Work Text:
You can’t help but agree with your friends when they call you a spoilsport for New Year’s Eve plans; you have a healthy skepticism for bar hookups, love staying at home in your soft bed, and hate spending more for a cocktail than it would take to buy an entire round any other night of the year. New Year’s Eve party expectations are always astronomically high and, historically, the returns have been cripplingly low; you hadn’t had a kiss at midnight in years and that was just as well. You planned to stay home this year. You would not have to avoid drunk pervs like the plague and you would not count down to another year single and shrug your way home in the cold. You didn’t mind the accusations of premature AARP membership. You put your foot down.
So it’s nothing short of a miracle and totally unclear to you how exactly you ended up in Cocktail Formal attire with a crystal flute of champagne in your hand on New Year’s Eve, surrounded by beautiful, happy couples floating about effervescent to a live brass band like the Fabulous Dorseys had jazzily clawed their way out of the grave to play the classiest time travel gig in history.
To Janet’s credit, you’re having an exceptional time. Between the caliber of appetizers, the attractiveness quotient of the room, and your seemingly bottomless glass, the whole affair is overwhelmingly lovely. Everything seems to glimmer in shades of gold, black, and lush diamond creams. There are celebrities here, you’re almost sure, and overheard the bartender mention that he’d definitely seen The Falcon on the dance floor. As you mill about, cute girls and handsome boys toss looks at you over their shoulders left and right and to be very honest, you feel stunning enough to merit them. How Janet manages to dress you up to the nines in the very last minute when she drags you out of the apartment is beyond you, but you are grateful tonight. You take another sip of champagne and watch her spin on the floor with her beau; she’s tipsy but glowing with cheer and radiant as ever. You smile and take a picture on your phone, suddenly and acutely aware that this is a magical night for them, and whether or not you look like a Hollywood glamour goddess you could not stomach sharing that midnight moment as a third wheel. How you managed to stave off this dangerous thought until 11:45 you don’t know, but you decide, throwing back your champagne, to Irish-goodbye.
Leaving the ballroom less sober than you found it, you’re unsure where to find the elevators and follow a few errant couples to the roof by accident. The night air rushes around you as you look around the rooftop, its verandas draped in fairy lights and the city sparkling all around below. A few couples huddle together in close kisses and you avoid them, wandering to the balcony to look out on the world in its cold, quiet darkness, setting your empty champagne glass at your feet. It’s a clear night and crisp enough to make you thankful for your jacket. You lose track of time watching the cars below and various gatherings in apartments across from the old hotel, happy families and friends celebrating together. You remember different years, different parties, and you muse on resolutions you’ve kept and lost.
“Y/N?”
You’re torn from your imagination and turn suddenly. A man in a sharp blue suit seems satisfied by your reaction. He looks like a matinee idol, all sauve sharp lines and soft dark hair, but he has a silver flask in his hand and a smirk on his face like he can find trouble in a churchyard. He slips it in the pocket of his sportcoat like a secret. And he knows your name.
“Sorry?” You manage to speak with confidence that doesn’t quite convince him. He slows his advance.
“Are you Y/N?” He repeats. “Infamous, elusive Y/N?” You decide you like the way he says your name. You like the way he everythings.
“Who wants to know?” You ask. He sticks his hands in his pockets and draws your gaze downward for a split second of weakness. His eyebrow quirks when you return to his eyes, now close enough to reveal themselves as a blue you’ll regret.
“A very loud and drunk girl who seems to think she ruined your year and your friendship,” he replies. You blink in surprise.
“What?”
“She went back to dancing. Totally forgot. But for a solid five minutes, she was asking everyone at the bar twice if Y/N was okay and if they’d checked on her at all because she was very pretty and lonely.”
“Oh my god…”
“I said to myself, ‘Bucky, you’d better check on this fugitive Y/N, just in case,’” he says, his voice low and musing. His tone is almost playful, though the carry of his build, like a fortress, reads impenetrable. “So how is she?”
“She’s fine.” You hold your face in your hands a second, willing the handsome man away. “Sorry to disappoint.” The man chuckles and you can feel your cheeks burning. “You can go back to the party. I’ll make sure she takes a cab home.” You turn back to look out on the city, hoping this Bucky takes a hint. He doesn’t.
“Honestly I was looking for an excuse to slip out,” he shrugs, mimicking your lean on the balcony to look outward, far enough to be formal but close enough to connect. You notice as he folds his hands that he wears a glove only on his left. “Mystery woman seemed as good a reason as any. I’m not too big on the New Year thing.”
“Me neither,” you sigh. “Don’t get me wrong, the Gatsby scene is lovely and all.”
“Sure. But your green light is somewhere in that building over there?” He asks cheekily, scanning the apartment complex you’d been snooping on. You laugh.
“Straight across and three windows over there’s a bunch of kids up past their bedtime dancing. It’s the best thing I’ve seen all week,” you say honestly, watching them jump around a very expensive-looking living room.
“Where?” He asks. You point out ahead of you and without hesitation he’s moved close enough to touch, levelling his eyes with your outstretched arm to see what you see. “Oh!” He chuckles again and the warmth of his breath on your neck sends a sweet shiver straight down your spine. He notices and backs off a little, shy or polite you’re not sure. He smells like cloves and sharp lime and you have theories about what that means for the taste of him but that’s a bridge too far for the moment. You’re staring at him and he’s staring back, challenging. The noise of other couples on the rooftop has risen noticeably and Bucky glances at his watch. “A minute to midnight.”
“I would have missed it,” you admit. “You can go back to your— people,” you say, certain there are girls and fellows inside waiting on him, surely the most attractive ones there. He shakes his head and takes out his flask, a silver flash in the moonlight.
“I’m happy to toast right here with you if you don’t mind, fellow fugitive.” You can’t help but smile back at him; he’s dazzling in a way that makes you furious. You pick up your empty glass and he tips a bit of alcohol into it. “You driving?” Bucky asks. You laugh and shake your head as he pours you a bit more. “What are we toasting to, Y/N?” He yawns mid-question and laughs at himself. “Sorry.”
“To staying up past bedtime,” you say definitively, glancing at the building across and back at him. He’s searching your face as he smirks, nodding.
“Fair enough. Grandpa doesn’t party like he used to,” he says, pulling a cute face. You shrug.
“Neither does Grandma. But I’m glad I did tonight.”
“I am, too,” he says, considering it. “It’s nice to meet another elderly escape artist.” You can hear the couples around you start to count down and the two of you exchange a tired, if happy glance. You count together.
“4… 3… 2… 1! Happy New Year, Bucky!” You shout, raising your glass to him. He clinks his flask against it with a grin.
“Happy New Year, Y/N.” You pull back the shot and grimace full-body, fire following the alcohol in your throat. He laughs so beautifully, a warm and hearty glow to his smile, that you can’t help but forget to feel betrayed. “What the hell is this, lighter fluid?!” You start to laugh through your coughing and he puts a hand on your shoulder to steady you, laughing hard himself.
“I’m sorry, are you okay? This stuff’s not messing around, I forgot,” he says.
“Great way to start a new year,” you shake your head, wiping away a stray tear from your laughter. He chuckles through his apologies and suddenly kisses the spot on your temple where your eye makeup had smeared across, his hand ghosting behind you to the nape of your neck. You blink in surprise.
“Sorry, doll,” he says, but he doesn’t take his hand away. “Too much?” He asks, and it doesn’t matter if he means the alcohol or not. His thumb traces circles on your skin. You shake your head.
“Am I going to lose Grandma points if I say ‘not enough?’” You reply. His eyes are on yours, blue with a light behind them now that hadn’t been there moments before, and you lean into his touch. He presses his lips to yours and pulls you in. You feel your bodies locking closely, warm against the night.
“Not enough, hm? If that’s the case,” he smirks between kisses, “then it’s definitely past our bedtime.”