Work Text:
There are two things that make Bucky Barnes unbearably grumpy.
Okay, that’s a lie. There are many things that make the super soldier grumpy. But if he had to choose his top two at the moment, it would definitely include the snow that seems to be never-ending. The way the cold permeates through his clothes, the way it envelops him in its icy embrace, even in the comfort of the tower. He knows that in reality, he runs hot. The serum in his veins makes sure that his body temperature is above average at all times, able to withstand what would debilitate any normal human being. Despite this, despite his very biology, Bucky always feels cold. His stupid therapist would tell him it’s nothing more than psychosomatic symptoms from his time in cryofreeze. But that doesn’t make the chill he feels on even the hottest summer day any less real.
The second thing, Bucky thinks, looking down at a list littered with five different handwritings sprawled across a paper much too small for its contents, would be his team’s coffee orders. He doesn’t know what got a hold of him when he offered to do a coffee run for the people he’s come to call his teammates. Perhaps it was energy pent up from being trapped within the same tower for weeks with no missions and snowfall so heavy, you’d’ve thought the heavens were unleashing everything they had all at once. Perhaps it was the way Yelena would make the off-hand comment about some small local cafe she’d been wanting to try out. Perhaps it was because Alexei was about to go on an hour-long rant about his victories as the Red Guardian to anyone who would listen (it was usually him; Bucky always got stuck on the other end of the exuberant man’s far-fetched tales).
Whatever it was that propelled him to volunteer was immediately returned with regret as soon as each member of the team began writing paragraphs. Their coffee orders looked like essays, each one with a list far too long for just a simple coffee. He’d never even heard of half of the stuff they had scribbled down. He furrows his brows, wondering if they hadn’t just written a bunch of gibberish down so he’d make a fool of himself. Oat milk — milk can come from oats? And what the hell is cold foam, and why would someone put it in their coffee?
He braces himself as his gloved hand reaches for the handle to an unassuming little shop tucked into a corner of the madness that is New York. Warmth envelops him as soon as he opens the door. Gentle yellow lights bathe him with their glow – so unlike most stores and restaurants with their headache-inducing white lights and modern furnishings that were impersonal, almost as cold as the weather. He stood stock-still in the doorway for just a second too long. The smell of coffee beans roasting hit him full force, sounds following soon thereafter; the bustle of the baristas and the whir of a blender as a small crowd waited for their caffeine fix of the day.
He wasn’t expecting such a small place to be so busy, and with every step closer to the counter, the note gets more and more distressed. He runs through the list over and over in his head, determined not to make a fool of himself. It’s only when the line cuts down, when only two people stand between him and glorious caffeine, that his heart gets caught in his throat.
Because he sees you.
You with your wide, inviting (could he say adorable?) smile, you with your endless kindness as the elderly lady squinting up at the chalkboard asks you what the difference between a mocha and a latte is, you with your furrowed brows as you count out the change to give back to her.
He is halfway tempted to shove the distressed paper deep into his pocket, to never see the light of day again. To play it safe and order a black coffee. Because the list that he has? It's way too long. Behind him is a line of customers waiting for their turn. Who is he to hold you guys up with the most absurd requests? Who is he to be the one to wipe that perfect little smile off your face?
He nearly ducks out of the line, determined to walk back to the tower and make the damn coffee himself. That is, at least, before your bright smile is aimed at him, your honeyed voice directed towards him.
“Welcome to Honey and Sugar, what can I get for you today?”
He finds himself being drawn to the counter, your voice a siren song. His thumb rubs absently along the paper, debating whether or not to be the thing that ruins your day. Before he’s able to stuff it into his pocket, your eyes dart down to the list. “Coffee run for your coworkers?” you ask, still smiling up at him as if he deserved it.
“Uh, yeah, something like that,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck as he placed the paper on the counter.
Your eyebrows raised a little as your gorgeous eyes skimmed over the list. He expects your smile to sour, expects your honeyed voice to turn into something acrid, but instead, all you give him is a teasing comment as you begin the tedious process of entering every order into the system.
“Anything else?” You ask before giving him the total.
“Uh… I’ll just have a black coffee,” he finishes lamely. You smirk at him as you type it into the system.
“Not into all the bells and whistles?”
“I just… uh, like to stick with what I know, I guess,” Bucky says, sounding the most sheepish he has in, like the history of the universe. How embarrassing can he be? Get it together, he tells himself.
“Well, I guess someone had to make my job a little easier today,” you said with a wink.
He is still calming his heartbeat as he waits off to the side for you and your coworkers to finish the orders. He curses himself for his stupid, childish crush. He hasn’t felt this way for a girl in so long, and why? Just cause you smiled at him so sweetly and made a joke? Pathetic.
He picks up the order and brings it back to the tower, grumbling to his teammates as he berates them for their complicated orders.
“Hey,” Ava pauses his grumbling as she lifts her coffee. “Why didn’t I get a smiley face on my cup, too?”
The other Thunderbolts are quick to examine their cups, each one bereft of a cute little smile. A blush rises to Bucky’s face as he looks at his cup, smiling up at him.
“Damn, Barnes, didn’t think you still had it in you,” Walker teases, licking all the caramel and chocolate-covered whipped cream off the top of his drink.
“Shut up,” Bucky grumbles with no actual heat to his words. He stalks away from the group before his grumpy facade falls into that of a lovesick boy. How could he stay grumpy with the knowledge that you had taken the time out of your day to make him smile? That you had cared enough to spend even a second of your time on him in a way that wasn’t necessary at all.
It was enough to warm his soul just enough to fight off the constant chill that ached within his body. And, though it was just a simple black coffee, he couldn’t help but think it was the best damn thing he’d ever tasted.
It’s not quite blizzard territory when Bucky goes out again for a Thunderbolts coffee run.
They’d just gotten back from a mission not five hours ago, and Bucky was crawling out of his skin to come see you. It was a mission with too many close calls, too many civilian casualties to be called a success, and more injuries than he would have preferred to have to write up. But not even his bum leg and the deep gash in his side were going to stop him from making the trek to the quiet corner of New York that he had only just found a few weeks ago.
When asked, he would say that he couldn’t hold off on going because a blizzard was scheduled to come within the hour. What he wouldn’t admit was that even the possibility of being able to see you, because he couldn’t be sure you were even scheduled today, would mend him together better than any of the world’s greatest doctors Valentina had at her disposal.
His stomach twisted into knots when he saw the line that was practically out the door. There was barely enough room to breathe, let alone walk inside the small cafe. And whilst he loved the small size of it last time — the cosy atmosphere was calming compared to the hustle and bustle of the city — now the shop was almost suffocating. But just as he was about to turn tail and hobble back to the tower, he saw your face amongst the swarm of people. He frowned as he stepped into line. It moved like molasses, but he was in no rush. Not like the other people who were tapping their feet, mutterings of “this is ridiculous” and “why’s it taking so damn long” filter through the cacophony of the small cafe.
He takes the time to examine the decorations now sprawled around the room. It’s almost like Christmas itself had barfed all over the little coffee shop with all the garlands and ornaments and glitter scattered around. He wonders if you had any part in the festivities. If you and your coworkers had stayed late to spread holiday cheer in the form of decorations. He wonders if you guys had put on Christmas music to sing and dance along to. A stray thought floats through his brain like a lonesome tumbleweed: what if next year you’d join him with the Thunderbolts, dancing around with Bob and Yelena as you sang along to overplayed music. He wonders if you have a good singing voice, or if you’d join them along with their off-tune renditions of beloved classics.
When he gets close enough to get a glimpse of your face, he could tell from a mile away that your smile is poorly stitched on, one loose thread holding it together from it all unravelling. One of the customers is yelling over the sounds of a blender, saying you got her order wrong and demanding a refund. You’re a mess of frizzy hair, trembling hands, and dark under eyes.
When he finally reaches the counter, you smile at him, something real, but slightly manic, as if you’re one bad comment away from shattering like porcelain. He looks down at the mile-long list of the Thunderbolt’s demands — somehow, they were each able to come up with new concoctions that are as complicated as the last list. He curses them and their inability to order anything reasonable.
“Got another crazy list for me?” you ask. Somehow your tone isn’t laced with exasperation or annoyance. Despite the chaos surrounding you, you’re still able to make him feel as if he’s not a burden to you.
“Honestly, if you’re too busy, I can just skip these assholes’ orders.”
“And leave you to get fed to the wolves?” There’s a sparkle in your eyes that somehow hasn’t been extinguished despite all of the awful people you’ve dealt with in just the time that he’s been here. “I couldn’t fall asleep with that on my conscience. Hand it over.”
And he doesn’t stand a chance against your insistence. No matter how horrible he feels, holding you and your coworkers up with your teammates’ ridiculous orders. You punch them in as fast as you can (not fast enough for the jackass behind him who yells at you to hurry it up).
Bucky isn’t subtle in the way he pulls off one of his gloves, flexing gold and black as if gearing up for a fight. He turns back and levels a glare he usually reserves for terrorist Nazis. It serves well to deter the man from making another comment, his skin going ghostly white at the sight of the former Winter Soldier glaring at him as if he were his next target.
“Want another black coffee with sugar?” you ask Bucky before ringing up the total, completely oblivious to the little stand off with your focus on the tablet. For a second, Bucky is taken aback that you allowed his coffee order to take up even an iota of space in your brain. Sure, it’s not the extravagant iced white mocha topped with extra edible glitter and rainbow sprinkles and cold foam with three and a half pumps of raspberry, and two pumps of white chocolate with light ice that Yelena had ordered, but the fact that you remembered him and his order amongst all the other people that flooded in and out, day in and day out despite him only visiting once prior… well…
“No, that’s alright. You already have enough on your plate.”
You chuckle at him. “I promise a simple black coffee won’t be the thing that sends me hurtling off the edge.”
“Only if you’re sure…” Bucky says. Because, whilst your presence has done wonders for his soul, coffee always makes things better, warm comforts like that are always able to ease the ache in his soul.
This time, his coffee cup has a cute little heart drawn near the top of the festive cup they now serve their drinks with, being close enough to the Christmas season to start with the festivities. And when his teammates make fun of him for the barista’s obvious favouritism, Bucky just mutters some excuse about being the only one who has to go get the damn orders; his excuse is so flimsy that not even Bucky believes it.
It’s Christmas Eve, and the Thunderbolts have just finished baking enough sugar cookies, gingerbread cookies, and fudge to put Santa and all his elves into a sugar coma. Christmas music has been playing on repeat throughout the common floor, with Yelena threatening to severely maim anyone who turns it off. It’s the most fun Bucky’s had on Christmas Eve in a while, but even all the shenanigans going on around him can’t keep his mind off of that cute little barista he had fallen over himself despite only ever seeing her two times.
“I’m going to pick up coffee,” Bucky declares as soon as arguments devolve around him over which holiday classic they’re going to watch first.
Yelena frowns at him. “No, everyone stays here. You’ll miss the movie!”
“I’m sure that by the time I get back, you’ll have finally decided which one to watch, so I won’t be missin’ much of anything. What absurd combinations do you guys want?”
“I’m good,” Bob calls out as he takes the last batch of the gingerbread men out of the oven. “Had enough coffee this morning.”
“Yeah, I think we’ve all drunk our weight in caffeine for the day. Why don’t you just stay here?”
“Yeah, no point in going out if we don’t want any.”
“Well… I’m going out anyways. Just wanted to see if you guys wanted anything.”
Ava squints her eyes at Bucky from her place, perched on the back of the sofa. “We don’t even want coffee, and you could make your depressing coffee here. You just want an excuse to see your girlfriend!”
Bucky splutters, all eyes on him now. “I don’t have a… it’s not… we’re not-”
John rolls his eyes. “This is honestly pathetic, man. Just go see your girl.”
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’ll take one of their hot cocoas, though!” Bob chipped in. “Extra whipped cream, extra edible glitter, a candy cane, and extra cocoa.”
Bucky rolls his eyes as more people join in, each order getting more ridiculous. “Alright, alright, just write it down. I’m never going to remember any of that bullshit.”
Ridiculous list in hand, Bucky takes off for the coffee shop he had been avoiding going to too often for the risk of seeming like a creep. He really hopes you’re there, even if it’s Christmas Eve, and he doesn’t think anybody should have to work around the holidays. When he steps in, it’s nearly empty. A few college students sit around a round table working on their laptops, surrounded by textbooks, and a woman in a suit is on a hushed call as she types away at her own laptop. You and one of your coworkers are behind the counter, wiping up the counters and putting away ingredients. You see him first, your entire face lighting up at the mere sight of him. As if he were something worth getting excited about.
“Hope I’m not too late,” he says, noting that they close in less than twenty minutes. He hates being that guy, and if it’s too much trouble, he’ll leave. He didn’t realise you guys were closing early, though it does make sense.
“You’re just in time,” you chirp, tapping away at the tablet. “What concoctions did your coworkers come up with this time?”
He sees the glare your coworker levels his way, and winces. “Y’know what. I’ll just skip the craziness. They’ve had enough caffeine as it is, and lord knows they don’t need all the sugar with all the goodies we made.”
You glance back at your coworker, whatever expression is on your face succeeds in making him turn back to scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain. “Don’t worry about Ajax, they honestly just hate the holidays, and want to get out of the Christmas-infested cafe.”
“Right.” Bucky pulls out the list for you. “Um… thanks for this. And just the usual for me if it’s not too much trouble.”
You smile at him as you finish typing in his order. “Anything else?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. “No.”
“It’ll be up in a second then!” He has to be imagining the way you slightly deflate at his silence.
Bucky walks over to the pickup counter, mentally berating himself for not furthering your conversation. He watches as you and Ajax whip up the orders. They talk to you so easily, so effortlessly, bumping your shoulders with a teasing smile. It makes him yearn for a time when he could talk to anyone without tripping over his words, without the uncomfortable silences that always manage to deter even the most stubborn of people. He misses the easy way he could flirt with dames, misses being able to give his touch so casually, misses being whole.
Maybe it’s for the best that he didn't say anything to you. He probably would have tripped over some outdated pick-up line, or fumbled trying to invite you back to the tower for a movie night (it’s way too soon to be bringing you there, good god, if he wants even a chance with you, he’ll have to keep you far from his team). He might’ve tried to do both in the same breath until his sentence was a jumbled-up mess of nonsense.
You would’ve smiled at him. Maybe with pity, maybe not. Because that’s who you are. You would’ve politely turned him down, tried not to make things awkward even if you were completely disgusted with his attempt, even if you’d take it back to your coworker or friends to say, “you’ll never guess what happened to me today.”
His name being called out disrupts his thoughts. Your mouth always manages to form his name into something beautiful. He’s unworthy of being referenced with such reverence, but he soaks it up, selfish as he is.
“Thanks for this,” he says, apparently unable to do anything but skip like a scratched record.
“No problem, James.” You smile at him as he picks up his order.
He scans the orders, each perfectly made as usual. Except… Well, he doesn’t see his coffee. You have your back turned to him now, putting away the several types of milk that you had to pull out for his order, and he feels bad. It’s almost closing time, and you guys just want to go home to celebrate the holiday with your family (okay, Ajax probably wants to bunker down until Christmas is over, but his point still stands).
“Everything alright?” you ask because, of course, you noticed that he paused.
“It’s nothing, um, have a Merry Christmas.” Bucky says. He was kind of hoping to see what you’d draw on his cup this time, hoping that you’d maybe take the time, even though you were tired and wanted to go home for Christmas, just to show that you cared. And isn’t that pathetic that he has to look for it in some poor underpaid barista who probably had to fend off creeps like him all the time.
“Wait! You should try yours before you take off.”
He turns back to you, his brows furrowed. “Um… you forgot it, but it’s okay! I can make my own-”
“Oh, no! Sorry, I should’ve mentioned. I thought… well, I changed up your order a bit — don’t worry, I didn’t charge you extra. Just thought you should have something a bit different for once.”
“Oh,” he mutters as he sets it back on the pickup counter. He watches you select one of the cups. You hand it to him, your face alight with cautious hope as he accepts it. He tries not to let his apprehension show on his face. Because whilst he appreciates the thought, if it’s anything like the sugar-monstrosities that his team orders, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach it. He hates the way the sweetness clings to his tongue and refuses to let go, so cloyingly artificial it makes him sick.
He doesn’t have to drink the whole thing, he tells himself. He can just take a sip, tell you he likes it, and then pawn it off to one of his teammates. The last thing he wants to do is make you feel bad for messing up his coffee.
“If you don’t like it, I can just make your usual,” you say, still sensing his hesitation despite his best efforts to hide it.
“I’m sure it’ll be good,” he smiles at you. “I trust your judgement.” He just doesn’t trust that anything behind that counter is anything other than artificial sweetness that he still hasn’t gotten used to the way everyone who came from this century has. Anything sweet back in his time was a rare treat; coffee used to always taste burnt and watery, with no sugar or cream to cover it up.
He blows on the coffee before bringing it to his lips for a taste. In an instant, flavours of cinnamon and honey and vanilla invade his senses — not the cloyingly sweet taste of syrups, but the actual thing. He can taste the coffee underneath it, the hint of sugar that doesn’t stick to his tongue like sap. None of the flavours is fighting over the other; each is somehow perfectly balanced.
He can’t stop himself from taking another sip, the trepidation immediately gone from his body. “It’s really good,” he offers to combat the worry line that appeared on your face from his silence. “Really good.”
Your entire body relaxes, as if those words held the weight of the world, as if his liking of the drink would make or break your day, as if it were something worthy of suspense, of a breath held. “Glad to hear it,” you say, the smile on your face somehow even brighter than normal, lighting up even your eyes.
He looks down at the cup, where the paper receipt hangs from it, ingredients written out in rushed shorthand. It’s then that he notices the adorable little reindeer you had scribbled at the top, a little speech bubble next to it containing the words “Happy Holidays!”
His heart warms, knowing, no doubt, that this little doodle cost you more time than usual.
“Happy Holidays,” Bucky says, before you’re able to turn to your coworker who’s waiting impatiently for you to finish up. “And thanks… for this… again.”
You smile at him, a little less bright than before, tinged with something he doesn’t quite understand.
It’s only when he gets back to the tower that he realises you had written a number near the bottom of the cup, a few hearts surrounding it. His heart skips a beat knowing it’s your number. You gave him your number.