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John hates being a civilian.
Even the word itself felt foreign and ill-fitting in his mouth. Suddenly everything was different. His safety net of discipline and danger tore under him, leaving him to freefall into the fog of uncertainty.
Right before his last tour ended, he took a major blast to the arm. Shrapnel tore through muscle and bone. Consequently, he was benched. Grounded indefinitely. Fantastic.
Doctors called it a recovery period but he knew it was a sick form of purgatory.
The adventure was gone. The comradery was gone. Even the horrors, as gory and brutal as they’d been, had carried a stage feeling of terrifying familiarity he had clung to. But now they’ve been stripped away from him, leaving him to the unknown world of polite lies, shallow conveniences, and uncomfortable silence.
At least he wasn’t alone though, Olivia opened her door to him without hesitation, setting him up in the guest bedroom and offering an equal mix of being his anchor and familiar dry humor. She kept him floating while never prying deep, which John appreciated greatly.
Regardless, hours stretched on too long. He tried to find a new routine but interruptions far out of his control always cut them short, leaving him to clean and fuss around her house tirelessly.
That's how Olivia finds him, in mid-step and jaw clenched firmly with his good hand straightening a hanging picture frame for the fifth time.
The door swings open without warning. She leans against its frame, arms crossed, and eyebrow lifted in gentle judgement.
“You need to leave the house, John.” She says.
He stops in his tracks and makes a half-turn to her, bristling a bit underneath the surface. “I’m fine here.”
“No, you’re not.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, carrying no malice but a simple declaration of absolute truth. “You have cabin fever.”
He wanted to argue but the truth gnawed at him, bitterly undeniable.
“You’ve helped around. A lot.” She admits carefully, putting extra emphasis on a lot as her eyes trace across the room. Undoubtedly, the guest space, and actually the whole house, looked twice as clean when she’d first given him the keys. Her eyes narrow when they come back to him. “But you're already driving yourself crazy.”
“I’m still getting my footing.” He says through a choked laugh, caught somewhere between casual self-depication and poorly concealed heaviness.
She looks at him without any humor, eyes fixed on him as if she’s peaking directly into his psyche. He hates that itching feeling, being read too easily like this defense and their reasons didn’t exist.
“Come on,” She says at last, voice tossed over her shoulder as she begins to leave the room. “We'll start with something easy. Get dressed and out the door in five!”
“Where are we even going?” He calls out from behind her, confusing setting in but feet already obediently and automatically moving to his closet to change without him realizing.
***
Olivia rolls her car to a stop in front of a small shop, nestled cozily between brick facades. It’s warm and welcoming, almost deliberately so. It was the kind of place that belonged to the neighborhood itself.
“Not bad, right?” Olivia grins, shifting the wheels slightly to straighten her parking perfectly.
John simply hums, gaze fixed on the storefront.
They step out, the sun blasting them full-on, hot on John’s face and shoulders. Oliva knocks against his shoulder playfully as they head towards the door. “Best cafe in town.”
The door opens with a bell’s ring. The inside feels warmer and homier, filled with the smell of coffee and sugar. He takes a scan of the patrons and catalogs exits, observing how everyone seemed to exist within their own worlds of chatter and books while being oblivious to other people just a few feet away.
They join the short line behind a man with a leather jacket. As they do, Olivia already reaches for her wallet before John can react. “What do you want? My treat.”
John studies the menu carefully, swallowing his pride at being bought for. Rows and rows of names, far too many for something as simple as a drink. “Regular.”
Olivia laughs outright. “What?”
“I’m used to instant,” He says bluntly with a crooked, semi-proud grin. “That's all they gave us.”
She shakes her head. “Fine. I’ll assume hot americano will be up your alley. It’s got the word ‘American’ in it, so you’ll like it.”
John snorts a laugh.
The man in front of them finishes his order and steps to the side. As he turns, John catches a clear glimpse of his face. Sharp lines softened with dark hair and scruff, blue eyes that carried something John couldn’t place but was nonetheless curious of. For a moment he was distracted, caught off guard by the thought that this guy was, well, handsome.
Suddenly Olivia’s voice had cut in, finally registering in his head after many moments of trying to catch his attention. “John?” She asks, incredulous.
He snaps his head back at her, blinking like he’d just been shaken awake from a deep sleep.
“Do you want any food?”
“Oh.” He clears his throat, darting a glance at the display cabinet. He tries to ignore the flush of embarrassment spreading across his cheeks. “A lemon square would be absolutely great.”
She turns back smoothly, repeating the order to the barista with practiced, polite friendliness that always came easy to her and never John.
“Veterans discount.” She adds lightly.
The barista nods, and Olivia turns to John expectantly. Wordlessly, he carefully moves his working arm around his waist to reach his wallet in the opposite pocket and slides it over the counter with his lips pressed into a fine line as some sort of cordial smile. He’s always, always, one second too late with pleasantries, another reminder of his disjointed place.
The barista scans it and returns it quickly, adding a “Thank you for your service.” It somehow felt both earnest and automatic. His jaw clenches at the way the barista takes a quick glance at his tightly wrapped arm before knitting their eyebrows slightly in seemingly shallow pity.
John gives a curt nod, while Oliva takes her change and drops some coins into the nearby tip jar. Before long, she steers him to an available table.
Naturally, John claims his seat facing the door on instinct, a habit learned from his service. Olivia already got used to the habit some time ago, leaving the seat open in the same way someone may add a second plate for a dead loved one to the dinner table out of pure habit.
“So.” Olivia starts, placing her elbows casually on her table and leaning in close.
“So.” John parrots.
“Out of duty at last.”/
“Temporarily. ” He amends quickly. Far too quickly.
She pauses before she speaks. “You never change, huh?” She says, voice lifting like it was a joke but there’s weight to it, something raw she meant not slip out.
John’s smile falters slightly, recognizing the tone quickly after years of friendship.
He forces a low chuckle, eyes tired and worn. “Guess not.”
Olivia exhales softly, her face twisting enough to show the worry she tried to hide. It’s a subtle shift, but he catches it. She lifts her cup slowly, buying herself a moment to recoup herself as she takes a resigned sip.
When she sets it down and looks at him again, her expression lights with something brighter like she’s decided to not push the topic further. “You were pretty distracted by that guy in line earlier.”
“I was just so entranced with trying to deduce the difference between a regular mocha and a white mocha. ” He says, denial thin even to him.
“Sure, John, sure. Like you weren’t totally distracted when you saw that cute guy’s face when I was trying to get your order.” She shoots back, teasingly and without animosity.
“Oh, yes, now it’s coming back to me. I remember how my tongue lolled out of my mouth and my eyes turned into cartoon hearts.” He deadpans but the corners of his mouth move into a smile.
Olivia’s own smile stretches as she quirks her eyebrows. “The first I’m not sure of, but your eyes tuning into hearts? Pretty accurate.”
Her laughter bubbles out, warm and unguarded as John rolls his eyes so hard they threaten to fall out of his sockets. For a moment, John was pulled back into high school where the weight on his chest wasn’t so heavy and constant.
John isn’t sure how long they talk, time slipping away unnoticed as they spend hours in conversations. They drank their feelings, the bitter taste of coffee mixing with laughter on their lips. The longer they sat there, the lower his walls slowly crumbled under the weight of Olivia’s laughter and returning nostalgia.
Every so often, though, his focus faltered and drifted. John’s eyes drift unconsciously across the room, always finding the stranger in the leather jacket in the corner. Something about him kept tugging at John’s attention.
And of course Olivia would always notice. Though she never said anything. Not yet, at least.
***
The next day, John finds himself in the same cafe.
He makes a beeline for it, embarrassingly so. The moment he was done helping an older woman with her car for a quick mechanic gig despite his arm, he didn't hesitate. The gigs aren’t glamorous, made no less easier with his injury, but they’re enough for now to keep him floating. He rounds each corner with clear precision, knowing exactly where he’s going and moving like the route been etched into his mind for years.
The sun scorches his skin, much like yesterday’s blaze. His armless old gym shirt did not aid in combating the blistering rays, doing little more than expose the bulk of his arms that displayed the countless injuries he sustained at a time not worth reminiscing about and the lingering bits of staining oil from his mechanic gig. Once he gets there, he leans against the facade of the cafe, tapping his foot impatiently on the pavement while repeatedly checking his phone to watch the minutes tick by.
Finally, Lemar shows up from the distance, strolling slowly and casually. For someone who’s in the military and the same squad, he sure didn’t walk like it.
“You’re late.” John says, voice tight with annoyance and brows knitting close.
“By three minutes.” Lemar says lightheartedly, raising a half-serious eyebrow.
“Still.” John gruffs, tucking his phone back into his pocket.
Lemar simply chuckles and clasps a warm hand onto his shoulder, steadying him as they enter through the door.
The line, much like yesterday, is short and moves steadily. They take their place at its tail and John falls silent when he sees the man in front of him. Dark hair. A leather jacket worn in all the right places. Solid and brooding presence that felt like gravity to him. It’s the same man.
John’s eyes linger far too long, long enough to watch him hand over a VIC card to the cashier. He doesn’t even realize Lemar had asked him a question, in a twisted reenactment of yesterday.
“Oh.” Lemar suddenly says, tone rich with realization and breaking John out of his haze. “Is that the guy?”
John blinks. “What? The guy?”
“The guy you’ve got the hots for.” Lemar murmurs, grinning sharply as cuts a knowing quick glance to the stranger who’s just a few feet ahead.
John feels his ears turn heat with embarrassment, burning hotter than the sun outside. “Shut up.” John grits out under his breath. “Or at least talk quieter.”
They step up to the counter, the same barista from yesterday greeting them with a neutral smile. They give their order with swift precision, with John opting for the same order, before both men slide over their VIC cards simultaneously. John pays, slinks off to get a table, before coming back to the counter and embarrassingly dropping a tip like it was a second thought.
John pulls them into a seat more secluded, away from the sounds of chairs scrapping and the grinding espresso machine. As he takes his seat, John realizes that they’ve taken a table closer to the stranger than he’d prefer. Instinctively, his gaze flicks over to him for a half-second, betraying him just long enough for Lemar to notice. When he looks back at Lemar, he has a stupid, knowing slight smile plastered blatantly on his lips.
“Olivia told you, huh?” John grimaces preemptively, dragging a hand over his face as if a simple motion could shield him and make him invisible.
“Pratically yelled at me over the phone.” Lemar says, clearly amused.
John groans, feeling heat prickle across his skin again.
“You’re always like this when you’ve got a thing for someone.” Lemar teases easily.
“Great,” John mutters. “I’ll have a fling before I’m deployed again. Sounds perfect.” John clenches his jaw, the weight of the word deployed grounding him more harshly then anything else could.
“A little fun won’t kill you.” Lemar says, taking the cups from the approaching barista and setting them on the table with a soft clink. “Might actually do you some good.”
“Yeah yeah.” John replies too quickly, his voice a little too flat. “Would only get my mind off the job hunt.”
“You’re still on that?”
John lifts an eyebrow, like it’s the stupidest question he’s ever heard.
“Man, your arm got ripped into two and you're concerned about work?”
John glances down at his arm, half-forgetting about his current condition until this very moment. His jaw tightens before responding. “What am I supposed to do? Crash on Olivia’s couch without contributing a damn thing? I’m not some freeloader. I'm looking for gigs– don’t have to be that steady.”
The sneer came out easier than he meant, and regret bubbled in his belly right after, burning hotter than his temper.
“Go easy there. You need to rest, John, for Christ's sake.” Lemar lifts both his eyebrows, unfazed at the outburst. He knew that kind of anger too well.
John’s jaw flexes again, the muscle in his cheek twitching at the force.
Still, he feels something loosen, just a little. A presence. Lemar’s presence is solid, familiar, and, most importantly, tethering, like Olivia’s. Even with his nerves sparking at sounds that are supposed to be regular, he feels his chest loosen and breathe smoother, even for just a moment.
***
For the third day in a row, John’s back in the cafe.
He has a multitude of reasons for coming back, though one he would rather ignore. For starters, it's a close enough walk, and maybe Olivia was right about cabin fever. Anything is better than John pacing a circle around her house. Not to mention the fact that the drinks were good, better than expected.
He slings a book under his arm, spine stiff after years of neglect. Maybe the first book he’ll read in years. It was the first thing he grabbed on impulse from Olivia’s house, not even checking the title until he’s already half way out the door.
He arrives at the same hour, and it’s as equally quiet as the past two days. A mix of mug clinks, friendly chatter, and the hiss of an espresso machine linger in the air. He orders the same drink and takes the same seat he did yesterday, habit forming without realizing. That’s when he notices the same leather cladded man already there in the corner with his own book. With the same stupid, grim expression.
For a moment, John stares with sharp recognition. The stranger’s posture is relaxed and unreadable, his presence both an anchor and a distraction. John forces his gaze down as he cracks open the book with its pages still rigid. He tells himself not to look or pay attention.
But he can't, he’s completely aware of him anyway. The slow, turning of page. The meek sips of coffee. The way his brows tense over certain passages. John can’t help but look.
He tries to take a page and match the ease. He exhales softly, taking in the stillness as if begging routine to settle in his bones the same way it has done for the stranger. Small beginnings, he reminds himself. Something to steady himself.
It’s not much, but it feels like not the worst fit.
***
He goes there everyday now.
It becomes less about the coffee and more about the routine, the familiar rhythm that pushes him through the day. Still, despite his best efforts, he realizes he’s always a second behind. Still not completely fit into this quaint puzzle. A flinch when he enters a pack day, a nod that arrives a second too late to be polite.
John feels stilted. Not completely, but enough to make him stager. Like he’s moving through the days always pretending to be a much more stable person. Yet, pretending is better than nothing and he supposes it’s enough for now.
By now, he knows too much about the man in the corner. He’s never come in with anyone, so his name remains a mystery but John’s learned the small things. He would come in the late afternoon, with a thick novel in hand, this week’s book being The Hobbit. He always ordered a black coffee with a dash of cinnamon, paired with a plain buttered croissant. Never failed to take the table in the corner, like every patron knew it was his. And a VIC card that spoke more loudly than any words could.
In his head and during terrible conversations with Olivia and Lemar, his name was ‘Leather Jacket’’ which is short for ‘The Brooding Man In The Corner With The Leather Jacket That John Has The Thing For.’
John also now knows the baristas, and they know him. Alex, the sharp kid with a crooked smile who's saving tips and paychecks for college, drums his fingers on the counter as he hears the door’s chime and sees John enter. Knowing Alex feels like proof that, hypothetically and in some distant universe, he could fit in again.
“Regular hot Americano, John?” Alex says as soon as he’s in earshot.
“You know it.”
“And a lemon square?” Alex’s mouth quirks, hands already moving to input his order.
John glances at the cabinet, before shaking his head. “I’ll actually have banana muffin today.”
The barista lets out a mock gasp. “Very wild today.”
John chuckles, handing over the money and his VIC card. He drops a hefty tip into his jar, and Alex’s grin widens in thanks. That small interaction, that recognition eases something in him even if it was just for a fleeting moment.
John takes his regular seat. The same one as before, the one that gives him a clear view of the door. And in the corner of his eye, he can see Leather Jacket is there again, quiet with his book.
John doesn’t let himself stare, not openly anyways.
Alex comes by and drops off his order with a passing smile that John mirrors with a second’s delay. He opens his book carefully, and places the book mark on the table, easing into the comfort of his routine.
He takes a gulp of drink without looking, only to wrinkle his nose at the taste. The coffee is sharper, more bitter than usual, and laced with something woody and warm that lingers on his tongue. He pauses, takes another sip, and realizes it’s not his order at all.
It’s Leather Jacket’s. Black with cinnamon.
John risks a glance at the corner. Leather Jacket wears the same puzzled face, his face creased as he studies the cup. And then their eyes meet.
For a second, the world blurs around John.
John shallows, throat dry. “I think I got your order.” He says over the silence of the cafe.
Leather Jacket looks fully up now, lifting his cup in slight acknowledgment. “And I got yours.” He replies. His voice is rough, husky, and carrying that kind of tone that something stir inside of him in a way he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
Silence stretches between them, charged, neither glancing away.
Finally the stranger’s mouth twitches into an almost smile. “It’s sweeter than expected.”
John huffs, embarrassed at how quickly his pulse picks up speed. “I wouldn't call it sweet, only if it is in comparison to yours.”
Leather Jacket snorts a quick huff as a dismissive, small laugh. He takes another sip of John’s drink. “We’ll survive.”
John hums affirmatively, a bit starstruck. “Yeah. I suppose.” His voice comes out lighter than it’s been all week.
Leather Jacket chuckles softly again, but now a sound more warm and brief. “I see you here all the time.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
“Coffee is good. Service is usually good too.” He says easily, taking another sip of John’s misplaced drink.
He nods towards John’s table, taking a glance of the book left forgotten in John’s hands.
“What are you reading?”
John flips it around, blinking at the cover, and suddenly aware of how awkwardly he’s holding it open to mark his page only using his good hand. “Nothing exciting. Just something I borrowed from a friend.”
Leather Jacket tilts his head expectantly, waiting. His gaze is steady, as if the answers matter more than John expected.
“Collection of Tolstoy’s short stories.” He admits finally, almost sheepishly.
Leather Jacket hums, a quiet sound that feels more like understanding than judgment.
Then suddenly, he asks, “Do you mind if I?” He gestures with a cup already in hand at the empty seat in front of John, already lifting his bag, book, and food in a feat of dexterity. The question should feel casual and easy but it hangs heavy in the air.
John nods before he can overthink it.
Leather Jacket takes the seat in front of him, settling down his collection of things in neat and perfectly precise order. It was strange being up close, with having only caught stray glances. John presses against the spin of his book, trying to anchor himself. For the first time in a long time, he feels the edge of possibility over the horizon. Possibility of new connection. A faint, extremely distant possibility of something more.
“What are you reading?” John echoes as if he already doesn’t know the answer.
“The Hobbit.”
John curls an eyebrow as he examines it in the stranger’s hands. “Never read it. Any good?”
Leather Jacket’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing him. “You’ve never read it?”
“Didn’t exactly have a copy lying around while I was on duty.” John laughs, light but shaky as he tries to mask his nerves.
“I read it during my deployment.” The man counters evenly.
“Good for you.” John mutters, more defensively than he means too. “Well, never took the effort to get a copy since it never really interested me.”
“It’s a classic. An amusing, charming adventure.” Leather Jacket takes a long sip of his drink, the faintest edge of mockery in his tone but no real spite loaded in his words.
“What was I thinking?” John shoots back sarcastically. “I’d love spending my little downtime reading a children's story about whiny characters obsessed with drinking and dragons.”
“Smaug.” Leather Jacket says quickly and unconsciously, like he doesn’t realize it had slipped out his mouth.
John furrows his brow. “What?”
“The dragon’s name is Smaug.” Leather Jacket says dryly.
John can’t help the laughter that escapes him, the sound feeling strange but right in his mouth.
Leather Jacket then pulls out his bookmark from the top of his page and places it into his bag. “You’ll be here tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah.” John says cautiously, taking a moment to answer as if he’s bracing for a trap.
Leather Jacket nods once, completely satisfied. “Read the first chapters.” He slides the book across the table. John doesn’t move to pick it up, instead giving him a confused, completely off-guarded look.
“I’ll come here at the same time and you’ll tell me if you like it or not.” Leather Jacket says. “I’m sure you’ll like it. If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you your usual coffee and lemon square.”
He carefully picks up the book, the weight heavy in his hands. “You know my order?”
Leather Jacket doesn’t respond, just lifts a brow and takes another sip of John’s order.
“You don’t know me.” John continues to press, ignoring the heat blooming in his chest. “And yet you’re so sure I’ll like it, let alone come back with your book. What if I sell it to little Alex over there?”
“I guess that's right.” Leather Jacket’s voice remains steady, leaning back in his chair with an unreadable expression. “I’m willing to bet my odds though.”
A somber smile lingers on Leather Jacket’s face long enough for John to notice and land somewhere between his ribs. He glances down at the book, thumbing rubbing the worn cover.
Silence stretches too long, as John turns over the book for the last time in his hands after careful and deliberate examination like it was an alien artifact.
“I’m John, by the way. 104th.” He says at last.
The man studies him for a beat, looking at the cast before his face. Something flickers and shifts his expression in a way John wishes he could read. He nods, two soldiers acknowledging each other. “Bucky. 107th.”
***
Turns out, The Hobbit is good, and Tolkien is a good writer. No one but John is surprised.
What is more surprising, however, is what's between the lines of text and bleeds into the margins. Bucky’s loud, personal annotations. Charming, hastily scribbled circles around revelatory dialogue, paired with jagged arrows leading to commentary in barely legible hand writing. They’re impulsive and loud the way Bucky never is.
John finds himself more entertained and amused at sharp-edged notes than the actual content, but that’s a secret he’ll be keeping close to his chest.
With a meager sigh, he checks his watch, slides a bookmark in a pace, and pulls on his shoes.
“Going on another recon mission of Leather Jacket?” Olivia says with wiggling eyebrows, appearing out of thin air and startling John.
John’s throat tightens. “More like I'm going in for a UN treaty.” He mumbles, avoiding eye contact as he stands.
She arches an eyebrow but her attention is stolen by the foreign book in his hands. “What happened to Tolstoy? Not a fan of any more grand messages about love being revealed through everyday acts of kindness?”
“It’s from Leather Jacket.” He admits with a smirk, voice low enough it might have not been heard if she was not listening so intently.
Her eyes widen but before she can cast off a barrage of questions, he’s already twisting the lock and half-way out the door.
“I’ll bring home a pastry!” He calls with a mischievous ring, leaving her stunned inside.
Her eyes widen as she’s about to launch a question at him, but he interrupts her with another yell. “His name is Bucky!” John ends, finally leaving earshot and her view.
The walk to the cafe is steady, perfectly practiced but his pulse quickens when the muted awning comes into view and the book in his hands feels heavier than it should. And just a few steps away, he sees Bucky approaching at the same time.
“You’re late.” John blurts as soon as Bucky is in range.
“You’re here at the same time, so you are too. Not to mention the fact we didn’t set a time.” Bucky replies blankly.
“You said ‘usual’, and you’re usually already in line in front of me. Or in your corner.”
“You’ve been observing me like you're a hawk circling dead meat.” Bucky snarks, leaving John to scratch the back of his neck while trying to think of a denial filled response to undeniable truth. “Or like I’m a target about to be assassinated."
Bucky holds the door open for John, a gesture meant to be teasing and mocking, guessing by the slight twist in his mouth. But instead of usual irritation, John feels something tighten in him, unsteady and uncomfortably warm.
He enters with his chest puffed and mock-gratefulness on his face, albeit it’s a thin veil to his actual spluttering nerves.
There’s no line and it's the same barista who’s always on shift at this hour– Alex.
“Oh this is new.” Alex muses, fingers already gliding across the screen. “One regular hot black with cinnamon and a buttered croissant, and one regular hot americano with a lemon square.” His eyes flick up to John knowingly. “Unless you’re feeling adventurous again.”
“I’ve got my fill of adventure today.” John says with amusement, feeling the rugged book in his hands and, more importantly, accurately aware of the man beside him.
They split payment without a word, each sliding their VIC card in a synchronized motion without realizing it before placing bills over the counter, and leaving another sizable tip. Then, almost in perfect unison, go towards Bucky’s usual table.
There’s a brief pause as they both angle towards the seat facing the exit. For a split second, its strict habit meets an equally strict habit. Then Bucky takes a slow breath, and eventually concedes the spot to John.
“Wow, so this is the view from the famed corner?” John says, snuggling himself into the seat while trying not to look too pleased about it.
“Don’t get used to it.” Bucky huffs. “I’ll be taking that spot tomorrow."
Tomorrow. The word lodge somewhere deep into John’s chest. Bucky will be part of his routine beyond quick glances and unsaid conversations. They’ll be here again tomorrow. He never really thought that far ahead, apart from his sureness to coming back to duty, but it stirs something in him equal parts warm and terrifying.
John clears his throat, masking it with a crooked snort. Just then, Alex sets the drinks on the table and conversation fades over silence.
“So,” Bucky starts, leaning back comfortably in his chair. “How’d you find it?” His eyes flick to the bookmark that's stuck deep into the thick of the body.
“Not bad.” John murmurs, taking a sip of his miraculously correct order.
“ ‘Not bad’ he says.” Bucky mocks drily.
“Nice annotations.” John grins snipes back, grin sharp enough to pass for teasing instead of genuine, despite his actual thoughts.
Bucky shrugs his shoulders. “Did them during my first reading back in high school. Never saw the point in erasing them or getting a new copy.”
“Well they definitely helped me get through the slog of a book.” John says.
“I don’t think my hormonal writing quips could have carried a ‘slog’ .”
John sighs carefully and deliberately. “Fine. It was slightly better than I thought. Not completely terrible.”
“I believe you.” Bucky snorts. “You’re an ass for calling this classic a slog but at least I don’t have to buy your order.”
John, through the course of this singular conversation that he’s reluctantly been having day dreams off, comes to realize that Bucky’s actually pretty booksmart, shockingly so. Sure, he didn’t communicate these thoughts with eloquence, usually needing to double back or contradicting his last point to make himself clear, but the content was there. Solid. Soulful.
Bucky was curious and interested in ways John didn’t expect. And it drove him crazy, making him want to pick his brain at every conceivable hour.
***
The next day at the cafe, Bucky, of course, starts their interaction with a perfect note.
“You look like shit.” He grunts, eyes fixed on the deep circles under John's eyes as he takes his seat.
John groans, running a hand through already messy hair and sending more loose stands onto his forehead. “I stayed up until the ass crack of dawn to read the Inside Information chapter that you don’t shut up about.”
Bucky lifts an eyebrow, blatantly unimpressed. “Dawn? Really? The book isn’t long.” Bucky snarks, tearing off a piece of his croissant and popping in his mouth to emphasize his point.
“You try reading while someone is blasting Supernatural in the next room over.” John grimaces, painfully reminiscing the memory of Olvia glued to the couch and forcing him to watch one episode.
That gets Bucky to laugh, almost.
“You know,” John says, leaning back in his chair with a calculated expression. “I’ve read past the halfway point of your recommendation. It’s only fair if you read mine.”
John slides over a paperback over the table. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man. The cover is a loud patchwork of red, white, and blue.
“Who said I was a fair person?” Bucky grumbles, picking up the book like it’s radioactive.
“Just read it.” John insists, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s the one book I finished in high school."
Bucky flips it over, eyes briskly skimming the back blurb. “No wonder you turned out the way you did.” He murmurs cuttingly, though his eyes glint with the faintest hint of curiosity.
***
Lemar takes a long look at John, studying the calm on his face. For the first few weeks after everything fell apart, John was unsettlingly restless. But now, lost in the story of the book in his hand, he looks steady. Okay and completely okay with being just okay.
“Arm healing up okay?” Lemar asks.
John gives an affirmative grunt with half-effort, eyes not peeling off the page.
Lemar continues to stare, expecting something more before clearing his throat. “Since when did you read so often?” He mutters with a small grin, plucking the book out of John’s hands from his sprawl on the couch.
John huffs, pushing up from his comfortable position and delicately moving to stand to avoid bumping his cast. He leans over with his good hand to yank the book from the other man but Lemar outreaches his hand to block his path.
“Hold on, are you seriously still obsessed with Confessions of an Economic Hit Man?” He shakes his head. “That takes me back. You wouldn’t shut up about this way back when.”
John rolls his eyes but Lemar is already flipping through pages.
Until he isn’t.
His brow tenses as he stops on one page, one containing a passage about some antiquated war. But his focus stuck to the margin as they were flooded with annotations and tiny notes.
One set of annotations is in neat, blue block letters. Another second set in red ink, much more hurried and messy, yet a mile more thoughtful and formal. Clearly different hands entirely.
“Are you re-annotatiating your old copy?” Lemar squints.
John lunges to snatch the book but Lemar twists just on time.
Then it hits him. “Are these from Bucky?” He points to the red text, as his eyes widened and a slow smile spread across his face.
John’s mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for water. An unfortunate and wordless yes.
“We’ve been trading books for awhile,” John admits. “and, God forbid I reminisce and re-read some notes.” He snatches the copy away from Lemar and tosses the book back into the couch, as if that would end things.
“ ‘Notes!’” Lemar repeats, laughing. “Please. You’re reading and studying those notes more than you ever did for history class.”
“You’re not getting a takeout coffee from me.” John mumbles, fumbling for his shoes to leave for the cafe.
“Didn’t ask for one!” Lemar calls from behind him, entrails of laughter still bubbling in his throat. “But tell your book buddy I say hi!”
***
John and Bucky fall into an almost perfect rhythm with one another. They would return to the same cafe at the same time for the past weeks. Always for each other, undeniably so.
Books were traded. And despite John’s growing exhaustion from late night reading sessions spent tearing through Bucky’s latest recommendation before his early morning mechanic gigs, he feels decent. Okay. Not great, because once you’re in the trench, you never really leave, but okay. And that was something.
They would laugh, argue, and spar over passages, verbal jabs morphing into rough shoves that hit around John’s injury. Sarcasm and biting comments felt like some twisted version of affection. It’s messy and strange and thrilling.
Yet, despite their growing ease and adapting rhythm, there were times the air staggered.
After the end of another verbal beat down which almost turned physical, the air goes still as John scrambles for a safer conversation topic, preferably not about The Hobbit.
“So are you permanently retired from the military? Or on a block leave?” Of course John leads with the military, unsurprisingly yet still awkward.
Bucky takes a moment. They never talked that much outside of books. “I don’t know. That's the best answer I can give you right now.”
“I’m going to come back as soon as my damn arm can move more than 10 degrees.” He says with a sharp grin that quickly falls as he takes a small gulp, anticipating his next words with strange dread.
He notices the slight way Bucky’s expression falls, the faint drop in his features. It’s not dramatic, like a frown or a sigh, but a quiet flicker of quiet disappointment.
John tries to steer the tone in the opposite direction but fails miserably the moment he opens his mouth. “What if I never see you again after I enlist?" He says with a dry laugh, meaning it to be light and funny, but it doesn't come out that way.
“That’s strong for someone who’s only known me for a couple of days.”
“Weeks. A couple of weeks.” John amends with a forced relaxed smile. Bucky’s expression remains flat.
He rolls his shoulders before tension can fully square them, like he’s preparing for a daunting physical task. “I don’t know.” John says quietly as a brief pause, a bit scared of his own words and truth. He isn’t sure why he’s speaking but he chalks it up to Bucky being a soldier and probably understanding. “I could die on duty, and you would have no idea.” H
“Bleak.” Bucky says, studying John’s face.
“It’s true.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches. “It’s the reason I don’t want to come again. I’ve been fighting my whole life and I’m tired, but it’s all I’ve ever known.”
“Oh. I hear that” John clears his throat, shifting quickly to lighten the air. “You better be back here if I come back.”
Bucky’s mouth quirks, the faintest ghost of a smile. “I’ll be here in the corner when you come back.” Bucky amends.
Bucky takes a steady gulp, as if forcing the words out of his throat. “Tell you what,” Bucky begins with a small smirk that doesn’t fully reach his eyes. “Next round on me, and somewhere that doesn’t smell like burnt beans and more like alcohol poisoning."<.p>
John snorts, downing the rest of the drink as if it could wash away the uncertainty and buds of fear curling inside his chest. “You’re on.”
John doesn’t ignore the blooming joy, or the unashamed, unnamed other feeling swelling in his chest like sunlight breaking through clouds. What he does ignore the growing strength in his arm, an indication of his healing arm and something he had longed for– until now.
His arm is getting better, on a faster route than anticipated schedule of the doctor. But recovery, one he should be over the moon about, feels sour now. It’s silly, dreading better health, but recovery comes with the end of the slice of domesticity he’s only now beginning to savor. And suddenly, he doesn’t want to let go.
***
Bucky’s life is, by definition, better than it was seven months ago.
He had a more stable job, not the best paying but enough to get him to buy all his necessities and pleasantries. Enough money to cover rent, groceries, and the occasional indulgence. He even managed to pack up from his crappy apartment and settle down into a better one, closer to the middle of town and with an openable window. And, of course, there’s Alpine, the tiny cloud of a cat who had decided his face was the best place to take naps.
It is better.
But it didn’t feel that way.
Because, no matter how neatly his life fits together, there’s a quiet and aching space where something, or someone, used to be. He misses those handful of weeks with the stranger that turned out to be John. John fussed too quickly but left quickly, lingering like a ghost that Bucky couldn’t fully hold.
After work, Bucky routines haven’t changed. He makes his way to the same cafe where they met, his boots crunching against the icy pavement.
He pulls his scarf tighter as a cold gush of wind blows past him before stepping inside. The little bell above the door rings softly.
“Evening, Bucky.” Alex greets him with the same warm smile, already tapping in his order before he even approaches the counter.
“Black coffee with cinnamon and a lemon square?” Alex asks, already counting Bucky’s change in his palm before Bucky’s even plucked out his wallet.
“Unforuntately.” Bucky replies with a voice that’s been roughened even more so by the cold. He slides over the bills, the same amount he gave the day prior and the day before that.
He takes his seat in the same corner, the one that used to be theirs, and drops his bag on the seat beside him with a loud thud. His fingers find the worn spine of the book, plucking it out from the two books in the bag. The other book in his bag is a new copy of The Hobbit, one with John’s name scrawled on the inside cover and with fresh annotations from Bucky completed the moment John left.
Everyday he sits tucked away in the corner, spending exorbitant amounts of money on bitter coffees and half-eaten squares, waiting for a familiar laugh or a flash of blonde hair to walk through the door.
Every day he tells himself he’ll stop coming.
And yet, he’s still here.
Waiting. Waiting for him to come back. Waiting for tomorrow.
But sometime, when the cafe hums low, he dreads and wonders if John will ever come back to claim any of it. Maybe he’ll die out there, in some distant field with a gun clutched in bloody hands, without saying a proper final google.
Still he’ll be here regardless. He’ll take that chance, that unclear, blurry maybe. Because that’s all he has.