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You sigh as you shuffle through a throng of people, certain that you’re going to miss your train now. Not only had you left the office late, but somehow you’d missed the news that the President was in town, so of course there was total gridlock everywhere as streets were blocked off and his motorcade made its way across town. It was like the world’s least entertaining parade.
Checking your watch, you feel yourself yanked backwards into an alley between two brick buildings.
“What the-” you’re silenced by a blow to the side of your head that knocks you to your knees. You register that someone is trying to take your messenger bag, and you yank back as all those classes you took kick in. You headbutt your assailant and he reels back in shock. You stand and look around, trying to get your bearings, and you’re ready when he lunges at you again. You block his fist and bring your own to his stomach and he huffs out a pained breath before yanking at your hair. You yelp as your eyes begin to water, but you thrust your hand up towards his nose and are rewarded with the immediate release of your hair as he howls in pain.
Turning towards the crowds outside the alley, you begin to run before you are tackled from behind, your face alarmingly close to the fetid garbage overflowing from a nearby trash bin. You throw back your elbows, hoping to hit your attacker anywhere, when you feel yourself being dragged up by your arms onto your knees. You try to scramble up, but he’s got your hair wrapped in his hand again and he’s got an arm barring yours behind you. He hauls you up against the wall, pressing into you. You kick backwards and meet his knee, but when he jolts forward in pain your face is smashed into the wall. You feel your skin scrape painfully against the rough brick and you cry out, all while struggling to loosen yourself from this man’s insane attack.
Suddenly you’re released. You whirl with your back to the wall, ready to strike, only to see an impossibly large man holding your assailant up by the neck. With one thrust, your attacker is thrown halfway across the alley, crashing into something you can’t make out in the darkness.
You turn to look at the other man, eyes wide with fear and caution. He may have pulled the other man off of you, but you were still alone in an alley with a violent stranger.
“Are you ok?” a gruff voice intones.
You relax a little bit, “Um…I think so.” You check in with yourself, still keeping a wary eye on the stranger. You roll your shoulders, find they’re a little sore. Your knuckles sting. Most of the pain is smarting from your cheek. You bring a hand up to gingerly touch it, half expecting it to be pulsing.
The stranger moves toward you and you put out a hand, “Don’t…” you warn, and he stops, holding up both hands in a gesture of surrender.
“If I can say so, you were doing a pretty fine job fighting him off on your own. But I wasn’t raised to let a lady fend for herself like that.”
He seems oddly formal, almost old-fashioned. You wonder if he’s from the South, but it’s more of a slight Brooklyn accent you’re picking up on.
Deciding he’s harmless, if a bit intimidating, you let down your guard.
“Thank you.” You say with a sigh, relaxing out of your defensive pose.
You can see his shoulders ease up, the massive bulk falling slightly under his heavy coat.
“You’re going to need to get that looked at.” He says, indicating your cheek.
“Yes, I suppose I will.” You say, still a bit dazed.
He moves towards you, a question in his eyes. You nod and he takes you by the elbow, leading you towards the relative safety of the streets.
“There’s a hospital around the corner…” he says, and you notice he keeps his head ducked in the crowd, even as his eyes scan in every direction. “I’ll drop you there. How are you getting home?” he asks, casting a concerned look in your direction.
“Train.” You say, wondering how late you’re going to be now. You think of your poor dog at home, wagging his tail by his dinner bowl as dinner time passes and a pained expression crosses your face.
“Are you ok? Does something else hurt?” the stranger asks, casting a concerned look at you and you note that his eyes are a beautifully piercing blue. In fact, now that you’re under the streetlights, it occurs to you that this stranger is drop dead gorgeous. He’s got a chiseled jawline scattered with stubble, and his lips are so plump and flushed with color his mouth seems almost obscene.
“No, no…” you trail off, shaking out of your brief reverie before explaining your predicament. He looks almost sympathetic, which is strange because his face doesn’t seem built for sympathy, somehow. He assures you that getting yourself checked out is for the best as his grip stays firm on your arm and he leads you around the corner to the nearest emergency room.
“I’ll drop you here. Make sure they check you for a concussion, it looked like you hit the ground pretty hard before I could get to you.”
“How did you even-” you start to say, turning back, but he’s already disappeared into the crowded street.
“Hmph.” You say, moving forward uncertainly.
You walk through the sliding glass doors and groan. It’s a madhouse. The place is packed with people in various states of injury and illness. You approach the reception and see you’re three people away from even getting to the front. Casting around, you see a bathroom. You step away and lock yourself in, turning to the mirror to assess yourself.
Well your face took a beating, you ruefully note. You take some rough paper towels and soak them in cool water, pressing gently to your face. You let out a low hiss at the sting, but the coolness of the water sets in and you slowly to begin to clean the wound.
After a few minutes it doesn’t look as bad as it did before, most of the blood is gone so you’re down to angry pink streaks across your cheek. You pull off your coat and check the rest of your body, stretching through sore spots and pulling down your pants to check your knees. They’re scraped and bruised, but that’s nothing that won’t heal in a few days. You gingerly wash your hands, taking care to be gentle with your knuckles, and make up your mind to just go straight home. You can’t bear the idea of waiting who knows how long when all you have is a couple of scrapes. You’re not only worried about your dog, but you desperately crave the comfort and safety of your home after what you’ve been through.
You emerge back out onto the streets and trundle your way towards the station. The crowds are a bit lighter now, so you can move with more ease. You keep to the street side of the sidewalk, wary of gaps and alleys now. Gaining entry to the station, you find yourself waiting anxiously on the platform, silently pleading for the train to be just a little early.
“That seemed quick.” Says a gruff voice at your side. You jump, your nerves are shot for the night, and you turn to see the stranger glowering at you.
“Holy hell…” you breathe, hand to your chest. “You have a knack for sneaking up on people, do you know that?” you ask, irritated.
“Yes.” He says, matter-of-factly. “Why didn’t you stay and get checked out? You need medical attention.”
“What I need is to get home.” You say, craning your neck to look down the track, wanting to be away from this oddly bossy man.
“I’d hate to have saved your life only to have you slip into a coma in your sleep because you were too stubborn to get your concussion diagnosed.”
You cast him an annoyed look, “I don’t have a concussion, I feel fine.”
He mutters something to himself and you ignore him. It’s one thing to come to someone’s assistance, it’s another to boss them around afterwards like you had the right.
The train approaches and you let out a sigh of relief, turning to him and offering your hand. “Thank you so much for coming to my aid tonight, I really do appreciate it. And I’m totally fine. Just a couple of scrapes, probably some bruises. Nothing a few days rest won’t heal.” You offer him a sincere smile.
He looks at your hand as if he’s not sure what to do with it, so you drop it and turn towards the opening doors. When you turn back to look at him you bump solidly into his chest as he’s boarded the train, too.
“Oh, sorry…” you say, “I didn’t realize you were on this line, too.”
“You should have.” He says, “I’ve got to make sure you get home alright.”
Your eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, “You WHAT?”
You’re so shocked your unaware that he’s navigating you down the aisle until he finds a set of seats and indicates you should take one. Numbly you sit down, and he takes the seat next to you.
“You’re not…you’re not following me home, are you? That is way above and beyond the call of duty. Also, it’s slightly inappropriate considering I don’t know you.”
He sticks his hand out, “James.”
You shake his hand automatically before literally shaking your head and blinking yourself into the present. What in the hell was going on here? Who was this hulk of a man who could disappear into crowds at will and, apparently, materialize anywhere at will? Who also didn’t seem to have anything pressing to do besides following you home 30 miles out of town?
“What, uh…what’s your deal?” you ask, nonplussed.
He crooks a smile in your direction and the effect is dazzling. Given another set of circumstances you’d be throwing yourself at him, but his behavior so far is just on the wrong side of strange for you to be comfortable with him.
“I don’t have much of a deal, doll.” He says, seemingly smirking to himself, “Just a gentleman trying to escort a lady safely home.”
There goes that old-fashioned streak again, you note. This guy is a mystery and a half. You give a “Hmph” and look out the window, losing yourself in your thoughts for a while. How far was this guy expecting to go? Was he going to walk you to your door, or just let you off at the station and turn around and take the next train back? What if he demanded to be let in? What if he had the idea in his head that because he saved you that you owed him something? You gnaw at your lip uncomfortably over that thought, feeling the heat of his thigh next to you as he silently observes the other passengers on the train. It’s not like he wasn’t attractive, you could think of worse guys to worry about, but the idea was so ludicrous you couldn’t fathom it was true.
The train slowed as it approached your station, and you hesitated. You had to get off, but now was when you’d find out how far he was expecting to go.
“Well, this is my stop.” You say, making no move to get up.
He, on the other hand, hops right up and holds his hand out to you, “After you.”
You take his hand, feeling slightly ridiculous at the chivalry, and let him escort you off the train. You trudge over to your car with your head down, trying to find a polite way to brush him off.
“Umm…” you say uncertainly, “this is me. I think I’ll be fine from here.”
“I don’t.” he says simply, reaching forward and snatching the keys from your hand. “I don’t want you driving until we know your head is ok.”
Your mouth drops open as he climbs into the driver’s seat of your car and adjusts the seat settings and mirrors. He looks up at you, seeming to enjoy your shock. “Gettin’ in? You gotta tell me where to go.”
You don’t know why, but you cross over to the passenger side and quietly give him directions to your house. As he pulls up into the driveway all ideas about brushing him off are banished from your mind. Clearly he’s considering himself your caretaker for the night.
He follows you up the walk as you unlock the door and hear your dog frantically yapping, jumping into your arms the moment you’re inside.
“Hey, buddy!” you coo in relief as you cross to the sliding glass door in the kitchen and pull it wide open. You plop him down and he does a wild lap around the back yard while you scoop his dinner into his bowl.
“You leave your dog inside all day?” James asks, a hint of disapproval in his voice.
“No,” you say defensively, putting his bowl on the floor as he descends on his dinner, “There’s a dog run on the side of the house that he can get to through the laundry room door. I’d just rather have him in here and comfortable than stuck out back, especially when my hours are so sporadic.”
You don’t know why you’re explaining yourself to him, except that nobody needs to question your concern for your dog’s well-being. He’s the only good thing you’ve got going in your life.
You turn and see James standing in the middle of your living room, taking up way too much space as he observes his surroundings.
“So how much care are you planning to take of me?” you ask, frowning over your awkward sentence.
He looks at you with surprise, one brow quirked. “Pardon me?”
“Well, you’ve got me home safe, and thank you for that, but…what now?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning one hip on your kitchen counter.
“Well I suppose the first order of business is to assess those wounds, get them wrapped where we can and make sure they’re sterilized. Then we’re gonna have to keep you up for a few hours, you can’t go to sleep just yet, and when you do go to sleep I’m gonna have to keep watch over you, make sure you wake up.”
“What are you, a doctor?” you ask, incredulous.
He chuckles darkly, “Not exactly. I’ve had my fair share of patching people up, though. Where’s your first aid supplies?”
You lead him to your bathroom and continue to ask questions as you shuffle around under your sink, “So do you just go around getting into a lot of alley fights?”
At this he laughs outright, “You know, I kinda do. Odd thing is I’m never the one to start them, though.”
You frown into your cabinet. This man is just too weird.
Spying what you need, you gather the supplies to your chest and nod for him to retreat back into the living room, following him as he does.
“So what are you, part-time hero? Nighttime alley avenger?” you spill your armful across the table, not noticing how he’s tensed up.
“I’m no avenger…” he mutters, flicking through the contents of your table. You notice he’s yet to take his coat or his gloves off, and wonder if you’re supposed to invite him to. He’s invited himself pretty much everywhere else, why so formal about a coat?
“I don’t suppose you have any surgical gloves?” he asks, looking up.
You’re once again a little stunned at the blue in his gaze, but you rise up and head back into the bathroom, rummaging around.
“I do!” you return to the living room triumphantly, finding that he’s shaking himself out of his coat in the corner.
“Oh, great!” he says, taking them and turning back towards the coat rack as he discards his gloves. When he’s turned back around, the latex gloves are already on.
“Don’t want to make things worse by causing an infection.” He reasons, tugging his sleeves down over the gloves.
“Alright, first things first, we gotta look at that face.” He motions for you to sit on the couch and you do, feeling a little nervous as he kneels in front of you and dabs a wound wash solution onto a gauze pad. You try to look anywhere but directly at him as he gently pats across your cheek. You hold your breath to avoid hissing out in pain as the sting of the solution soaks into your cuts.
“Breathe, doll. You did a pretty good job cleanin’ this up, but it definitely needs some disinfectant.”
Slowly you relax your shoulders as you begin to breathe again. The pain subsides and now all you feel is the gentle sting of cool air on your face. James pushes your hair back at your temple, sending chills down your spine as he gently prods. You wince.
“Yep. That’s the spot. Took a hit to the noggin’. Is it tender?”
Still wincing, you nod ruefully.
“Told ya. Hold on.” He rises from his knees and nips into your kitchen, where you can see him opening cabinets and wonder what he’s looking for. After a moment he returns with a glass of water and what appears to be a bundle of ice in one of your dish towels.
“Here, drink this.” He says, pushing the glass into your hands.
You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were. You drain more than half the glass in one go, gasping in relief as you pull the rim from your lips and set the glass on the table. He carefully presses the ice against your temple, holding the other side of your face to steady you. You close your eyes, mostly to avoid the fact that his crotch is at eye level with you and you really don’t want to start staring. This is already overly intimate, you don’t want your thoughts to run away with you.
“Where else does it hurt? We’ve probably gotta check your knees. How are your ribs?”
Sore, you think, but you’re not about to let him know. How would that examination go? You blush at the very thought.
“Knees, yeah…” you croak and then clear your throat, “my ribs are fine, I’d feel it if there was any damage. I think I scraped my palms, and my knuckles are a little sore.”
He hums in acceptance. You keep your eyes closed.
“Alright, doll, I’m gonna need you to hold this up to your head while I check the rest of you out.”
“Why do you keep calling me doll? That’s such an old-fashioned term, it’s weird.”
Your eyes are still closed but you can hear the smile in his voice, “I’m just an old-fashioned guy. Speaking of which, I’ve got to check your knees but I really don’t want to ask you to pull your pants down…”
You spring up, “I can change. My jeans are chafing against my skin, anyway.” You make a beeline for your bedroom, closing the door behind you.
You take off your pants, because your knees really are throbbing now, but you pause to sit on your bed. You could just sink in, you’re exhausted. You flop onto your back, intending to rest for just a moment, but before you know it you’re drifting away.
*****
“No no no, doll, no sleeping yet…” you’re being shaken awake and you don’t know why. Or who.
“Hmm?” you open your eyes, groggy, and wonder why the side of your head is wet.
“No sleeping, up up up…” you’re being pulled into a sitting position at the end of your bed.
Your eyes adjust to the room around you and you remember you were supposed to be changing. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to sit down for a moment…”
“It’s ok, that’s why I’m here.” James is across the room, digging through your dresser drawers. You wonder why when you realize you’re sitting there in a t-shirt and panties. You’d never made it around to putting on shorts.
You blush and tug at the ends of your shirt, not really succeeding at covering much.
“These ok?” James asks, holding up a pair of striped sleep shorts. You nod and he hands them to you, turning away as you slip them on. Whatever his motivation, you muse, you’re certainly safe from any sexual advances. The guy had you passed out in your underwear and appeared to be unfazed.
“I’m decent.” You say, standing up and collecting the scattered ice back into your towel.
“Alright, come on,” James says, putting his hands on your shoulders as he guides you back to the couch. Your dog is curled up in the corner and you sit next to him, petting him affectionately as he snores his dinner off.
“Cute dog.” James observes, kneeling before you again and dabbing more solution onto a gauze pad. “How old is he?”
He keeps you talking through the sting of cleaning both of your knees, which are now beginning to bloom a deep, mottled purple. Once those are bandaged, he examines your hands, running his fingers over the scratches on your palm, flipping them over to examine your knuckles. You try your best to repress a shudder that wants to work it’s way up your spine at his gentle touch. It’s featherlight, barely brushing across your skin.
“I could wrap these if you want, but I don’t think it’s necessary.” He says, seeming to be in full doctor more, oblivious to the awkwardness you feel vibrating around you.
“It’s fine, they’ll be fine. Good enough for typing, anyway.” He frowns up at you. “For work.” You say, wondering what he’s got to frown about.
“You shouldn’t go to work tomorrow. Call in sick. You’ll need to rest.”
At his flare up of bossiness again your ire goes up. “My job isn’t demanding, there’s no need to call in sick. I’ll be fine.”
“Of course you’ll be fine, you’ll be here tomorrow, getting rest. Can you do me a favor and stand up?”
Irritation rolls across your face but you stand up, wondering what he’s going to do now.
“This will only take a few seconds…” he says apologetically before lifting your shirt and gingerly pressing fingers to your side. You flinch.
“I thought so.” He says, moving his hand around to the other side, pressing again. Nothing.
“You’ve been favoring your right side.” He explains, reaching down to pick up a roll of gauze. “Nothing’s broken, it’s probably just bruising, but I’d like to wrap it anyway.” He looks up at you, his eyes asking for permission.
You sigh and nod, raising your arms above your head. He takes your shirt and pulls it at the back, tightening it against your breasts and tucking the excess material beneath the band of your bra, preserving as much of your modesty as he can. He makes quick work of the wrap, his massive shoulders and long arms easily working around you until he’s got a firm band holding you together. He tucks the end of the roll and nods at his handiwork as you pull your shirt back down over yourself.
“Ok, I’m half a mummy…” you flop back on the couch and then wince as your ribs protest. “Now what?”
He’s cleaning up the mess, arranging your products into some semblance of order and grabbing handfuls of trash to dispose of in the kitchen.
You put your feet up on the table, noting wryly that it was kind of nice to have a man in your house, cleaning.
“Now…” he calls from the kitchen, “you tell me if you have any coffee or tea, and where I can find it.”
You direct him from the couch and hear clinks as he sets the water to boil and searches for tea bags. He comes around the corner as he waits for the kettle to sound, and leans against the wall, crossing his arms as he surveys you.
“I have something to tell you.” He says, and there’s a note of nervousness in his voice.
Your stomach drops. Oh god, he’s going to murder you after all.
“Would you agree I’ve been a perfect gentleman all night, that I’ve done nothing but look after your well-being?”
“Uhhh…I’d agree that’s what you’ve been up to this point, but now you’re making me nervous…” you trail off, shifting slightly in case you need to spring up. You weren’t sure how you were going to fight him in your state, the man was huge and you were injured.
“Please don’t be nervous, that’s not going to change,” he pled, running a hand through his thick hair. “It’s just…I’m not a normal person.”
He leaves that hanging in the air, and you think back to him single-handedly throwing a man down an alley like a football. Realization dawns, “Ok…do you have, like…an identity I’ve heard of?” You knew he wasn’t major, like Tony Stark or Steve Rogers. But you also knew there were minor players out there, like Jessica Jones and Daredevil. Was he some sort of local vigilante?
“I just didn’t want you to see this and freak out.” He warns, and you can tell he’s reluctant to show you.
“Ok. Do you turn into a dragon or something?” you ask, curiosity getting the better of you. You’d never met an enhanced person before. The day New York was attacked you were safely at home, watching on TV in horror and being thankful you were working from home that week.
Slowly James uncrosses his arms and stands in front of you. At first you don’t notice anything unusual, and you’re waiting for him to change into something. Then you see it…the glint of metal at his left side. His hand is metal. Seeing that you’ve caught on, he pushes his left sleeve up his forearm so you can see the metal goes all the way up.
“Oh my god…” you breathe, and you look at his face again. His jaw is set and his lips are pressed into a grim line, and you can’t believe you didn’t see it before.
“You’re the Winter Soldier, aren’t you?” you ask, awed.
His lips twitch. “I prefer to just go by Bucky.”
“That,” you sit up, not minding your ribs, “is AMAZING.”
He looks taken aback for a minute, and then the kettle goes off. He turns and disappears into the kitchen, leaving you there to marvel at this turn of events. The Winter Soldier – Bucky – is in your home, making you tea. You laugh.
He comes out of the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs with tea tags hanging out of them. He cautiously sets a mug down in front of you, and then retreats with his back to the kitchen door frame.
“What’s there to laugh about?” he asks, disgruntled.
“You’re a ruthless assassin and you’re making me tea.” You grin as you swirl your tea bag in your mug before you realize how thoughtless that sounded, “I mean…ex-…” you trail off awkwardly.
“Does that frighten you?” he asks.
“No. Should it?” you return, realizing you’re not frightened at all.
He’s frowning at you, unsure of how to take your reaction to him. He’s technically still a wanted man, there were warrants out for him in nearly every country related to various murders and assassinations over several decades. Most people had a hard time separating post-soldier Bucky Barnes from the man who had been the Winter Soldier.
Finally he sighs, “If you had a lick of sense in you, you’d be frightened to death. But I have to admit I’m relieved you don’t.”
He crosses to the couch, pausing to ask, “May I?” before sitting down.
You’re both silent for a beat before you can’t hold back your questions anymore.
“So what were you doing in New York?” you ask.
He quirks a grin at his tea mug. “That’s classified.”
“Ok. How did you find me in that alley?”
He continues his crooked grin. “Also classified.”
You narrow your eyes at him, “Is there anything you can tell me about yourself that’s NOT classified?”
He breaks out into a full on smile now, still staring at his tea, swirling it a little. “The less you know, the better.”
You huff out a frustrated puff of air, letting your head fall back against the couch.
“Can I go to sleep now?” you ask, exhaustion fighting through your excitement. It’s late, and way past your usual bedtime.
Bucky checks his watch. “I suppose. I’m going to wake you up every few hours just to make sure you’re ok, though.” He warns.
You set the tea down and surprise both of you by leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for helping me tonight. Restored a little faith in humanity.”
He stares as you set off towards your bedroom, his gaze never faltering even after you’ve shut the door.
“Well I’ll be damned.” He mutters to himself.
*****
By the time you wake up of your own volition, daylight is streaming through your windows. You vaguely recall Bucky waking you up several times, each time with a glass of water he made you drink. You bound into your ensuite to relieve yourself, taking time to brush your teeth and fix your hair before padding out in the living room.
It’s empty, restored to its natural order like last night had never happened. You pad into the kitchen and see your mugs cleaned and on the drainer. A note is on the counter.
“You’re welcome, doll. Take care of yourself.” There’s no signature.
You walk into the living room and flop down on your couch, oddly disappointed. Of course you knew he was a wanted man, he probably couldn’t stay in any one place too long. And once he knew you were fine he would have had no reason to stay…
You sit for a long while, staring across your living room, Bucky’s note clutched in your hand.