with questions about what you’re doing.” 

Bucky arches a brow as he picks up the screwdriver again. “I’m hard to pester,” he says. “But give it a shot.” 

You do. “So, if you have electric wires, do you have some sort of power source, or do you have to plug your fingers in somewhere to recharge?” 

Bucky’s laugh rings out, deep and long and rich - and you’re prickling with pleasure (and berating yourself for being so attracted to this guy), as he takes a breath, and keeps chuckling.  

“Now I’m pestered,” he teases. “I’m not gonna get anything done with you around.” 

“I can find a flight - ” 

“No.” His voice is sharp, pointing the screwdriver in your direction. “Don’t even think about it.” 

You grumble, pretending to be more offended than you are. Warmth and humor sparkles in Bucky’s blue eyes as he glances over at you, and your palms are sweating. 

The repairs take enough time that dusk is falling outside by the time Bucky is curling his metal fingers, tapping them on the table to test the calibration. He runs them through his hair, shakes out the elbow, and does a few bicep curls.  

“Show off,” you tease.  

“Yeah? What do you think?” With his flesh hand he pushes his sleeve higher, baring more of the curved silver bicep to your gaze as he pretends to flex.  

“I think you’re pretty vain about that arm,” you say lightly. “Do you admire yourself in the mirror?” 

His grin is lopsided, and irresistable. “There’s plenty to admire, dontcha think?” 

“Oh, please,” you shrug. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

“Uh huh. Hungry?”

“Starving, chef.” 

You stay at the table as Bucky sets to work in the kitchen. Now with all the lights on - and he even pulls out a speaker to play some music. Of course, you gripe about the old-timey jazz for his sake - but he just laughs it off, and you set your chin in your hand with a smile as you watch Bucky cook.  

There is plenty to admire. His shoulders, traps, pecs…all rippling under a t-shirt which very possibly might be a tad too small on purpose. His trim waist. That bum, above which Bucky ties a plain apron before knotting his hair at the base of his neck.  

If he’s vain, he’s certainly justified. There’s no doubt that Bucky is a prime example of masculinity.  

Which definitely explains why your belly is feeling funny and liquidy hot.  

It’s nice, isn’t it? The music and the warmth, the rising scent of something delicious - and Bucky’s captivating grin as he flips the butcher knife in his hand like some sort of psychotic chef - but you laugh anyway, and he starts chopping mushrooms faster than you’ve even seen on television.  

“You’re such a show off,” you tease.  

“At least I give good results,” he retorts. 

“We’ll see about that.” 

“You had my turnovers last night,” Bucky points out, going for a sweet onion next. “Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t propose marriage to me after those. My sister used that exact recipe at a church social back in ‘36 and got four different dates out of it.” 

“Wow,” you say, impressed. “So you were trying to seduce me? With turnovers?” 

“My charm hasn’t worked yet,” Bucky chortles. “Gotta keep trying somehow.” 

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder,” you grin. “How about a croquembouche?” 

“I’d do it,” he declares. “For you.” 

The teasing has gotten you warm, hasn’t it? Unsure of how to reply to that, you shift uncomfortably in the chair - the medicine is wearing off - and with an eye on you, Bucky immediately wipes his hand on his apron, and goes to a cupboard for a pill bottle.  

“Thanks,” you mutter, too embarrassed and shy to say anything else - and gulp down two pills with water that Bucky brought, too. He returns to the kitchen without a word, and you hear more chopping.  

Oh. Here’s something snarky you can say, and you do: “So what’re you making me for dessert?” you ask next, smiling over at Bucky as he snorts. 

“Uh - Oreos?” 

“Aw, the Winter Soldier likes Oreos,” you tease.  

“Who doesn’t?” Bucy counters - a fair point. “Steve and I would save up our nickels to buy some at the corner drug.” 

“Wait - you mean, back a hundred years ago? They had Oreos?” 

“Not a hundred,” he sends a glare your way. “Maybe like, eighty.” 

You snort. 

“And yes, we had Oreos. Weren’t always just plucking chickens out back. Even had running water.” Bucky pauses. “Most days.” 

You’re laughing - and Bucky looks pleased as he stirs the vegetables in the skillet.  

When Bucky finally brings over two plates of steaming pasta, your stomach has started growling. It’s been a while since the sandwich, and the pasta smells so flipping good. But still, you find something to protest about. 

“Um, you gave us like, the same amount of food,” you deadpan as Bucky takes his seat. 

“So?” 

“I…can’t eat as much as you.” 

“Oh.” Bucky shrugs this off. “Well, I won’t be offended if you don’t clean your plate.”

Which is good, because you only manage about a third of your serving, even hungry as you are, and how delicious it is - if he wasn’t an Avenger, Bucky could seriously make a living as a cook. But you don’t tell him that. There’s silence as you daydream about hiring him as your personal chef. Live-in, of course.  

He doesn’t question your dopey smile, though if he did - you would’ve blamed it on the medicine.  

Bucky insists you rest on the couch after supper while he cleans up - you don’t protest (the chair is getting uncomfortable), not even when he covers you with a blanket and returns to the kitchen with a smile over his shoulder. You snuggle in, closing your eyes to savor the contentment.  

He returns with Oreos, and your heart nearly bursts with happiness.  

“Just this once, I’ll let you eat on my couch,” he says sternly, sprawling out beside you. He’s brought his laptop, and places it on the coffee table. “But only because you’re an invalid.” 

“I’m fine,” you complain. “I could be in my own safe house in Florida by now - ” 

“Florida?” Bucky interrupts, brows shooting up.  

“Um - ” Shouldn’t have said that.  

“How about a movie?” he asks easily, and you can almost forget your own embarrassing slip.  

“Okay.” 

Though what movie it is, you couldn’t tell anyone even under duress. Even absently scarfing down cookies, there’s no sensation more on your mind than Bucky’s presence beside you. He’s sitting awfully close, and though his eyes are firmly fastened on whatever’s playing, your heart skips a beat every time he laughs. His arm is brushing against yours, which makes you twitch. And reach for more Oreos.  

How does he have such a presence? He’s safe enough across a table - but this? Torture.  

Brushing your teeth at the sink in the bathroom later, you try not to think about it - but you do.  

“Hey,” you say, sticking your head out the bathroom door as Bucky shuts off the lamp in the living room. “You’re in bed with me tonight. No couch. And no arguing - I will fight you, and my wounds will open and you will feel guilty about afterwards when you’re patching me up.” 

Bucky’s responding laugh is low, even with a wall in-between. “Wouldn’t want that, sweetheart.” 

It doesn’t occur to you that there might be danger in getting your way.

Chapter Text

A sharp, stinging pain erupts from your thigh - jolting awake, a yelp forms in your hoarse throat, and without thinking your non-achy arms swings out wildly, and hits something hard.  

A groan.  

Oh, shoot.  

“Bucky!” you mumble, rubbing your eyes and blinking in the dim, pre-dawn light. 

“What?” he asks roughly, stirring beside you.  

“My leg! You hit my leg!”  

Bucky rolls onto his side, hair frizzy and sticking every which way and his brows pinched as he throws back the blankets. Your thigh is still throbbing, and he passes his flesh hand over the sore area. Air sucks in between your teeth with a hiss. 

“Didn’t mean to,” he says. “Didn’t even realize - must’ve moved in my sleep. Sorry. Can I look at it?” 

“I guess,” you grit out.  

His fingers are gentle as they tug down the waistband of your sweats. Cool air hits your angry skin, and Bucky pries away the tape surrounding the gauze. You can’t help whimpering as you shift your weight and pain courses through the muscle - the gash is red, but better than you remember, and Bucky sighs.  

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I…didn’t realize I moved in my sleep. Otherwise I would’ve stayed on the couch.” 

“It’s fine,” you say absently, as Bucky carefully smooths back down the bandage and pulls the sweats back up to your hip. “I mean, it was only this one time, right?” 

He glances up at you, a grin spread across his sleepy features. “Right.” 

You stare back, and a stupid sort of daze fills your still groggy brain.  

“We need to change your bandages today. Probably clean out any pus buildup, too,” Bucky informs you, and he collapses back on the pillows. As some sort of reflex or sweet notion, he gently lifts your leg so that your thigh is propped up on his - his hand runs down your calf, massaging lightly as goosebumps break out across your skin. The throbbing isn’t so bad, now.  

“What are you doing?” you ask, confused.  

“Rubbing your leg. Trying to get it to feel better.” 

“Gross.” But the sigh that leaves your body limp and languid can be heard - as well as Bucky’s responding chuckle. Keeping your eyes closed, you add in a mutter, “Keep going.” 

With your arm over your closed eyes, it’s almost possible to block out the lightening of the room, the distant sound of neighbors walking around in the apartment above. Bucky’s touch helps to lull you back into a stupor, and an enormous yawn shudders your body.  

“Sleep well?” Bucky’s voice is extra rich, extra thick in the quiet of his bedroom. 

“Yeah, until about five minutes ago.” 

He chortles. “I said I was sorry.” 

“Yeah, well,” you say, but don’t have anything else to add.  

“You like scrambled eggs?” he asks next. 

“Not as much as I like massages.”  

It’s a good thing you like Bucky’s laugh so much, because he seems to do it a lot. A bleary smile lifts your lifts, and he continues to knead around your knee. Not close enough to the wound to hurt, but enough to relieve some tension and stiffness. The man has magic hands.  

“Did you sleep well?” you ask belatedly.  

“Alright,” Bucky says after a pause. “Honestly, I thought you might wake up and send me away after all. Didn’t want to bother you.” 

“I was under the influence of heavy drugs; it would’ve taken an explosion to wake me up.” 

He laughs. “Could’ve rigged one, if you were too far under.” 

Lying in bed with Bucky should not be this peaceful. It really shouldn’t. But somehow the willpower to get up and leave isn’t in you, today. It’s because of the drugs, you decide, knowing full well it’s not.  

“Thanks for staying,” Bucky says suddenly, and surprised at this change, you lower your arm to peek over at him. His head is tilted towards you, a handsome smile on his face as his eyes glitter on your face. “I would’ve been real worried about you out there all wounded and getting chased by bad guys,” he adds.  

“Oh, whatever,” you brush this off. “You just wanted to cook for someone.” 

Another chuckle. “That’s probably true.” 

You can’t help returning his smile - it’s just so nice! - though for some reason it’s hard to hold his gaze. That’s unusual - you know how to hold gazes. Eye contact is one of the best ways to invite someone to trust you, for them to believe whatever lies you’re selling. But you’re not selling Bucky anything - you aren’t even pretending for him. Maybe that’s why it’s difficult. Why these last few days have been so…awkward. 

Bucky doesn’t look away, though his grin softens, and an unfamiliar but frightening expression deepens the blue of his eyes.  

“Well,” you say, matter-of-factly and bit too loud as you clear your throat. “Feel free to get up and make my breakfast anytime. Your morning breath is terrible.”  

“You’re one to talk,” Bucky snarks back at once. “I’m wearing a gas mask tonight!” 

Miffed, you pinch his arm, but he only laughs. Gently he lowers your leg back to the plush of the mattress, casting you a daring glace as he squirms out from beneath the blankets.  

“Need me to bring you some meds? Maybe something to help with that attitude?” 

A pillowcase clenches in your fingers, and you toss it across the room as he scampers out the door with a loud, echoing laugh. Jerk. Why is your heart beating so fast, anyway? 

Bucky returns with a glass of water and the non-drowsy pills, all smiles, and you narrow your eyes at him.  

Even though it’s barely past seven, the kitchen is awash in bright sunlight, which warms your back from the window as you sit at the table with a sigh. The pills are working enough that you’d managed to hobble out of bed - without Bucky’s help. Because you’ve decided you’re not allowed to get used to that.  

“How do you like your toast?” Bucky asks, without turning around from his place at the stove. There’s sizzling, and your stomach is rumbling in sweet anticipation. “Black? Chocolate brown? Caramel brown? Barely brown? Raw?” 

“Um - ” With a grunt you pick up your knee, and prop your ankle on his chair across the table. “Just…regular brown? Or isn’t that in the chef’s repertoire?” 

“Cute. I see you brought the attitude with you.” 

Your eyes snap over to him without thinking but with a glare - and so you see the grin he throws over his shoulder in your direction.  

“Anyway, I don’t think I could be friends with someone who likes their toast burnt,” Bucky says casually “So, good choice.” 

“Wow, I didn’t realize you were so picky.” 

“I’m very picky, sweetheart.” There’s a moment of silence as he stirs something on the stove, and as you rest your cheek in the palm of your hand, watching the rays of sunlight dance across the table, the countertops, Bucky’s back. Then, without turning, he adds, “What are your standards for friends?” 

It’s a question which you don’t want to draw you out of your peaceful stupor. About two or three snarky responses come to mind, but it’s a rare moment of painful honesty that spills from your lips: “I don’t have friends.” 

“C’mon,” Bucky persists. “Everyone has a friend.” 

“A lot of people I’ve met in my line of work don’t have friends,” you retort. “Nearly all of them, in fact. We have to be flexible, we have to compromise; we have to be willing to lose everything in a moment’s notice. To destroy what holds us back.” 

More silence. Bucky is standing slightly to the side, and you can see the glint of sun on his metal arm as he flips over some eggs.  

“Not a great way to live, in my experience,” he says casually, but you don’t reply. 

The eggs - spectacular. The toast - a perfect shade of medium brown which you hold up to your eye to examine carefully, making Bucky laugh as he pours orange juice. There’s jam, too, which he explains was homemade by Sam Wilson’s grandmother.  

“See, that’s another reason to have friends,” Bucky adds, pointing a fork in your direction across the table. “You can charm goodies out of their family members, and make them mad when their grandmothers like you better than them.” 

“I can buy jam,” you say tartly - though you won’t say aloud that this is the best jam you’ve had in ages. “It’s not worth having to cut ties if some con goes sour or an employer wants you to forge a fresh identity.” 

“You need new employers.” 

“Oh, do you have something in mind?” you say, a little mockingly. But Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins, so you know he’s not offended. “The Avengers?” you snark.  

“Great benefits,” Bucky says. “All the vacation time you want, pretty much. As long as you’re there for missions. The pay’s great. Free rent if you want it.” 

“I’m not sure I want to live in the Tower with people that I’ve conned.” 

A pause. Bucky pauses in his chewing, blinking very fast at you. You lower your glass of orange juice, and he blurts, “People? Plural? I thought it was just Sam.” 

Your lips twitch. Another bite of toast, to keep from having to answer. But Bucky’s gaze is hot and probing on your face, and so after swallowing you daintily wipe your mouth with a napkin. “Not just Sam,” you admit, a little haughtily.  

“I want to know,” Bucky says immediately.  

“I get paid for my silence.” 

“Then just a clue.” Is that begging in his voice? There’s a slight screech as his metal fingers clench on his knife - lifting a brow, you shrug.  

“I used a burn scam on Tony Stark,” you shrug. “And a smash-and-grab at the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian, though Steve Rogers wasn’t personally involved.” 

Bucky blinks some more. Then he starts to laugh, and digs back into his eggs. “Here I was thinking of long cons, stealing absurd amounts of money or murder,” he says with a shake of his head. “That’s pretty light stuff, sweetheart.” 

“You’d be more impressed if you knew how much I got paid for the successful outcomes of both of those jobs. And the one with Wilson.” 

“Nothing on me?” Bucky’s blue eyes glint - almost daringly, as a smile curls his lips. You stiffen slightly. Keeping his gaze for a tantalizing moment, you bring your fingers to your lips and mimic closing a zipper. He snorts - not surprised, apparently. “I’ll get it outta you someday,” he sighs, but before he can add more - there’s a knock on the front door of the apartment.  

Knocks always make your heart skip a beat. Bucky’s eyes flick to your face in the ensuing silence, and you remind him: “My packages.” 

His expression clears. And he’s gentlemanly enough to even go to the door to get them. Even through the walls, you can hear the murmur of Bucky’s voice and a stranger’s. Some chuckles, a beeping of electronics, and then a grunt. A slam of the door, and the slide of a lock.  

Shuffling footsteps. Then Bucky appears back in the dining area from around a corner, only his feet and pajama-clad legs visible below a towering pile of shipping boxes.  

“Do you think you got enough, sweetheart?” he says with a groan, heaving it all onto the counter. “Sheesh, you order enough stuff for three people or something?” 

“I don’t know how much you know about my job, but it’s pretty essential that I be prepared for anything,” you say dryly. “And I lost all my supplies the night I got stabbed. Can’t live in your sweatpants forever, Barnes.” 

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pretending to catch his breath as his eyes sparkle. “I don’t mind.” 

“You will when I steal all your clothes and scamper off.” 

“They’re just clothes,” he shrugs.  

“Yeah, until you literally have nothing left to wear. Then they’re important.” 

Bucky chortles, and changes the subject. “Wanna rock-paper-scissors for the dishes?” 

“Oof,” you groan, and press a hand to the bandage on your shoulder. “I dunno, man. I’m in a lot of pain right now.” 

“Liar.” 

“Professional liar; please.” 

Bucky is shaking his head with a woeful sigh as he clears your empty dishes, pointedly ignoring your innocent smile up at him. “You’re lucky I don’t mind taking care of you,” he says in a playful growl, and those butterflies in your stomach start up again.  

Yes, I am, you think, but you don’t say it out loud.  

A long, achy shower is on the books next. Then, wrapped in a scant towel, (Bucky is very hospitable, but he really needs larger towels), you sit on his bed and start opening packages for clothes. They won’t be washed first, but they’ll have to do. With underwear, leggings and a soft sweater picked out, you crinkle up the garbage and holler, because you know it’s obnoxious, 

“Bucky! Where are the bandaids!” 

Footsteps. Then the bedroom door opens, and he takes a half-step inside before freezing, eyes bugging out, and then he promptly takes a step back and closes the door. With the first aid kit still under his arm, the idiot.  

“Bucky,” you call again, a little impatiently. “It’s fine. Just bring it in. I can take care of it myself - ” 

The door opens again. His face is flaming red - and very cute - as he shuffles over with his eyes averted. “I’ll do it,” he grumbles. With a grin you slide the towel on your thigh to the side, where you’ve pulled off the bandage to reveal the still-healing stab wound, bright red and gaping. Bucky sucks in a breath, and kneels at the side of the bed before opening up the first aid kit.  

So Bucky is a little attracted to you - most men are. Maybe it’s just the automatic instinct of your job to be a little difficult - it’s what you get paid for, after all. You’ve become accustomed to making men blush and stutter and splutter. None of them are quite this endearing, though: a little smile grows on your face as you watch Bucky’s teeth gnaw into his bottom lip. But his hands are steady, and you twitch at the sting of medicine on your flesh before the wound is filled with gauze. 

A clean bandage, and Bucky wipes up the extra medicine around the adhesive with some leftover gauze. Goosebumps break out across your skin, and why is your mouth so dry -  

“Next,” he says roughly, and without looking at your face moves to sit on the bed beside you.  

The shoulder hurts more. A hiss from your lips as Bucky gently pulls off the old bandage. Is that his warm breath you can feel on your face, as he leans close to frown at the wound. He lifts his fingers, and tugs out the gauze he’d packed in a few days earlier. It’s brown and a little whiffy - you wrinkle your nose, and he discards it with the rest of the garbage.  

“They’re looking better,” he says in a low voice, gently wiping away dried blood from around the hole. “Starting to heal. No green or purple or clotting.” 

“Good. I’ve always been exceptional in every way; I am not surprised to find I recover spectacularly from being stabbed.”  

Bucky gives a soft laugh, pressing more clean gauze into the hole as you flinch, fingers clenching the edge of the towel. So it hurts. It’s to be expected.  

“I know one or two people that can heal better,” he teases lightly, his eyes flickering up to yours with a hint of mischief.  

“Well, I’m not a product of a sketchy scientific experiment,” you snark. “Give me some credit.” 

“If you can stand at the sink to wash dishes in the next two days, then I’ll give you credit.” Bucky presses his warm hand over the packed wound, sealing it with an adhesive as he quirks a brow at you. Your mouth falls open in indignity - not from how nice his touch feels - and without thinking you jab your bad elbow into his side.  

He grunts, and laughs. You grunt, and whimper.  

“If you’re satisfied with your care,” Bucky mocks, standing up from the bed and gathering up the first aid supplies. “I’m going to take a shower. You leave me any hot water?” 

“Nope. I ran it until it turned cold, just for you.” 

“I’m so glad you like me.” 

There’s a loopy, slanted smile on Bucky’s face as he casts you a final look before leaving the bedroom, hand on the knob to close it behind him. You need to say something sassy back, you know it - but somehow, there’s just an equally loopy smile on your face as your brain seems to stall completely, and Bucky laughs as he closes the door. 

Well, shoot.

Chapter Text

After a lazy lunch, Bucky reluctantly admits that he’s required at meetings in Avengers Tower for the remainder of the day. You arch a brow when he tells you this, as he sits on the couch to lace up his boots. He’d threatened to sit on your blanket-covered feet, which you now poke into his leg.  

“If you tell them about me, I’ll flush out all the cash funds you’ve ever had and look beautiful while I do it,” you deadpan. “And then I’ll come back and steal all your pots and pans so you can’t cook.”

His eyes flicker over at you, all sparkle and humor. “I don’t dare tell them about you, sweetheart.”  

“Good.” 

Bucky ties off his second lace. “If you get hungry and I’m not back, order a pizza.” 

“Excuse me, I don’t think you get to give orders around here.” 

“This is my apartment, you brat.” 

“And I’m in pain,” you whimper with a pitiful moan, batting your eyelashes. Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s a grin on his face as he slaps his knee, and stands. 

“Don’t lose my place,” he adds in a warning tone, nodding towards the book in your lap - holding his gaze, you arch a brow and gently place your fingers on the frayed edge of his Cat in the Hat bookmark, further in than you are. Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Don’t,” he repeats, expression dark and threatening and - enticing.  

“Then don’t forget to come home to make my dinner,” you tell him sweetly.  

His lips are twitching as he picks up his leather jacket from its hook by the door. “Getting used to being pampered, huh?”  

“It’s my natural state of being.” 

“I can tell.” Bucky tugs a baseball cap over his hair. “Text me if you need anything, yeah?” Your new phone is charging on the floor beside you - Bucky had insisted on adding his number, of course. After teasing you for wasting money when he would have been very happy to lend you his old flip-phone.  

“What if I have to go to the bathroom and can’t move from pain and you aren’t here to carry me?” 

“Then I’ll drop everything and rush to your side, of course.” There’s a hint of sarcasm in Bucky’s voice - but he’s grinning as he moves for the door. “See you later, sweetheart.” 

“No more ‘brat’?” 

“Don’t test me.” A fond glare, and the door opens, and closes behind him.  

It’s not an I-love-you, or a I’ll-count-the-minutes-until-I-see-you-again, or even an I’ll-miss-you, so there’s really no reason for those detestable butterflies in your belly to be swirling around. Doesn’t stop them.  

You force your eyes back to the borrowed book, but it’s not happening. Time starts to crawl. The ticking of the clock is extra loud, and the clean walls seem to expand and shrink as the sun slants across the room.  

It’s all very…eerily empty without Bucky’s big presence - not his loud presence, or overwhelming presence - he’s just - very there, when he’s there. In a big way. A, fill-every-crevice-of-the-room-and-your-heart-and-soul sort of way. Absently you run your finger down the worn pages of the book, and the scent of old paper mixes with a faint whiff of Bucky’s spice, which has surrounded you so much that your nose has gone blind to it.  

Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? 

When Bucky returns at dusk with takeout, you let loose a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, and flip over a chunk of pages in the book to make it look like you’d been reading. Bucky does not need to know you’d spent the afternoon staring off into space because without his direction, you’d felt lost in his tiny apartment - adrift and confused and uncertain. You’re not accustomed to this sort of thing. 

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he admits with a rueful smile.  “So I got way too much.” Bucky is still wearing his jacket as he opens the paper bags at the dining table. You’d hobbled in after him - lured by the food, not by the man. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. 

“You do seem to do that,” you say, returning the smile. “I like everything. Being picky about food is a luxury a grifter can’t afford.” 

“So the fish-eye curry was a good choice?” 

Your mouth clamps shut, and it’s with trepidation you watch as he pulls out the first plastic container.  

“Kidding.” There are dimples in his cheeks. You start to breathe again.  

Several minutes later, parked at the table and fishing out some vegetables from a container with a pair of chopsticks, you ask without looking at Bucky, “So…how did your meetings go?” 

“They went fine,” he says with a shrug. “Things are pretty quiet on the international and extraterrestrial crime circuits.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Bucky sends you a grin, and you feel your face warm at the glint in his eye. “But don’t worry - I didn’t tell everyone the peace is because you are out of commission and laying low at my place. Keeping out of trouble. Mostly.” 

You give him a kick with your good leg under the table, and he laughs.  

“I didn’t tell them,” he repeats, still grinning. 

“Better not have.” 

“I heard your threats earlier loud and clear, sweetheart.” Bucky’s grinning as he downs from a bottle of water - and why is your stomach feeling so funny? Couldn’t be the food.  

The dull sting of your wounds returns after dinner, and you don’t waste time begging for the pills that help you sleep. It’s late, after all - and as you trudge to the bathroom to brush your teeth you can hear Bucky cleaning up from dinner.  

He really is something, isn’t he? 

More than something. When you finally limp into the bedroom, eyes heavy and your feet a little stumbling with drowsiness, Bucky has turned down the covers and fluffed up a pillow for you.  

“Isn’t it a bit early for you?” you ask, climbing into the bed without preamble. Ah, the covers are soft…  

“Yep. I’ll go read for a bit, see if I can catch up to what you read today.”

You don’t dare reply to that. Bucky draws the blinds.  

“You’re gonna sleep in here, right?” is your next sleepy question.  

“If you really want me to. And who wouldn’t, really?” 

“Don’t flatter yourself. I just can’t handle the guilt of you getting a crick in your neck from that couch.” 

Bucky chortles. “I don’t get cricks.” 

“Okay, show off. Now listen here,” you yawn. “If you bump into my wounds again tonight, I’ll give you a stab wound to remember.” 

“Mmm, I do like to be romanced by a woman in my bed.” 

Lowering the blanket so you can peek a severe glare at him - Bucky just laughs.  

“How about I put some pillows between us?” he suggests.  

“A good idea, in theory,” you admit. “But your bed is tiny. I’ll wake up on the floor.” 

“Tiny?” he asks, clearly miffed. 

“Yes, tiny. You think I haven’t noticed that your feet are practically hanging off the bed? Or how your elbow ended up in my leg? A man your size should have a bigger bed.” 

“I sleep here fine without you,” Bucky says haughtily, though there’s a trace wink, and you smile. “I just didn’t buy this bed expecting to share it with anyone.” 

A pause. You arch a brow, and he clears his throat with reddening cheeks as he smooths down the covers at the foot of the bed. 

“Anyway, good night,” he says awkwardly.  

A yawn splits your face - those pills work fast. “If you aren’t getting any, you’d better keep your hands off from me,” you mumble.  

“I don’t go around feeling up ungrateful brats.” 

“I re…resent that.” The pillow is soft; your limbs are heavy. And Bucky’s little laugh beside you…like music.  

“Don’t wait up for me,” he teases, but there’s no response in you. Only blessed, peaceful oblivion.  

Should’ve gone for the pillows. Because when you wake up beneath Bucky’s arm and your foot slung over his calf - embarrassment has you trying to squirm away, but his arm is heavy and his rumbling snores are practically right in your ear. How the heck had this happened? And how had you slept through his shaking the bed with his snoring? 

You shift your leg off his, and push his arm off your shoulders. Your own shoulder aches in protest - but once the Starfish has been pushed back to his side, (or were you on his side?), you lean back against the pillows and rest, sleep still dragging your eyelids down.  

 Bucky continues to snore, and you doze.  

Your limp is a little better that day - which you don’t hesitate to show off while Bucky is toasting bagels. You step into his kitchen to fetch two glasses out of a cupboard, and make it back to the dining table. 

“Phew,” you sigh, as you collapse in the chair. “That really took it out of me. Guess you’re on your own for the rest, buddy.” 

Bucky laughs, thankfully - a better sound than his snoring. “Can’t even get the juice?” he jokes.  

“No way. That’s too heavy. I’m wounded, you know. I recently got stabbed. With a knife. Twice.” 

“I’ve heard the rumor.” 

“Just a rumor? Maybe I haven’t made it clear enough.” 

“I’m not sure if you could possibly make it clearer, sweetheart.” 

A laugh is working it’s way up - but you keep it firmly pushed down as you tease, “I think you’d be surprised.” 

Bucky is grinning as he carries a plate of perfectly medium-brown bagels over. “You surprise me every day,” he states. “By now, I’d be more surprised by not being surprised.” 

“Ooo, that’s tough,” you say - and finally giggle. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

“It wasn’t a challenge, silly.” 

“Sounded like it.” 

Bucky glares - good-naturedly, you suppose. But he keeps his mouth in a very firm, stern line as you butter your bagel.  

“I’ll be gone most of the day today,” he says casually, after a few minutes. “Director Fury asked me to lead some drills down at SHIELD today.” 

“Really? What kind of drills?” 

There’s a tremor of humor in his voice. “How to avoid being pickpocketed by beautiful grifters.” 

“Huh,” you keep your eyes down, making it easier to keep a straight face. “I’m not sure if you’re qualified to lead that.” 

Silence.  

“Did you know,” you add, because you suspect that changing the subject will just rile Bucky up more. “I spent a semester in the SHIELD training program.” 

“You - “ he growls, and then stops. “You what?” 

“Spent a semester in the SHIELD training program.” 

Taking a bite of bagel, you finally meet Bucky’s eyes - his are wide, and very blue in the morning light as he sits frozen with cream cheese sliding off his knife. His lips are parted, and you drag your eyes away from his mouth. Not that anywhere else on him is much safer.  

“Was this…a con?” he asks at last.  

“Maybe.” 

“Or were you going to be a SHIELD agent, but decided to take the easier route?” 

You laugh. “Easier route? Please. SHIELD agents have it easy. It’s cushy to be on the right side of the law.” 

“Uh huh.” Bucky nods his head, eyes narrowing.  

“Oh, didn’t you know?” you say airily.  

He finally starts to smear the cream cheese on his bagel - you don’t stare at his hands, not at all - and finally Bucky says, “It’s definitely a luxury to know where you stand.” 

A sip of juice. “I stand wherever I need to be, by myself,” you say without really thinking.  

“A luxury.” But there’s a soft smile on Bucky’s face, all the same. It’s startling in its sincerity - and you hurry to take another bite.  

With your leg feeling better though still unable to move your arm higher than approximately 25°, a plan sparks to cook dinner for Bucky as soon as he’s out the door. It’s difficult to remember how strange and listless you’d felt yesterday with his absence, and the answer is obvious: you need a hobby. Something to do. To stay busy. Dinner is a perfect idea - and so much easier with grocery delivery. 

The apartment is still lonely, with him gone. But that thought is firmly pushed away - you shouldn’t even be thinking that. No attachments.  

‘No attachments’ had been a much easier rule a week ago.  

Your heart skips a beat or two when the front door is unlocked. The sun is long gone, replaced by dusky purple skies above the cityscape, which you don’t see as you continue to casually stir the risotto in the pot as Bucky’s footsteps can be heard. Butterflies are back.  

“Did you order something?” Bucky asks, coming ‘round the corner - and you twist your head around to send him a very severe glare. His eyes are a little tired, though he smiles as he meets your eyes. “Hello,” he adds, and is that a tinge of pink in his cheeks? 

“No, I’m cooking,” you snark. “I can do that, you know.” 

“I didn’t know that, no,” he teases, coming close to peer into the pot. “Smells almost good enough to eat.”

“Almost?” 

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” 

There’s something about the glinting blue of his eyes, the crinkles on his face as he smiles down at you. He’s very close, isn’t he? Why is your heart racing? No - it shouldn’t be doing that. You blink, and jolt away as he clears his throat.  

“How was your class?” you ask. Bucky sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair.  

“Alright. Boring, but no real complaints. Missed you.”

The last two words were tacked on so casually, almost nonchalant - as if Bucky telling you he missed you is the most natural thing in the world. Your throat is dry. Continuing to stir steadily, you keep your eyes on the pot to keep from looking at him.  

“You missed me? Must’ve been really dull.” 

“Ha, ha. What can I do to help?” 

“Grate the parmesan.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

The kitchen goes quiet. There’s too much hanging in the air - too many confessions, too much tension. To distract yourself from Bucky standing beside you at the counter, you start counting the number of swirls you stir in the rice.  

Five-hundred and forty seven stirs later, Bucky dumps in the parmesan, and sets the table.  

“It’s good,” he admits, after a few bites. Tempting to kick him under the table but not daring to jolt your bad leg, you just send him a glare.  

“I was taught by a Michelin star chef,” you tell him imperiously. “I think you’ll discover it’s impossible to find a better plate of risotto outside of Italy.” 

“Really,” Bucky drawls, his brows lifting in interest. “And what job was this for? Hmm?” 

“A fiddle game in Naples. Took about five months to set up.” 

“Sounds exciting.” 

“If only I could tell you about it,” you say with an exaggerated sigh, though you can’t help smiling as you take a sip of water.  

“You could,” Bucky winks.  

“I’ve already been shanked twice this week; I really don’t need to be spilling secrets to get a knife in my throat next time.” 

“You know,” he says after a short pause, fork hanging from his fingers as his eyes rest very intently on your face. “Members of the Avengers have access to the highest security residences in the world. Every protection you can think of.” 

“I’m not joining your boy band,” you tease, even with the butterflies in your stomach.  

“You wouldn’t be the only woman.” 

A pause. “I’m terrified of Natasha Romanoff,” you admit.  

Bucky shrugs. “She’s more forgiving than you might think.” 

“I’m not sure I want to test that.” 

“Mmm.” 

Apart from the strange feelings and regrets that seem to surface from any random comment, any stray look - dinner is pleasant. And lasts nearly an hour. Well, the food doesn’t last. Sitting at the table and laughing and teasing takes up most of the hour.  

The laughing and teasing last through clean up, and you’re still smiling as you crawl into bed that night, and this time, it’s not from the pills.  

And the next morning, when you wake up tangled again with Bucky - his breath warm on your neck and his hair tickling your face - you don’t push him away. 

Chapter Text

The day that Bucky doesn’t need to fetch you painkillers before breakfast is a very special day.  

He’s laughing as you show off how you can walk with only minor limping, and test the range of your arm as you do a terrible fake dance in your pajamas as you leave the bedroom - he’d tried to get you to stay, to linger a little longer and rest (not for any selfish reasons, of course), but your excitement out of feeling better would not be deterred. 

Or it’s because you keep him at arm’s length. That too. 

He throws back the blankets and follows you out, eager to keep watching, keep listening, keep talking. Anything to keep you around. Is he ignoring that you can leave now at any time, and he has no more excuse to force you to stay?  

Yep.  

“I feel like pancakes,” you say, sending him a teasing smile as you chug a glass of water at the sink. Bucky crosses his arms, forcing a stern look.  

“If you’re all better, you’re cooking,” he deadpans. “I’ve about worn the skin off my fingers, waiting on you hand and foot.” 

“Well, it’s not like I could use my hand and foot.” 

“Alright, you brat. I guess it’s a special occasion and all - I’ll make pancakes if you do the fruit and syrup.” 

You set your glass down at the sink as Bucky rests against the counter with a grin. He’s ready to banter until sundown, and sunrise, and sundown after that, and sunrise again, and… 

“Make the syrup,” you repeat, arching a brow. “Go out and milk the tree myself, you mean?” 

“I meant heat it up, silly.” 

“Oh. That’s fine then.” Your eyes are sparkling in the early-morning sun, Bucky’s sure of it. Just like how your skin had been glowing when he’d woken up at dawn, to listen to you snoring beside him, all splayed out and completely adorable. “Let’s get to it, then,” you add, twitching away from him as Bucky blinks.  

Oh. Right.  

Cooking, Bucky decides - is a dance. He’s seen the interiors of a few well-run restaurant kitchens to have already suspected this - but having to move around you and bumping elbows and trodding on feet just confirms it. A bad dance. Well, an unpracticed dance, in a small kitchen.  

Flour dusts your shorts. Bucky gets sprayed in the eye by a squirt from a particularly juicy pineapple. While he blinks away the burn, you’re clutching your belly and laughing. The butcher knife in your hand only makes it funnier, and Bucky starts to laugh, too.  

It’s pretty impressive that breakfast gets made at all. But eventually it does - and it’s eaten, and for once, you help clean up.  

“Are you sure you can manage that?” Bucky teases over the slooshing of running water, cautiously handing you a clean, dripping plate. You stick your tongue out - but take it, and start to wipe it down with a towel.  

“I’m a big girl,” you say by way of reminder. 

“I know. I saw how many pancakes you ate.” 

The dried plate is carefully put down on the counter to put away later - and there’s a crack and a stinging jolt as you snap the towel at Bucky’s behind. He yelps, water splashing out of the sink.  

“Brat,” he grumbles, rubbing away the water drops on his face with the back of his arm.  

“You should know better than to antagonize me by now,” you say severely, accepting the next plate.  

Bucky casts you a grin, liking the way you blink up at him, as if started. “I’m not afraid of you,” he says in a low voice.  

“Should be. I know where you live.”

He snorts. “I guess that’s true. I’m not in the phonebook.”

“They don’t make those anymore.”  

Next plate. Bucky doesn’t jolt with your fingers brush against his. “Sure they do,” he says easily. “I have one.” 

“You - ” you pause, tilting your head slightly as you stare at him in bafflement. “Of course you do. Of course.” 

“Of course,” Bucky repeats mockingly. “How else am I going to find a place to get my hair cut? Or pho delivery?” 

“Definitely not on the internet. That would just be dumb. We don’t go for convenience here.” 

“Brat,” Bucky says firmly, sending you a good-natured glare.  

But you only smirk back, stacking the dried plates.  

Bucky doesn’t go anywhere that day. Partly because he hasn’t committed to - but even though he knows the refrigerator is getting empty, the nagging apprehension of you leaving keeps him home. With you.  

You don’t mention leaving. Maybe it’s just rattling around in his brain, and you’re not the least bit concerned about it. But even as you fold your clean laundry on the couch, and Bucky is folding his on the ground with his back against the couch, (there had been two empty machines downstairs that morning - a miracle, really), all Bucky can think is that you’re probably going to fill that suitcase you’d bought online and leave town. Probably for a very long time. Possibly forever.  

It hurts his stomach.  

“Here,” you say with a smile, passing Bucky a stack of borrowed clothes - clean and folded. You’d insisted on washing them yourself, which was ridiculous, but he’d given in. Because he’s weak.  

“Thanks,” he mutters, taking the stack. He’ll never wash them again.  

Silence.  

A sock falls on the ground by his elbow; before he can pick it up for you, you’ve bent over to reach for it -  

“Ouch!” The hiss sends a stream of air onto Bucky’s cheeks, and he twists around at once to see the spasm of pain on your face. Immediately he hoists himself to his knees at your side, gently supporting your arm at the wrist and elbow as it trembles. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, and Bucky frowns as he sees a glistening of tears in your eyes.  

“I’m fine,” you say thickly.  

“Uh uh. Can’t even pick up a sock.” The teasing is gentle, and Bucky offers it with a small smile. Your lips twitch in return. He accepts that.  

“Does it still hurt?” he asks anxiously, after a moment. 

“It’s fading. Just moved too fast, I think.” 

“Hmm.” Bucky lifts your arm slightly, but your expression doesn’t change. “How’s that?” he asks. 

“Fine.” 

His fingers curl around your elbow. Your gaze drops, but Bucky’s doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on your face, searching for any flicker of discomfort. Slowly, his hand moves to your shoulder, and starts to rotate it forward.  

“Where’d you learn to do this?” you ask, with a strained huff of laughter. 

“I’ve been in physical therapy since the ‘50s,” Bucky says. “Wasn’t called physical therapy back then, obviously. But there were always doctors, making sure whatever model of…limb they put on me was working.” 

You don’t reply immediately, though your eyes fasten on Bucky’s with an intensity he isn’t used to - from you, that is. He doesn’t look away, half-drowning and barely noticing what he’s doing. Just that he’s touching you.  

“Does it still hurt?” you ask quietly. “Your arm, I mean.” 

“Not much. Stark and Dr. Banner developed a procedure to shut down the pain receptors in my shoulder that are connected to the artificial conduits. I still have nerves that can control the arm, but I can’t feel pain. It helps.” Bucky gnaws on the inside of his cheek - he’s babbling. But the expression in your eyes is so soft, it’s like his tongue is just running a motor without his brain attached… 

“I’m glad it’s better.” 

Boy, Bucky really wants to close those few inches between his lips and yours. Taste how sweet he knows you gotta be, feel your warm breath in his mouth…listen to a more encouraging version of those little sighs he hears when you’re waking up in the mornings. Feel your buttery skin all over…with his hands, with his lips and tongue…worm his way behind those walls you keep so solidly around yourself; prove that he isn’t a deceiver, that he’s ready to offer every truth he owns, just to -  

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Your voice is firm, and the emotion in your gaze disappears in an instant. Bucky can feel you stiffening beneath his hands - so he stops, and moves to sit back on the ground.  

He stares at his laundry. Oh. Right. Folding. Bucky shakes his head to clear it, and wordlessly resumes folding his clothes.  

“Hey, that’s mine.” 

A hand on his shoulder nearly makes Bucky jump out of his skin - but he sees your grinning face by his, as you reach down with your good arm to flick a pair of shorts from his pile.  

“Thief,” you say smugly.  

“But they’d look so cute on me,” Bucky snarks back.  

“I’m sure they would,” you tease.  

“Probably better than they look on you.” 

As Bucky rubs the back of his head from the friendly and probably-deserved blow you’d given him, seeing stars, he muses that teasing someone who can throw a punch when his back is turned isn’t exactly wise.  

“Ow,” he whimpers.  

“Don’t be a baby, Barnes. You asked for it.” 

“I did not say, ‘Please elbow me in the back of the head, oh please oh please,’” Bucky mimics. “That’s just the way you interpreted it.” 

“And it can be argued I interpreted it perfectly fairly.” 

“You’re a brat.” 

“At least I’m not a jerk.” This coupled with sticking your tongue out in his direction - Bucky just chortles. He’s been getting that a lot today, hasn’t he? Wouldn’t mind more. “You going anywhere this afternoon?” you ask after a moment.  

“Nah,” Bucky says, the word filled with all his apprehension of losing time with you. “Um - it’s Saturday.” 

“Oh, right. I forgot.” 

“Unless there’s an international emergency requiring the full Avengers on site, you’re stuck with me,” Bucky jokes.  

“Great. Maybe I need to go out and create some trouble, then.” 

“That eager to get away from me, huh,” he says, nudging your knee as he gives you a glare. “That seems a little ungrateful! Maybe you want to cook for yourself, tonight.” 

“At least I wouldn’t have you leeching food off my plate - ” 

“You said you were full!” 

“I was, but it’s the symbolism of it!”  

“You offered it!” Bucky’s had enough - he reaches over to flick your knee - you gasp in indignation and give his ear a painful tug - and it all dissolves into poking and prodding and playing and giggling until all of his neatly folded clothes are splayed all over the floor, and your tidy towers have been knocked over.  

“So there,” he mutters into your ear at last, with a final pinch of your waist as you wheeze with laughter.  

“If I was in prime condition, I could take you,” you say severely, squirming away as you gather up your clothes.  

“Sure. Uh huh. Whatever you say, sweetheart.” 

The dance in the kitchen that night is different. Can’t be worse than breakfast - and in fact, with that much practice, Bucky is better able to weave around you, and you around him. He hears the slide of your feet as you start to move, and so he stays still. In the small space, it’s instinctive of him to gently guide you, hands on your waist, as he reaches for the cupboard above your head. And after he has what he needs, he places you back to where you had been standing at a cutting board.  

“Wow,” you say. “Talk about demanding. I know it’s your kitchen and all, but you can use your words.” 

“Don’t pretend you didn’t like that,” Bucky shoots back with a wink, and you laugh.  

“You know what? Just for that, you can do dishes by yourself tonight.”

“Oh no, not that,” he says with exaggerated despair. “Anything but that.” 

You’re glaring - but smiling, too. “Now I know why the Avengers don’t insist you live in the Tower with them,” you snark. “I can’t imagine having to live with that attitude. And you think I’m the brat!” 

Bucky nudges your arm with his, and you laugh. He laughs, too.  

There’s another movie to be watched that night - set up on his laptop, recommended by Natasha. Bucky couldn’t say what it’s about; he’s too busy thinking about how his leg is touching yours, and how nice it is to be sharing a blanket with you. How you aren’t taking the drowsy pills tonight, and whether you’ll be able to sleep, or if you’ll be bothered by his moving around as he struggles to fall asleep.  

But as it turns out, he needn’t have worried. By the end credits, Bucky can finally name one or two characters, and he’s about to joke about how he’s never taking Natasha’s movie advice again - but then he realizes your head is propped up on a pillow, eyes closed, with soft breaths puffing from your parted lips.  

Bucky is smiling as he shuts his laptop. Then, slowly so as not to wake you, he curls his arms beneath your knees and shoulders - he’d done this the first night you’d come, nearly two weeks ago now. How could it possibly feel so different?  

The blanket drags on the floor as he carefully steps down the hallway, his heart doing funny things as your head lulls against his shoulder. Still asleep.  

A soft sigh escapes your lips as you settle in against the pillows, and Bucky shifts the blankets until you’re tucked completely in. There. Perfect.  

Perfect. 

When he finally crawls in beside you, he closes his eyes with a smile - and doesn’t have to wait three hours for sleep to arrive, for once.

Chapter Text

The morning dawns with Bucky’s nose buried into the back of your neck. How he got there - will probably remain a mystery. But tangled up with him, a stream of yellow sunshine on the dark bedspread belaying the late hour…sternly, thou tell yourself, even as you bury yourself deeper in the covers and Bucky’s arm tightens instinctively around your waist,  

Move. Move.  

It doesn’t work. 

Move, you crazy weak woman. Stop letting this happen. No attachments.  

Your body doesn’t move - except for a sigh, and a languid releasing of tension as Bucky stirs behind you.  

“Hey,” is the sleepy mumble in your ear. You just hum back, and his nose traces a line up to your hair line. Goosebumps spread across your skin like wildfire, and the early morning heat between your legs is persistently unwilling to be ignored. But it will be.  

“Watch it,” you mutter. “Just because we share a bed…” 

“Then why aren’t you pushing me away?” But his nose leaves your skin anyway. The air doesn’t kiss as sweetly, and your stomach turns with regret.  

A grumble in reply: “Too sleepy.” 

“You’re so full of it.” 

“Don’t you have Avengers business today?” you ask, a little peeved.  

“It’s still the weekend, silly.” 

“Well, you should.” 

“Why?” he chortles. “You wanna rob me blind while I’m away?” 

“Wow, that’s an excellent idea,” you say sarcastically. “Why didn’t I think of that?” 

“Probably because I’m brilliant.” 

Your elbow jabs into his ribs, and Bucky grunts before starting to laugh. “You think like a criminal, you mean,” you point out. 

“Huh, I was gonna offer omelets for breakfast, but I’m not cooking for any brats around here.” 

“Wow, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” 

“I woke up on the only available side,” Bucky snarks back. “Someone’s hogging the other half. Or should I say, three-quarters?” 

“Boo-hoo.” 

“Brat.” 

“Jerk.”  

“Jerk,” he mimics, climbing out of bed and tossing the covers over your face. Spluttering, you push them away and give him a glare as he shows you his back, strutting out. In an instant, you’re on your feet, following him and his adorably messy bedhead out.  

“Just for that, you can make breakfast by yourself,” you say imperiously, and make a statement of sitting primly on the couch. Bucky pauses, and slowly crosses his arms as he glares down at you. 

“Oh, that’s how it is, huh?” 

“That’s how it is,” you smirk.  

“If this is going to be a competition to see who will break first, you’re gonna lose,” Bucky teases, leaning his shoulder against the doorway into the kitchen. Your eyes narrow, and you settle in against the cushions.  

Silence. A ticking clock can be heard from the bookcase. Bucky is utterly still.  

“I could use some music to pass the time,” you suggest after a few minutes.  

“Getting bored?” he teases.  

“You wish. Does that record player even work?” 

Bucky’s response is a grin - one that crinkles his eyes and makes your heartbeat do a little stutter. Without a word he struts over to the sideboard, and flicks a switch. The record slowly starts to spin, and soft trumpets fill the room.  

“A good record is higher quality than an MP3,” he says, leaning his elbow on the table as he quirks a brow at you. “And if you disagree, we’re going to have to square off.” 

“Do you normally square off with people who have different opinions than you?” you snark.  

“All the time.” Then he straightens, and takes three steps to your side, where he holds out his flesh hand. You stare, and then glance up into his face. He’s smiling. “How about a dance, sweetheart? Figure out how healed your leg really is.” 

“I don’t dance,” you say immediately. 

“That’s not true. You dance with your marks all the time.” 

“You mean, whoever I’m pretending to be dances all the time. And I definitely don’t dance in bare feet and pajamas.” 

“Excuses,” Bucky declares, and without warning he grabs your hand to haul you to your feet. Startled, you lean into him - but your leg holds despite the distant memory of an ache, and his arm catches you around the waist. His face is very close - too close, really. A tense, electric moment hangs in the air as goosebumps break out from his warmth - Bucky’s lips have parted, and his eyes are deep blue. “Can’t listen to Ella without a dance,” he murmurs, and you’re sure your face has never been hotter.  

The record clicks, and a new song begins. Soft and sweet and lazy - slowly Bucky shifts his feet, pulling you along. His eyes haven’t left yours, and you swallow thickly as your left hand grips into his shoulder. His metal hand, holding yours, is cool to the touch.  

“See?” he lifts a brow. “Not so bad, huh? Even on an empty stomach.” 

It’s hard to find the words to reply - so you wet your lips, open your mouth - and say nothing. You close your mouth again. Bucky’s grin widens, and there’s a threat of a laugh rumbling in his chest.  

“If you only dance with your marks, does that mean you’re gonna pickpocket me, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice low.  

“Depends on if you have anything good,” you retort, finally finding your voice again. “And I know for a fact you keep your wallet in your jacket, not your jeans. I wouldn’t get roped into a dance if I was trying for your wallet.” 

Bucky’s laugh rings out - shivering a little, you let yourself admire the line of his scruffy jaw for a moment, the twinkle in his eyes. There’s a quiet whirring as his metal fingers tighten around yours, and your breath catches.  

“You’re not limping, so that’s good,” Bucky observes.  

Oh. That’s true. A lump is growing in your throat. So you shrug as if you don’t have a care in the world, and say lightly with your practiced coy smile, “Nope. Guess I’m good to go.” 

The silence that follows is a hundred years long and a hundred feet thick. The sparkle in Bucky’s eyes darkens, and disappears. He presses his cheek into your hair, so you can’t see his face.  

“Guess that’s true,” he says after a moment.  

Floundering. You’re floundering. All of Bucky’s easy jokes, his kindness - of course you would be dumb enough to offend him. Fumbling for words, you babble, “It was nice of you to, um, let me stay. And doctor me up so I could get better faster and get out of your hair.” 

“Maybe I should break your arm,” Bucky deadpans.  

“What, you want me to stay?” you say into his shoulder. Your gaze is around the room, not really noticing anything with Bucky’s warmth so wrapped up around you, and the husky crooning music.  

“I’ve gotten used to having you here,” Bucky admits at last. “It’s…I guess it gets hard being alone, after a while.” 

Your heartbeat stutters, and then picks up again at a furious pace. How did he know? How could he speak exactly the words aching in your chest -  

Pulling away, you frown up at Bucky as he frowns back down at you. His steps leading you around the room have slowed, but it’s hard to notice. When did it get so hot in here? Why do you feel like you’re sweating beneath your pajamas? 

His hand is sliding up your spine, and - when did you get to be standing so close to him? - his warm breath is blossoming on your cheeks, the ragged sound sparking little tremors in your limbs. Strands of dark hair are escaping from behind his hair, shadowing his face as his eyes devour yours - you’ve stopped breathing, and -  

Bucky’s lips are a hair’s width away. You can already feel the heat, already anticipating the sensation as your fingers creep to his hair to brush it from his face (as dazed as you are, no one wants to eat hair) - but for the electric moment that Ella Fitzgerald sings right through, Bucky’s brows crease, his head tilts, and -  

A bright burst of sound and light and exploding wood shake the room. In that half-second, Bucky’s grip around you has tightened, and you’re lifted off your feet as he takes two steps with you in his arms to dive behind the nearest wall.  

Dust and smoke fill your lungs, coughs wracking your body as you curl around him. Despite your ears ringing, you can hear a maniacal laughter rising above the fray, and Bucky’s cursing.  

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” his voice is in your ear, “I wasn’t paying attention - ” 

“So much for better security,” you grumble. You hadn’t been sore before - but you are now. You’d landed on your bad shoulder on the thin carpet. But Bucky doesn’t stay to snark back; backing away as you push yourself into a sitting position, he disappears into the kitchen. Well out of view from the front door where the explosion had come from.  

Hey, at least they have manners, whoever just interrupted what was probably going to be the best kiss of your life.  

“I know you’re here,” a singsong voice calls out, and you shiver in response - not the good, Bucky-type shivers, either. “Let us on a little goose chase, girly. Thought we couldn’t find your safe house? It was only a matter of time.” 

The wall behind you begins to shudder as a roar of gunfire makes you jump. More dust in the air, but no bullets come through the wall. Impressive. Your eyes dart to the sliver of the kitchen you can see from the hallway - Bucky’s arm is visible, and he’s hoisting a massive rifle from…from where? Under the counter. Oh, gosh. He keeps semi-automatics in his kitchen. 

“And shut off that stupid music!” 

There’s a smash, and the otherworldly Ella is strangled into silence. Oh no, they didn’t. Anger and terror are rolling your stomach in equal amounts, but even as your fingers dig into the carpet, you know you can’t do much. Guns and bombs are beyond you.  

“Can we reach some sort of resolution?” Bucky calls out from the kitchen, and you hear him cock the rifle.  

“Well, sure.” There’s a sound of someone lobbing spit. “Give us the girl, and we’ll kill you quickly.” 

Bucky doesn’t hesitate. “I have a counter offer. You leave right now with the people you came with, and I’ll wait five minutes before calling the cops.” 

A high-pitched, maniacal laugh. It prickles a shiver of recognition down your spine - this man had been the target you’d failed to scam two weeks ago. His bodyguards are the stabby ones. And now they have guns. Great.  

“Do we have a say in who gets shot first?” Bucky shouts next. There’s another slide of metal - sheesh, how many guns does this man have?  

Better not to ask, probably.  

“Sure. Come quietly, and we’ll shoot you first. Make us come and weed you out, and we’ll disfigure the girl in front of you, then shoot her in the legs so she can’t walk, and then shoot you a few times in a few, painful places that will make your death very slow and very painful, while you watch us leave with what we came for.”

Your hands are ice-cold.  

Why, why had you thought that grifting was a good job… 

“I have a better idea.” Bucky again. “But telling you will take too long. Goodbye.” 

And there’s another explosion that rocks the apartment - throwing your arms over your head, you feel the wall shake as bits of plaster rain down on you. There are screams - had Bucky caused that explosion? How? 

Running footsteps beside you - and there are more gunshots and more shouts. Then, silence.  

“Bucky?” His name comes from your dusty lips as a plea - a prayer - that he’s still there, standing, perfectly fine -  

More footsteps. Bare feet. You nearly jump out of your skin as a shadow turns the corner, but it’s only Bucky. There’s a terrifying splatter of blood on his face, but he’s smiling a grim version of his usual smile as he crouches beside you, clasping your shaking hands in his.  

“Don’t have a stomach for this, huh?” he teases gently. “Are you sure you’re in the right profession?” 

“This generally doesn’t happen to pickpockets,” you force through gritted teeth. “My employer must have gotten mixed in with the wrong group.” 

“Not that the group exists anymore. Not this branch of it, anyway.” 

The usually bright, open sparkle in Bucky’s eyes is…dull. But his gaze is just as intent, eyes flickering on your face in search of something. You swallow, and tug your hands away.  

“I’m going to go get my stuff,” you say, standing on numb legs. “I’m not losing supplies again.” 

“Yeah, wouldn’t want you to have to spend another thousand dollars on the internet.” Bucky slings the rifle off his shoulder, gripping it in his metal hand. “I can take you somewhere safe, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” The agreement is made without really thinking about it - you rush down the hall and into the bedroom, where you’d stored your backpack under the bed with your new belongings. You yank it out, as well as a pair of tennis shoes and socks.  

Back here, the damage is minimal. Just some dust in the air, and from out the window - the sound of sirens.  

“Let’s go,” Bucky’s head pokes in, a worried pinch between his brows. “It’ll be easier if we leave clean up to Stark - if we get questioned, we’ll be here for hours. I can send in a statement or whatever later.” 

“Okay.” 

No complaints there. Bucky carries nothing with him; not even a gun (at least a visible one), and he leads you down the hall, stepping around debris as the hole in the wall that used to be the front door comes nearer. He’s standing between you and the living room, and as you pass the bright space, he throws up an arm to shield you from the grisly sight.  

It’s hard to not be grateful to Bucky, all things considered…but this is just the cherry on top.  

Down the parking garage, via a service elevator to avoid the crowd of police and firefighters. Bucky keeps a hand on your arm to keep you moving until a sports car at the end beeps.  

“Wow,” you say, running a hand down the smooth leather interior as he starts the engine. “I didn’t realize you were so rich.” 

“Stark is rich,” Bucky deadpans.  

“That makes sense,” you say wisely. “I’ve seen your apartment.” 

He casts you a glare, but there’s a smile hiding on his lips.  

Brooklyn is bright with late morning sun. How Bucky navigates so well around the mess of police cars and fire engines around the apartment building - well, you suppose he has more than one escape route. But within two minutes, even the sirens are faded in the distance, and he’s speeding north.  

“Now, before you panic,” he says slowly, relaxing slightly in the seat as he drapes his flesh hand over the gear shift. “We’re going to Avengers Tower.” 

You blink exactly once, and consider the consequences of jumping out of a car going 25 miles per hour. “Excuse me?” you ask quietly.  

“That was my only safe house,” Bucky informs you. “And you said you don’t have any in the city. No hotels - you know better. Avengers Tower has the best security, Stark will clean up the, ah - mess we made, and there’s always pizza.” 

“Pizza,” you repeat. “Well, if there’s pizza - that’s a perfect reason to put me on the line here.”

“Don’t make trouble where there’s none,” Bucky states. “They won’t arrest you. I won’t let them.” 

“Great - a wounded grifter and one former assassin against the entire Avengers.” 

“Thor is out of town. We might have a chance.” 

“Ha, ha.” Resting your elbow on the door, you gaze out the window as your stomach starts churning with nerves. Every instinct is screaming to leave, to get out of this - but your heart is beating fast in protest. This is why the ‘no attachments’ rule exists - you’re about to walk into a hornet’s nest, all because the idea of leaving Bucky suddenly likes this makes your eyes burn and your lip to tremble.  

No attachments, you mock yourself. Way to go, stupid. 

It’s a thirty minutes drive through traffic, which is plenty of time for the anxiety to roar in your mind. The only reason you’ve stayed out of prison is from avoiding this sort of thing. And yet, and yet… 

Security to park beneath Avengers Tower is thorough. At a console, Bucky offers a voice and thumbprint recognition, one of your alias names as a visitor, and finally a verbal code that makes absolutely no sense to you. Your heart is beating very loudly as he pulls into a parking space by a dozen other cars just as fancy - but it’s hard to appreciate luxury when you’re planning how to decorate your jail cell.  

“It’ll be fine,” Bucky assures you with a smile as you walk together towards an elevator. You try to believe him, really - but with a sigh you shake your head, and lick your thumb.  

“You’re still covered in blood,” you say, cleaning up his cheek a bit as he jerks in surprise. “And wearing your pajamas. If that’s not a suspicious way to show up, I don’t know what is.” 

“Suspicious? Here?” Bucky laughs as he pushes a button to summon the elevator. “Please. Just another day at the office.” 

You chuckle at the joke, but aren’t feeling the humor. It takes a deep breath to step into the lift behind Bucky - but you manage somehow, and try to remember how to grift. 

Chapter Text

There are voices as soon as you step off the elevator into a sunny loft - well, not really a loft - but an entire floor of the Tower, bright with sunshine and filled with modern furniture and gadgets. And people, too, which sends a chill down your spine to contrast with Bucky’s warm flesh palm pressed into your hand. He sends a smile over his shoulder - meant to comfort you, most likely - but it just looks feral.  

Steal a car? Easy. Talk a policeman into leaving you alone? Simple. Wiring out millions of dollars from overseas accounts? A breeze. High-security art museum? Barely worth a mention. Get an all-access pass to any event? Ha. 

The Avengers?

“I’m just saying,” Clint Barton is, indeed, saying from where’s slouched in a chair. “The movie makes it look way too hard. A simple distraction, go in with some welding equipment and badda-boom, badda-bing. A priceless artifact, crumpling to dust because its delicate chemistry hits open air.” 

There’s a chorus of response to this as Bucky tugs you closer - your eyes flicker over Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff - your largest apprehensions, then Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers. Steve is already looking over at you, a little frown on his face as he sees Bucky’s hand clasping yours. Immediately you tug it away, and Steve stands slowly. 

“Bucky, good to see you,” he says. “What’s going on?” Steve’s eyes flit to you again.  

“My apartment was attacked,” Bucky says without preamble, stalling the conversation. “Stark - you’ll be hearing about it soon.” 

“Sounds like some fun paperwork,” Tony says dryly before blowing on his glasses to give them a polish. Your cheeks are burning - Natasha’s lips are pinched as she looks you up and down, and Sam is squinting at your face as if trying to place you.  

The undercurrents are either ignored, or not recognized by Clint. He stands with an easy grin, holding his hand out for you to shake. A hesitation, and you take it.  

“I’m Clint, nice to meet you,” he says politely. You give an alias in return; one that you haven’t used on anyone present. But…it doesn’t work.  

“So, you finally got her,” Natasha says dryly. She’s reclining on a couch armrest. “Only took you what, nine months, Barnes? You’re getting slow.” 

“It’s a long story,” Bucky says diplomatically. 

“Who?” Stark interrupts, putting his glasses back on. Then his eyes widen. “Barnes! What is this?” 

“She’s safe!” Bucky says in a hurry. “She was the reason we were attacked - I brought her here for protection.” 

“What are we, a prison?” Steve asks in a low voice as you hear Bucky’s metal fist whirring next to you. “Because that’s where she belongs.” 

“And that makes me different than most of you, how, exactly?” you return coolly. A flicker of smile on Natasha’s face. A disguised cough from Bucky.  

“She has a point,” Stark admits. 

“Hey, where’s my watch?” Clint whines. “I could’ve sworn…” 

You clear your throat, dangling the watch by its black straps. Eyes turn to you, and mouths fall open to gape. “There’s honor among thieves, you know,” you say. “All I’m asking is for a place to stay until I can move on to my next safe house. I was recently wounded, and I haven’t been able to skip town.” A step forward, and you drop the watch into Clint’s palm. He’s staring up at you. In awe. “I want you to know you can trust me,” you add.  

A split second later, Natasha Romanoff is laughing. Howling with laughter. Tony and Sam are just horrified, and Steve’s distress is obvious even ten feet away. Then Bucky’s chortles join in, and you relax slightly as you step back.  

“And if we didn’t trust you?” Steve asks coldly. “You would’ve kept Clint’s watch, huh?” 

You shrug. “Leverage.” 

Natasha’s laughs double.  

“We haven’t eaten yet,” Bucky informs the group. “Anything good leftovers from breakfast?” 

“No; Sam got the last of the doughnuts this morning,” Tony says, though he’s still eyeing you beadily.  

“Bummer,” Bucky sighs.  

“It would take over twenty minutes to crack the case with a hand-held welder. You’d need something industrial grade,” you add to Clint. “Security in the Smithsonian is no joke.” 

“How - how did you - ”

“Your voices carry,” you explain, a little dryly, and leave behind further speculation as you follow Bucky further in, towards the promise of a late breakfast.  

Your hands are still shaking a little, but you clench the back of a chair at the bar tight enough to ground yourself. A deep breath, and you sit.  

“Sorry about that,” Bucky says softly - he pauses beside you, his eyes glinting blue - he’s standing a little close, isn’t he? Awkwardly you shift in the chair, your thigh twinging slightly from overuse. All the easiness and companionship of Bucky’s apartment is…well, it’s gone. Along with the walls and furniture and stuff. So, there’s that. You offer a stiff smile - a flicker of disappointment in Bucky’s gaze, and he leaves your side.  

The fresh coffee tastes like ash, and even Bucky’s usually-excellent eggs are enough to turn your stomach.  

Everything about this feels wrong. 

Well, not everything. Being in Avengers Tower, surrounded by - if not direct enemies, certainly antagonists; putting off leaving New York for some distant, niggling dread of having to leave Bucky. That all feels wrong.  

But Bucky himself doesn’t feel wrong. He’s the only part of this mess that feels even remotely right. This softens some of the anxiety in your belly - and a smile spreads on your face as Sam comes into the kitchen to harass Bucky and Bucky harasses him right back. It doesn’t even matter what they’re joking about; it’s enough just to see Bucky smiling and to hear him laughing…and you don’t realize you’re staring until Sam saunters over to you, an eyebrow quirked.  

“You and I, we need to talk,” he says, his voice suddenly steely.  

“Sorry, I’m not here right now,” you say back sweetly. “Check back later.” And you slide off the chair to take your half-empty plate to the sink, avoiding Bucky’s gaze. It would hurt too much; that you’re certain of.  

“Let me show you where you can stay,” Bucky says after a moment of awkward silence. Sam gives a ‘huh!’ in the background, but you ignore that, too, and pick up your bag to follow Bucky out.  

He doesn’t say anything through the hallways. You don’t, either.  

“Here.” Bucky pushes open a door at the very end of the hall - turning slightly, he offers a smile as you step cautiously through, and sigh.  

It’s too nice. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a bed with a white comforter and an expensive looking rug on the ground. Plants, shelves, a dresser - the nicest television you’ve even been in the same room with. And you’ve been in some pretty swanky places. 

“Thanks,” you say awkwardly, and step forward to drop your bag on the bed. Turning ‘round, you study Bucky for a moment - standing in the doorway, one hand still on the door handle. His jaw is ticking, his eyes unfathomable. Or maybe you just don’t want to fathom them.  

“I think I’ll spend the day here,” you add, when a response is not forthcoming. “It’s…for the best?” 

“For who,” Bucky mutters under his breath. There - now you can see the remorse in his eyes. “Want some company?” he asks after another moment. 

“You should be with your friends.” 

Bucky snorts. “There’s a reason I have my own place. Had. Had my own place.” 

Gnawing your lip, a twist of regret settles in your stomach. But before you can say anything, he shakes himself and smiles again, ducking out of the room and closing the door.  

It’s a while before you can breathe properly again.  

The day crawls by at a snail’s pace - every so often, a voice walks by your room. It’s a tense background noise as you search your phone for flights and program a new bracelet to unlock doors. It’s a tetchy job, but keeps you reasonably busy - and when you at last have to turn on the overhead light, you take a deep breath, and wish for Bucky.  

You don’t have to wait long - not surprising. Not yet prepared to sleep, you’ve been sitting up in bed, propped against the many pillows as you run the bracelet through your fingers and worry.  

A knock, as stars twinkle in the sky outside the windows. A deep breath, and the door swings open. 

“Hey,” is Bucky’s soft greeting, and you cast him an attempt at a smile as you swing your legs over the side of your bed. “Hey, don’t get up,” he says quickly, shutting the door behind him. “I just wanted to make sure your wounds are doing ok. And you. If you’re doing ok.” 

How very sweet. And clumsy. A twist in your heart, and you say snidely, “Thanks, mom. Always looking out for me.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but fondly - he’s grinning as he steps over to you.  

“Want me out of my pants?” you tease. 

“I bet you want that, huh,” he dishes back. “I brought some scar cream, if you need it.” Bucky pats his pocket, and you lift a brow.  

“How about you leave the cream with me, and I’ll take care of myself like a big girl?” you suggest. 

“Nope. You came to me for help, you’re not gettin’ rid of me until you’re completely better.”  

“Well, in that case,” you say sardonically.  

“Pants off,” Bucky orders. “Or shirt, first.” 

Sweater over your head, and then your shirt - Bucky doesn’t look at your bra, though his face is red as he studies the wound closely. Not touching you - but almost. His leg to your leg, his breath on your skin -  

“It’s a little puckered still,” he says, uncapping the cream before smearing a generous amount on your skin. “But that’ll go down, in time.” 

“Good to know. Can I put my shirt back on?” 

“Only if you want to,” he teases. You stick your tongue out, and tug it back over your head.  

“You know, if you don’t have any clothes, you can borrow mine,” you say by way of a joke as you undo your pants - it works. Bucky starts to laugh, and the redness in his cheeks fades.  

“You’re sweeter than you let on,” he says, running a thumb over the scar on your thigh. Immediately goosebumps race across your skin to settle between your legs - sheesh, from just a touch? Your teeth gnaw on your bottom lip as Bucky crouches at your side, frowning as he rubs cream into that scar, too.  

His touch is too much. It’s all too much.  

“Does it hurt?” Bucky’s husky whisper jolts you, and your voice shakes.  

“Um, when you press on it, yeah.” 

A chortle. His eyes flit up to meet yours - there’s a soft, sort of sad smile on his face, and before you can do more than give a strangled gasp in surprise, he dips his head to press a gentle kiss to your thigh. His fingers are stroking along the side, just the fingertips - making the tremors worse. 

“Bucky…” A shaky, uncontrolled moan. He gazes up again, this time his eyes dark and promising…and with the heat rushing up and down your body, your fingers clench on the side of the bed as you force your voice to be steady.  

It hurts. Physically hurts in your stomach region in a way that a lie never has before.  

“Bucky, we can’t do this.” A soft rejection. Please, you plead internally with all your might. Just take it and go…don’t make it worse. 

“‘Course we can.” There’s that lopsided smile you love so much; his eyes are sparkling up at you as he kisses your leg again. “Darlin’, I - I’m in love with you. Did you know that?” A nervous sort of laugh as your head spins, and his smile grows. “‘Course you do. You’re always one step ahead. You always know.” 

“Bucky,” you say again, and savor his name on your lips with an ache of knowing it could be the last time you ever say it. “Bucky, you’re not in love with me.” 

He blinks. His smile wavers; lapses into bafflement.  

“Just like you said - I can read people better than they know themselves. You’re attracted to me, that’s obvious enough. But you’ve mistaken that for love.”  

“Guess you don’t know everything,” Bucky says with a startled laugh after a moment. “I am in love with you. Have been, for days. Doesn’t seem like long, sweetheart, does it? But that’s the way love is, sometimes - ” 

“No,” you interrupt, voice louder now. So much for a soft rejection. Even with nausea seeping through your every pore, your ears ringing, your head swimming - you keep your eyes on Bucky’s, and force yourself to believe everything you say. “It’s not love, Bucky. It’s not real.” 

A real frown furrows his brows now; instinctively your yearning to comfort him has you cupping his jaw with your hand, but that only makes it worse. Swallowing past a hundred lumps in your throat, you seal the deal in a steady voice.  

“Love is the biggest con of all. Believe me - I know.” 

The words fall heavy from your mouth, and clatter on the ground to rattle through the empty air, the echoes growing louder and louder and louder until they’re roaring in your ears; the pressure hurting your head and threatening a raw scream from your throat -  

You lift your chin, and steady yourself.  

“I see,” Bucky says at last. His eyes are still flickering between yours - searching for the lie, the hint of hesitation. It’s not there. You’ve been grifting and lying too long; it’s gone past second nature and become your very essence itself.  

And for once, it hurts. 

“Well, that’s okay.” Coupled with a shrug, he stands, his warm hands sliding off your leg as you try to catch a breath. But your heart is pounding. A moment as Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets, and finally you drag your eyes up to meet his one last time. “Don’t be sorry,” he adds, a wry smile twisting his lips. “Feel what you feel, and don’t be sorry about it. I’m not sorry.” 

You bite your lips together, and don’t respond. You don’t trust yourself to. You hadn’t prepared this far… 

“Sleep well, yeah?” Bucky offers, and as you nod numbly he turns to leave. The door opens, and shuts, and you crumple.  

No tears. Never tears. Too indulgent; too messy; too painful. But several body-shaking breaths, and when your mind is clear of the shuddering emotions, you force yourself to stand, and slide out your packed bag from beneath the bed.  

Now, it’s a routine. There is usually comfort in that, though tonight there is not. With the heel of your hand you furiously rub your eyes to stop the burning - helps a little. Another bracing breath, and you slip the bracelet onto your wrist.  

There’s a thermostat on the wall; the newest tech you’ve ever seen, but in the Avengers private residences it isn’t hard to hack. With your backpack on and ready to go, you stand at the wall and frown as data starts downloading wirelessly into the micro-SD card you like to keep in your bracelet. If this isn’t enough, there’s not much you can do, anyway.  

Five minutes later you shut off the data transfer. Onto the security systems… 

Wow. Super easy from the inside - the cameras are programmed to loop in a few hours; that ought to give everyone enough time to sleep. Which just leaves you… 

To wait.  

You can do that.  

Perched on the bed, your eyes follow the ticking of the clock on the opposite wall. Ten, eleven, midnight…one, one-thirty. The cameras have been looped for twenty minutes. The floor has been silent for an hour and a half.  

Time to go.  

Not a sound. Not a protest. Not an alarm. But it doesn’t stop your stomach from churning with anxiety as you step into the empty elevator. Licking your lips, you stare at the numbers as they go down, down, down… 

Ground level. Back entrance. Alley. Street. Subway. 

Airport. 

Chapter Text

The safe house in Miami is empty. More than empty, more than hollow - it’s as if it’s never been inhabited, never been loved, never been cherished. Never felt a single trace of human warmth. Around every corner is the ringing memory in your mind of Bucky’s laugh, of his easy jibing and his gentle touch.  

But he’s not here. And he never will be. 

The motions of bunking down, passing a sleepless night after a sleepless flight - of showering with your usual soaps and eating your usual cereal, of wearing your normal clothes from your stash, of arranging your hair and making sure all the details for the day are ready -  

It doesn’t feel good.  

It takes some guts to rob a museum; it takes courage to face down people you’d be terrified of any other day. It’s not just some simple thing to pick a pocket, palm a watch, light-finger some cash, heist a Monet. But this?  

There’s not enough bravery in your bones for this, but your feet are already on the path. This is the way you’d chosen days ago, before Bucky had told you loved you, perhaps the very same night you’d shown up bleeding outside his kitchen.  

It’s not going to be easy.  

Harder than quitting any other job, probably. It’s more than an employment change; it’s a personality change. To lie - or to tell the truth. To be vulnerable, or invulnerable.  

The bitter, criminal part of your brain gnaws at your heart: Quitting because you fell in love? You’re weak.

“There are worse reasons to quit,” you say aloud, but there’s no one to hear it. It’s a relief that your strained and fearful voice will remain unheard.  

The warehouse your employer uses for meetings like this is outside of Miami; cooking in the heat and with no air conditioning. A sundress had been an excellent idea, because the swooshing of walking through the oven is all the breeze you get. Sweat drops bead on the back of your neck and forehead as the murmurs of your employer and his assistants can be heard.  

“Ah, here she is!” A ringing voice, and you force a smile to greet your employer as he stands from behind his elegant mahogany desk - out of place in a peeling warehouse, but criminals don’t always get to pick and choose.  

“Sorry I’m late,” you say, ignoring the glares of his goons. “The last target you sent me after had me stabbed and tried to run me out of town - and then he showed up later and blew up my safe house.” 

Coming to stop before the desk, you quirk a brow - and to his credit, your employer grimaces as he sits down again.  

“Got wind of it,” he admits. “Sorry about that. I tried sending a car to your safe house in Brooklyn, but it was empty.” 

“Had to find a new one,” you say, and don’t blush at the memory of Bucky.  

“I’m glad you were able to plant the device, anyway,” your employer says, leaning back in his chair slightly as he laces his fingers together. “Got plenty of intel before they went after you, and we already know their plans to regroup.” 

“Excellent,” you tell him. “I quit.” 

Silence. The warehouse seems to expand as your employer blinks in surprise, his goons shifting from side to side threateningly.  

“I gotta be honest, the stabbing put me off a bit,” you say. “There’s a big difference in my book between lifting a wallet and bodily harm. I’m not interested.” 

“I can put you in a different case,” he tries, his voice beseeching. “I can send Antonio here to look out after you.” 

“I work better alone.” 

“Have I been skimping on your paychecks? I can double - ” 

“No,” you interrupt quickly, before this gets too enticing. “I’ve just…lost the drive. I’m tired of running. And being stabbed hurts.” 

There’s a chuckle at that - even Antonio’s lips twitch.  

“Is there anything I can do to convince you to stay?” you employer asks, one last time. He leans forward on his desk, eyes bright and waiting.  

But you don’t see his eyes. The only eyes you remember are Bucky’s.  

“Nothing,” you say. “After you deposit my final paycheck, I’ll move my funds to another account and shut it down. If I get caught, I won’t be traced to you.” 

He nods, a weary sort of smile on his face. “Alright. Well, best of luck in your future endeavors. If you ever need employment again, you’ll always have a place with us.” 

“I know. I’m in high demand.” A light-hearted joke to break up the heavy atmosphere - it works, of course, and after a parting handshake you head out of the rusty warehouse, and pause in the bright Miami sun.  

First hurdle done. The hardest.  

It’s easier to go on with a lightness in your feet.  

Pack up, move out, and move on. This time you don’t even steal a car - which is what you usually do - but take a bag of cash to a car dealership. It’s different, choosing what you want rather than just taking what you can. Completely different. Difficult. In a good way. A way that leaves you exhausted, but pleased. Who knew there was so much paperwork involved?  

Up in humid and hazy Atlanta, you stop at a crumbling down storage unit, and pass on some cash to the guard on duty. Boxes and bags are moved to the trunk of your new car.  

Washington D.C. - some boxes and some bags are dropped off at a loading dock at the Smithsonian, after closing hours when the sky is black as ink.  

Baltimore, a B&B and a restless night. In the morning, phone calls and internet searches and more money spent. This time it hurts a little - but again, in a good way. The hope gnawing in your chest is almost therapeutic: when was the last time you’d hoped for something? 

Finally, New York City at dusk.  

After business hours, there are parking spaces in front of Avengers Tower, though the sidewalks are still busy. No one looks at you funny; hobbling up to the main entrance of the Tower with your arms filled with boxes. It’s locked - of course - and having discarded your bracelet out the rolled-down car window somewhere in Virginia, there’s nothing left to do but to press the buzzer.  

Your arms burn, the boxes teetering. Minutes pass. You push the buzzer again.  

Finally a click over an intercom, and a babble of argument is broken off.  

“Yes, who is it?” comes a singsong voice - Sam Wilson. Figures.  

“I have peace offerings,” you say without preamble. “If you want me to leave them outside, just say so - but they’ll probably get picked up by someone before you make it down one hundred stinking floors, though.” 

A snort, and guffaw - and it goes silent again. Gnawing on your lip, you shift to ease the strain of carrying such a heavy load.  

A click again - and this time the arguing is louder. But above the fray is Bucky’s voice - a shiver makes your legs feel weak as he says, “You can come up. Anyone who doesn’t want to see you is gonna get sent to bed - ouch!” There’s a grunt and a scuffle, but thankfully the doors slide open, at least.  

An elevator ride had never seemed longer - even your escape hadn’t been this nerve-wracking. It’s different from approaching the Avengers at Bucky’s side…or on a mission… 

When the elevator doors open to the residential level of the Tower, you’re met by Tony Stark, arms folded and a particular glint in his eye.  

“Oh, hello,” he says, and waves a hand - he’s wearing an Iron Man gauntlet. Great.  

“Didn’t you see my white flag?” you snipe, stepping off. “I’m not here to incite violence. Not like I have a chance against you, anyway.” 

“Smart woman.” 

“I have peace offerings,” you repeat, and after another glare, Tony nods and gestures for you to follow him into the common area.  

Whatever Bucky had said about sending away naysayers - they’re all there. Sprawled out on couches, wearing varying expressions of disgust and anger and reluctance. Only Bucky smiles as you approach - which makes your stomach flutter - but his smile is strained.  

The boxes go straight onto the coffee table. With a grimace, you roll your shoulders. One of them twinges in protest, but you ignore it.  

“Hi,” you say without preamble, and the under-the-breath mutterings cease. Flipping open the top of the first box, you reach inside and pull out a thin plastic card. “For Sam.” 

Startled, Sam reaches over to take it - and his mouth falls open. “My ID!” he exclaims. “How did you still have this? Man, I had to jump through so many hoops to get a new one; thought I was gonna get court-martialed - ” 

“I used it for what I needed it for, and packed it away,” you explain patiently. “Should’ve cut it up, but I thought I might need it again. And here we are. For all its worth. It’s expired.” 

Bucky’s eyes are on your face, making it burn. But you don’t look at him; or anyone else’s surprised expressions. Instead you pull out a smaller box.  

“Mr. Stark,” you say, and pass it over to where he’s standing, still uptight.  

“What’s this?” he asks gruffly. 

“Why don’t you look?” 

A snort. Bucky.  

Tony is glaring again. But he shakes off the lid, and - his eyes bug out. “What the - ” he exclaims. “How’d you get all this?” 

“Well, I don’t know if you know this,” you drawl. “But I’m a thief.” 

More snickering.  

Tony lifts from the box a ragged old watch, mouth agape. “Rhodey gave me this when we graduated MIT,” he says, his voice a little thick. “And this one - ” He drops it and pulls out another. “The prototype nanotech - ” Next, a ragged bowtie. “How?” Tony’s brows furrow. “This isn’t - ” 

“It’s from a theater showing in Florence,” you say. “It’s yours. Believe me.” 

“Why are you doing this?” Steve’s voice, now. You turn slightly, glancing at him beside Bucky, but offer no smile.  

“Got no reason to keep this stuff,” you say, and at the bottom of the box pull out a worn leather pack. It smells musty and feels soft and crinkly, and your fingers brush over it for only a moment before you toss it into Steve’s lap. He catches it. 

“My - my - ” he stammers, and the accusation in his eyes is gone.  

“That was stolen from the Smithsonian years ago,” Sam says with interest, leaning over as Steve traces over the Howling Commandos symbol with his index finger.  

“By me,” you clarify.  

Eyes snap to you. “By you?” Steve asks, frowning.  

“I was paid for it,” you shrug. “My employer wanted to have it tested for any of your blood. Super blood. To develop a serum for himself - but it was a no go.” 

“Steve was pretty good at keeping his stuff clean,” Bucky says lightly, a grin lighting up his face. You can’t help looking at it - at him, and your face flushes warm. “Peggy had an eye for a smudge of dirt, didn’t she, Stevie?” A nudge to Steve’s shoulder, and Steve’s face turns bright red.  

But he doesn’t answer - he flips open the flaps of the bag, rummaging through inside.  

“I returned the knick knacks to the Smithsonian,” you tell him. “Pens, notes, a lighter. But - ” 

Steve pulls out a bundle of photos, black and white and frayed, and his eyes mist over. Awkwardly you press your lips together - even Bucky is frowning as he glances over.  

“Thank you,” Steve says, a little shakily, and he glances up at you with shining eyes. “Thank you,” he repeats, voice firmer.  

“You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do.” You pause as Steve gives a laugh, flipping through the photos, and then add, “If you want me to go back and get the rest of your stuff - ” 

“No!” Steve blurts, and laughs again. “No. You’ll give those poor curators heart attacks.” 

“Well,” you shrug. “If you ever want your stuff back…” 

“I’ll keep you in mind.” A beaming smile of sunshine. Steve is handsome when he’s not scowling. But your eyes drift over to Bucky. Bucky is watching you with a hard, unfathomable expression in his eyes. You clear your throat, and tug out the last object.  

“Natasha,” you say, and she catches the wrapped bundle.  

Knives. A belt. She nods in approval, before pulling out a knife to test the edge.  

“Warsaw, 2009,” Nat says - unnecessary for you since you remember that incident quite well - but probably as an explanation for the others. “Thank you for returning them.” 

“Sorry about the, um,” you say, a little fearfully, and mimic a smashing motion to your head. Natasha just chortles.  

“All’s forgiven,” she says. 

“What about me?” Clint interrupts. “Didn’t you bring anything for me?” 

“I gave you back your watch, didn’t I?” you ask with a quirked brow, collapsing the top box.  

“Well - but that was - ”

“Kind of her,” Bucky finishes for Clint. “Just say thanks, bowhead.” 

Clint grumbles. “Oh, sure, thank the criminal.” 

“That’s pretty rich, isn’t it, Clint?” Natasha says with a dry smile. “She had it right the other day - we all belong in jail for something.” 

“Steve is still waiting on about four court-martials for the U.S. army,” Bucky says.  

“Clint accidentally blew up a train station in Cairo,” Sam points out.  

“Bucky assassinated JFK,” Clint gripes.  

“Natasha forged her immigration papers,” Tony adds.  

“Tony has sixteen offshore accounts,” Natasha says sweetly.  

“And Sam lost his military ID, we’re all losers here,” Steve breaks in, and everyone starts to laugh - including you. Despite your hands sweating a bit, with the final hurdle looming ahead, it’s nice to laugh. It’s nice to be around people who aren’t as pristine as they appear.  

“Speaking of, if you give me a shipping address and a few weeks, I can get that Picasso returned to you,” you tell Tony. “Since I filched it in Malibu, I wasn’t sure if you wanted it here or there…” 

“There. Have it sent straight to Pepper’s office,” Tony says without hesitation. “And some flowers. That was her favorite piece.” 

“Um, yeah - sorry.” 

Steve has returned to smiling and chortling over the photos, with Sam and Bucky chiming with their own laughs. Clint is testing out one of Natasha’s knives, and Tony is trying to poke a hole into one of the watch wristbands to make it fit better.  

Hands on the bottom box, the heavy one, you take a deep breath. “Bucky,” you say, and your voice trembles on his name.  

Silence. He glances up, amusement flickering to uncertainty.  

“For you,” you say, tapping the box.  

“I’m outta here,” Tony says, and books it.  

“Let’s put these on the computer so you don’t lose them again,” Sam says to Steve, and they stand and walk out. Clint doesn’t even give an excuse, and Natasha is the last to leave, glancing back with a little purse to her lips before disappearing. 

Wow. Alone. Weren’t expecting that.  

“For me?” Bucky asks, his voice low as he leans forward, placing his arms on his knees as he continues to gaze up at you. The buffer of other company gone now, you swallow thickly at the bright blue of his eyes, the question in them, and the desperate yearning in your chest.  

“Well, I mean. Yeah,” you shrug.  

Bucky’s eyes leave yours for a split second, to where Steve and Sam had gone off. “Let’s go to my bedroom,” he suggests, standing slowly. “This isn’t private at all.” 

It doesn’t have to be private if you don’t want it to be, is your desperate thought, but out loud you snark, “Always trying to get me in your bedroom, huh?” 

His laugh - oh, that laugh, you could listen to it all day - makes you tingle all over, and Bucky reaches over to pick up the heavy box. How gallant. He lifts his brow and makes for the hallway, and you follow him out, heart hammering.

Chapter Text

Night has descended over the city; multi-colored twinkles against a black sky shimmer through the floor-to-ceiling windows in Bucky’s bedroom, entrancing you for a moment before he turns on the lights.  

It was a peaceful sight, for the half-second it lasted. 

“Alright,” Bucky says, a little long-suffering in his voice as he places the box on the neat covers of his bed. You notice the picture frames on the walls, the bold pattern of the rug, the fancy throw pillows. Stark’s decorations are entirely different than Bucky’s own; this doesn’t feel like him at all. But you shake yourself from that stream of thought, and shove your hands in the pockets of your sweater, feeling awkward.  

“Go ahead,” you tell him.  

“It’s not wrapped,” he jokes.  

“Alright, picky,” you snark, and walk over to put your arm over the box as if to take it away - he starts to laugh, and you scowl up at him. “If you don’t want it, I’ll just take it back - ” 

“Darlin’, it’s fine, I was just teasin’,” Bucky assures you, and nudges your arm away. You narrow your eyes, but his smile is just so pretty - you back away, and let him tear off the tape.  

Packing peanuts fall to the floor, and wrapping tissue is discarded. Bucky reaches in, and as your stomach clenches with nerves, you hear him give a “Huh!” in surprise, as a shining record player is pulled out to gleam in the lights of his bedroom.  

“It’s the exact make and model,” you blurt, because you don’t know what else to say. “A few of the parts have been replaced, but it sings like a charm. Took me a while to find it.” 

“You…” Bucky starts to say, and then glances at you over the top of the speaker. “You…knew the make and model?” he asks in a strange voice.  

“Well, sure. I’m observant. Part of being a grifter, you know.”  

The following silence is thick - because of what you’d said? The gift? A hundred other things hanging in the air, waiting to see if they’ll be spoken? Maybe.

“Why?” Bucky asks shortly, curiously. “Why did you do this? All of it. The others - you brought back their stuff. Why?” 

You shrug, face hot as you sway slightly, just to keep your muscles from seizing with anxiety. “I quit my job.” 

The air is sizzling and crackling now - his eyes are blazing blue into yours, and you gulp. It’s a near-wish to have the rest of the Avengers around. They might soften the intensity of being alone with Bucky.  

A moment passes, and he turns away to gently place the record player on top of the dresser.  

“There are some records in there, too,” you say in a hurry. “I, um, wasn’t entirely sure what you liked, so I just grabbed a bunch. Made sure I got every Ella Fitzgerald record I saw. And…Glenn Miller. You like him, right?” 

Bucky’s grin spreads from ear to ear as he turns back to you. “I do,” he says. There’s a sultry note in his voice that has you tilting backwards - but he stops a pace in front of you, and crosses his arms in front of his chest. An excellent image; with a white-t-shirt and his bare arms. But you swallow again.  

“Bucky,” you begin, because you’ve been planning this for hours; for days. “Look, I know you have no reason to believe anything I say. Or any reason to forgive me. But - ” 

“Well, that’s because you haven’t given me one,” Bucky interrupts matter-of-factly.  

Not what you’d planned for. Blinking, you just stare up at him and say, very elegantly, “Huh?” 

“You haven’t given me a reason to forgive you,” he explains patiently. “But I’m here, and I’m listening. I’m ready.” 

Oh, no. Gulping again, feeling the hot flush in your face and the prickles of nerves across your skin, you shift awkwardly as you search for words. It’s not easy to think under Bucky’s gaze.  

“Well,” you say, after a few more awkward moments. “I’ve…never gone back after a cut and run.”  

“A what?” 

“A cut and run.” 

“Is that a con?” 

“Well, kind of, yeah.” 

“You saying you did a cut and run on me?”  

Blankly you meet Bucky’s eyes. But there’s no anger or resentment there - he starts to laugh, and uncertainty has you frowning - but he only laughs harder, wheezing as he clutches his belly.  

“Finally!” he chortles, wiping his eyes. “Now I don’t feel so left out. You’ve conned nearly everyone here but me. Didn’t even steal a single possession of mine - makes me feel like everything I have is garbage.” 

Instinctively you snark back, “Oh, finally, you’ve realized.” 

His laughter is making your lips twitch - and the anxiety in your belly to turn to hope.  

“Could you stop laughing for a second and let me finish?” you snipe. “C’mon Bucky; I haven’t been passing through fiery trials these last few days for you to laugh at me.” 

“I’m sorry - I’m sorry, sweetheart. Honest.” He clears his throat, meeting your eyes with some solemnity - but delight still dances, and you don’t stop yourself from smiling.  

“I lied to you, too,” you tell him. “The night I left. I lied about love. I lied about everything - I needed to leave fast and I didn’t want to run the chances of you following me and getting either of us in trouble with my employer.” 

“I know you were lying, darlin,’” Bucky says, and his voice is soft now. Makes you feel warm all over. “Super hearing, remember? I know your every response to me. I know you lied then, and I know you’re telling the truth now, even though it’s hard.” 

Every response?, you wonder with horror. This apprehension must be visible in your face, because Bucky gives another chortle.  

“You don’t have to tell me everything, if you don’t want to,” he says, and your heart gives a funny beat. “I don’t need to know everyone you’ve done, or why you scarpered out so fast the other night. Call me crazy, but I trust you.” 

“You’re crazy,” you tell him, and mean it.  

Bucky grins wide. “I know. Didn’t mean to fall in love with a criminal who hunts me down in the middle of the night to bleed all over my kitchen floor, but there’s my craziness coming in.” 

“It was one time,” you say, and laughter is threatening.  

“Once is all it takes.” His voice is soft. “Sweetheart, I just…I’m glad you came back.” There’s a wealth of meaning in his tone - terrifying and exalting at the same time, and you try to keep your voice steady.  

“Will you forgive me?” Oh, it’s awful how timid your voice sounds! You haven’t asked anyone for forgiveness in years - not for anything. But the sudden desperate yearning for Bucky’s forgiveness; for his compassion, his love, his understanding - makes your knees quake.  

But his lips are twitching. “On one condition,” he says sternly.  

Oh, no. Swallowing past the lump in your throat, you ask, “What’s that?” 

“I want to finish our dance. The one that was interrupted.” 

Not as bad as you’d thought - and he’s smiling, anyway. Scrunching your face, you mutter, “Sorry about that.” 

“Stark had it cleaned up. The landlord was well-compensated, especially now that I don’t live there anymore,” Bucky says with a snort, and he turns away slightly to start thumbing through the records in the box. Out of the scrutiny of his gaze, it’s easier to breathe - and think - and belatedly you pull a folded piece of paper from your jeans pocket.  

“Oh, I almost forgot,” you say ruefully, handing it over to him. He takes it, and frowns. “It’s my fault your apartment got blown up. I want to pay for another. I know you don’t really care to live here.” 

“I don’t need this,” Bucky says, and tries to give you back the check - but you step away, holding your hands up so he can’t force it on you.  

“No. But I need to give it to you. Let me make retribution.” 

He ponders this for a moment, and then gives a short nod. The check is thrown on the bed - maybe he’ll cash it, maybe he won’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter.  

Records again. Bucky pulls out a Glenn Miller, hums in satisfaction, and tosses it down. Same with a few others. “This is after my time,” he deadpans, holding up a Fleetwoods album.  

“I’m not an expert in old music, you geezer,” you snark. “How about a thank you?” 

“Thank you.” Bucky grins, and holds up a Billie Holiday record. “So, what do you say? Dance with me?” 

For his forgiveness? For the heaps and gallons of opportunity just to be with him - possibly more than tonight, if he forgives enough.  

“Yes,” you tell him.  

Then all that’s left to do is plug in the record player, and Bucky straightens to fit the record into the slot. A button, a crinkle of static, and he lifts the pin to lay it down -  

Crooning strings and clarinets. Your stomach is doing flips and turns, unbelievably nervous and Bucky turns back with a smile. A few steps, and you’re in his arms again, just like you had been…with the resurrection of every heated sensation from that morning; every urge and yearning for Bucky. 

“Your leg’s doing okay?” he asks softly, eyes searching your face.  

“Of course.” 

Billie’s voice joins in; sultry and thick like honey.  

Hush now, don’t explain
Just say you’ll remain
I’m glad you’re back, don’t explain… 

Bucky’s flesh hand is on your back, sliding up and down slightly as you shiver - and with your opposite hand clenched in his metal digits, you try to calm your breathing. You’re barely even swaying; there’s no need for your heart to be hammering like this -  

You know that I love you
And what love endures
Nothing rates above you
For I’m so completely yours… 

“Bucky,” you say after a moment, glancing up as your legs nearly give out. “I’m in love with you.” 

A soft chuckle. “I know.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“You know how I can tell when people lie?” He quirks a brow.  

“Uh - yeah.” 

“Yeah. ‘Bout the same.” 

A grimace tugs at your lips. “Oh.”  

“Don’t feel bad,” Bucky says soothingly, and dark strands fall from behind his ears as he tilts his head slightly in your direction. “I wasn’t going to confront you about it. I’m happy to wait for you.”  

“Jerk.” 

“I can’t help noticing those things!” 

“Uh huh. Sure.” But you’re smiling as you roll your eyes fondly, and Bucky chortles as he gives your waist a squeeze.  

Hush now, don’t explain
You’re my joy and pain
My life’s yours, love
Don’t explain. 

The record player clicks, and moves onto the next song. Bucky doesn’t stop leading you in those tiny circles in the middle of his bedroom, and you don’t stop following.  

“So, what now?” you ask. “You gonna make an honest woman out of me? Is that it?” 

He shrugs. “Don’t want to. I like you just the way you are.” 

“Is that so?” A pause, and you gnaw on the inside of your lip for a moment. “You want me to steal something for you, don’t you?” 

Bucky’s laugh rings out. Either on purpose or accident - you don’t know - he has tugged you closer, and his warmth and familiar scent are creeping into your bones and soul until a beaming smile grows on your face, and you laugh along.  

“Well, Sam did snitch my copy of ‘The Dancing Pirate,’” Bucky muses. “I’d love it if you could get it back.” 

“I can do that.” Swaying to the music, your left hand drifts up to his hair without thinking, smoothing down some frizz in the back. He smiles dopily down at you, and you add, “I’m not sure that counts as stealing, though. If it’s your copy, and he took it first…” 

“Oh, good. We have the moral high ground.” 

“For once,” you laugh.  

“Maybe for you,” Bucky snarks. “I always have the moral high ground.” 

“I don’t believe that for a second.” 

“Brat.” 

“Oh, phew, back to normality,” you tease, and he chuckles again.   

“You just love me because I don’t let you run over me like a railroad train,” Bucky decides. “Like everyone else lets you. I’ve watched you run cons before.” 

“Oh?” you ask curiously. He’d mentioned something like this before - and now you have every reason to question him about it. “Just how long have you been watching me, Barnes?”   

“Before I got you that night?” Bucky chortles. “Weeks. Watched you charm your way through Manhattan to get passwords to major business buildings, names of people working on science projects who you then half-seduced to get whatever intel you were looking for. I’ve never seen anyone with fingers as light as yours. I even missed the thievery you were pulling, sometimes. Still don’t know how you got that jewelled necklace. The one the Countess of Pembroke was wearing fifteen minutes before you left the Met.” 

“Oh,” you say, deeply unsettled to have been scrutinized so closely - but flattered, too. “Well, a grifter doesn’t reveal her secrets.” 

“I knew you were something special, sweetheart,” Bucky goes on, lips curled into a heart-stopped grin. “Something about the look in your eye. I had to make sure our paths only ever crossed on my terms, otherwise I would’ve been just another schmuck you left behind.” 

“Cute.” 

“And then you showed up at my window…” he sighs, and shakes his head. “Left me here and went off. And I was just another schmuck. Self-fulfilling prophecy, that’s what it is.” 

“A tiger can’t change her spots,” you tease.  

“Stripes,” Bucky corrects. 

“Whatever.” 

“You’ll make a great addition to the Avengers,” he adds, a misty look in his eyes. “We’ll be unstoppable.” 

“I don’t want to be an Avenger,” you say after a moment’s hesitation. “I…I can retire. I just…I don’t really have any plans right now, but I’m not ready for this. For them.” 

“What about me?” Bucky asks, his eyes soft.  

You nod, smiling all the while as Billie croons. “Yeah. I’m ready for you.” 

The swaying stops. A tense moment, tinged with sparks and electricity and the weight of desperate love - Bucky’s hands clasp your face, and his lips descend on yours before you can even take a breath.  

Everything is hot - tingling and strange and overwhelming - and you kiss him back for all you’re worth; for quitting your job, for making retribution, for asking forgiveness. And he still loves you.  

Arms around his neck, and his around your waist. You’re lifted into the air as you giggle breathlessly, pulling back to admire the sparkling of Bucky’s eyes, the grin lighting his features.  

“I can’t believe it,” he murmurs. “I reformed the most beautiful thief in New York City!.” 

“You said you like me the way I am,” you remind him.  

Bucky gives a long-suffering nod. “Well, you’ve completely stolen my heart, so clearly you’re not entirely rehabilitated. We’ll have to work on that.” 

Another laugh, a flutter in your heart. You dip your head, and kiss him again. 

Chapter Text

A date.  

After everything, you and Bucky get a date. Even if it has been over a month since your return, with such difficulties popping up such as your previous run-ins with the law; the hassle of arranging your finances in a legal manner (with Stark’s help, it wasn’t so bad) and the strain of being so close to Bucky but not quite taking the steps forward that would, ah, lessen the tension of sharing a bedroom. Sleeping in the same bed had become habit enough that you’d refused a separate room, and Bucky had been teased about it until his face was flaming-red and you’d been howling with laughter. 

He’s cute when he blushes. 

“It was nice of your probation officer to let you out after nine,” Natasha teases, perched on the counter in her bathroom as you help yourself to her store of cosmetics and hair supplies.  

“Yeah, because ten is so late,” you snark back.  

“Better than house arrest. You got off easy.” 

“It’s easy to get off easy when you donate stolen goods to the Smithsonian,” you tell her. “And the Met. And…a dozen other museums and high-ups in the government.” 

Natasha snorts. “You’re still a grifter.” 

“I know how to get what I want.” 

A knock sounds on Nat’s door - and Bucky’s deep voice sounds through it.  

“Can I have my date, Tasha? We’re gonna be late.” 

Natasha’s eyes meet yours - she quirks a brow, and you laugh. There’s the sound of footsteps shifting outside the door. Antsy, is he? A final look-over in the mirror, and you purse your lips in semi-satisfaction. The difference between making yourself up for a mission and a target, and for yourself and Bucky, for something real… 

It’s a little terrifying.  

“You look great,” Natasha assures you, hopping down from the counter. “Got any protection?” 

“Um - ” 

“A knife? Pistol?” 

“Oh!” you laugh. “No. Don’t need it. I’m out of the game.” 

“You’re never really out of the game,” Nat says in warning, but she’s smiling. Picking up your clutch, you make your way out of the bathroom and to the door, where Bucky is still waiting - and pull open on the handle.  

His face is obscured by a massive bouquet of flowers. After a shocked moment, it lowers, and you can see the bright blue of his eyes peeking out. Bluer than usual, with the shade of grey blazer he’s wearing, a black button-down peeping underneath. With the top button undone, it’s a casual look. A hot look. A lazy smile lifts your lips, which he returns.  

“Oh, hello,” Bucky says. “I was getting hungry enough to start eating these lilies. Thanks for showing up.” 

“Jerk,” you say fondly, taking the bouquet as he hands it off to you. 

“Brat.” 

“Put these in water, will you, Nat?” you ask, a little dreamily as you pass the flowers on. “And don’t wait up for us.” 

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up, but there’s a smile dancing on his lips as he offers his arm.  

“I hope you tell your probation officer?” Natasha says, taking a long sniff, and then sneezing.  

“Already did.” Your eyes are only for Bucky, and you smile sappily as he tugs you away from Nat. It’s a good thing he’s leading, because you might just bump into some walls. He’s chortling as he pushes the button to the elevator, patting your hand.  

Because it’s a lovely night and maybe you’re feeling too antsy to sit in a car - and Bucky seems to be equally as jittery - the walk to the restaurant is only about four blocks, and taken slowly to enjoy the odd peace that comes from the New York City sidewalks. Of anonymity, of familiarity, of being just another fish swimming in the river. Not a target. Just nobody. 

But being with Bucky is a feeling of being one in a million - at the strange juxtaposition of these sensations, you lean your head against his shoulder at a crosswalk, and he kisses the top of your head.  

The interior of the restaurant is much quieter than the streets; dimly lit with candles on tables. Soft music. Your heart is hammering - it feels so strange to be in a place like this without a target - but as soon as you sit, and Bucky takes the place across the table and his eyes meet yours - it doesn’t feel as strange. 

A glance at a clock on the wall - 7:23 p.m. Everything should be going according to plan.  

“Distracted?” Bucky teases, and your eyes flit back to him. That handsome smile - returning it with a curve of your lips, you lean slightly across the table.  

“You wish.” 

“You are distracted.” His eyes sparkle in the candlelight. “Picking out something to lift?” 

“Ha, ha,” you say sardonically. “The paintings are a little big to fit in my clutch.” 

“I’d offer my pockets, but they’re not very large, either.” 

“You’re kind to think of me,” you joke. “Offering a pocket and becoming an accessory to a crime.” 

Bucky’s grin widens. “Not my worst fault.” 

“No, that’s your snoring.” 

“Yeah? Well, you sleep like an octopus.” 

“Is that why I wake up every morning with you clamping my arms down?” 

He chortles. “Obviously! Gotta keep you reined in if I want any space.” 

“You want me in your bed, so…” you give a shrug. 

“You invited yourself, darlin.’” 

“You refused to let me take the couch!” 

Bucky’s lips part, grin lighting up his face. “You were wounded - ”  

“Not that badly!” 

But it all dissolves into laughter - covering your mouth as Bucky snorts in disbelief, a measure of tension is relieved. For a while, at least.  

The restaurant had been recommended by Stark; and so while it’s not cheap, the food was amazing. For all you notice, too busy laughing and teasing Bucky over each course. After the entrée, you rise to find the bathroom - and when you return, Bucky’s eyes having followed you hotly all the way back to the table - you sit back down with a smug smile.  

“I got us free dessert,” you say conspiratorially, as his eyes widen.  

“How’d you do that?” Bucky asks, amused. 

“Ah. Grifter’s secret.” And you tap the side of your nose with a wink. He laughs, causing warmth to prickle across your skin. With a smile you reach over to grasp his hand under the table. “And maybe when we’re done, we can go for a walk,” you suggest softly. “Let the food settle.” 

“Are you asking me sincerely, or trying to grift me?” he asks with a brow lifted.  

“Does it matter?” 

A moment of silence as he ponders this. “Nope,” Bucky says with a smile.  

“That’s for the best,” you tease.  

It’s getting late when the restaurant is finally left behind - the streets are quieter, in this lull before everyone starts heading home for the night. The air is chillier, too, and Bucky drapes his jacket over your shoulders as you wander together in a direction you had predetermined.  

“It’s still early,” you muse, as his arms drape around your shoulders, too. “Only nine. Don’t have to be in until ten, you know.” 

“You want to slow down a bit?” Bucky’s slanted smile is proof he knows what you’re up to - at least, that you are up to something. You shrug as nonchalantly as you can. 

“Looks like some shops are still open,” you say, nodding towards golden light spilling out onto the sidewalk.  

“If you want.” 

Only fifteen minutes needs to be wasted. Through the door of a bookshop, and Bucky’s hand tightens on yours.  

“No stealing,” he murmurs into your ear. “I’m shaking you down before we leave. If you have so much as a bookmark snuck into your purse, you’re in big trouble.” 

“I bet you want to shake me down,” you mutter back. “You gonna plant something on me, just so you can get your hands all over me?” 

“Tempting.” 

A narrowed look, and your face is hot as you move away from him to browse alone.  

With an eye on a clock above the bookstore door, you take your time wandering the shelves, as Bucky studies the history section. It’s a quiet shop; only one other customer in the back, and you pretend to be interested until finally wandering back to Bucky. Winding your arm through his, you rest your cheek on his shoulder, breathing in deeply that Bucky-scent that fills your soul to the brim. 

“Ready to go, sweetheart?” 

“Yeah.” 

There’s a purpose to walking, now. Briskly you lead Bucky on - not towards Avengers Tower, but he doesn’t question it. Until you’re stopped by a crosswalk.  

“Does your probation officer know about this?” he asks, a little suspiciously.  

“Yes.” No need to elaborate past that.  

Your heart is picking up its pace, and not just from walking by the time you and Bucky arrive at the address. His eyes scan up the high-rise apartment building, and you don’t offer explanation as you pull a key from your clutch to enter through the front doors, all glass and shining lobby lights.  

“So,” you say at last, as you step into the elevator in front of Bucky. He quirks a brow, and you clear your throat. “Remember how you didn’t cash the check I gave you for recompense of my being the cause of your apartment getting - um - blown up?” 

His eyes narrow. “Yes…” 

“Well, you can rip up a check, but you can’t throw away an apartment.” This you say with a smug little smirk, and Bucky’s low laugh fills the elevator as it sweeps upward. Then his hands are circling your waist, and your heart is pumping fast, and his head his lowering with his eyes all glittering and sparking blue fire, and -

The doors open.  

Biting your lip, you tug Bucky out - and down the hall. Only two apartments on this level, and you stop at the one to the left. Another key, and with a grin over your shoulder at his patient bafflement, you push the door open.  

He pauses, and goes in.  

Following behind, you deadlock the door. You’d updated your address with your probation officer, after all - there’s no reason to go back to the Tower tonight. Bucky’s jacket goes up on a coat rack, and you follow him further inside.  

The walls are windows; overlooking the Brooklyn skyline and its twinkling lights. Enough overhead lights had been left on that the apartment is glowing with golden light, and you smile at Bucky’s form standing and looking out the windows, hands in his pockets.  

Didn’t even stop to admire the furnishings in the living space, or even the kitchen. And it’s all open, too - he should’ve noticed all the effort you’d put into this.  

“You know you didn’t need to do this,” Bucky says, without turning around.  

“I wanted to,” you retort, and come up behind him to wind your arms around his middle. He chuckles, and the vibrations send little trembling waves of heat through you - but with a shuddering breath, you just rest your chin on his arm. “And anyway,” you add. “If you don’t like it, I’ll keep it for myself. I’m tired of living at the Tower, anyway.” 

“Oh no - don’t you even think of escaping without me,” Bucky laughs. “Take me with you. I’m tired of Sam.” 

“Come on,” you say, pulling away. “There’s more.” 

“What, two bedrooms?” Bucky teases, turning around with a grin.  

“Sam has to stay somewhere when he visits, right?” you snark.  

“Ugh, don’t even suggest it.” 

“There’s only one bedroom. Since you’d end up with me, anyway. I know you can’t keep your hands off of me.” A little smile, and you tug on Bucky’s hand to lead him into the living space. He rolls his eyes fondly - but doesn’t dispute.  

The furniture and decorations are reasonably similar to his old apartment - simple couch and sideboard, coffee table, bookshelves - empty for now. But on the sideboard, just like it used to be - the new record player, ready and waiting with a stack of records beside it.  

“Hey,” Bucky blurts. “I’m pretty sure that was in my room when we left.”

“Oh, it was,” you clarify, choosing a record. “Steve brought it over for me.” 

“Steve - you - he…” A pause, as you place the record on carefully. “You’re a real conniver,” he declares at last - but you just laugh.  

“You’ve known that a long time,” you say in a soft voice, turning ‘round as the sultry music starts. Bucky is grinning ear to ear, holding out his hands for you as you sidle in close to him.  

Only a few minutes of dancing, in that new living room with the lights of Brooklyn watching on, and Billie singing her softest and sweetest. Then Bucky’s hands are roaming up your back, and your breath is catching, and his nose is nudging against yours.  

“I love you,” he says, and it’s hoarse and ragged.  

“Bucky,” you sigh, your eyes fluttering shut. “I love you, too. You know that, right?” 

He chuckles, low and husky in your ear. “If I wasn’t convinced before, buying me a new apartment was a dead giveaway.” 

You pull away to give him a glare, but he only laughs more, and dips his head low for a very thorough, very belated kiss.  

Things are less dignified on the way to the bedroom - as Bucky doesn’t know the way, he accidentally backs into the bathroom before you break off the still-going kiss to laugh - he pinches your waist and pulls you back into his arms, shifting his direction to go further back in the hallway.  

The zipper of your dress snags, and rips. The bed creaks. Yanking off Bucky’s belt, it snaps against his chin on accident and he groans in pain. There’s still soft jazz audible from the record player - but you just laugh again, and Bucky crawls over you, his eyes dark and his touch so, so certain of this choice - and you surrender.  

This isn’t a con. Bucky isn’t a target. This is what you want. 

While your heart is pounding, while your hands are roaming across his shoulders - his lips press into the discolored, lumpy flesh of your shoulder. A whimper at the sensitivity, and Bucky pulls his head back slightly. “Does it hurt?” he asks huskily, brushing his flesh fingers over the scar.  

“Not really.” 

“You just like me kissing you, huh?” 

“Who wouldn’t?” you sass.  

“Most people.” 

“Well, I’m not most people. Keep going.” 

“Should I kiss the other one?” Bucky asks, all innocent as his eyes glint navy as he slides down, his waist between your bare legs from your skirt riding up. Buttons are undone and there’s a peek of his muscular chest. Discomfiting, but it doesn’t awe you completely.  

“Well, it’s hurting a little,” you tease. “All the walking we did put a little strain on the scar.”

“Oh, is that it?” he teases back, his fingers trailing across your thigh. “Why didn’t you say something? I could’ve carried you.” 

“That wouldn’t have looked stupid at all,” you say sardonically.  

“Who cares what everyone else thinks?” Bucky’s reply is reasonable enough, as his lips graze across your goosebump-ed skin. A little suck of breath, and your spine arches slightly to get closer to him. “Calm down, sweetheart,” he murmurs over the scar. “I got you.” 

And he proves it. All evening long, he proves it good.  

Dozing in the rumpled sheets, you hear a distant chiming of bells from a nearby church - twelve chimes. And Bucky’s quiet footsteps, and he disappears to turn off the lights in the living area. The record player had stopped long ago. There will be more time for dancing later.  

It’s only a moment before he returns, sliding in behind you and wrapping your body in a tender embrace. Your fingers brush up his metal arm, clenching around the wrist as he kisses behind your ear.  

“Thank you for the space, darlin’,” he whispers. “You don’t mind sharing it, right?”

“After all the effort I put into setting things up? You’d better share with me.” It’s a drowsy reply, and Bucky chortles as he kisses you again. A sigh from your lips, and you snuggle in deeper.  

“You didn’t even look at the kitchen,” you mutter. “But don’t worry - you can make breakfast for me tomorrow. Steve stocked the pots and pans and groceries.” 

Another husky laugh. “Steve really appreciates you returning his pictures, apparently.”  

“Steve knows better than to keep me an adversary.” 

“True. You’re much better as a friend.” 

A friend. Really? You huff sleepily, but don’t protest.  

“And more,” Bucky adds after a moment.  

Are you imagining it as you drift to sleep, or is he rubbing your left ring finger, in particular? That can’t be right - but it doesn’t stop the dazed smile from creeping up your lips. His final words drift into your ear, low and sweet and a purr that fills your bones:  

“But we can talk about that over breakfast.”