Chapter Text
He sits on a wooden chair, a plate heavy with food propped on his lap, a bottle of beer in hand. He may not be able to feel the buzz but he still likes the taste. One of the few joys Hydra didn’t take from him so long ago.
He scans the compound’s manicured greens. A few trees neatly line the edges of the access road. A few more trees look like methodically arranged, oversized triple-bouquets. Leave it to Tony to make everything look so... perfect. Even the lush Kentucky Bluegrass is immaculately trimmed and guess is each blade is exactly two-and-a-half inches long. Not a fraction longer or shorter. Usually, that’s all there is. The neatly lined trees, the methodically arranged triple clusters, and the immaculate Kentucky Bluegrass expanse.
Today, however, colorful tables and arrangements of even brighter balloons and pennant banners take up most of the space. There are sectioned-off stretches for potato-sack races and a volleyball court. There’s a stage and activity booths and even a balloon artist. At least Tony had skipped on the clowns, something everyone is really grateful for.
In a safe distance, far from all the commotion of activities and contests, several barbecue grills stand next to an assemblage of tents, each bearing a sign of what’s inside: chilled drinks, buffet, desserts, and even one that reads ‘first aid’. The clues of a company picnic are rounded off by the cheerful laughter of children playing chase, parents yelling for them to slow down; and endless banter between colleagues about anything but work.
It’s loud and it’s crowded and usually he avoids these types of things but Steve had insisted he show his face. “You need sunlight, Buck. It’ll be good for you.” What Steve had really meant was: “You need some social interaction, Buck. It’ll be good for you to see people other than the team. Maybe even make a friend or two.”
Even now, Bucky rolls his eyes at the subliminal message. He ventures that had he said or even hinted a “no thanks”, Steve would’ve dragged him outside by the scruff of his neck -or collar at least- like a petulant child and would’ve sat Bucky in the time-out chair until he would’ve agreed to stop pouting.
He sits in a chair now, the same wooden chair, and on the far side from most activities. Close enough for Steve to see he’s there, yet far enough to observe from the sidelines. And he has actually interacted. He did have to get his plate, after all. And his drink.
Baby steps.
B A B Y steps.
“I like your arm.” A small voice catches him off guard. Bucky’s head snaps left and he sees a boy maybe five or six years old standing next to his chair, munching on a PBJ sandwich and studying the gold lines on the Vibranium arm. Without warning, the boy reaches out and touches the metal, and Bucky holds his breath. He’s just a kid. Just a kid. Just a kid. “Wow. It’s cold.” The boy states quite -what’s the term?- scientifically.
Bucky guesses he’d expected it to be warm, considering the prosthetic’s dark plates and the fact that Bucky’s been sitting out in the sun for at least half an hour. “It has an integrated cooling system.” He supplies the answer to the unasked question of “How?”
“What’s in-gre, in-gre... ingregrated?” The boy’s eyes are curious and Bucky can’t help but chuckle at the mispronunciation of the word along with little crumbs falling to the ground.
“It means it works together with the other parts of my arm to make a whole functioning unit.”
The boy nods “yes, yes”, index and thumb on his tiny chin while he chews through another bite of his PBJ and like he understands, but Bucky is sure he’s just thrown at least two other big words at the boy which he doesn’t quite comprehend (,yet). But there’s something endearing about how the child just goes along, and Bucky has learned a long time ago that, sometimes, age and intelligence can be deceiving. For all he knows, the kid is a genius in sprout form, early growth stage of becoming another Shuri or Stark or Banner.
Just as Bucky is about to ask where the boy’s parents are, he hears the concern-laced call of a name. “Max? Max! There you are.”
Bucky looks to where the voice is coming from and his brain kind of short-circuits for a moment. WOW! Talk about... beautiful. Correction. Breathtaking.
“I’m so sorry. Is he bothering you? Max, are you bothering this man?”
Max shakes his little head. “No, mom.”
“Really?” The voice is stern and Bucky can’t help another chuckle as his brain seems to kick start into the now.
“He was asking about my arm.” He offers with a smile but somehow that procures a horrified look in response.
“Oh... god... I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. He’s always so forward when he’s comfortable around someone. Doesn’t think about personal space and such.”
“It’s ok. He was just curious. No harm done, right Max?” Bucky winks at the boy and Max smiles sheepishly.
“Still... uhm...” There’s an embarrassed pause and suddenly Bucky feels bold.
“Bucky.”
“What?”
“That’s my name. Actually, it’s James, but people call me...”
“Bucky.”
“Right.”
Bucky is about to extend his hand when another voice interrupts the moment.
“Sorry, gotta go. Max come on. We’re next in line for the potato sack race.” The duo rushes away and Bucky’s brain sputters again.
At least tell me your name. Did he say that out loud? Wait? Did he? Clearly, he didn’t or else he’d have a name now. Dammit. He was so close. SO CLOSE.
Oh, well.
Oh well...
Oh well?
Is he really that easily dissuaded? Then again... this is a company picnic. One for family and friends of people working at the compound. And Max had said ‘mom’. That means taken, right? There’s no way someone this gorgeous is not taken, he tells himself.
Oh well.
Bucky is tired of socializing. He ignores Steve’s voice as he heads inside. Best to leave before he does something stupid like lumbering over to the potato-sack-race and asking “Would you like to go grab a cup of coffee with me?”, because there is no way in heaven or hell or anything in between that someone that beautiful is not taken. And Bucky -somewhat old-fashioned in thinking- knows it’s best to keep a healthy distance to spoken-for people, even if times have changed.
Oh well.
He mulls over those two words for days to come. He can’t get that day, that moment out of his head. Just... beautiful. He can’t think of another word. Of course, he knows there’s more to people than beauty. And that’s just it. He saw beauty and something else. Brightness? Warmth? Knowledge? Smarts! Everything... Just... WOW! And those eyes... and that awkward smile... and that sweet sweet voice... Damn! He’s in trouble and he doesn’t even have a name!
He could probably go through personnel files. See where everyone fits in. And with whom. But Bucky feels like that’s a line he shouldn’t cross. Not this time. Somehow, he gets the feeling he won’t be forgiven for such an invasion of privacy. Like anyone would forgive that. But this is NOT some mission. He doesn’t need intel on some enemy or spy or...
“James!”
“What?” It’s a rare thing that his best friend calls Bucky by his actual name. Clearly, Steve is annoyed.
“Sam said you’ve been distracted. Looks like he’s right.” Steve gives Bucky that scrunched brow look when he’s all in Captain Rogers mode. Even with having handed the shield to Sam, he never fully let this particular trait go. It’s ingrained just like the 5 a.m. runs and this overbearing need to figure things out so he can fix them. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”
Bucky pays little attention to the truth-seeking eyes of now civilian advisor Steve Rogers. Instead, he stares out the window of the sleek office belonging to his friend. “No!”
“Alright... I’m only trying to help Buck. If you need time off...”
“We got them, didn’t we? I don’t get what the big deal is.”
“The big deal? Buck, the only time I’ve ever seen you this... whatever this is, was way back when you tried to impress Dot... “ Steve‘s thoughts trail off as realization strikes. Holy shit! “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”
“Steve... please don’t start.”
“Holy shit, it is!”
“Language?” Bucky is actually a little taken aback. Not that Steve never curses. God knows, they both have learned their fair share of wash-your-mouth-out-with-soap words while in training way back when. Even so...
“Don’t try to distract. It’s a woman. Obviously, someone you met recently?”
Bucky groans. He can hear the gears clicking as Steve puts one and one together. Not like there have been many occasions where Bucky’s been social.
“It’s that woman you talked to at the picnic, isn’t it?”
“Steve, let it go.” Bucky tries to make a run for it. He’s halfway to the door when Steve blocks his way with shoulders squared and arms crossed.
“Why? You’re obviously fond.”
“She has a kid. Which means she’s taken. I didn’t get a name.” Bucky flips up a finger for each point he’s trying to make but Steve doesn’t budge.
“Just because she has a child doesn’t mean she’s taken. It’s different nowadays. I mean, even back in the days there were single moms.”
“You’ve seen her, right? Actually seen her?” Bucky gestures with his hands as if to point out the very clear-as-crystal truth.
“Yeah, Buck. And she’s very... pretty.”
“Pretty?”
“Ok... she’s gorgeous. Your kinda gorgeous. That doesn’t mean she’s taken. You want me to find out who she is?” There’s a hopeful, almost mischievous smile and wiggling brows.
“No!” Bucky panics. “No. Please. Steve. Don’t. Don’t pull strings. Don’t go through files. Please. Just, let it go.” Bucky pushes hard and stalks past his best friend.
Why?
Why is Steve like that?
Fu...fricking punk. “Punk.”
Bucky continues in annoyed strides down the long hallway of the new administrative wing. It’s sleek in design and bright. Almost all windows, glass walls and supportive beams making the space look like it’s floating. Ferns and succulents adding hints of green between various seating options. Some of the switch-glass walls are in their opaque state. The rest are transparent.
If he wasn’t so irritated right now, Bucky is sure he’d quite enjoy this new addition to the compound. The switch-glass in itself is pretty cool. Upgraded versions that can turn into floor-to-ceiling screens at the push of a single button. But right now, all Bucky wants to do is head to the gym and hit a few sandbags into oblivion. Maybe then he’ll forget about the picnic and about the fact that his best friend knows him too well. There can be no more distractions.
So he tells himself. That doesn’t mean the universe likes to play along. He doesn’t even know how he didn’t hear the pitter patter of little shoes coming closer. All he knows is that one second he was ready to step onto the elevator and the next, two small arms clutch tightly around his knees to stop him.
“Max?” Of all the people...
That Bucky is a little confused would be an understatement. Unless Stark Industries employs little humans, why is the boy here? Alone. Wait!? ALONE?
The boy doesn’t let go. In fact, his hold tightens as he looks up with big reddened eyes and suddenly everything within Bucky shifts. Anger gone, he softly grabs hold of Max’s little arms and kneels to the boy’s level. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
Max wipes away new tears and sniffles hard. “They’re mean to me.”
“Who is?”
“The boys at the center.”
“The center?”
“I go to the center when school is done.” Max still sniffles.
That explains him being here. Bucky’s heard that there is a free on-site center for kids of people working here. To make things easier for parents if long hours are required. Spare them an extra trip on the way home. Even Morgan goes there, as far as Bucky knows. He remembers Tony’s daughter talking about all the exciting experiments they’d once done at the center. The place can’t be too bad.
Yet here Bucky is, kneeling in front of Max, the boy clearly not having the best of days. “Come on, Buddy. Let’s take you back. I’m sure they’re looking for you.” Bucky’s voice is as soft as he can make it. He scoops Max up and the boy clings tightly around Bucky’s neck, still sniffling. The sound makes Bucky’s heart squeeze in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. Not since pre-war, pre-serum Steve.
Bucky follows colorful signs pointing to something called The Tree House. It has to be the after-school center for kids. Then again, Bucky doesn’t put it past Stark to have built some kind of arcade-like room for the adults here. There’s a fully decked out one in the main building and Bucky has spent a many, sleepless nights there fascinated with Space Invaders and Pac Man.
Of course, he always makes sure no one else is around whenever he’s there. The only hint that he frequents the room are the letters spelling out PUNKSR. And the only time he even plays is whenever that 8LEGS person overtakes the pole position.
Max still holds tight to Bucky when the pair rounds the last corner where another colorful sign points to The Tree House. It’s definitely not an arcade-like room for adults. Drawings and other crafty knickknacks on handprint-covered shelves lead the remaining way and Bucky is certain these things have been made by kids. Who else would stick googly eyes to paper plates with pipe-cleaner hair and card stock mustaches?
Bucky can’t help the small chuckle. And he can’t help thinking “how cute”, especially when he spots with his super-vision what look like effigies of Sam and Steve. The super-soldier doesn’t need super-hearing though to realize that Max’s absence has been noted. Anyone within a one-mile radius likely knows.
“What do you mean, you don’t know where he is?! HOW DO YOU NOT NOTICE MY SON WALKING OUT?”
“I promise this has never happened before. He figured out the code for the door somehow. I’m so sorry... we’ll find him. I promise. We already have the exits locked. He won’t get far.”
It is in that moment that a pair of eyes on the brink of tears land on Bucky, and he swears his heart stops and he’ll do anything -ANYTHING!- to never see THAT look again, when every single emotion pushes through hot tears of panic and relief.
“Max. Oh my god! Where did you go? What happened? Don’t you ever, ever, EVER do that again! Ever!”
More tears and sobs come from two directions closing in on each other and Bucky is barely understanding the words in between.
“I’m sorry, mom. I’m sorry.” The boy’s face is squished into tweed, little fists gripping the fabric tightly as he’s getting squeezed for dear life.
“You cannot take off like that. You scared me, Max. I was so worried about you. What if you got hurt?”
“I’m sorry, mom.”
Bucky watches awkwardly. He’s not sure if he should say something or just walk away. So he just stands there, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket and two feet away because he doesn’t want to overstep but he also doesn’t want to just simply walk away.
It takes another moment before Max’s sniffles stop and before he paces with head hanging low to the center’s director to whom he apologizes. And apologizes again and again. And not once does he actually say why he’d taken off. That doesn’t go past Bucky and something bubbles up within him. Courage, maybe? Mixed with his 1930s ghost-self of protector. “For what it’s worth, Max said some boys were teasin’ him.”
Eyes are back on Bucky, then on Max and the boy nods shyly. There’s a moment where silence takes over. Bucky can’t quite describe it but if a mother’s fury -just the emotion- is tangible somehow, then this moment is it, and he hates to admit it but he’s actually scared. He definitely never wants to be on the receiving end of THAT look, a look that he swears could level entire cities.
He backs away painstakingly slow, watches carefully as Max is ushered into the lobby of The Tree House.
“Thank you.”
The softness of the words catches Bucky off guard and he freezes. There’s a hint of broken to them. A hint of sadness. And even a hint of an apology. “Uhm... ‘Twas nothin’.” Bucky sheepishly rubs a hand over the back of his neck. And as if this moment can’t get any more awkward, he nearly trips over himself taking another step back.
“Max... he... he doesn’t trust just anyone. And... I can’t talk right now. I gotta take care of this. Make sure he’s alright. Thank you, again.”
Bucky nods in understanding, then is left standing.
He watches commotion through the glass doors when he catches a couple of boys older than Max snickering and pointing. It takes every ounce of self control on Bucky’s part not to march in there and give them a piece of his mind. And from the looks of it, he doesn’t have to.
The boys catch Bucky staring and all he has to do is squint his eyes in a menacing way while squaring up his shoulders. Dark and brooding comes in handy, and a small part of Bucky is proud when the boys scramble to wherever it is they scramble to. Though proud may be the wrong word. Gratified? Maybe delighted? He doubts those two will bother Max again. That’s all that matters.
His line of sight sweeps back just as the switch-glass to The Tree House’s admin office turns opaque. Bucky is sure the director is in for some censored but choice words. Hell, even he feels in protective parent mode. Bullies have no place anywhere. Least of all here. At the Avengers Compound.
Bucky forces out a breath. And another when he realizes that once again he’s forgotten to ask for a name. Not like it was great timing to begin with. Still... Damn it, universe. Is this a joke? A second chance. A second chance MISSED! Why?
And what the hell happened to his spy training? He remembers beautiful eyes. And soft curves. And kissable lips. But was there an ID badge? Or a guest badge? A ring? No ring? A ring? No ring? A ring? God damn it! Bucky really hopes the gym is empty ‘cause boy does he need to let out some frustration.
To his luck, the gym is all his, and some three torn punching bags later, he’s tired at last. Even worked up some sweat. A rarity for Bucky. But tired doesn’t mean that he forgets about missed chances. And missed details. Ring? No ring? Ring? ...
Bucky breathes out hard. Frustrated. Forget it. She’s taken. She has to be. There’s no way in heaven or hell or anything in between that someone that beautiful is not taken, Bucky tells himself over and over again.
Bucky spends a lot of time at the gym over the next couple of weeks. Out of annoyance for missed chances. And because he’s avoiding the new administrative wing like Vision’s cooking. It looks pretty but leaves an odd sensation in the pit of the stomach. Not necessarily bad. Just... odd.
Naturally, it doesn’t take long for Steve to catch on that something is off with Bucky. Training is needed, of course. Even super-soldiers need it to stay on top of the game. Keep mind and body sharp. But when Bucky misses yet another [RE]scheduled meeting in lieu of beating the crap out of another punching bag, Steve wants the four-one-one. And he wants it from the source, not the grapevine.
It’s a good thing Steve has superhuman reflexes or else the bag flying his way would’ve left an imprint of his body in the wall. “Fuck... Bucky... What the fuck? What’ the bag ever do to you?” Steve lifts the one-hundred-pound bag like a feather. “How many is that this week? Four? Five? You’d think Tony would come up with something more resistant to hold them in place.” Steve chuckles to ease the tension. He tosses the bag on a pile with a ‘to be fixed’ sign and Bucky just grunts in response, mostly because he has switched to doing sit-ups.
Steve is sure his friend has reached an easy hundred when he seats himself on a stool near the ring. “Care to tell?” Steve prods after Bucky does another easy hundred sit-ups.
“Nope.”
To be fair, Steve didn’t think he’d get an answer on the first try but he’s on his last nerve. He used up all his patience with liaisons and bureaucratic crap. The price he is paying for going civilian. “Alright... tell you what, if you manage to pull the floor out from under me, I’ll let it go but if I win, I want to hear everything.”
Steve doesn’t change clothes. He doesn’t even wrap his hands. He only takes off his shoes and socks and steps into the ring, then waits.
“You can’t be serious!”
“I am dead serious. You missed two weeks of meetings. Left me to deal with Ross’ antics. I want to know what’s got you distracted.”
Bucky shakes his head. That stubbornness has never faded and for a moment he sees Steve as he was in the forties. A feisty little shit who can “do this all day”, fists already in the air. But Steve isn’t a frail young man anymore. He’s muscle and speed and the platform of the ring shakes under his bouncing feet. “You’re on, Punk.”
“Let’s see what you got, Jerk.”
They circle for a moment, gauging each other’s alertness, trying to find a flaw in footwork, an opening to attack but they’re both on top of their game. At least until Steve fakes a step-out, then it’s on and neither hold back.
It’s not a clean fight. Not entirely. Bucky’s time in Siberia floats to the top and Steve seems to have switched to the rules of the streets, the young man from Brooklyn swinging through in every punch. They really could do this all day and if it hadn’t been for Nat’s “What the fuck?”, there likely would’ve never been an end to it.
Instead, Bucky is caught off guard. A microsecond of looking away is all it takes to miss a right hook. He kisses the canvas, cusses under heavy breath as blood trickles from a split lip onto his tongue, the taste of iron unmistakable. “The fuck, Steve!?”
“Shit! Shit shit shit... I’m sorry, Buck.” Steve rushes to his friend’s side, checks his face, his eyes. “You alright?”
Bucky grumbles, then, to Steve’s surprise, chuckles if somewhat dryly. “I’ll live.”
“So... you gonna talk or what?”
The two men sit side by side and Nat joins with a cold towel, handing it to Bucky. “What’s going on?”
Bucky has never been able to keep secrets from his two best friends. “Remember the picnic?”
Steve nods. “The woman?”
“There’s a woman?” Natasha is genuinely surprised.
“No. I mean... yes. No.... kind of ...ugh... I ran into her.”
“Where?” Is a unison question so loud that Bucky actually startles.
“Tree House.”
“What?”
“That after school place in the new wing.”
Steve’s brows scrunch together and Nat raises a brow, but neither speak. They wait like saying “tell us more” and Bucky wishes he could. But damn, where to even start?
“She was there. Her kid... some boys were teasin’ him. And...” Bucky shrugs, unsure how to proceed. He stays silent, looks to the floor, twists the towel in his hands. He feels vulnerable in this moment. He’s not been distracted like THIS in a long time. Not since Dot. And under Hydra’s grasp? He wasn’t allowed. Not like they ever left him thawed long enough anyways. He has to relearn so many things. And one is to be open about how he feels.
Nat lays a gentle hand on Bucky’s shoulder, takes the towel from his hands and dabs his face with it, even boops his nose. “What’s her son’s name? I can check if she works here.” There’s no teasing undertone, just genuine care and concern.
“No!” Bucky panics. “No! Please. Look... fuck... I don’t want to seem like a stalker. Just give me a couple more weeks. I’m sure I’ll be over her soon enough.”
Steve sighs. “Bucky...” He starts gently, voice soothingly soft, but Bucky’s heart rate doubles anyways.
“Guys, please! I don’t wanna get my hopes up. And I also don’t wanna know more. If she’s married or whatever... I can’t. Ok. Please?”
Steve sighs again but agrees, shoulders slumping in some kind of defeat.
“We just might have the perfect thing for you to take your mind off.” Nat’s eyes flick to Steve’s and suddenly there’s tension in the air. One that Bucky knows quite well.
“A mission?”
“You have to promise us something first.” Steve’s face is unreadable as he waits for some type of reassurance.
“Ok.”
An exchange of looks and Natasha retrieves a folder from where she’d dropped her things earlier. She hands it to Bucky and his eyes darken at the name on the tab. Natasha swallows thickly. She knows that face. That cold blank stare. “I’m going with.” Is a statement, not a request and Bucky knows there’s no point in arguing.
“To make sure I won’t kill him?”
Nat doesn’t have to answer. Bucky knows that’s what Steve had meant by promising them.
It takes a week and three days. No word of success or progress until, just like that, the quinjet lands unceremoniously in its usual spot, Steve Rogers already waiting nervously next to the Secretary of State.
“I still think that Wilson should’ve taken this assignment.”
“And I still think we owe Buc... Sergeant Barnes this.”
“We’ll see, won’t we.”
The ramp opens painstakingly slow, and if Steve didn’t know better, he’d say it is the Winter Soldier stalking down the metal. But he does know better. It is Bucky advancing in heavy steps and it is Bucky stopping, squared and broad, in front of Thaddeus Ross.
There’s a flinch. Former General or not, Ross can’t hide his discomfort of facing a man he once had hunted across the globe.
“He’s inside. On a stretcher.” Bucky gives Steve a look then stalks away, leaving behind a stunned Secretary of State.
“Alive? Barnes?”
Bucky doesn’t stop to answer. He doesn’t care.
But Steve does, so he follows, quietly, until they reach his office.
“You really need to work on your social skills.” Steve takes a seat opposite Bucky, dropping several folders on the mahogany-stained desk.
“I did as asked.”
“I’m not saying you have to ever get along with Ross, but he’s the Secretary of State. You need to show some...”
“Respect?” Bucky cuts off and Steve inhales sharply.
“...sense of professionalism.”
Bucky grunts. “I don’t owe him shit.”
“You’re right. You don’t. Still...” Steve folds his hands in front of him, body straightening, jaw set tight. Fucking Captain Rogers mode.
There’s a heavy pause and Steve realizes he’s not going to get anywhere right now. Not like this. “You should take a few days off.” He suggests with a gentle voice and Bucky nods.
“I just might.”
There’s another pause. Softer. Lighter. Calmer.
“Well, before you go, do me a favor? Drop off these expense reports. Room two-oh-two.”
“Don’t you have a secretary?”
“Yeah, you.” Steve laughs and Bucky rolls his eyes.
“Punk.”
“Jerk.”
They trade a mischievous look, like back in the day. Back in Brooklyn. Bucky sometimes wishes he could go back. To before he became this. This hardened soul. Before Steve became that. The voice of reason.
But there’s also recognition. Admission, actually, that things are better. Steve is healthy. Steve is happy. Steve is more himself now than he could’ve ever been way back when. He doesn’t have to make up bullshit excuses of “we’re roommates”. Doesn’t have to hide his love.
“Say hi to Miguel,” Bucky throws out before he closes the door and he swears he saw the-ever-self-controlled Steve blush at the mention of his boyfriend’s name.
Bucky laughs softly as he thinks back to when Steve had first met Miguel. Heart-eyes is an understatement. And if Bucky hadn’t shoved Steve, there would’ve been need for mouth-to-mouth.
Bucky laughs again and finally steps onto the waiting elevator. He pushes the button for level two, expense reports tight in his other hand. What had Steve said? Room two-oh-two? Had he mentioned a name? Bucky can’t recall.
Oh well. Bucky is sure he can drop the reports with whoever because according to the directory on the wall, two-oh-two is accounting and whoever works there should know where this stack of papers goes.
Bucky turns left, then right, then left again... Wait! No! He has to turn right. Why are office buildings always so complicated? It doesn’t help that this floor is quite different from Steve’s. More drywall than switch-glass walls. Smaller offices. Staler. Almost boring. And even a little claustrophobic.
He shakes his head, folder still tight in his hand, and asks himself about who still uses paper in this day and age. Bucky is sure that Steve could’ve just emailed this. Maybe it is a ploy to walk off the rest of the mission’s frustration or to keep Bucky occupied until Ross leaves. Who knows.
One thing is certain: Bucky wants this day to be over. So he picks up his pace. Two-oh-two is just three doors away.
Drop the report.
Head back to quarters.
Shower.
Drop the report.
Head back to quarters.
Shower.
Drop the...
“Ou...”
“Oof... oh crap. I’m so sorry. Let me... Uhm... let me help you pick this up. Sorry. Didn’t see you there, Miss... Miss... Max’s mom?”
Bucky swears that the soft laugh he gets in return is the sound of angels.
“Actually, it’s Y/N.”
A name.
A name!
A NAME! AT LAST!
What is time?
How does one word again?
Speak?
Talk!
SAY SOMETHING!
JFC. BUCKY SPEAK UP. “Uh... yes... hi... uh.” OH MY GOD. TELL HER YOUR NAME! “I’m James. Actually it’s Bucky. Wait! No. Actually it’s James but most people call me Bucky. ‘Cause my middle name is Buchanan. So... I’m ... Bucky. And you’re... You’re Y/N.”
You laugh again, and Bucky can’t help the tops of his cheeks turning a shade of pink. “I know. I remember you. Well, Bucky. Looks like you were coming to see me. Is that the expense report for Mission Z?”
“What?” Bucky looks at the crumpled papers in his hands. “Uhm... I guess. I can get you another copy.”
“No worries. Just leave it on my desk. I gotta run. Meeting with Misses Stark.”
Bucky doesn’t have time to reply before you disappear around the corner. Or at least it seems like he can’t. His mind is still playing catch up. He huffs out a dry laugh. Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable! He plucks his cell from the pocket in his sleeve, fast fingers hitting speed dial.
Three rings in and the person on the other side answers with an amused “Yes?”
“Tell me something, Punk. Did you know?”
“Did I know what?” Steve feigns innocence but Bucky doesn’t bite.
“That Y/N works here.”
“Oh... so you finally got her name, huh? Did you ask her out?”
“Steve!”
“What?”
Bucky inhales deeply, releases another dry laugh. “Thanks.”
“No need. And she is.”
“What?”
“Single. She’s single. So ask her out.”
“Can’t. She ran off to a meeting.”
“Jesus... Bucky... Do Nat and I have to hold your hand?”
“Listen here, you Punk...”
“I know. I know. You love us.”