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Of all of the jobs Bucky had envisioned while growing up, United States Congressman had never even entered the top 100. The military was a given, of course, he’d always been drawn to it. Past that, he thought he might be a mechanic. If he had a dream, maybe he would’ve married a rich girl and spent his time exploring. As most things in his life, his choice in career had not stuck to the initial plan, but for once, he couldn’t say that he minded the change. He loved being able to connect with people again, and felt a great sense of pride in serving not only his country as a symbol, but the people he had met. Getting to take the opinions of the common man to try and help form and change a country he had watched change so drastically was truly an honor. Nevertheless, it was not an easy job, and it was only his first year. The spring session had been rough. Incredibly long days mixed with campaigning had left Bucky feeling burnt out. The August recess would be coming up soon and, contrary to its name, he would be busier than ever. It was a key time to engage with his constituents, to sit down and hear real problems in order to help hopefully provide meaningful solutions. It was all district campaigning and handshaking and baby kissing, theoretically, not literally of course. No one really did that any more. But before he was forced back into being a public figure, Bucky was desperate for a break. He’d arranged himself two full weeks of vacation time and he was determined to spend at least some of his time as a normal person instead of a public official or superhero. He’d even checked into a more “touristy” hotel in order to try and switch his brain into what his colleagues were calling “vacation mode.”
Surprisingly, even while checking in on a Thursday night while the lobby was packed full, no one had recognized him yet. He, as usual, took care to wear gloves and long sleeves to hide his metal arm. Though he’d become more comfortable with it since his time in Wakanda, it still wasn’t a feature he loved to advertise. Still, even without his most expensive accessory, he was more recognizable now than ever before. He was a war hero, the former Winter Soldier, a Congressman, and a part of the “New Avengers.” That’s not to say, of course, that he didn’t enjoy the anonymity. Therapy and more social interaction had done wonders for his demeanor, but he still desperately enjoyed being able to slip through crowds unrecognized or traceable like the white wolf of his past. Even so, he would only be in the city for one more night, then he would have to worry less.
Waking up on his last day of work was nothing extraordinary. He utilized the hotel gym, took a show, made some coffee in the room and headed downstairs to have the valet fetch his motorcycle. His admin team wasn’t thrilled about the idea of him arranging his own transportation, but his own personal safety was the least of his concerns. Besides, if his suit got a little wrinkled, it was something he could live with. As the elevator doors opened, he expected to find an empty lobby, it was seven in the morning after all, but he was surprised to see another figure sitting there. He paid the person no mind at first, heading to the desk to make his valet request. As he turned away from the counter, he allowed himself a moment to study the other person in the room with him. You sat on a comfortable looking cream colored chair in front of a dark wooden table. A map was splayed out before you and your brow was furrowed in concentration as you looked at it. You were gorgeous, even with the crease in your brow. You clearly weren’t there on business, dressed in casual clothes and sneakers, so Bucky could only assume you were there as a tourist to see the city. He watched as you picked up your phone, unlocked it, and immediately turned it off again. You looked almost defeated and his heart ached at your dismay.
“I didn’t know anyone still used those,” he said, stepping forward towards your chair and away from the counter. You heave a sigh and look up at him with a self deprecating smile as he rounds his way in front of your chair.
“I’ll be honest,” you start, and Bucky thinks your voice sounds like music. “I haven’t really used one since I was a kid. But I’m trying to have a more analog summer so… paper maps it is!” You give a small laugh, and now it's Bucky’s turn to look confused.
“A… a what summer?” he questions. Your smile brightens into something more genuine.
“Analog!” you reiterate, a tone of excitement creeping in. “It’s a uh… a social media trend. Really it’s just me trying to swap out having my phone consistently glued to my hand for real world experiences.”
Bucky liked the sound of that. Despite his own proclivity to older methods of entertainment (mainly books and live entertainment), if he really took the time to think about it, technology was 90% of his day. He was always on his cellphone, brand new and touch screen with almost all the world’s knowledge at a search away. His laptop held all of his notes and files on bills and constituents. His digital calendar held his ever growing list of appearances and meetings. Even in his free time, he often found himself scrolling through social media hoping to find some sort of connection through the pseudosocial minefield of hidden ads, thirst traps, and AI generated fruit. Before Bucky can reply, you’re speaking again.
“And yes, I do understand the irony of following an online trend to be less online.” Bucky gives his own chuckle.
“Nothing wrong with doing things the old fashioned way,” he says, with a shrug. He’s about to speak again, but he hears the rev of his bike outside and he knows he can’t linger. “I hope you have a good day in D.C., doll. There are plenty of beautiful things in this city.”
Not just you, he wants to add. But he doesn’t, and a voice in the back of his head that sounds like Steve calls him a punk for not.
“Wait!” you call out as Bucky moves past you and walks towards the front doors. He whips around immediately, expectantly, and you cringe at the volume of your voice. “Uh, sorry. Before you go, can you tell me if I’m reading this right? Is it really just a straight walk from here to the National History Museum?”
Bucky takes a few steps back over to you, leaning over your shoulder to look at the map on the table. You can feel the heat radiating off his chest and he can smell your perfume, something citrusy and sharp in the best way. You were right, it was a straight shot, but it was also a mile walk. He considered saying he could just drive you, but quickly decided against it. He didn’t know you, and despite how much he had enjoyed your very short conversation, he had a job to do and it unfortunately wasn’t giving rides to pretty tourists.
“It is. Just go left out of the hotel and make sure you use the crosswalks. No one here knows how to drive.” You laugh lightly and something tugs in Bucky’s chest. Maybe he would be better off if his job was giving rides around D.C. to pretty tourists.
“I knew I was overcomplicating it. I’ll be safe, scouts honor,” you reply with a mock salute, and Bucky recognizes the tug in his chest as longing. “Thank you again.”
Bucky gives a small nod back, not trusting himself to leave if he spoke again, and heads out the door. As he’s getting on his bike, he watches you pack up, and start to look at your phone for a minute before shaking your head firmly and throwing it in your backpack. As he pulls away, he watches you sling a digital camera around your neck as you exit the hotel, fold your chosen map gently to put in your pocket, and turn left. He makes a quick U-turn in the street, and before he can process it, he’s revving his engine and waving at you as he drives past. He feels his ears heat up under his helmet as you give him a broad smile and wave enthusiastically back.
Bucky’s day after meeting you seems to drag by. The morning session is dedicated almost entirely to one bill entering committee, and by the time his lunch break rolls around, Bucky is ecstatic to stretch his legs. He didn’t feel particularly hungry, so he decided to just start walking and see if anything caught his eye. He thinks back to you, and wonders if you’d ever made it to the museum this morning. D.C., like most cities, was relatively safe in the day and in well trafficked areas and you did have your phone if need be. Bucky tries to tell himself that his concern for your safety came from his own personal experiences, but he knows that even deeper than that was the fact that he would like the unlikely opportunity to see you again. As the crowds along his path get thicker, Bucky suddenly realizes that his feet had unknowingly taken him to the steps of the National History Museum.
He doesn’t go in, he’d feel creepy if he did, but he does linger a little longer than necessary. Part of him hoped that he’d see you come out. After all, you’d left the hotel early and would’ve been at the museum roughly when it opened. Even if you’d stopped for breakfast or coffee, which he should’ve recommended a spot for now that he’s thinking about it, you would have still been exploring the artifacts for almost five hours now.
Who even likes old stuff that much? It all just… sits there.
But then Bucky thinks of how he used to look forward to the future. He’d spent his last night as a “free” man at a science exposition after all. Maybe looking to the past for you is the same. Maybe you’re trying to make sense of the unknown just as he had been. Then again, maybe he just hesitates to look toward the past in general because his own brought him so much distress. Not to mention the fact that as the Winter Soldier he wasn’t allowed to have a past. Every day was built by the new. New missions, new people dead, new training, new tortures. The only thing that had been a constant was the pain.
“Excuse us!”
Bucky is pulled back to the present by the voice of a kind middle aged woman, leading a group of what appeared to be kindergarteners, in matching school uniforms holding onto a central rope to keep the gaggle of children contained. She smiles at him as he moves to the side, ready to hustle them into the building looming in front of them, before recognition flashes on her face.
“Congressman Barnes!” she says with a tone of surprise. “What are you doing here?” The children all pause with their teacher, twenty pairs of wide inquisitive eyes lock onto Bucky, and he quickly shifts into the public servant that his media team has been training into him. He smiles, says that he just escaped the museum (only the teacher gets that joke), signs tiny notebooks, and takes a photo with the class. It truly is a bright spot in his otherwise dull day. When he makes it back to capital hill, he feels more joyous than before, but that lightness quickly dissipates in the heavy boredom that settles in the committee room. The hours stretch on and Bucky tries to pay attention, he truly does, but as one elderly voice after another drones on, he starts to day dream. What if he had gone into the museum? What if he’d found you? If you had welcomed him to join you, would he have?
Yes. He would have. It was honestly a no brainer. He would have gladly spent the day with you, walking through old artifacts and reading through their histories. Then you would’ve suggested looking for something more alive, and he would suggest the National Zoo. It would be bright and green, families all around, as the sounds of various animals drifted through the air. You’d watch animal feeding demonstrations, and Bucky would get to hold your hand to help you through the crowds. Later that night, he’d take you dancing. The dance hall would be classy, not dingy or dark. He’d want to dance, not just have you grind against him in some damp sweaty basement of a place. He’d spin you around like he used to in the 40s and your hands would feel just so right clasped in his own. A slow song would come on and he would pull you close. You’d look up at him and he’d get lost in your eyes. Slowly, he’d start to lean in, hand moving from your waist to cup your cheek. Your eyes would flutter shut and he would close the distance between you. In his mind, he wasn’t nervous. He was confident, sure of himself around you in a way he hadn’t ever been, even before he fell off the train. Your breath would be warm on his lips as he finally –
“Apologies Mr. Smith. Are you trying to tell me that your current proposition would essentially reverse the bill that we spent the entire morning debating?”
Bucky was pulled harshly out of his own thoughts for the second time that day. He had no idea what the current proposition was, or who had even brought it to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he forced his wayward brain to focus on the task at hand instead of the beautiful stranger he barely knew. By the time he left, after many goodbyes and promises to look over relevant documents as soon as he came back, Bucky had managed to put you far enough in the back of his mind to get some legitimate work done. Yet, as he waited again for a valet to grab his bike, he was reminded of the morning and your kind eyes and sweet voice. It had been a long time since anyone had really captured his interest the way that you had. Though he was no longer the ladies man he used to be, he had still been on a few dates since he had started taking his interactions with people more seriously. None of them had worked out long term. A majority of the women he had taken out were more interested in the proximity to power or the possibility of money than Bucky as a person. They were all fun to be around, but generally uninterested in what Bucky truly wanted: a life partner.
Bucky often compared his own attempts at relationships to what he’d seen in his parents as well as what he had seen between Steve and Peggy. He wanted to find a woman that was worth traveling back in time for. When he finally made it back to the hotel, he found himself a little disappointed that you weren’t still there in the lobby, trying to decipher maps like they were ancient texts. He shook himself out of it quickly. There were thousands of people in this city and thousands of places they could be. It was truly unlikely that your schedules would end up aligning enough to see one another again. So instead of staring at the couch and hoping you would miraculously appear, Bucky got on the elevator and rode it all the way up to his eleventh floor suite. After a long hot shower, a luxury that Bucky did not usually partake in as habits built by military training and low water supplies are hard to break, he swapped his business attire for a much more comfortable pair of black sweatpants and a red long sleeve henley. He sat in his room for a while, looking through TV channels that did nothing to capture his attention, until he decided that a stiff drink and turning in early wasn’t the worst way to start his vacation. A vacation which, if he was honest, he’d planned nothing official for. Sam had offered to host him in Louisiana and Yelena told him that he was always welcome to come “fix problems” with the rest of the crew, but he’d never made concrete plans with either. Whether it was because his brain was too fried to make more definite choices or because at the moment they offered all he really wanted to do was be alone was unclear. Still, as he slipped his shoes on, forgoing his gloves this time, and headed towards the elevator, he wished that he had more in store than sitting in his apartment alone.
The hotel bar, connected to the restaurant, was thankfully empty. The restaurant itself had several patrons, mainly families and couples, but the bar was a ghost town. Bucky orders a whiskey and goes to pull out his phone, but his pockets are empty aside from his room key and wallet. He curses under his breath as he remembers that his phone is still sitting on his bathroom counter. Looking around for a television, he instead finds himself drawn to a newspaper sitting on the end of the bar. As he reaches for it, he hears another person walk up on his left, settling on a stool just one away from his own. Bucky immediately debates taking his drink and leaving until he hears the person order.
“Can I get a vodka Sprite please? With extra lime?”
Bucky immediately recognizes your voice and turns to see you smile at the bartender as you pass him your card and ask for your tab to be kept open. You look softer than this morning, dressed now in flowing linen pants and an oversized shirt featuring George Washington and the tag line “Get in loser, we’re crossing the Delaware!” which Bucky can’t help but smile at. There is a thick journal sitting in front of you, contents almost overflowing from it, and you have a bag filled with paper scraps, glue, tape, and scissors. As you begin to unload your items, your eyes catch on Bucky’s stare before he has a chance to turn away. You smile, even wider than you had at the bartender.
“Hello tour guide!” you say enthusiastically. Your drink gets sat down in front of you, bumping a glue stick. The craft supply rolls down the bar clinking against Bucky’s glass and you blush. “Sorry. I knew I should’ve kept the junk journaling in my room.” Bucky grabs the glue stick in his left hand and hops off his stool to walk it the few feet over to you.
“Junk journaling?” he questions, setting down the plastic tube. He watches your eyes study his hand and his heart skips a beat, but he takes a deep breath and doesn’t immediately shrink back like he used to. To his surprise, you don’t even mention it, or his identity, and instead jump into an explanation of another part of your analog summer.
“It’s essentially scrapbooking, but less perfect. You take anything that reminds you of a trip or event or person and glue it all down.” You open your journal and begin flipping through the pages, showing off some examples. There were plants, receipts, bottlecaps, beads, food wrappers, pictures, drawings, and more. It was like a tactile I SPY book showcasing half a year's worth of time and adventures. You pointed some things out as you flip through: a ticket stub for the finale of a web series that had come to the movie theater two hours away from your house, a beautiful feather from a day you’d met a peacock in a petting zoo, pieces of fabric from a skirt you’d loved that was torn to pieces after you got caught on a thornbush in the woods. Finally, towards the back, there were blank pages marked with “WASHINGTON D.C.”, seemingly so you wouldn’t forget and cover them up with other things.
“That’s all amazing,” Bucky said finally, voice tinged with admiration. “You’ve done so much.” You smile then, shaking your head softly.
“I always feel like I wish I could do more, you know? But I work full time and vacation time is so hard to get. I just try to make the most of the time I have free.”
“Seems like you’re doing well with that mindset,” Bucky replies. There was a brief silence then, the both of you taking long sips of your drinks. Slowly, as the silence stretches, Bucky thinks the conversation is over. He’s just about to move back to his own chair when you speak again.
“I’m Y/N, by the way.” Bucky feels himself relax at your continuance.
“James Barnes,” he says immediately back, cringing at the formality in his tone. “But you can call me Bucky, if you want.” You blush again, squeezing one of the limes on the rim of your glass into the drink itself.
“I know,” you admit, voice sheepish. “I didn’t know whether to say anything or not. I know some celebrities hate being hassled.” That makes Bucky laugh, the sound is loud and deep and warm, and you feel your heart beat just a little bit faster.
“I’m a lot of things sweetheart, but a celebrity is not one of them,” he finally says, smiling bright. “I’ve always been more infamous than famous.”
“I think anyone who’s part of a Smithsonian exhibit is absolutely a celebrity. That’s actually where I’m heading tomorrow.” Bucky downs the rest of his whiskey, with a hum.
“Most celebrities like to relive their work, and I’ve never even seen that exhibit,” he says, putting his now empty glass down. It was a lie, but one he was willing to tell in this case. He had been there just once before, but he was a very different man then. The bartender slides over quickly, to take the empty glass. “Can I just get a beer this time?” He looks at you, glass almost empty now. “Do you want another?” You smile.
“Maybe just one.”
Four hours later, one drink turned into two, then two turned into four. You told him all about your plans for the city. How you were here in the city for a week, then exploring some of the state parks in Maryland and West Virginia the week after. He told you that he was off work himself, though he didn’t provide much detail. As the night went on, Bucky became sure of two things. The first was that he really missed being able to get drunk. You, to your credit, handled your alcohol exceptionally well. Even still, Bucky could tell by your easy smile and slowly glassing eyes that you were feeling the effects of the liquor. You looked so warm and free. Bucky tried to remember a time where he would’ve felt as happy and unguarded as you looked, but all that came to mind were the few nights before he shipped out when he watched Howard Stark pioneer a flying car. The junk journal page certainly reflected your mental state, with snippets of pages and napkins and stickers piled one on top of the other. You even had Bucky sign the page, his neat signature in black ink becoming the focal point of the page. The second was that Bucky now knew exactly what he wanted to do with his vacation time. The problem was, he couldn’t invite himself onto your vacation and couldn’t follow you like a lost puppy through it either. He was hoping just to extend his time at the hotel in the hopes of running into you at the bar again when you asked a question he had not anticipated.
“Would you want to come with me tomorrow?” It was a simple, straightforward question, but his brain short circuited. You wanted him around you? In public? Thankfully, you didn’t notice his hesitation as his brain rewired just enough for him to reply.
“I’d love to. Just promise me you won’t laugh at my old pictures.” Your smile in response was brighter than the sun.
Eventually, Bucky was helping you into the elevator and pressing the button for the eleventh floor. Somehow, against the statistical odds he’d convinced himself of earlier in the day, the two of you were staying on the same floor of the same hotel in rooms right beside each other. You weren’t stumbling as you walked, but you were still swaying ever so slightly if you stood still for too long, so he kept a gentle hand hovering over your lower back. He didn’t touch you, didn’t know if it was appropriate, but you could feel the heat radiating off his skin through your shirt. The elevator jerked ever so slightly as it hit the floor, and Bucky’s hand finally made contact to keep you steady. It was like a bolt of lightning had shot straight into your back and you froze. Bucky took the tightening of your muscles to mean discomfort and quickly pulled back as the door opened.
“Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s get you to bed.” Your flush was back, and you were certain Bucky could hear your heart thundering in your chest (and he probably would’ve if his own heartbeat wasn’t drowning out most other sounds). You blamed the alcohol of course, for your over the top reactions to Bucky’s presence. Never mind the fact that him approaching you in the lobby that morning had practically sent your whole body into orbit. It was just the alcohol that was making you flush and filling your mind with thoughts of dragging the disheveled congressman into your room instead of letting him enter his own. You’re at your rooms too quickly for your liking, and as you use your key to open your door, you take a deep breath to calm your heart and mind.
“Goodnight tour guide,” you say with a grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow right?” Bucky smiles back at you, but you’re more focused on the way his arm flexes as he moves.
“I’ll be outside your door at 9:00am,” he replies. He slips into his own room before you can say anything else and you’re suddenly grateful that you started drinking so early so you could still get a full night’s sleep. You slip into your own room, kicking off your shoes and stripping off your clothes to dispel some of the heat you were still feeling. It works for a moment until you hear a bang and a low deep curse come from the wall behind your headboard, and suddenly the heat migrates between your legs. You take the coldest shower of your life that night, and fall into the darkness of sleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.
*****
The next morning, Bucky woke up more excited than he’d been since… Well, he really can’t remember. Most of his time in the “modern world”, he had been waking up in fear, anger, or resignation. In Wakanda, while he did come to know more peace than he’d felt in a millennia, there was never a true excitement to face the new day and all it would bring. After he’d made sure you’d gotten to your room safely, and had taken a few minutes in his own room to compose himself both from your interaction and from his accidental slam into a dresser, he’d gone straight to the front desk to extend his stay another week. It wasn’t cheap, sure, but what else was he really going to spend his money on anyway? Bucky had always been a relatively simple man and did not feel the need to amass a Stark-sized fortune to be happy.
At promptly 9:00 a.m., after a morning gym session and shower, he was knocking on your door. He’d expected you to appear bedraggled, hesitant even to keep the morning commitment. He would’ve understood of course, likely just taken your coffee order and returned with it at a later hour, but you surprised him, opening the door looking bright and chipper and beautiful in the warm morning light coming through your window. You were dressed in yet another silly t-shirt, this one picturing an otter in a spacesuit with “OTTER SPACE” in blocky white letters underneath, and once again had your digital camera slung around your neck.
“Good morning Bucky!” you greet, voice a chirp like birdsong. Bucky feels his heart jump to his throat. “Did you sleep okay?”
“I slept fine doll.” The petname slips out before he can stop it, but he soldiers on without calling too much attention. You hadn’t minded the endearments last night, and Bucky hoped your feelings hadn’t changed with the rise of the sun. “How about you?” he asks in return, stepping away from the door itself to let you through. You try not to blush at the question, remembering clearly that last night you would’ve preferred to sleep with him. Instead of verbalizing that thought, you close the door behind you and as you pass him, Bucky smells that same bright citrus as the day before.
“Oh, ya know,” you say, heading towards the elevator, “I took a shower and then was out like a light.” You press the button calling the elevator to take you down and your stomach growls loudly. Bucky smiles as you blush in embarrassment. “But I am hungry. Do you know any good coffee shops around?”
The answer, of course, was yes. Bucky was convinced that if you took a sample of his blood, at least ten percent of it would be coffee. It wasn’t that the caffeine did anything, the super soldier serum took that away the same as it took the effects of alcohol, but the routine. It was something his therapist had suggested, after he’d completed his amends, to help him stay grounded in reality. There was only one coffee shop in New York that was open late enough (and early enough) to become a touchstone: Crepuscule Coffee. Open from 4:30am to 2:00am every day, the shop had taken more of Bucky’s money than he would care to admit. He was overjoyed to find out that once he started making frequent trips to D.C. that there was one in the city as well. It wasn’t far from the hotel, and was quietly busy when the two of you arrived. The pastries looked like they had been plucked straight off the Food Network, specifically a tray of sugar crusted blueberry muffins. In the end, you settled on a breakfast sandwich with egg, bacon, and cheese and a coffee (a vanilla shaken espresso). Unbeknownst to you, as you ordered, Bucky was dutifully jotting down your order on a napkin. Tomorrow morning, he’d make sure to bring you breakfast.
The two of you walked to the museum, eating as you went, and Bucky slowly learned more about you. In addition to museums, you loved the theatre and live music. You’d done a fair bit of traveling but desperately wanted to see more of the world. You came from a close knit family, had a strong friend group, but had come to the city alone. Bucky noticed that you didn’t mention any kind of romantic partner, and he was slightly emboldened as a result, letting his hand brush against yours once, just so he’d have the ability to play it off as an accident, as you walked. You noticed of course, the brush, not his intention, and it felt like a fire had struck up your arm. Soon enough though, you made it to the National Air and Space Museum. The arching white canopy roof, glass wall, and tall silver spire made the building look more futuristic than the sandstone colored rectangle that Bucky had stood in front of the day before. Once the two of you entered, it was clear to Bucky just how you had managed to spend so long looking at the displays. You were captivated by everything. You read every plaque, no matter how long, took photos of anything you found even remotely interesting, asked museum staff for more details, and watched every video documentary that you came across.
Bucky had never seen someone so genuinely curious about anything, aside from maybe Steve. Back when he was still scrawny and sick, the two boys would spend hours in the library. Bucky would read, and Steve would sketch whatever was described. Steve wanted to know about anything and everything, from literature to machine diagrams to cookbooks to animal facts. Like with Steve, Bucky was content to follow you around as you learned, adding in his own small contributions when he could. At some point, when a large wave of people passes through, Bucky grabs your hand, pulling you close to him so you don't get separated. You swear the whole world narrows down to just two two of you at that moment. You look up into Bucky’s blue eyes and feel yourself freeze. You can still feel your hand, warm in his larger one, but the noise around you dulls. He smiles at you, gentle and warm, and you feel your breath hitch in your chest. Your gaze drops to his mouth briefly and you feel heat start to crawl up your neck. You wanted him to kiss you, you realize immediately, with no alcohol to cloud your judgement. You wanted to feel his lips on yours because you liked him, not just because he was, in no uncertain terms, incredibly sexy.
A child’s laugh nearby reminds you that we were in a public place and you take a small step back. Despite your own desires, you knew the man in front of you was a figurehead, a celebrity, as you’d called him yesterday. He couldn’t, and likely wouldn’t, kiss you in the middle of a crowded room. It was better to save yourself the inevitable embarrassment and pull away. Afterall, just because he’d agreed to follow you today, wasn’t indicative of any attraction towards you. You give his hand a gentle squeeze and let go, moving on to the next display. Bucky does not like the distance as you pull away, but he does not comment on it. You don’t owe him closeness, and you certainly don’t owe him the feeling of your hand, smooth and soft beneath his own, covered in callouses and scars. It doesn’t matter that he can feel his heart ache as you step away or that he’s fighting every urge to pull you close again. He lets you go because he has to and he settles on hoping that you would choose to come close again.
Finally, you make it to the Captain America exhibit, and Bucky, for the first time that day, hesitates to follow you in. He had done a lot of work in therapy weeding through his mind and putting things back to right as much as he could. Still, losing Steve had always been hard. He was Bucky’s best friend, the closest thing to a brother the brunette had ever had. Bucky remembered Steve’s face first at some of the most pivotal moments of his life: childhood memories, when he shipped out, when he was rescued from the first Hydra base, when he fell from the train… Steve had been the one to break him out of the Hydra brain washing enough to start his slow and painful road to recovery. Bucky didn’t blame Steve for choosing to be with Peggy. If he had a chance at a solid domestic life like that, maybe he would’ve chosen to go back too.
You don’t get too far inside before you realize Bucky wasn’t beside you. You turn back to see him standing there, eyes locked on the title card for the exhibit. It hits you then that Bucky looked nervous. It was easier than you’d like to admit to forget that the man in front of you, relatively young and warm blooded still, was also part of the story being told behind you. Captain America’s history was also Bucky’s history. You bite your lip, contemplating a moment before walking back over to him. You walk in front of him clearly, so he’s not surprised by your presence, and stand at his left side. You gently reach and take hold of his hand, metal and cool to the touch, and give it a gentle squeeze. The action both grounds and exhilarates Bucky. The fact that not only had you noticed his discomfort and chose to comfort him, but also that you weren’t scared to touch him was an incredible realization. Despite doing his best to make others comfortable around him and his bionic appendage, he could count on one hand the times that someone had reached for his non-flesh hand and not recoiled away. He looks at you, a small grateful smile pulling at his lips, and you, to his surprise, give his arm a gentle tug but don’t let go of his hand.
“Come on Bucky,” you say gently, as he begins to follow. “I can’t not make fun of your old photos if I don’t get to see them.” Bucky just huffs out a laugh and lets you lead him on.
Not much about the exhibit had changed since 2014, despite twelve years passing, and Bucky honestly enjoyed it more than he’d expected he would just a few minutes prior. It certainly helped that his memories weren’t the Swiss cheese they had been on his previous visit. He told you story after story about Steve.
“You wouldn’t believe all the fights he started as a kid.”
“My Ma always thought Steve and my younger sister would end up married.”
“Steve was a great artist. Could’ve been famous for it if he wasn’t so determined to follow me into the army.”
Towards the end of the exhibit were the memorials. The first was for the Howling Commandos, Steve and Bucky’s first team of heroes.
“They didn’t have powers,” Bucky said, looking at the old black and white photo. “They were all just ordinary guys. But they were some of the bravest and smartest men I had the opportunity to serve with.” You smile up at him.
“I’m sure if they could see you now, they’d be proud of what all you accomplished,” you reply, looking between Bucky’s face in the photo and the man in front of you. The next exhibit was Bucky’s. Previously a memorial, it had become more of a “where is he now” type of display. Pictures of Bucky as a soldier in World War II were followed by grainy images of Bucky as the Winter Soldier followed by his most recent campaign images. While the article was flattering, you could feel Bucky’s hand tighten around yours ever so slightly. “Come on. You’re all the history on you I need.” Bucky lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as the two of you walk away.
“So,” he starts, clearing his throat. “Was that everything you expected?” You shrug, finally pulling your hand gently from his warm grasp. Bucky immediately missed the contact.
“It was pretty good. But I expected worse pictures of you,” you say teasingly as you start to pull ahead of him. “Then again, I suppose it’s hard to find bad pictures of a subject that has aged like fine wine.” You can’t see it as you continue walking, but Bucky’s mouth stretches into a beaming smile at the compliment and he rushes to catch up to you.
“Are you calling me handsome?” he asks, voice dipping into something flirty, but still warm as ever. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been complimented by someone so gorgeous.” Your blush is instant, and you laugh nervously, trying to play off just how much his words had affected you.
“You’re only fine wine because nothing else is as old as you are. Don’t let it go to your head Barnes.” You pull away from him again, speed walking off down the hall. You desperately needed some cool water to splash on your face or you were sure to turn into a tomato.
Way too late for that… Bucky thinks as he saunters after you, trying to think of any way he can to get you to compliment him again.
*****
By the time you both finally make it back to the hotel, Bucky could tell you were exhausted. You truly had managed to spend a full eight hours walking around a museum and not wasted a single moment. It was a dedication that Bucky couldn’t help but admire. After your moment at the Captain America exhibit, your interactions slowly returned to platonic. Bucky didn’t mind really, spending time with you in any capacity was proving to be a true delight. Even so, he couldn’t help his mind as it wandered to your soft looking lips as you spoke, the way your eyes sparkled in excitement, or the curve of your ass as you stopped to bend over to read display cards. He was a man, after all, old age aside. You both had agreed upon no more drinking your nights away, and were supposed to go to the hotel restaurant together that night. But as Bucky watched your eyes blink heavily, he started to think that wouldn’t be a possibility.
“We don’t have to go to the restaurant,” he says softly as the elevator passes the 5th floor. “You might be better off going to bed early.”
“No no, I really want dinner,” you quickly reply. “Besides, I’m not even that tired.” The words are barely past your lips before a yawn wracks its way free from your body. Bucky smirks at this.
“Not tired huh?” You shoot him a soft glare, no real malice behind it.
“Okay fine. I could use a nap,” you admit. “My brain has done a lot of work today.” The elevator hits your floor with a ding, and you both step out. The walk to your rooms is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You both linger outside your closed doors a moment before you speak again. “Would you maybe want to just… get a pizza delivered? And watch a movie? In my room? With me?” Each question of yours was more sheepish than the last. You were nervous to ask, of course. The two of you hadn’t been truly alone until this point, always surrounded by other people. Bucky felt his stomach knot in uncertainty. You were inviting him to your room. It felt so intimate a proposition. He coughed, trying to mask his awkwardness.
“I’ll come knock on your door at nine,” he finally said, forcing himself to have a steady voice. Your responding grin is shy, but happy. You unlock your door and slip inside, throwing your last words over your shoulder.
“It’s a date.”
Inside your room, you lean back against your now closed door, back sliding down it as you move to sit. You thought your legs were going to give out. Bucky Barnes, super soldier and handsome congressman, would be in your room in less than 3 hours. You look around at the mess you had made that morning in your haste to look nice. It was as if your suitcase had exploded. You take careful time to clean everything up, putting away clothes in drawers and stowing your suitcase in the closet. The room had thankfully been refreshed, so the bed was clean and fresh.
The bed…
Maybe you didn’t think this through. The bed was the only real place to sit aside from the floor. Would Bucky be uncomfortable? Would he think you were suggesting… something else? You could feel your whole body heat at that thought. Bucky had been nothing but a gentleman this whole time, never crossing any lines and giving you plenty of space. You in turn had been lusting after his arms, wanting to kiss him in crowded public spaces, and inviting him over for what most people would consider a “Netflix and chill” situation. Hormones aside, you did not want to be just a one night stand. If that line was crossed, or any physical line for that matter, you wanted it to mean something. You could only hope that Bucky felt the same.
So what if he does? It’s not like you’ll ever see him again.
The thought was crushing, but true. You lived two different lives in two different cities. Trying to start a long distance relationship after only knowing each other for two days was unrealistic at best and idiotic at worst. You knew it was asking too much of a man whom you weren’t even sure felt the same way. What if you asked and he rejected you? Scarier yet, what if he didn’t? He was leaving D.C. soon for his own vacation. Or was he? All you could remember was that he said he was off work. He’d stayed with you today, but that didn’t mean he could follow you to every stop. It felt like your brain was going a million miles an hour. You wanted to live out the fantasy that Bucky would stay with you. You would finish out your vacations together and you’d fall in love. You’d move to be with him, maybe taking a job at one of the museums in the city so you could see him as frequently as possible.
A shower helped to calm you. The warm water rushing over your skin was relaxing and the steady white noise gave you a chance to collect your thoughts. No matter what else happened, you had vowed to tell Bucky that you’d enjoyed spending time with him. You would reiterate your plans for the rest of your vacation, and tell him he was welcome to join you at any stop if he was in the area. It was as low pressure and low commitment of a way to ask him to stay as you could think of. You wouldn’t press anything physical or intimate. It was a safe plan, and you steeled yourself to stick to it. After your shower, you put on a soft pair of sleep pants and a sweatshirt. You wanted to look comfortable, like you weren’t trying too hard or trying to seduce your guest.
Bucky came to your door, promptly at nine o’clock. He had also taken the liberty of a shower, evidenced by his still damp hair. His beard was freshly trimmed and sat in clean lines on the plane of his jaw. He again, like the night in the bar, was dressed casually. A black short sleeved stretched tight across his chest, showcasing his arm in its entirety for the first time, and the gray sweatpants he was wearing almost made you abandon your previously PG rated plan. You find yourself smiling instantly, truly happy to see him, and the grin he gives you back is boyish.
“Right on time,” you say, opening the door wide to let him through. “Make yourself comfortable.” You close the door behind you and turn to find Bucky awkwardly standing by the foot of the bed. Your eyes lock again on his arm. You’d seen his hand, felt the cool metal beneath your fingers, but the entire appendage was a masterclass in engineering. The black metal shone in the warm light of the lamps in the room, with hints of gold peaking out here and there. It was beautiful. Bucky noticed your stare and shifted slightly.
“I can cover it,” he says quickly, eyes shifted down. An ache went deep into your chest and you shook your head.
“No, please,” you say, stepping closer. “I’m sorry for staring. It’s just… I think it's beautiful.” That surprises him. He finally looks back at you, eyes widened in surprise. You smile supportively and finish closing the distance between you. You hold out your hand and he gently places his metal one in your palm. You turn his hand around, studying it, before trailing your gaze and one set of fingertips up his wrist and forearm. You watch the plates of metal shift almost imperceptibly at your touch. “It’s like a sculpture. Or one of those really fancy clocks.” Bucky chuckles, arm tingling with your touch. It was almost like a phantom touch, something he swore he could feel though the vibranium had no true receptor for such a feeling.
“It really doesn’t bother you?” he asks softly, watching your fingers trace the lines and grooves of the metal. You make it all the way to his shoulder, gently ghosting over where metal meets flesh. That touch Bucky could feel, and it set his heart racing. If there was anything people liked less than the vibranium itself, it was the mass of scar tissue that connected the arm to his torso, but you were still touching him, still curious and kind.
“No. Not at all.” You allow your hands to grasp both of his own. “Nothing about you bothers me.” Bucky looks at you, a mixture of awe and gratitude across his face. You both stand there in silence a moment before you find your voice again. “Bucky?”
“Yeah sweetheart?” he asks, letting go of your hand to push a piece of hair behind your ear. You lean your head into his palm and take a deep breath. If you weren’t majorly misreading the signs, it was now or never.
“I really liked spending the day with you,” you start, looking into his eyes. “I don’t want to be too forward or make you feel obligated to anything, but I was wondering if you’d maybe be willing to spend more of your vacation time with me?” Bucky’s mouth drops open just slightly in surprise and you immediately scramble. “Not that you’d have to stay with me. Or follow me out of the state. I just… I want to spend more time with you and I was just thinking that maybe if you were still here for a few days–”
“Y/N,” Bucky interjects as you fall silent. “I want to stay. I extended my room yesterday just hoping that maybe I could find a way to accidentally keep running into you in a way that didn’t make me look like a stalker.” You can’t help but laugh at that and again your laugh shoots a warmth into Bucky’s chest. “I had no vacation plans until I met you. And spending my time with someone as gorgeous and funny and kind as you is a much better alternative than being alone in my apartment.”
“So that means there’s no unpublicized girlfriend I need to worry about, right?”
“No girlfriend.” The little distance that was between you has started to close, and you finish the job, stepping close enough that you can feel his chest pressed against you. “Not yet at least.” That has you grinning ear to ear.
“Well I guess we’ll see how it goes then, won’t we tour guide?” Bucky smirks at you, another huff of a laugh escaping before he gets serious again.
“I’d really like to kiss you right now. If you’ll let me.” You feel your heart rate skyrocket. You nod, a barely whispered ‘yes’ passes your lips and then Bucky’s mouth is on yours. The kiss is slow, gentle, like waking up to the warm afternoon sun after a nap. Bucky’s other hand finds its way to your waist, and both of yours find purchase against his sculpted chest. He pulls away slowly, leaning his forehead against yours.
“I’m glad I asked you for directions,” you say. Your voice is still soft, afraid any sudden movement would shatter the moment.
“And now look at you, you’ve got a historical artifact all to yourself.” He pulls you in again. The kiss is deeper this time, and he slowly guides you backwards towards the bed. He pulls away just long enough to sit and guide you into his lap. He looks up at you, pupils wide and grin borderline sinful.
“Not an artifact,” you correct, pressing a short and chaste kiss to his lips. “More like a living fossil.” He shakes his head, but his grin never fades. He pulls you back in, hands settled on your hips, fingertips digging gently into your flesh. He knew that whatever you called him, he’d gotten the better deal. You were a true national treasure, one he was glad to have found before you were stolen by someone else.