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Exhaustion clings onto Bucky like a stubborn sickness, unrelenting and bitterly annoying. After a long, tedious trip to Congress, he’s looking forward to one thing and one thing only, sleeping in his own damn bed. However long sleep might be, and knowing himself it would be quite short, it would at least be his own sheets and not some pile of clothes pretending to be a bed.
His mouth is dry though, and even before he drops his bag, he rides the elevator to the communal floor and veers toward the tower’s quiet kitchen for a glass of water.
What greets him instead though knocks the air right from his lungs.
The tower’s kitchen looks like Cupid threw up on it.
Gauche Valentine's Day decorations litter each surface, despite the actual day being months away. Pink and red streamers still creased from the packaging, overfilled heart balloons sticking to the ceiling, and candles dripping red wax onto the table– The works.
And in the middle of the pink and red vomit, stands John. He’s plating a steak, so focused he doesn’t notice Bucky, and dressed absurdly sharp for the hour. A crisp button up, nice pants and nicer shoes. Even his hair is done, like he, or probably someone else on the team, spent too long getting it to sit just right.
Bucky carefully drops his bag to the floor with a dull thud. “Walker?” Bucky asks at last, voice flat and skeptical, not daring yet to fully step into the crime scene.
That finally catches John’s attention.
He jolts, his eyes widening, before clearing his throat awkwardly and finding shaky composure. From around the corner, Bucky hears the sudden burst of muffed giggling, coincided by a quiet bing that would come from a phone that just started recording.
John straightens, rolls his shoulders, then takes a quick glance at his palm. Bucky catches a quick look, and sees a glimpse of hastily scrawled handwriting.
“James Bucnanan Barnes,” John starts, already squinting at his palm without making it seem too obvious and failing. “Oh, I’ve–” He glances at the palm, losing his pace, and then squints even harder. “Yearned for you for months! And, oh–” He hesitates, checking again, “How it’s stirred my insides into a dizzying mess of woe!”
Bucky stares. A long silence stretches between them.
John clears his throat again, checking his other palm with another paragraph of smeared text. “And so, my–” He groans quietly. “My dear, I’m humbly here to ask you on a dinner date tonight. I’ve prepared the finest steaks,” John pauses, not being able to make out what he wrote down, clearly written down with his non-dominant arm. “and it would break my heart in two bloody halves if you were to say no.”
Silence comes back, settling between them thick and awkward, and only being broken by silent sniggering from around the corner. John isn’t sure what to do with himself, posture a mixture of defeat and defiant, and, after a frozen beat, plants stained hands on his hips.
“John,” Bucky says slowly. “Who did this to you?”
“I–” John glances to the corner where the giggling is originating from. He sighs, defeated. “Lost a bet to Ava.” He hesitates, looking at the floor and grimacing. “and another to Yelena. And one more Bob. And Alexei.” He adds emphasis on Alexei, because it was clearly the one that stung the most.
Another muffled barrage of giggles, but this time Bucky can easily pick out Bob, Ava, and Yelena’s voices. He suspects they benched Alexei from the super secret surprise mission that he would blow the lid right off.
Bucky finally enters the kitchen, getting immediately hit with a harsh wave of scents. It’s overwhelming, a mix of sweet flowers, seared steak, and heavy vanilla from the candle.
“And is this the product of all five bets”?” Bucky mumbles, taking a tentative seat at the table while gesturing vaguely to the tacky mess around him.
“Yeah.” John scratches his neck. “Alexei picked out the decor. Yelena decided on the outfit and hair.”
“Oh.” Is all Bucky can muster.
John swallows, taking the seat in front of Bucky slowly. “Yeah. Oh.”
“And,” John starts hesitantly, pausing before a beat as if the words are refusing to leave his throat. “Ava said that if I lost, I’d have to ask you out. She originally started the idea and, well, everyone built on it.” His shoulders tense and tone trying, key word trying, to be casual. “She wrote the script.” He tacks on meekly.
Bucky looks around again, taking it all in more fully. The effort is ridiculous and poured into something that’s clearly a joke, except, maybe, it's not entirely a joke. He wishes it isn’t entirely a joke.
Bucky isn’t sure what to say.
John shifts his weight, glancing at the counter, then back to Bucky. “And if I lost the bet with Bob, I would have to,” He reaches for something behind the table and out of Bucky’s view. “Give this to you.”
John pulls out a large bouquet like some sort of cheap magician trick. It’s ridiculously gaudy, a lush mix of deep red and vivid white roses, and tied together with a large bow. Its grandeur alone makes it look more like a telenovela prop rather than a real gift.
“It’s cliche,” John grumbles, holding it out with a sheepish expression. “I know, but it's a trope for a good reason.”
Bucky just stares at it. At him. At the absurd sight of John Walker, the man scorned by the public day in and day out while barely hoisting his life out the gutter, standing in a kitchen draped in red and pink while dressed for a romantic comedy at almost midnight.
Bucky takes a shaky breath.
And takes the flowers next, placing them delicately on the chair beside them as if the petals were made out of china and were one tap away from shattering.
Bucky turns, facing the corner. “You can all scram now.” He commands sharply, the kind of tired authority more akin to a father’s than a soldier’s.
Ava, Yelena, and Bob tumble out of poor hiding. As they pass the pair, each one tries to look innocent, which only makes it worse. Ava waves cheerfully, Yelena smirks subtly though her glowing phone is still in hand, and Bob just tries to rush out as quickly as possible.
“Nice to see you too!” Yelena chirps.
Bucky narrows his eyes. “Go.”
That’s all it takes for the three of them to scramble to the elevator, all grinning, whispering, and knocking shoulders as the doors shut in front of them.
When the cacophony of laughter fades away and the elevator rides off, it’s replaced by John’s low but genuine chuckle.
“Weird idea, frankly.” He says, voice carrying a mix of embarrassment and self-depricating amusement.
"At least you cooked the steaks well.” Bucky says.
“What else am I good for?” John quips dryly, knife already cutting through tender meat and roasted vegetables.
Bucky shoots him a look but doesn't say anything. A quiet comes again, but it’s different now. Thicker, warmer, weighted. The air hums slowly with something Bucky can’t name.
The ‘date’ is a joke, Bucky reminds himself. A product of a ridiculous bet. Or, well, bets. He reminds himself of that fact over and over. Still, he can’t shake another feeling in his gut. How this was something more underneath.
“So,” Bucky says, cutting silence. “Why did Ava put you up to this?”
John looks up, startled by the question. He opens his mouth once, then twice, then a third time but only manages to let out a dry laugh. “I don’t know with her.” He defends weakly, words too fast. “You know how she is.”
Bucky leans forward. “I think you do know.” He teases, gentler than usual. The softness even shocks him, what more John.
John sighs, shoulder slinking down and not confirming nor denying anything. He stares down at his plate like it’ll save him.
Bucky doesn’t have the energy to keep egging him on. Instead, he leans back, and loosely crosses his arms over his chest. The candle light flicks between them, catching John’s beard and jawline.
“How about we make a bet?” Bucky says.
“You hear I lost five bets and you want in?” John questions, half incredulous and half entertained. “Aren’t you an opportunist?” He adds, more a fact than an actual question.
“That,” Bucky begins. “I bet this fake date will go well,” He pauses, unsure if this is the right move but taking it anyway. “And if I’m right, we can go on an actual date. Dinner tomorrow, maybe.”
Heat creeps up the nape of his neck, face flushing at his own blundering confidence. He isn’t sure where it came from, maybe exhaustion dulled his sense of pride and shame, maybe it was plain arrogance, or maybe, just maybe, it was stupid hope that this might finally be his chance.
Either way, the words were out now. Reckless, hanging in the air between them like the bloated balloons looming above. Whatever it was, recklessness, courage, or fatigue, it was too late to dissect it.
“And if it goes poorly? If I somehow blow it?” John asks, voice quiet, low and, most of all, uncertain.
Bucky doesn’t miss a beat. “Then we’ll get brunch together in the new place a few blocks down.”
“Brunch?”
“Yeah,” Bucky muses, corner of his mouth pulling into a cheeky smile. “Since I know you hate brunch. Weird in between period– not breakfast, not lunch but confusion somewhere in between. And that restaurant cooks up your prized hard boiled eggs wrong.”
That draws honest laughter from John, one that slips past his guard and through lingering embarrassment.
“You’re on.” John says, soft grins still stuck on his face and sticking a hand over the table.
Bucky takes the hand. Warmth meets warmth, steady and sure.
The handshake should feel like a joke. But somehow, it lingers for a heartbeat too long. Long enough for the air enveloping them to stir once again, slowly and deliberately, as if something finally clicked into place.