Archive of Our Own

The Building

The building is fifteen stories and remarkably quiet. The neighbours give him a nod in the lobby, or a short hello and he never feels as though he’s going to be backed into a conversation. He likes that. 

His own apartment is on the tenth floor and is one of four. If he’s quiet (which he usually is) he might hear the low hum of a television or the tremor of voices through the wall, but never quite loud enough to make sense of any of it. The apartment is more utility than anything. He comes here to eat (usually take-out) and sleep (on a bare mattress on the floor) and sit, in the quiet hours where it isn’t really acceptable to be doing anything else. 

During the day he takes the elevator down to the greenish lobby, and heads off to the warehouse. He works out, does research, and occasionally jets off to the middle of nowhere. He thinks he used to have hobbies. Used to have friends that he liked to spend time with. He doesn’t now. Hobbies seem like the kind of thing someone who’s done the things he has doesn’t get. He might call Sam a friend, he doesn’t dislike their time together, but he’s not totally sure the word applies. 

The Elevator

He meets her in the elevator.

He spent the week in Caracas, chasing down a man who may or may not have had access to some very dangerous weapons (he doesn’t know for sure, the man’s dead now). When he gets back it’s after midnight, so he sleeps (poorly). In the morning he showers (sheds Caracas dirt and blood), gets dressed (black shirt, jeans, gloves, jacket), and heads for the elevator. 

As he’s waiting for the doors to open he hears a door behind him, and the jingle of keys. It’s rare that someone is leaving at the same time he is but he doesn’t pay it much attention. The doors open, he steps inside, and turns. 

She’s locking the door to her apartment (he never bothers), and glances over her shoulder at the open elevator. He’s not sure exactly what it is that makes him do it. In a lot of ways she’s unremarkable; pale skin, long brown hair. She’s wearing glasses (gold) and a jacket (yellow). He doesn’t look at her and see a threat, just a young woman like any other in the city. But something makes him reach out a gloved hand, and catch the elevator door as it starts to close. 

She half-jogs to the elevator, throwing her purse across her shoulder and steps inside. As she does it, she smiles at him. A wide open smile, and it feels somehow like he’s been given a gift and he’s suddenly very glad that he held the door. He finds that he is giving her a small smile in return (closed, guarded, but still a smile). 

She doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t either, but she smiles the whole way down to the greenish lobby. When the doors slide open, she looks at him again, says, “Thanks!” and is off. 

He stands in the elevator so long the doors start to close.

He sees her again two days later. In the evening this time. As he is waiting for the elevator doors to open, he hears the doors to the building open and shut. He steps into the elevator, and this time she’s hot on his heels, skipping in after him. He’s done nothing this time, but still she gives him that wide, easy smile.

“Hey.”

He doesn’t like to talk much anymore, certainly not idle chit-chat in the elevator but she’s still smiling at him and even though it’s a bit behind he responds, “Hi.” 

He realizes a second later than he should that he hasn’t hit the button for his floor so he does and she grins at him and jokes, “You remembered my floor,” He finds it so ridiculous that his lips twitch upward against his will. They ride in silence the rest of the way, but when the door opens and he gives a little wave to say, ‘you go first’ she smiles again as she disembarks. 

He finds it odd that she apparently goes through the day, smiling at the world and all its small kindnesses as though they’re somehow bigger than they are. He finds it even more odd that she bothers to smile at him.

On Friday he holds the elevator door for her again. He’s standing on it, about to go down and head to work when she steps out of her apartment and sees him. And when she sees him she smiles, and even if he thinks it’s silly he holds the door for her because if he doesn’t he thinks she might be disappointed. She locks her door and does the same little jog into the elevator. 

“Morning!” 

“Good morning,” It’s out of him before he quite knows it’s coming, and although he didn’t really mean to reply he thinks maybe this is better than taking the time to decide on it and coming off a little slow. 

Names

It turns out that the girl next door leaves for work at the same time every day. She is shockingly consistent, the way humans almost never are. Each morning at exactly seven twenty-one she steps out of her apartment and locks the door behind her. He’s not entirely sure why she plans it that way. If it has to do with her morning routine or the train schedule, but he only has to pace his apartment for a few extra minutes if he wants to see her in the elevator. 

It’s ridiculous. Not to mention dangerous. Routines are too easily picked up on. It’s better to be inconsistent so that anyone watching won’t know where to find her at a given time. He thinks for a half a second, that he should tell her that. That her routine has the potential to get her hurt. He doesn’t. Partly because it’s an insane thing to say to anybody, he knows that. Partly because he wants to keep seeing her in the elevator. 

He knows he shouldn’t. It’s dangerous to get close to people and more dangerous for people to get close to him. He hates himself a little bit for doing it, and can’t seem to stop. He likes it when he sees her. He likes the smiles she offers him. 

She starts to say good morning every time and he says good morning back. He knows it’s coming so he stops being behind. Sometimes she asks him things. Things about his evening (his answers are unspecific) or his upcoming weekend (he usually shrugs). When he finally manages to return the questions, her answers are extremely specific, and she never shrugs. Their time is limited. It only takes four minutes to go from their floor to the sidewalk outside the apartment where she goes the opposite direction as him. She manages to make her stories fit.

It takes a little while. Then one morning when she is in the middle of telling him about the strange pizza she ordered the night before, she stops and turns to look at him properly. He is immediately uncomfortable. She sweeps her eyes over all of him, boots to gloves to face. She’s going to recognize him, he thinks. 

“I am just realizing I don’t know your name. That’s so rude of me,” She hikes her bag a little higher and puts a hand on her chest, “I’m April.”

It takes him a minute to remember his own name, “Bucky.” He definitely comes off a little slow. He can’t help it. Having a name to put to her face does something in his chest he can’t name. 

She smiles at him, “Nice to meet you Bucky.”

They’ve known each other, sort of, for weeks. It feels different. Her smile. The way she says his name. He grins in return and it’s different too. Less closed. Less guarded.

Sisters

He doesn’t see April on Wednesday when he steps into the hallway at the usual time and heads for the elevator. He hits the call button and waits. And waits a little longer when she still doesn’t step into the hallway as it arrives and the doors open in front of him. The doors close. He casts a glance over his shoulder. He reminds himself that it’s not unusual for people to have a change in schedule. Contrary, it’s strange that her schedule is so specific. He hits the call button again, getting into the elevator this time when it arrives and heads off to the Warehouse. 

He doesn’t see her on Thursday. This time, he calls the elevator twice before managing to step inside, hoping she’ll step into the hallway behind him with her bright, easy smile. She doesn’t. He’s more than a little distracted all day (Sam lands a hit that he shouldn’t when they spar) and begins to find himself progressively more agitated. When he gets home that evening he stands in the entryway of his apartment listening intently for noise between the thin wall separating his and April’s living rooms. 

He can hear the low hum of the television and wills her to make a noise so that he can know for sure she’s there. Finally he forces himself to move his feet, deciding that his behaviour is at best voyeuristic and at worst downright crazy. He struggles to sleep that night, and wakes on Friday feeling worse than he had the day before. 

April fails to appear in the hallway again but this time he gets on the elevator first try. At the Warehouse he breaks a punching bag, knocks the wind out of Sam, and scares a half dozen security personnel before Sam tells him to go home. He glowers back but his hands itch and he keeps gripping things too hard in his left. Their tech is beginning to suffer for it, so he goes. 

He’s in the greenish lobby by three, stepping into the elevator behind a young woman he doesn’t recognize. She’s short, Asian, with dark brown eyes lined with a sharp wing. She’s holding a canvas bag in her left hand that smells like chicken broth. She hits the button for ten so he just shoves his hands into his pocket and waits for the doors to close, feeling bad tempered.

As the doors slide shut he sees her right hand fiddle with her keys. Not fiddle, he notices, as she slides her fingers through the eye holes of her sparkly cat keychain which is in fact, a pointed brass knuckle. This does not improve his mood, but realizing that he has scared her in some way, he tries to smooth his expression and shifts away from her as subtly as he can in such a small space. 

Her eyes flick to his face, then back to the buttons of the elevator in front of her. Her brow furrows. She turns her head now, sizing him up from boots to ball-cap. He tries not to shift at her obvious appraisal. Finally she gives a slow nod, a wide (predatory) smile spreading over her face. She points at him, “Elevator guy.”

His eyebrows knit together in confusion, “Sorry?”

She waves a dismissive hand at him, still grinning, “Don’t worry about it.”

But he feels like he should. He looks away but tries to study her out of the corner of his eye. He’s positive he doesn’t recognize her but she’s still smiling as the elevator doors slide open to the tenth floor. She steps out ahead of him, her fingers no longer twined around the deadly keychain though he’s not sure what’s different. 

He trails after her to his own apartment, one hand on the doorknob and watches her stop at the next door. April’s door. The woman shoves a key in the lock (he’s sure April lives alone, why does this woman have a key?) and gives him a little wave as she disappears inside. 

He feels decidedly off-kilter, some of his agitation replaced by confusion as he steps inside his own place and moves to take off his jacket. He freezes when he hears the woman’s voice carrying through the wall.

“How you feeling Ace?”

April’s reply is muffled and he has to strain to hear her, “Little better. Is that Dino’s?”

“You bet.” There’s a long pause and then, “Soooo… You’ll never guess who I ran into.” A muffled question, “Elevator guy.”

He frowns. That’s what she called him and he’s sure by the way she’s saying it that it means something, he just can’t tell what. There’s a long pause.

“Well you were totally right about him, but he seems kind of weird.” He bristles at that, trying furiously to puzzle out what April could have said about him that this other woman managed to agree with in the short elevator ride from the lobby, “What’s with the gloves?” His brain stutters and stops. He holds his breath, listening desperately for April’s reply. She’s never asked about the gloves and he suddenly needs to hear what she thinks like he needs oxygen to his brain.

“I never asked.”

“April!”

“Seems personal.” His breath comes in a hiss. He can hear the other woman’s indignation at the answer.

“Seriously? What if he’s hiding like, horrific burns? Or a gang tattoo?!” Her guesses are outlandish, but they reach the core of the problem with surprising accuracy, he thinks.

“I think if he’s hiding the tattoo, he’s probably not in the gang anymore.” Her tone is teasing. He feels a rush of gratitude at the same time as another burst of agitation. She should be concerned. She should be considering her own safety more seriously.

“April,” The voice is sharp.

“Yes Mel?”

There’s a long silence, he’s sure something passes between them unspoken, and the subject seems to be dropped. He hears the topic shift to tv and grabs his book, retreating as far as he can to the opposite side of his apartment. 

He tries to forget listening (voyeur), and the conversation (not his business) but he dwells on it anyways and spends his night with a growing sense of disquiet in his gut.

Yellow Jacket

He sees her again on Monday, right on time. Her hair is braided away from her face and her yellow jacket (too easy to spot in a crowd) is zipped up to her neck. She smiles at him as she gets in the elevator and he feels the tension in his chest ease.

“It’s been a while,” He’s thought about what to say, needing to confirm for himself that she was sick and is better but knowing he can’t mention he knew about her being ill in the first place. 

She shrugs and replies simply, “I had the flu. I missed a couple of days of work to marathon romantic comedies and drink tea but I’m feeling way better,” He nods in response because he’s not sure what to say. He thinks it might be odd to say he missed her (he did) when they really don’t even know each other. She surprises him by continuing to speak, “I heard you met my sister.” His brain takes a second to process this. He knows she means the Asian girl from the elevator, but struggles to connect her as ‘sister’. Mercifully April continues, “You couldn’t tell? We’re practically twins!”

She’s teasing him now, lips curled in mischief and he can’t help a small smile in return.

“She was bringing me soup.” She explains shortly when he still doesn’t reply (he likes that she fills the gaps when he doesn’t quite remember how). 

“Soup?” He’s not sure why that confuses him but feels he needs an explanation.

“Yeah,” she waves her hand in a dismissive way as the elevator dings and the doors open to the greenish lobby, “She always brings me soup and juice when I’m sick. I try to do the same. Or fries and gravy when she’s really hungover,” There’s a laugh in her voice as he crosses the lobby with her and steps ahead to hold the door.

“That’s really,” He struggles for a word and finishes lamely, “Nice”. It strikes him as such a quiet, easy way to love someone but he’s not sure how to put that into words. He used to have that, he thinks. Foggy memories of taking care of Steve when he was small and prone to illness. Later watching out for each other during the war in the small ways as well as the big ones. But he doesn’t have that anymore. The sudden sense of loss for something he didn’t realize was missing catches him off guard.

She doesn’t seem to mind his response, just smiles the same easy smile as she turns left to head towards the subway entrance. He feels compelled to follow, although it will take him the opposite way he needs to go.

“Nobody brings you soup when you’re sick?” she asks lightly.

“No.” It doesn’t seem to matter that he doesn’t get sick anymore, he still feels a little empty at admitting it.

“That is unacceptable.” She stops in her tracks and he stops with her, shooting her a questioning look, “Gimme your phone.”

He doesn’t think about the order, just complies and doesn’t wonder until after why that was his first reflex. He worries for a second that she’s going to call him out on the short list of numbers in it, but she turns the phone over in her hand with a look of disbelief (it’s a little outdated) before shaking her head and flipping it open. It takes her a minute, then she snaps it shut and hands it back, “There. If you get sick, you can text me.” 

He takes the phone without looking at it, arching his eyebrows at her, “You’re gonna bring me soup?”

“Yeah. If you’re lucky I’ll even make it from scratch.” It’s a gesture, he thinks. One of those things people say to be nice, but don’t really mean. Surely she is not offering to bring an almost stranger soup on the off chance he too, comes down with the flu (he won’t). But she gives him that easy smile and he thinks maybe she means it. 

“Now I hope I come down with something,” It's out of his mouth unbidden, the easy kind of flirtation he might have enjoyed years ago and she laughs aloud.

“See you later Bucky,” With a wave, she’s off down the steps into the subway. When she’s gone, he flips his phone open and checks his contacts. Sure enough, there it is. He slides the phone into his pocket, but doesn’t release it from his grip. He’s suddenly a little more fond of it.

Sam gives him a strange look when he turns up to the gym ten minutes late and if he notices Bucky’s hand straying to his pocket more often than not, he doesn’t mention it. 

He makes it to noon before sliding the phone out of his pocket and flipping it open. He studies April’s phone number for a while and then types out a text before he can talk himself out of it.

I think I’m coming down with something.

He sets the phone on the table in front of him and tries not to stare at it as he feels the minutes tick by. Just as he’s beginning to feel a cold ball of regret settle in his stomach, the phone vibrates and he snatches it up and flips it open to read.

My soup pots on standby

His lips twitch upward, regret soothed away.

“Are you texting?” If he didn’t notice Sam in the doorway it’s because Sam’s stealth has improved, not because Bucky is distracted. He scowls as Sam asks (loudly), “You have never responded to my texts, who are you texting?”

Bucky snaps the phone shut and shoves it in his pocket. 

“Oh I see,” Sam says, smile spreading across his face as he points to where the phone now sits hidden in Bucky’s pocket, “That’s a girl. You’re texting a girl.”

Bucky fixes him with as hard a stare he’s ever given. The sort that used to dissolve grown soldiers into panic, but Sam’s unbothered. He raises his hands in a pacifying gesture and says, “Okay, I get it.” 

But he continues to smirk at Bucky the rest of the day.

The Invitation

Come for dinner.

He has been staring at the text for longer than is healthy, reading and re-reading it, chewing the inside of his cheek, thoughts running wildly through his brain like a train in Siberia.

Since he’d texted her the first time on Monday, she’s sent him a few back. They’re usually short and simple, sent during the afternoon when he’s at the Warehouse and knows she’s at work. They make him smile, and he treasures each of them. Sometimes he replies, and sometimes he doesn’t, but she doesn’t seem to mind. He’d thought she’d be upset on Wednesday when he gets called into a meeting and forgets to respond until it’s too late to bother, but when she sees him in the elevator that night she’s wearing her usual easy smile and she texts him again the next day.

The invitation comes on Friday morning. He reads it after he leaves the gym and it shoots a strange panic through him that has him wondering if he can make it back to the gym to work off some anxiety without anyone noticing (he can’t). So he sits in his chair in his office (a mostly bare room with a tablet and a desk), and reads and re-reads. Finally, when he’s chewed the inside of his cheek to nothing he has to respond, fingers shaking.

You know I’m not really sick right?

Her response comes quick and floods him with refreshed anxiety as he reads it, elbows on his desk, left leg bouncing uncontrollably on the ball of his foot.

HA, I know. I’m making lasagna and my dads recipe has enough to feed eight. Come save me from a week of leftovers.

He tastes copper and switches to chew on the opposite cheek.

The anxiety, he guesses, is because he hasn’t done something like this in close to seventy years. He’s awkward during simple interactions and an evening in her apartment eating and making small talk sounds incredibly complicated. But he wants to go. Wants to go so badly his hands are sweating. And layered on top, thick and cloying, is the guilt. He doesn’t get to do things like this. Have things like this. Nice things. Not after what he’s done. She wouldn’t want him there either if she knew what he was. But he wants to anyway.

“Are you okay?”

He jumps at Sam’s voice (would jump if the training wasn’t so woven into his brain), and turns to face the door, right hand clutching his phone tight.

Sam’s face is knit together in concern, “Somebody blackmailing you?” he nods at the phone. Bucky makes a strangled noise in return. Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. Since he can’t seem to form words, Bucky holds the phone out for Sam to see. Sam takes it from his hand and reads the texts. His concern morphs instantly and he laughs aloud. Bucky makes another strangled sound in return. “Sounds like a date, man.” He grins fiercely at Bucky, relishing in his apparent distress.

Bucky finds it in himself to scowl, “It’s just dinner.” He manages to growl.

“Sure. A home cooked meal. Nothing romantic about that.” He glances down at Bucky’s leg, still bouncing rapidly, “What’s the matter? You don’t wanna go? Don’t like lasagna?”

Bucky shakes his head trying to find the words to articulate the things in his head, “She doesn’t know about…” He waves a hand, gesturing vaguely to himself, “It wouldn’t be fair.”

Sam smirks and hits a few keys, “Doesn’t know you’re a staring contest champion?” Another scowl, “You know, I think you gotta learn to give people the benefit of the doubt. She’s been texting you all week, she must not care how weird you are.”

In a swift movement Bucky snatches back the phone, regretting deeply his choice to share at all. Sam holds his hands up in a pacifying gesture, “I’m just saying, maybe she won’t mind.” He backs slowly out the door into the hallway, “I’m also saying, take a bottle of wine.” He turns sharply on his heel and is gone and Bucky realizes his mistake instantly, snapping the phone open to see his last sent text.

Sure.

Dinner

At least the text Sam sent hadn’t said anything outlandish. April had replied not long after and instructed him to come by at six. He spends the better part of the afternoon pacing off his nerves (it doesn’t work). On his way home, he stops by a liquor store and buys a bottle of wine (red). He paces outside the building for long enough that he draws the eyes of the news-guy on the corner. He takes the elevator up and ducks into his own apartment.

He paces some more. Considers changing. Decides against it. It’s just dinner right? Save me from leftovers, she had said. It’s not a date, (surely she could have made less if she didn’t want leftovers?) It’s casual (then why is he bringing wine?). He puts the bottle on the counter (taking it would be strange), picks it back up again. At five-fifty-five he steps into the hallway and pulls his door shut behind him. He stands outside her door for two minutes, then knocks.

The knock is followed by a moment of mounting panic where he questions every decision he had made all day (why did he say yes, why did he bring wine, why didn’t he change out of jeans ?). But then the door opens and April greets him with a smile and his panic melts away. 

She’s wearing jeans and a soft-looking long sleeved shirt, hair pulled back in a neat bun, her glasses perched on her nose. He had thought that she was unremarkable the first time he’d seen her. He wasn’t sure how he could be so wrong.

“Hey!” She steps back to let him in and he only falters a second before stepping inside. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” (terrible), “I brought wine.”

She snags it from his offered hand without looking at the label and says, “Perfect. I hope you won’t be offended if it’s really good and I don’t notice.” She laughs a little, “My dad’s a wine guy, really tried to teach me but I can’t tell the difference between a good vintage and the stuff that comes out of a box.”

He feels at-ease just being near her and shakes his head, “I couldn’t either, I just grabbed something,” (expensive, hoping it would be fine). 

“Make yourself at home, I’ll be five minutes.” She grins at him and turns into the kitchen.

He takes a second to look around. Her apartment is similar to his, but not the same. Her space is comforting, like a person lives there instead of a ghost. There’s a table next to the door on which sits her purse (too easy to steal so close to the door) and a baseball sized purple agate on top of a pile of papers. Her living-room is full of comfy-looking grey furniture. There are book shelves against one wall (full) and a television. The walls are covered in paintings and framed photos.

He takes a few steps forward, glancing back towards her kitchen, and then surveys the photos on the wall nearest to him. There’s one of April and Mel, both with blond hair, standing in front a massive buddha statue he recognizes absently. Another, the two of them much younger, with Mickey Mouse. A third has what he thinks must be the two of them as children, each holding the hand of a man with short sandy hair and a wide smile.

“That’s my Dad.” April supplies, stepping back into the room with two glasses of wine in her hands. When Bucky doesn’t respond, she comes to stand beside him, handing him one of the glasses and pointing, “His hair’s grey now, but he looks pretty much the same. This one is when we went to Disneyland. I think we were fifteen? We kept saying we were too old for it but he knew we were lying.”

“This one?” He points to the photo of the two girls in front of the Buddha.

“Hong Kong. We went just the two of us after graduation. It was a mess, I don’t know how we managed to get anywhere. Neither of us has a sense of direction.” She’s smiling as she says it.

“You’re close.” It’s not really a question when he says it, but she answers anyway.

“Yeah. Mel’s five months older than I am. Mom and Dad had decided that kids weren’t going to happen the old fashioned way so they applied to adopt. Then it didn’t seem like adoption was going to happen either, so you can imagine how surprised they were when they find out she’s pregnant and then get a call from the adoption agent like two weeks later.” She’s smiling, but it’s not the one he’s grown used to. This is sadder, “They had wanted a big family so they brought little newborn Mel home and waited for me.” The smile slides away and he turns to look at her. She doesn’t meet his eyes, “Mom died a couple days after I was born.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is softer than it’s been in years and he needs her to know the truth of it.

She shrugs, “I never really knew her. Dad did his best, but he worked a lot so it was just me and Mel a lot of the time.” She looks at the picture for a long moment, then turns away, “Sorry, you came to eat not hear depressing old stories.”

“I don’t mind.”

She laughs, “You’re a saint.” She’s joking, but she isn’t, and it strikes him to the core, the need for her to keep believing him good while half of him screams to tell her he isn’t. “What about you? Siblings? Family?”

He shrugs, “I had a sister. She passed. Parents too.”

“Sorry. Were you close? Before?”

“Yeah.”

Her mouth twists and it hurts to see her looking so sad for him. He wants to make her smile but he isn’t sure how. After a second she shakes her head and takes a sip of wine, “This is not the conversation I thought we’d be having.”

“Yeah? What did you have in mind?”

She shrugs, “Movies, TV, something a little lighter.”

He frowns at his wine, “Can I admit something?”

Her eyebrows raise, “Of course.”

He gives her a little grin, “I don’t really watch movies. At all. Not for years.” (seventy or so, but she doesn’t need to know that).

“Seriously?” She sounds offended, eyebrows knitting together, “Not even the big ones?”

“What do you mean by big ones?”

“The hits, blockbusters. You know,” She waves her hand in a vague gesture. He just shakes his head at her in response. “Unacceptable,” she says with surprising firmness, “This must be corrected.”

He looks at her in surprise, “Corrected how?”

“Movie night.” She tells him gravely.

It’s enough to startle a laugh, her tone more serious than when speaking about her family, “Sounds like serious business.”

“It is.” She tells him, “I don’t joke about movie night.”

He hears a timer beep and she turns, heading toward the kitchen. He follows her, missing her closeness already. She pulls the lasagna out of the oven and sets it on the stove. Her apartment is missing a dining table, but there’s a pair of bar stools against her kitchen island so he takes a seat on one and watches her gather plates and silverware. She dishes them each a serving at sets one in front of him, licking sauce from her thumb. He tries his best not to be distracted by the gesture (fails).

“It’s hot,” she warns him, sliding onto the seat next to him.

“Thank you. Smells good,” He responds, remembering his manners (sometimes he doesn’t anymore).

They eat. She tells him a little more about her Dad, he is compelled to tell her a story about his mom in return. He’s vague about the details, tries to make the story fit the time they’re in, not the one he’s from. He’s not sure he totally succeeds, but if she notices anything strange she doesn’t say anything. 

He catches sight of his own hands, gloved, and thinks about the conversation he had heard through the wall. Maybe she’s in the habit of ignoring things that are strange, though he can’t begin to imagine why. His palms are starting to feel sweaty and he rubs them on his pant legs even though he knows it won’t help. 

“You haven’t asked about the gloves.” He almost gags, but the words are out and there’s no taking them back.

She stabs her food with her fork. Shifts in her chair, and then turns to look at him. He avoids her eyes, but feels her steady gaze like a physical weight on his chest. “Do you want me to?”

He’s not sure why her response makes him feel like he’s been opened up and laid bare in the middle of her kitchen. “No.” But that feels too much like a lie and he can’t leave it sitting between them, “Yes.” Her eyes don’t leave his face, searching for an answer he isn’t sure he has. “People usually ask.” He says finally, his voice uncharacteristically small.

“I try not to ask questions that people might not want to answer,” She tells him, finger playing around the rim of her glass. Her eyes slide past him to the wall, “Mel used to have a lot of those. Answers she didn’t want to give, I mean. Dad too for a while. It hurt them to hear the question.” Her eyes slide back to meet his, “I’d like to hear it if you want to tell me. But if you don’t, that’s okay too. It doesn’t have to be now, or ever.” She takes a bite of her lasagna, and seems content to let the topic go.

Bucky slides his fork around his plate. He’s grateful, he finds, for the smooth way she answered the question he was too scared to really ask. He doesn’t like when people ask, doesn’t like the half-baked truths he has to give. But he can’t imagine never telling her. If he never tells her, that means he can never take the gloves off. Can never touch her like he wants to (he shouldn’t want to, feels a little ashamed of how much he does). He flexes his left hand.

“It’s not real.”

She looks at him over the edge of her wine glass, eyebrows furrowed, not understanding what he means. He holds his left hand out, palm up between them, “It’s not real.”

She sets the wine glass down, reaches her hand out. He wants to pull it away, she gives him plenty of time to. But he doesn’t. Just holds his breath. She lays her hand gently on top of his, palm to palm. Gives him a second, and then twines her fingers with his, “Feels pretty real.” Air wooshes back into his lungs. She’s smiling at him again, it’s small but it feels like sunshine. And maybe that’s enough for now.

He leaves an hour later, with a Tupperware of leftovers he tried to refuse and in invitation back tomorrow for an ominous sounding ‘movie night’. She requests he wear something comfy, and bring his drink of choice, insisting she’ll take care of the rest. He feels an intense warmth in his chest, and thinks he’ll be happy to let her.

Movie Night

She opens the door and he loses his breath. Her hair is up, glasses on. But she’s wearing a pair of  soft-looking leggings and an oversized sweat-shirt (bright yellow). But suddenly she’s frowning and he hates when she frowns. 

“That,” she says darkly, “Is not comfy.” 

He glances down at himself. He’s got a six-pack of beer under one arm and is wearing his usual jacket and pair of gloves. He gives her a questioning look.

“Denim and leather are possibly the least comfortable things you could have come over here in.” She tells him, reaching for the beer. He lets her take it. She points over his shoulder into the hall, “Go back and change.”

“Change?” He replies in alarm. She nods, “Seriously?

“Yes,” she says brusquely, making shooing gestures at him, “Come back in something less,” she waves a hand at his outfit, “serious.” And then she closes the door on him. For a long few minutes he stares at the door as though it may open through sheer willpower. The door refuses. Eventually, he decides he better do what she’s asked, and heads back down the hallway. 

He spends a few minutes agonizing in front of his closet. Comfort wasn’t something he was generally concerned with. Eventually he peels off his coat, swaps his t-shirt for a plain black long sleeve, and trades his jeans for a pair of sweatpants. He fights with himself over the impropriety of it, wearing something so casual to the home of a girl he might be kind of seeing. Finally he decides that it must be fine, because she told him twice, and shut her door on him when he tried to wear something else. He leaves the gloves on.

When he knocks a second time, he hears her shout for him to come in. He eases the door open (she should keep it locked, too easy for someone to get in), and thinks if he had thought to try, he probably could have just walked back in when she closed the door. She probably would have let him. But it’s too late now, he’s in her entryway fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. 

She comes out of the kitchen then, a beer and a can of something in each hand and surveys him. She nods approvingly, “Okay. That’s better, you may come in.”

He follows her into her living room, she puts both drinks down on the coffee table on either side of a pizza box that he can smell. “What’s that?” He gestures to her drink as she turns on the TV and starts flipping through title cards he can’t quite pretend to care about. 

With her left hand, she picks the can up and holds it out to him. He could say no, he supposes absently, it’s such an intimate gesture but it's one she offers so freely that he can’t refuse. He takes the can, reads the label (raspberry something) and has a sip. It’s fruity, carbonated, cold, and he hates it. He frowns.

She smiles, not looking at him, “How about Last Dragon?”

“What’s it about?” He takes a swig of his own drink (it doesn’t chase the fruity taste well), and reaches to flip open the pizza box. There aren’t any plates, so he figures he’s just supposed to grab a slice and he does. It’s especially good pizza.

“It’s animated. A girl who finds a dragon. Checks all the boxes.”

“What boxes are those?” He says around a bite.

“Funny, heartwarming, with a bit of action and a happy ending.”

“Well now you spoiled the end.”

She laughs and presses the button to play it anyways.

They eat pizza through the opening and sip their drinks. When he finishes his, she gestures towards the kitchen and says, “Fridge,” so he takes that as permission to go help himself (feels weird about going through someone else’s fridge). He brings her a second too and she cracks it open with a smile, “You trying to get me drunk, Bucky?”

He has a flash of concern but realizes she’s teasing him again and he likes it. This quiet, companionable atmosphere she’s made and the warm feeling in his chest when she smiles, “You can’t possibly get drunk off those. It’s seltzer.”

“You can,” she says, “If you are a complete and utter lightweight. It’s okay, I trust you to maintain my virtue.”

He chokes on his beer and she laughs at him. 

The longer the movie goes on, the more he becomes aware of how close she is. At some point, he realizes it's because she’s getting closer. When they started there was a pizza box between them on the cushion, but now it’s gone (he ate half and stopped so she wouldn’t think he was strange), and she kept shifting absently. First, leaning towards him, her elbow on the back of the couch. Then, she grabbed a pillow, propping her head on the couch near his thigh. He became intensely aware of the nearness of her, her soft warmth radiating towards him.

He’s having a hard time focusing on the movie at all, when she sits up suddenly and pauses it. “Gotta pee,” she answers to the questioning look he gives her and brushes past his legs and down the hall. His shins are on fire where she touched him and he uses her absence to drink the rest of his beer, hoping to calm some of his sudden anxiety (it does nothing). 

When she comes back, mercifully going around the coffee table this time, she grabs the pillow by his side and presses it against the arm rest opposite him. He thinks for a second he’s caught a break, but then she stretches out and wedges her feet under his thigh. He jumps at her touch, and she pulls her feet back, “Sorry. Cold feet.” She doesn’t seem too bothered by his pulling away, but suddenly he is. He realizes that he’s not aware of her presence because he wants her not to touch him but the exact opposite. He remembers the feeling of her hand on his, simple and comforting, and he wants it back . 

He takes her feet with gloved hands and sets them on his lap instead, reaching up to pull the blanket from the back of her couch and spreading it across her legs. She smiles, and he’s glad to not be holding the beer anymore because it means he can hold her instead, one hand on her ankle and the other wrapped around the bottom of her feet. She doesn’t seem to mind and he feels a warmth spread through his chest again. He wonders if they went somewhere, if she would let him hold her hand.

Night Out

She texts him on Thursday.

I’ve been roped into a night out.

He tries not to be too disappointed (it doesn’t work). They’d made vague plans to watch another movie on the weekend, nothing solid so he can’t feel too abandoned (he does anyways). He shouldn’t be surprised, really it was only a matter of time before she realized that he wasn’t any good for her and moved on. She deserved to have a date with someone nice. Someone normal. He tries not to feel like he’s going to vomit at the thought. His phone vibrates again.

How does your Saturday afternoon look?

He feels soothed and rotten together. Better second fiddle than out of the orchestra, he supposes.

Open. He replies. He shouldn’t be so desperate to see her so quickly on the heels of a date, but he is. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth. He wishes he loathed himself a little less, could summon up the will to tell her no, he’s busy. Maybe he could have a date of his own. But he doesn’t think he can want that with anyone but her. His phone vibrates again. He wills himself not to look. Hates himself enough that he has to.

Thank god. Mel’s ‘nights out’ tend to get out of hand. I need something to look forward to.

His brain sticks. Whirs. 

Oh.

No date then. Just a night out with her sister. Something to look forward to . Is that what he is? His chest feels warm.

When he steps off the elevator the next day on ten, he loses his breath. He’s getting home a little late, and she must have gotten home a little early because she is locking her door to leave and look’s stunning. 

Her hair is in loose waves around her shoulders. She’s not wearing her glasses and her makeup is done, winged eyeliner and blush and bright red lipstick.  She’s wearing a short, tight black dress with a leather jacket and a pair of black chucks. The elevator almost closes on him before he remembers he’s supposed to get out. When she turns she smiles at him, the same easy smile he’s grown used to even behind the red and black and leather (fuck). 

“Wow.”

He didn’t mean to let it out but there it is and she blushes and her smile goes shy. She meets him at the elevator doors, tucking her hair behind her ear, “I gotta bring my A game, Mel always looks like a million bucks.”

He wants to say something to this. He remembers knowing what to say to girls, how to flirt. It used to be easy, didn’t it? So instead he says, “Well you look…” The elevator pings, the doors slide open, “stunning.” The last comes out softer than the rest and he worries she’ll think he doesn’t mean it. She blushes, smiles, and steps backwards into the elevator. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” And then the doors slide shut and he’s by himself again. If he takes a minute to catch his breath, there’s nobody around to see it.

He doesn’t mean for it to happen, really. He thinks he’ll sit on the couch and read a book, go to sleep early so that it can be tomorrow already. He gets to see her tomorrow, and not just see her but sit with her. Hip-to-hip, pretending to watch a movie but not really paying any attention at all. 

Except he can’t sleep. He rarely sleeps easily, never sleeps well. But he can’t sleep at all. Buzzing with the anticipation of tomorrow and then something else when the clock on the stove turns over to midnight and he hasn’t heard her come home. He’s not listening for it, really he tries not to listen at all but he can’t help but hear with the silence of his own apartment closing in around him, and now he doesn’t hear anything at all.

She’s a grown woman, he isn’t her keeper but still he finds himself flooded with anxiety that leaves him fidgeting and straining his ears for the sound of the elevator. The clock turns over, one, two. He’s beginning to feel like a wild animal pacing a too-small cage. He wants to go out and find her, send her a text but he can’t . As much as he wants to, he doesn’t have the right. Doesn’t even have the right to worry. It’s just that New York is huge and dangerous, and it’s late and she’s small and beautiful and-

And something else (he can’t admit it yet, even to himself). 

The clock turns over, three. He feels like he’ll shake apart. And then he hears the ding. He’s at the door, glancing through the peep-hole because he needs to know for sure. 

And there she is. Mel too, both padding down the hallway, a bag of takeout loosely in April’s right hand and a soda in her left. They’re talking softly, both looking exhausted but he thinks she looks beautiful anyway. When he lays down and goes to sleep, it’s with the image of her tired smile in his head.

Brunch

How do you feel about brunch?

His phone vibrates at eleven. The wording’s a little cryptic but he takes it to mean she’s inviting him for food so he replies quickly, Good?

Elevator in ten?

He sends an affirmative and sets about grabbing his coat and gloves. When he steps into the hallway a little while later, she’s already locking her door. She gives him her usual easy smile but he can’t help but notice she looks a little paler than usual and there are circles under her eyes. She’s still beautiful and the sight of her sends a warm feeling down to his fingertips. 

“Late night?” He asks.

She gives a little groan, shuffling down the hallway in the same chucks as the night before though she’s traded the dress for a pair of yoga pants and an oversized hoodie. Her hair’s a little damp and he can smell her shampoo, “You’ve got no idea.” He does a little bit, but doesn’t say anything as he hits the elevator button, “We always intend to just have a couple drinks, maybe play some pool, and then it just sort of goes sideways. It’s like two drinks in I forget the fresh hell that will be the next day and think, yeah sure, why don’t we go party on a barge in the middle of the Hudson?”

His eyebrows shoot up, “That didn’t happen.”

She nods fiercely, “That did happen! There were like, models and stuff. I felt about three feet tall.”

“How did you get on a barge?”

She shakes her head fiercely and then looks a little green, “I don’t even know. These things just happen when we go out.”

They cross the lobby and he holds the door for her. She seems to know where she’s going and he’s content to follow her as she crosses the street and starts up the sidewalk, “I’m gonna need some examples here.”

She nods, “Okay, so this one time we decide to get sushi at this little place by the water, turns out there’s a surprise concert like three doors down on the roof of a used furniture store, and Mel gets us in by telling the bouncer around the back that she’s the tour manager. He didn’t even ask for ID.”

He tries not to be overly critical of the clear lack of security. April continues, “Another time we head to this little wine tasting thing in the village, and who else is there but like, half the cast of Cats. Turns out, those theatre people really know how to party and we end up at a warehouse rave at the docks.” She catches his raised eyebrows and shrugs, “I don’t know Bucky. I never manage to do anything that wild when I go out with anyone else. Crazy shit just happens to Mel and apparently it’s my job to go along for the ride.”

It reminds him a little bit of what life had been like when Steve was around and dead set on getting into trouble. Bucky had followed along and been happy to do it because Steve was family.

They come to a tiny café wedged in between a lighting store and some sort of office and he snags the door for her before she can get it herself. They get in line and he tries to focus on the menu scrawled on the chalkboard.

When it’s their turn April orders eggs benedict and a coffee that sounds like mostly sugar and he requests the same and a black coffee. She gives him a fluttery wave when he reaches for his wallet and taps her phone against the terminal instead. They tuck themselves into a little booth against one wall (he has a good view of possible exits).

“What’s your best going out story?” She asks while they wait for their food. She licks whip-cream off the top of her drink and sips it. He tries not to be distracted (really fails).

It takes him a minute. He used to go out before the war. It was one of his favourite things to do. Every Saturday he’d find a date and head out to dance and have a couple drinks. He usually managed to drag Steve along and in between songs they would laugh about how the week had gone. Often he would kiss his date when he walked her home. Sometimes she’d invite him in. He wondered absently if he could kiss April when he walked her home. Definitely not.

“I went to Paris once. Had this group of friends, they were all crazy.” He pictures the Howlies. Wishes he could talk to any of them again. He’d be willing to go back to the bombed out wreckage of the East Paris bar if he could, “We drank the cheapest thing they had,” (only thing that survived the blast) “Had to carry one of the guys back home,” (the camp they called home for nine days.)

April makes an interesting noise and smiles into her mug, “Did you like Paris?”

He has to think about that. He’d made it sound like a vacation and it definitely wasn’t, “Yes and no. Didn’t get to see much of it.” He struggles to make the truth into the right shape, “We were on leave. Got called back to service pretty quick.”

April nods like that makes sense. Opens her mouth to ask a question maybe, but the food hits the table and she doesn’t. They eat instead. The food is good and he likes sitting with her. Doesn’t even feel like he’s coming apart in the moving crowd. 

When they walk back to the apartment, he thinks the whole way about holding her hand.

(Doesn’t.)

Break-in

He wakes when he hears the crack. He shouldn’t have heard it, wouldn’t have if he was anyone else, but it’s enough to wake him from as deep a sleep as he ever gets. He knows instantly that something is wrong , and that wrong is coming from the direction of April’s apartment. She always locks the door and he knows in his bones the crack was the door frame giving way to someone that should not have been there. 

He rolls up from his spot on the floor and goes to the door, footsteps silent on the cool wood floor. He doesn’t stop for a weapon because he isn’t supposed to hurt anyone (he will) and he’s definitely not supposed to kill anyone (he hasn’t decided), just eases the door open and stalks down the hallway. Even in the dim light of the hall he sees instantly that the door frame is cracked, the door shut ineffectively back into place. He can hear movement inside anyways and guesses there are three or four of them. Not nearly enough. 

He pushes the door open and steps inside. There are two men standing at the back of the couch, the one on the right rifling through April’s purse which he knows should occupy the table beside the door. The one on the left sees him, but surprise makes him slow to lift his gun. Bucky has been here before and he has the advantage in surprise and terrain. He grabs the baseball sized (purple) agate from the table at his right and throws it, as he begins to move across the room. It hits the man on the left in the nose and even thrown right-handed it’s enough to shatter his nose and send him crumpling to the ground. 

The man on the right has enough time to swear and fumble for his gun before Bucky descends on him, grabbing his arm and throwing him to the ground. One sharp stomp and he too is out cold. A gun fires, but he’s already moving out of the eyeline of the hallway where he knows the third man is standing. He circles the couch, pressing himself against the living room wall. The third man inches forward down the hallway and the second the barrel of his gun comes into view Bucky’s left hand wraps around it and twists. He hears bones snap, and a sharp crunch as he thrusts it back into the man's face. The strangled sound the man makes as his fingers break quiets as he crumples to the ground, blood pouring from his broken nose. Bucky releases the clip from the gun, tossing it back into the room.

He listens. Three then. He can hear the neighbours through the walls beginning to move, reacting to the gunshot. The whole event took maybe sixty seconds but time is relative and surely April heard the shot. He steps over the third man's body and pads quietly down the hallway to her bedroom door. He isn’t sure if there’s etiquette for this particular situation, but he doesn’t want to scare her any more than she probably has been, so he knocks gently on the door, “April?”

He waits a few seconds, listening intently.

“April, it’s Bucky. Can you open the door?”

Now he hears movement. A soft shifting sound and then footsteps. The door opens a crack. She looks scared, he thinks, and is full of an anger he hadn’t allowed himself earlier. The door opens a little wider when she sees him and she moves to look down the hallway but he shifts to block her line of sight, “You shouldn’t look.” It’s entirely new, this concern that someone should not see the violence he’s capable of but he feels a fear in his bones that if she does she won’t look at him the same way. 

“Are you okay?” He asks softly.

She nods and steps backwards, letting the door open a little wider. He’s grateful she doesn’t press down the hallway because he knows as much as he doesn’t want her to see the blood and bodies, he would let her. She’s shaking now, and stumbles a little, connecting with the edge of the bed and sitting down hard. 

He steps forward to fill the gap, crouching and reaching out to touch her arms. She flinches when his left hand touches her skin, and he feels a rush of shame heating the back of his neck as he becomes aware of the t-shirt he’s wearing that exposes his metal arm for her to see. He lets his hands drop and tries to choke out words past the sick feeling in his chest, “Three men broke in,” she shivers, closing her eyes tightly, “They’re not gonna hurt you now.” She nods but doesn’t open her eyes so he keeps going, “I think the neighbours have called the police they should be here soon.”

“Are you okay?” Her voice is so quiet, quieter than she’s ever been before. She’s still scared, he realizes sharply (of him).

“I’m okay.” He tries to keep his voice soft but he feels like he’s drowning.

She reaches out suddenly and takes his hands in hers (both of them), “They shot at you,” she says, her voice louder now and taking a desperate edge he’s not sure what to make of. She’s shaking harder and her hands are ice cold.

“I’m okay,” He tells her firmly, reaching with his metal hand to grab the top blanket from her bed and pull it over her shoulders, wrapping it around her tightly. Her eyes don’t leave his face and they’re beginning to fill with tears now. He’s not sure what to do. He hasn’t tried to comfort anyone for an entire lifetime and he doesn’t think he remembers how, much less with how she’d flinched away from his touch (he shouldn’t have touched her with that hand to begin with). 

He’s saved from the agony of trying to decide what to do as the tears start to spill down her cheeks and she slips off the bed and presses her face to his chest, “They shot at you,” she whispers into his chest and he wraps his arms reflexively around her. They sit like that, pressed together as he rubs gentle circles on her back with his (real) hand, until he hears what he knows is the police tumbling out of the elevator and stomping down the hall. When he hears them reach the apartment door he calls out, “In here,” because he doesn’t want to get shot by a jumpy officer when they come down the hallway. 

The officer that steps into the doorway is a woman, young with blond hair pulled back in a tight bun. She holds her weapon by her side as she asks, “Are you the residents?” 

“She is,” Bucky replies over his shoulder, still holding April tight against his chest, “I live next door.” 

“And you incapacitated the intruders?” she asks, voice catching a little on the word incapacitated.

“Yes.”

She holsters her weapon slowly. “Impressive work sir.” She looks from him, to the bundled figure in his arms and says, “We’ll need a statement from you both but I’ll give you a minute while we get them out of here.” 

He nods sharply in response and the woman disappears from the doorway. He holds April for a few more breaths then asks, “Can you talk to them?” She nods in response against his chest. Slowly he pulls away from her, pulling her gently to her feet as he goes. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, but the sight of her red eyes breaks his heart.

She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders and says quietly, “Thank you.” 

“You don’t need to thank me,” he replies quickly. He can hear the police in the hall removing the now groaning bodies of the intruders, and tugs uncomfortably on the edge of his shirt sleeve thinking there is no way to keep his arm hidden when they exit the room. Not that it will matter, they’ll ask for his name anyways.

April follows the gesture with her eyes then shuffles to the closet. It only takes her a second to find what she was looking for and then she’s holding a hoodie out to him. He’s seen her wear it before, maroon and far too big for her. He slips it gratefully over his head and tucks his hand into the pocket (she doesn’t need to see it more than she has). She pulls on a sweater as well and lets the blanket fall to the floor at her feet. 

He steps into the hallway first. The bodies are gone, but the blood is still there and he winces. April follows him closely, “Watch your step,” he says lightly. She doesn’t respond and he can’t see her face, but she reaches out and takes his hand again. Despite everything he likes how it feels.

He leads her to the table and she sits. He stands over her shoulder, hand still in his pocket as police officers shuffle around the apartment around them. 

The blond officer from before eventually detaches from the group and sits down at the seat to April’s right, taking out a notepad. “I know you’ve had a long night already, but it’s better to get it over with if you can.” Bucky’s not sure if her sympathy makes up for the conversation they’re about to have but she seems sincere so he decides to give her the benefit of the doubt. A second officer (a man, older) detaches and stands at the table across from him. 

“My name’s officer Delaney,” The woman offers, “Start with your names and then you can tell me about your evening.”

April pushes her hair back nervously and replies, “April Stevens.”

“James Buchanen Barnes.” The male officer across the table gives a visible start. Delaneys eyes flick to the hand hidden away in his pocket, but she doesn’t move. Just writes his name on the notepad. If April notices he can’t tell.

Together they unfold the short story. The officer takes notes and asks a handful of clarifying questions. Eventually she says, “I think that’s all we need.” Delaney pockets the notepad and pulls out a card instead, which she slides across the table to April, “You can contact me in a few days I’ll help you get the official report. The landlord will want it for insurance.” 

April nods reflexively at her, but doesn’t reach for the card. The woman stands smoothly and begins herding the remaining few officers from the apartment. When the last files out and closes the door (ineffectively) she seems to shrink, leaning forward to lay her head on the table. 

Bucky reaches out and touches a few fingers gently to her back (he shouldn’t, she doesn’t want him to touch her). She lets out a long, slow breath. Slowly she sits up, looking towards the clock on her stove. Two fifteen. She rubs her face and turns in her chair to look at him.

He struggles to meet her eyes, afraid of what he’ll see when he does. The look on her face isn’t what he’s expecting. He’s not sure what to make of it. Her eyebrows are knit together and she’s biting her lip. He tries (fails) not to be distracted by the gesture. 

She says finally, “You could have been killed.”

He shakes his head, “No.” Her brow furrows and he knows she’s not quite sure what to make of that response. She usually looks so sure, but now she just looks confused and a little lost. He kneels down in front of her and takes one of her hands in his, “I needed to keep you safe.”

Tears well up in her eyes again and he kicks himself at saying the wrong thing, but she blinks them back and says, “Will you stay?”

He nods, because he can’t say no to her, and because he desperately wants to (selfish). He lets her hold his hand a minute longer (or maybe she lets him) and then stands to check the door. It’s still very much broken, and he doesn’t think it will even latch shut so he grabs a chair from the dining room and props it under the handle. It won’t do a very good job of keeping anyone out but he figures the odds of two break-ins in a night are astronomical. April lets her guide him to her room (someone has done a passable job of cleaning the blood off the hallway floor). 

She slides into her bed looking small and exhausted, and scoots all the way in looking at him expectantly. For a minute he’s not sure what she wants from him, but then she pats the pillow next to her and he picks up the hint but doesn’t move. It feels like his feet are glued to the floor.

“Please?” 

Her voice is so small, almost pleading and he moves instinctively to lie down beside her, painfully conscious of his left arm in between them. He rests it on his stomach, trying to keep from touching her. His efforts turn out to be in vain when she takes his hand to lift his arm and curl into his side. He’s aware of himself going rigid when she takes his hand and isn’t sure what to do when she doesn’t let it go.

She makes a soft noise, “It’s so cold,” It takes him longer than it should to realize she’s talking about his hand, all smooth black vibranium plates, “Do you feel it?”

“No,” He’s full of a desperate hope now, that her earlier flinch had more to do with a cold metal hand on her skin, than the hand itself. “I just feel you.”

The words are out unbidden and they hang in the air like a confession (of what he isn’t sure). She makes another soft noise and lets their hands (still twined together) fall on her hip. 

She falls asleep quickly and Bucky’s left awake for a long time, listening to her slow breath and trying to memorize the feel of her curled against his side.

Confessions

He sleeps. Not long but well. When he wakes he doesn’t move (never wants to move again). April is still curled against his side, her head on his chest. 

He remembers after he uses it to brush the hair back from her face that his left arm is metal. A weapon. Cold. Not fit for touching anyone, much less her. But she doesn’t react to the touch and he realizes belatedly that his hand isn’t cold. He touches his own cheek to be sure. It isn’t cold because it’s been wrapped around her all night, soaking in the warmth of her back.                   

He wonders if his arm can be something else. Not a weapon. Something he can use for things other than breaking bones and bending metal. Things like holding April’s hand.

He is extremely good at being still and quiet. He was a sniper. Usually he uses the skill to hurt people but now he uses it to make sure he doesn’t wake April. He wants to keep her there as long as he can.

Of course, she does wake up. But she doesn’t do what he expects when she does. She doesn’t sit up or roll away. She doesn’t say anything right away either. Instead she lifts her hand, the one that had been draped over his stomach, and slides it back toward herself, across the whole stretch of his body to sit at the centre of his chest. His skin is on fire under the sweater he’s still wearing. She taps her finger, in rhythm with the rapid beat of his heart under her palm. 

“I have to tell you something,” she whispers, as though it’s a secret and there’s someone nearby to hear. 

“Okay.” He whispers too, but he isn’t sure why. There’s nobody around. No lurking super-soldiers to hear through the wall whether they want to or not (not, he thinks, he’s afraid of what she has to say). 

Her face is tilted so that he can’t see her expression when she continues, “I knew.”

She could mean almost anything, but he knows exactly what she’s talking about. He had never told her his full name. It had been on purpose, he was positive that if she knew who he was, properly, she would stop smiling at him. He’d felt guilty, like he was harbouring a dark secret that it was too late to share, “How long?” 

“Since before I invited you for dinner.” 

Since before she’d held his hand. She knew what it was the entire time and took it anyway, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

April does turn then. She twists to look at him and there’s a little smile on her face when she does, “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to before you did.” She shifts again, pushing up onto her elbows to get a little closer, her face within inches of his, “Because I wanted to keep seeing you.”

“Why?” He knows she must have liked him, at least a little. Why else would she keep inviting him over? Texting him during the day? He just found it a little harder to believe when she knew exactly who he was, and exactly what he’d done. 

“Because I like you.” She’s smiling the little smile that feels like the sun and it warms him all the way through. 

He wants to ask something. Why or how or some combination of both, but he doesn’t. What comes out of his mouth instead is, “I like you too.”

She kisses him then, and he remembers very rapidly all the feelings in his body and his heart that he’d forgotten since he fell. The front door is still broken. There’s a mess in the living room that needs to be cleaned up. He’s happy to help her with both of those things, but after. After he’s finished kissing her, feeling her breath like a new life in his mouth, and the heat of her body under his hands (both).

The Dive

“For a nice neighbourhood this place is a real dive.”

Bucky’s inclined to agree as they push through the heavy door and into the dimly lit (and more than slightly dirty) pub. It takes him less than a second to spot her, sitting on a stool by the bar, a violently blue drink in front of her. She’s chatting with the bartender, a familiar open smile on her face and he feels a spike of jealousy for the blond man behind the bar. 

She’s dressed in an outfit he’s never seen, short red skirt, black tights and a leather jacket over a striped high-necked shirt. She looks fantastic in it, if not entirely like her usual self. He’s mostly forgotten about Sam already but the man trails after him anyways as he crosses the bar and greets her with a gentle hand on the small of her back (the metal one, gloved).

She turns and her look of confusion (annoyance?) morphs into a bright smile at seeing him. His jealousy is instantly soothed because while she smiled at everyone (he liked that about her) this look was just for him. 

“Hey,” she reaches up and brushes a hand along his cheek in greeting and he gives her a smile in return (not nearly as open as her own). 

“So this is the mysterious lady friend,” Sam’s voice is teasing and he wants to glower but her hand is still on his cheek and he finds the ability strangely missing.

Her attention shifts to Sam and she smiles at him too and stands to shake his hand, “Hi, I’m April,”

Sam shakes her hand, “April! Good to meet you, I’m Sam. He told me his girl wanted to meet me and I honestly couldn’t believe it,” There’s a laugh in his voice and now that April’s hand is gone Bucky finds he can scowl perfectly well.

“I’m glad to be meeting one of his friends,” 

Sam scoffs, “His only friend more like,” Bucky continues to scowl but she laughs at that and it soothes some of his annoyance, “What are you drinking?” Sam gestures to the violent blue cocktail on the bar.

“Mai Thai. It’s Grover’s specialty.” She waves vaguely toward the bartender who had moved to polish some glasses and was meeting only moderate success. He gives them a grin and a nod and steps forward, presumably to take their orders.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” Sam says gesturing to the glass, “I love a tiny umbrella.”

The bartender nods and looks at Bucky who glances at the blue drink with its little pink umbrella and says, “Beer. Whatever’s tapped,” The man nods and heads off, and Sam shakes his head as though this is the most tragic thing in the world. 

“Couldn’t have gone for something a bit more adventurous?”

“No.” 

They find a place to sit, a corner booth where he can see the exits, and April and Sam strike up a series of conversations that blend easily into one another. He contributes a little, but neither of them mind when he’s quiet. He thinks this is what it feels like to have friends again.

When they leave, he won’t go back to his apartment (still mostly unfurnished), he’ll go to April’s instead. He won’t sit and stew the nighttime hours away on a bare mattress on the floor. He might read a while, or watch whatever April puts on TV. Then he’ll follow her to bed, even though he isn’t tired, and wrap his arms around her. She’ll complain about his metal hand, but only because it’s cold, and only until it’s warm from her body. He might have a nightmare, but if he does it’ll be easy to forget it with her breathing softly next to him.