2-11am

[2-11am]

ATTN: Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier writers

What is the name of the electric current machine that Hydra used on Bucky to like wipe? his mind? I’m writing about it and idk how to refer to it. SOS

[2-11am]

he really is something else! this is easily one of my favorite stories on this app! SO GOOD

Tell Me I’m Your National Anthem

Bucky Barnes x Campaign Manager! Reader

Summary: Bucky wasn’t sure when this campaign stopped being about winning, and starting being about spending time with you. 

Word Count: 16.8K

Authors Note: first fic in almost five years!! I’m back from retirement. Anyway, yes I know Bucky’s hair was long in thunderbolts but I don’t care!

Warnings: cursing, inaccuracies about American politics (it’s been along time since I was in a social studies class okay?), gratuitous use of italics, yearning, Alpine, mention of St*ve, and light violence, no use of y/n

You’d always liked a challenge.

As a kid, if the teacher said to write six paragraphs, you’d push yourself to ten. In college, you had interned all four summers, double majored in Political Science and Marketing. Worked full time and still graduated with honors. You even made time to go to like three parties.

Nothing changed when you got into politics.

You took the first job you could get your hands on out of college, and have been running since.

Unfortunately you’ve been running with some of the most infamous assholes Washington has ever seen.

You had a talent for fixing campaigns, tweaking strategies, and saving reputations. This unique skillset was perfectly suited to saving the careers of politicians with questionable tweets, and more often than not, bright red, southern roots.

It wasn’t the “making the world a better place” politics you had dreamed of, you still hoped that a few of the assholes who had hired might find it in themselves to make a few good decisions while in office.

That was until you started working for Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes -former Avenger or something- was running for Congress and had asking your help.

Or more accurately, his Campaign manager was begging for it. An old friend, who was lucky enough to work with all of the good, kind people, you wished would hire you. All the people your candidates kept beating. You’d never had someone beg you to take their job before. So you agreed, part curiousity and part hope that maybe for once you’d get to see the side of politics you used to believe in.

You didn’t get your hopes up though. Preparing for the cycle to begin again. Another politician with skeletons in need of closets. Nothing you hadn’t seen before, and nothing you weren’t equipped to handle.

Oh how happy you were to be wrong.

Other than having no media training, Bucky Barnes was a good man. All of his baggage had already been aired out for the entire nation to see. It was a much welcome change. You’d always been paid to hide secrets, not use them.

However, this meant the Nation already had an opinion of him. Bucky’s reputation ranged from admired hero to public enemy number one. Nevermind the small subset of Winter Soldier fanatics who studied his every move and then dissected it all online.

You had spent a solid six hours just combing through forums to try and understand whether they loved or hated him. You finally gave up after finding one entirely dedicated to different versions of his prosthetic arm.

The only information this research did reveal was that people really, really like photos of him from his time in the service. The government’s Captain America archives made them easy to find.

Just like that your newest strategy was born. You didn’t like to lean so heavily on the veteran angle, but this felt like special circumstances. One of the first fundraising efforts you lead, was simply a release of t-shirts with him in his army fatigues on it. It sold out in twelve minutes.

Unfortunately, sepia stained Polaroids can only do so much heavy lifting.

While there’s no gentle way to tell someone ‘you’re perfect, now change everything’ Bucky took it well. Not enthusiastically, but he was open, which is all you could ask for. He didn’t grumble once when you sent him to an eight hour “media-training boot camp.”

He didn’t even argue when you picked him up afterwards and drove him to a Barber.

All things that further cemented his status as your favorite client.

Watching his hair fall to the floor broke a little piece of your heart. Alas, the short hair had tested better in focus groups, so off it came. It made more sense message wise too, helping consolidate the image of the 40’s soldier and this modern counterpart. Removing as many similarities to the Winter Soldier as you could afford.

“Can you take a little more off the back?” You ask. It’s easily your third interruption and you can almost hear the Barber roll his eyes.

“That okay?” You ask, the question directed at Bucky this time.

Favoritism aside, you were still deeply uncomfortable around each other. At least that’s how it felt. It had only been three weeks, but he was a quiet type. You were used to working with braggadocios, they always told you where you stood.

Bucky liked to watch. Usually giving you one word answers, if that. His stare is what made you uneasy, the weight of his attention was enough to make you falter. Not knowing what it meant was enough to make you second guess, you need to know what it means. Which means you need to know him. Then there was the handsomeness factor.

Today was exposure therapy. You’d worked with plenty of attractive clients before, none that made you fight a blush from eye contact. But that’s okay.

You’ve always liked a challenge.

“It’s just hair.” He replies, voice even and unemotional.

For a second you’re afraid the conversation will end as quickly as it started. You’re about to escape into your phone when Bucky finally makes eye contact with you in the mirror. You’re sitting against the wall behind him, close enough to watch, far away enough that you don’t have to smell his stupid fucking delicious cologne.

Professional distance.

“Besides. You’re holding my reputation in your hands. Whatever you want.” He smiles, as much as Bucky knows how to smile.

Whatever you want. That’s tempting, and three of your favorite words. Especially when coming from a man.

Stop. Professional.

“So if I suggested frosted tips?” You say, raising your eyebrows.

He huffs, it’s the closest thing you’ve gotten to a laugh.

The barber is nearly done, the effect the cut has on Bucky’s face already dramatic. He looks, young. Or at least the age he would’ve been if it wasn’t for all of- everything.

It’s still a little wet, you can see the ends curling as the barber combs through them and lifts them up to trim. You wonder if he left it long, if someone taught him how to take care of it, would it curl?

You do your best to ignore the stray drop of water that glides down the back of his neck, ghosting over his (now) perfect hairline.

The chair spins around to face you. The barber standing behind it with a satisfied smile, holding the comb triumphantly and letting out a little “Ta da!”

Bucky raises a eyebrow, and you’re startled when you realize- He’s waiting for your approval.

Your stomach burns with satisfaction. You like that a little too much too.

You nod, standing and walking over Bucky, and subsequently the barber. You smile, then hold out your hand.

“You mind?” You ask, though your tone makes it clear it’s not a question.

The barber grunts, giving you the comb and walking with a huff into the back of the shop, leaving you and Bucky alone.

You had called ahead, made sure they’d have the building cleared so you’d be the only ones inside during Bucky’s appointment. Too many variables and prying eyes otherwise.

Wordlessly, you begin to cut. There’s not much to trim, but the barber had left a few stray hairs, and his sides were uneven, which would’ve driven you crazy. It was a short cut, a little left on the top, specifically the front. Enough to let it sit naturally, but also long enough he could style with a smidge of a gel. Versatile, easy to manage for Bucky’s sake.

Then you look down at Bucky, realizing you had neglected to turn him back around, and find him already studying you. Suddenly feeling sheepish, you take a step back, spinning him around to get his opinion.

“You fixed the sides.” He says. You wait for noted but it doesn’t come. You realize that’s probably the closest you’d get to a compliment.

You reach over, putting the comb back and grabbing a small bit of gel. You rub it between your hands and before you can overthink it, run your hands through his hair. Giving the front a little bit of quaffing.

Almost satisfied, you put your hands down on the back of his chair. “You still trust me?”

Bucky lifts a hand to his beard, it’s scruffy, and while you don’t mind that (not even a little). It’s not exactly the look you’re going for.

“You can do it yourself, if you want?” You offer, very aware that this may count as over stepping.

He shakes his head, dropping his hand back into his lap. “I trust you.”

You reach over, grabbing a razor from the station and attaching the 4mm guard. “The beard has tested well, specifically with your female constituents.” Fancy excuse for it would make you sad to shave it all off. “We don’t want to lose it all, just polish it a little.”

Bucky hums, lifting his chin to give you a better angle as you finally switch the it on. The way it shakes to life in your hand once again reminds you of all the faith he has in you. All of his eggs, super glued into your basket.

The buzzing goes quickly. Bucky is inhumanly still. While it normally unsettles you, you can’t help but be grateful. Especially given the next step.

You shut off the buzzer, and reach into the barbicide glass to grab the straight edge razor.

Thankfully in the time it takes you to finish prepping the razor, Bucky has grabbed the oil from the counter and applied it himself.

You give him a moment to settle back into the chair, and wait for him to give the ‘go ahead’ nod.

Taking a deep breath to steel your nerves, you start on the top of his beard, tightening the edges just under his cheek bone until the form a sharp, smooth line.

“Are you normally this…” Bucky trails off, freezing as you get close to his nose, and subsequently his lips in all their blush pink glory (Not that you’re paying any attention to them).

“Hands on?” You offer, pulling back and cleaning the razor. It gives Bucky a chance to release the breath he was holding. He nods.

You hum. “Not, normally this literally. But yes.” You shape the other side as you speak, triple checking that they’re even. “I don’t normally have this much creative control though.”

“Does that make me a pushover?” He asks. Another borderline smile dancing on his face.

You use a finger to tilt his chin up, making sure to avoid eye contact as you do so. “Makes you the smartest client I’ve ever had.”

“Sweet talking won’t get you frosted tips.”

“Was worth a shot.”

You’re pleased to find that the more you talk, the easier it gets. However, the weight of your current position, isn’t lost on you. His attempts at breezy conversation isn’t enough distract you from the fact that his neck is ramrod straight. He’s hardly even breathing.

He must see you noticed his tension, “Haven’t let someone else shave me since before I was shipped out.” He explains, interrupting your study of his breathing patterns. “The first time.”

Shit. He really does trusts you.

It’s almost too much, overwhelming. This man who has been dragged through hell, is sitting here and letting you use a Sweeney Todd style razor on his neck.

You’re not sure what to say, how to acknowledge the hefty implications in his words. Trusting you with his career is one thing, this is his way of saying he trusts you with his life. You hum, your next swipe with the razor extra gentle.

You fall back into a comfortable silence as you finish. Drawing sharp lines to his neck until the edge of his beard is snug against his jaw. A neck beard is an enemy of the state as far as you’re concerned.

“All done.” You say, turning around and moving out of Bucky’s way so he can finally see his reflection. “A number two guard on your razor will keep it around this length.“ You offer while compulsively cleaning up the Barber’s station. You’re sure he’s watching you from the doorway of whatever room he disappeared into. But the only eyes you can feel on you are Bucky’s. “If you like it, that is.”

You finally turn back around to face him. You don’t know if he likes it, but it’s safe to say it’s exactly what you were going for. He looks cleaner, more professional, more like a politician.

But still Bucky.

All he does is hum in response, and your stomach drops to the floor.

He hates it. He hate it’s, he’s going to fire you, and then you’ll be back to helping assholes hide hush money and-

“You do good work.”

Deciding to become, or deciding to try and become a politician was something Bucky had yet to wrap his brain around.

His resume wasn’t that of your typical bureaucrat. No political science degree or volunteer work. Sure there was his time in the service, but last he’d checked the military had changed quite a bit since World War II. He had more experience in fighting U.S. forces than actually serving in them these days.

He knew better than to admit it out loud, but the choice to run for congress, was one he made a whim.

Part had been born out of desperation to leave Brooklyn. Another part was his desire to be useful. To make a good change for once, and do it in a way that didn’t involve voilence.

Bucky just wishes he’d done a little more research.

If someone had warned him about all of the paperwork and bullshit and he had to do just to run, (never mind the pile that would be waiting on the other side if he won), he may have reconsidered.

Bucky hated to admit it, but he didn’t start trying to win until you joined the team

Full of vigor and good intentions, you actually managed to make Bucky want to win this stupid thing. Your infectious energy (and the fact that you were completely overqualified) instilled a newfound confidence in his entire team. Everyone started doubling down on their efforts.

For fucks sake he even let you shave him.

Before he knew it, Bucky was only behind by five points instead of thirty.

Now he found himself in a pickle. Physically he was knee deep in mockups of lawn signs, poll numbers, and focus group answers. Mentally all he could think about was you.

You were talking, making expressive hand gestures as you tried (in vain) to explain what the statistics in front of him meant.

Bucky was too busy thinking about your fingernails to focus.

They’d changed overnight, from a soft pink to a bright eye-catching red. He wasn’t even sure when you would have had the time, you were with him at the campaign office until well after eight last night and you had beaten him there this morning.

“Bucky, do you understand what I’m saying?” You finally broke through, tone half exasperation and half exhaustion.

Luckily, his lack of experience saved him once again. As it so often did when he was too busy watching you, to actually listen. “You know I suck at the numbers stuff.”

Why red? Is red your favorite color? No, he’s pretty sure that green is your favorite, you wear it at-least once a week and your water-bottle has a single green sticker on it.

You gave him a small smile, “I think you could win Bucky.”

Why red? He remembered girls back in Brooklyn who would paint their nails red, talking about how they’d paint their lips to match. Subtle ways to get a boy to thinking about kissing them. He knows it’s none of his business, but he can’t help the ache in his gut when the thought of it being for a date crosses his mind.

Wait what did you just say?

“I could win?”

“A few strategic events, some well timed social media posts and I think you’ve got it in the bag.” You confirm with a smile, it’s one he hasn’t seen before. Confident, almost smug. You’re good at your job and you know it.

“Holy shit.” Is about all Bucky can manage right now.

You finally sit. “I think it might time to find an apartment.”

He groaned. He had hated apartment hunting in New York. Too many people, not enough leases and he doesn’t exactly have a credit score.

“Can’t have a future congressman living in a hotel.” You say, clicking your tongue for emphasis. “Don’t worry I have a friend who can set you up.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, feeling slack jawed.

“But, we’re still falling short in a few key demographics.” You explain, “We need to get you back to Brooklyn for a few days.”

He nods, sitting straighter and actually trying to read one of the papers in front of him, “Millennials?” He asks, pointing to a particularly sad pie chart. “I thought they liked me?”

“There’s a rumor on TikTok you killed Kennedy, true or not it’s been gaining some traction and it’s causing some of their trust to falter.”

Bucky opens his mouth to tell you they’re not totally off base, but before he can you lift your hand and pinch your fingers together in a shushing motion.

Why are they red?

“Less I know, the better.” You say.

Fair enough.

“We’re also falling short on the older, male, right leaning side of the fence.” You explain, shuffling to bring forward a poll dated from a week prior. “Their wives love you, which means they don’t think you’re a man’s man.”

“How do we fix both of those in just a few days.” He asks, trying to ignore the way your manicured fingers tap against the laminate desk. He’s beginning to think it might be intentional on your end.

“That’s why you hired me.” You smile, “Just have your bags ready for Friday morning and make sure you pack a pair of jeans.”

He nods, knowing better than to ask you to explain when you’re in business mode like this. He hasn’t known you long, but there’s something about seeing you in your element that makes you shine a little brighter.

“I could win?” He finally doubles back, still not sure it’s entirely he believes it. Still not sure he wants it to. Still wondering why are your nails are red.

“Bucky, You have me on your side. You’re going to win.”

You had a friend at a local pet rescue in the city, and to say he owed you a favor would be an understatement. Getting them to let Bucky host an event was easy.

Getting Bucky to agree was even easier.

As always, your instincts had been right on the money, and it was a perfect match. Animals are an easy win with Millennials, if you only you could have gotten him a puppy interview.

The event was a huge success anyway, truly a publicists wet dream. The people loved him, and after only being there for an hour, a majority of the available cats had already been adopted.

Never mind the visuals, since arriving Bucky hadn’t gone five minutes without a cat in his arms.

“Had one back in the day, used to kill the rats in our building and sleep at my feet.” He had explained as he casually picked up a black little soot ball in his right hand, while the left deftly scooped up a little grey tabby. Each cat a limp noodle in his arms.

His big, strong, straining through the sleeves of his button up arms.

It’s not your fault, you’re pretty sure theres some kind of law about men being allowed to look this good while holding a baby- dog, cat, or human.

You change your train of thought, getting ready to go find the intern with the good camera and ask them to snap some candids of Bucky with the animals. When a voice stops you.

“Hey stranger.”

Jack.

Your ‘friend’ or more accurately, ex-boyfriend/shelter contact. You had hoped he wouldn’t bother coming, so you wouldn’t have to bother having this conversation.

“Jack! How are you?” You smile, turning around to face him, which sadly meant turning your back to Bucky (just as he was picking up a little scrawny, white kitten). Your people-pleaser smile in full effect as you bring him into a half-hearted hug.

He squeezes you back with a lot more enthusiasm than the interaction warrants. “It’s so good to see you!” He says, dragging out the ‘so’ for emphasis. “You’re a big shot now. Working with an Avenger and everything.”

You fight the grimace, you’d already been well established when you met Jack, he was just completely politically uneducated and didn’t believe in watching the news because ‘If something is that important, I’ll hear about.’

He also didn’t know the difference between Senate and the House of Representatives.

In hindsight it’s a miracle your relationship lasted as long as it did.

“Thank you again for letting us borrow some of these cuties.”

“No big deal, it’s a great chance to get some of the animals adopted.” He nods in Bucky’s direction. “Seems like he might be taking one home.”

You turn around, finding Bucky holding the white kitten in the crook of his elbow, the little thing is stretched out with its arms straight above its head, belly up and fast asleep.

You resist the urge to groan, finding a pet friendly rental in DC is a fucking nightmare.

Then you watch as Bucky looks down to acknowledge the kitten, ever so delicately scratching under its chin with his free hand.

Worth it.

“Turns out he’s a cat person.” You say, turning back to Jack.

This time you really take the opportunity to study him, all the ways he’s changed. He’s shorter than you remember. He also started dyeing his hair black. It looks bad. He’s less imposing and handsome than your brain dreamt him up to be.

It’s hard to find anyone handsome when they’re in the same room as Bucky.

Jack still has the same eyes, vacant. Bright and engaging, not a whole lot happening behind them.

You hadn’t ended on bad terms per se. It was mostly a mutual break up, with each of your agreeing your lives were just too different. He wanted a golden retriever, Sunday night pasta dinners, and a house so loud he never has to hear himself think.

You need quiet.

“That cat hasn’t let a single person pick her up since she got to the rescue. I’m not letting him leave without her.” Jack says.

“I don’t think it’ll take much convincing.” You smile. “It’s good to see you Jack.”

“Yeah you too, you look good y’know.” He says

Oh you know.

“Thanks, you look happy.” You mean it. “I should get back to work though. Someone needs to make sure babies get their foreheads kissed.”

“Like I said, you’re a big shot.” He pulls you into another just a little too tight hug. “You think he’s gonna win?”

You give Bucky another look, this time surprised to find him watching you. You can quite read his expression, but you never can. The sleepy little kitten in his arm is pawing at his chest trying to get his attention.

“Yeah I do.”

With that you finally escape, grasping onto Bucky’s attention like it’s a lifeline. You use the few steps it takes to reach him to shoot off a quick text, make sure there was nothing on fire, and then you put your phone back into your pocket.

Looking up you give Bucky a smile. “You know they have dogs here too right?” You ask, tone light and facetious.

“Who was that guy.” Bucky asks, always straight to the point.

“My contact here.”

“He seemed awfully friendly.”

“Didn’t take you for a gossip Barnes.” You smile, stepping a little closer, bringing a hand up to pet the baby in his arms. “If you must know, we used to date.”

He hums. “Seems like he’s still interested.” The kitten stands on his forearm, leaning against his chest while it stretches. “If you are I mean.”

You would laugh if you weren’t so surprised. The conversation was beginning to tip toe on that line of unprofessional, you could hear the sirens beginning to wail inside your head. But Bucky is looking at you with all of his attention as he waits for your answer. It’s the same stare that always makes you melt, so you ignore the alarms.

You’re not stupid, you know what he’s really asking.

Are you interested? Single? Looking?

You’re just surprised he cares about the answer.

“I know he isn’t.” You answer, choosing your words carefully, “He has two little girls at home and a gorgeous wife who wants all the same things as him.” You finally leave the cat in his arms alone, resisting the urge to coo as it reaches for you with its paw. “I would’ve kept him waiting too long for all those things.”

It’s a more honest answer than you would normally give, but it’s Bucky. You feel safe with him holding the truth.

He nods, and you notice the slight twitch of his lips. Like he’s fighting a smile.

“I think I have to adopt this cat.” He says, sparring you any follow up questions. He guides the kitten up to his shoulder, where it quickly makes itself at home.

“I already had one of the interns start the paperwork.” You smile knowingly.

“How do you do that?” He asks.

“Do what?”

He holds the kitten up to his face, staring as if it might answer instead of you, “Know exactly what I’m thinking?”

Bucky knew you only acted in the best interests of the campaign. Each event carefully crafted to boost morale, or fix a statistic you didn’t liked

However, for the first time he wondered if maybe you had chosen this event, just because you wanted to go. Okay maybe it wasn’t the entire reason, he was sure you could back it up with a graph and something about polling numbers if he asked.

But after everything you’d done for the campaign, he was inclined to let you have the win. Besides, seeing you in a jersey and jean shorts wasn’t something he felt like he needed to be upset about.

Don’t forget the baseball cap, which it really brought home for him.

Honestly the only thing that really pissed him off about today, was the fact that the first baseball he got to watch in eighty fucking years was a Yankees game.

His Ma would be rolling in her grave, and he told you as much.

“What are you a Mets guy or something?” You ask barely tearing your eyes from the field to look at him.

“Mets?” He asks, tilting his head slightly. He hadn’t found much use for baseball since rejoining the world. Watching it on TV felt too static, but he didn’t have the heart to go to a real game alone either.

“Guess not.” You answer yourself.

“Dodgers were my team.” He explained.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this but they’re on the West Coast now.” You say with an over exaggerated grimace.

“Don’t get me started.”

“Didn’t realize you were such a fan.” It’s not a question, but the way your voice lilts up at the end sure makes it seem like one.

He doesn’t mind taking the bait.

“My Ma used to bring me and my sister down to Ebbet’s every Sunday. Could never afford tickets but there was a great park right out the stadium, we could hear everything.” He said, feeling himself start smiling just remembering it. “I’d lay on the grass, close my eyes, and pretend I was inside.”

“I hope you know, I’m picturing this all in black and white.” You cracked, if Bucky wasn’t so caught up the memory, he’d notice that your voice was dripping with fondness.

“Very funny.” He responds.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “Keep going.”

“Only got inside once, just me and Steve. We snuck in when we like fifteen. He was short enough to pass for a kid and I was fast enough to lose security after jumping the turnstile. Best game I ever saw.” He feels himself smiling while he pictures it, “Even though security kicked us out halfway through the fourth inning.”

“You got into a lot of trouble as a kid didn’t you?” You asked, turning yourself in your to face him. While at least as much as you can turn in a stadium seat.

“Steve did, I just felt guilty letting him get in trouble alone.”

“How selfless.” You joke.

“I’ve always been a man of the people.” Talking was so easy with you. Bucky couldn’t seem to stop himself lately.

“I’m sorry but hearing you refer to Captain America as Steve is never gonna stop being weird for me.” You say, taking another sip of your drink. A beer, which had surprised him. He had pegged you for spirits.

“Hearing you call Steve, Captain America is never gonna stop being a total mind fuck for me.”

“Since when do you curse so much Barnes.” You ask, tilting your head.

“Since I have to sit through a Yankees game, sober-“ He nudged you with his elbow, reaching over to tap the bottle in your cupholder, “-and since you’re too tipsy to yell at me about it.”

You shrug, apparently not finding much fault with his argument. “It’s not my fault you have a supernatural metabolism.” You take another sip, grinning at him as you do so. “I don’t get a lot opportunities to drink shitty beer and eat greasy food these days, gotta take advantage.” You finish.

“I’m not judging.” He defends.

“Everything has to be a bit of mind fuck for you though doesn’t it?” You ask. No malice, just curiosity.

“Who’s cursing now?” He deflects.

“No seriously. I mean, it can’t be easy, and yet here you are, still trying to make the world a better place.” You say. For the first time ever, Bucky thinks you might just feel sorry for him. Not because of his past, but because of his decision to go into politics. Which is fitting for you.

“Sure, it’s hard.” He admits, “Ebbet’s is a bunch of apartments, people don’t go dancing anymore, the Dodgers play for LA, a hot dog costs a month’s rent-“ He pauses, taking a deep breath, “-and Steve is gone.” No matter how many times he says it, it still tastes bitter. You’re right, his entire world had been turned upside down, twice.

“Trying to be good is the only thing I still know how to do.” He finishes. His words hang between you for a moment, and he’s worried he’s said too much.

“People do still go dancing.” You finally respond.

“They don’t dance the way they used to though. I don’t think I could keep up now.” He says.

“It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it.” You smile, “I’ll have to take you when this is all over.”

Bucky is too busy reading into that last sentence to try and respond to it.

A few minutes of quiet pass between you. You shake your head, taking another swig before speaking. “You don’t give yourself enough credit Bucky.” You say, finally leaving it at that.

Bucky is grateful, he wasn’t sure how he had veered so far off course. Somehow he’d managed to ruin a conversation that he swears could have been considered flirting.

Don’t get him started on how flirting as changed.

You’ve bumped his shoulder and laughed at enough of his jokes that the old Bucky would’ve asked you out by now. But he didn’t know if either of those things meant what they used to back then. He was pretty sure they did.

He was also pretty sure you’d had at least three beers. You’re the closest to relaxed he’d ever seen you. Laughing freely, not worried about optics, or the political implications of Bucky being seen eating cracker jacks. If he knows you as well as he thinks he’s starting too, you probably have some ‘no dating clients’ rule anyway. It wouldn’t be fair for him to make a move now, not when you could finally breathe.

Regardless of if you were flirting or not.

Besides you’re wearing jean shorts and it’s the first time he’s ever seen anything above your knee and staring at your thighs was the closest thing to drunk Bucky has felt in years. He isn’t of sound mind.

“You’re one of the most selfless men I’ve ever met,” You smile, and your hand reaches over to touch his that’s resting on top of his thigh. “And I’ve met a lot men.”

Bucky feels his brain get dangerously close to exploding.

Somehow, he still manages to find words. “It’s not all selfless.” He confesses. Turning the hand yours was resting on upwards and lacing his fingers through yours.

It’s as forward as his confidence can afford right now.

He squeezes your hand and then releases it. Bucky stands up and resists the urge to stretch his back because Jesus, these seats are uncomfortable. He gets ready to walk away, with the plan of shaking a few hands, and getting you a pretzel (for alcohol absorption purposes of course. It has nothing to do with an comment you made about craving one).

Before he leaves he bends over and whispers his last admission in your ear.

“I’m not trying to make the world a better place. I’m still trying to make him proud.”

8:00 A.M.

That’s when your flight leaves, which means it will board around 7:15 A.M.

So you should really be at the airport by 6 A.M. Your entire team has TSA Pre-check so it shouldn’t take too long but it’s better safe than sorry.

That means you have to leave the hotel by 5 A.M to get to JFK in time.

You need an hour to shower, and get ready so you look some version of human so you can hit the ground running when you land in DC. So wake up at 4 A.M.

You look down at your phone and sigh, 10:45 P.M. If you fell asleep right now you’d be lucky to get five hours of sleep.

Yet you can’t bring yourself to move.

Surely it had nothing to do with the man sitting across the table from you. Bucky raises his eyebrows, giving you that stupid, handsome, knowing look.

“Your brain is working.” He says, lifting his glass to his lips and taking a sip. This time you let yourself stare stare at them.

You had gotten back from the event a little over an hour ago. A charity gala for some businessman’s tax write off. It was a great opportunity for him to rub some elbows, smile and make small talk with all the right people. It was your last stop on his mini Brooklyn tour.

You had joined Bucky, acting as his -strictly professional- plus one. It was out of your normal scope of responsibilities, but Bucky had made a very convincing argument, something about how you were better with names, and faces, and how if you didn’t go he’d end up sulking in a corner all night.

It made the most sense for you to go. Keep Bucky company, feed him names and information. Maybe one quick dance.

It had nothing to do with the fact that saying no to him is quickly becoming impossible.

Definitely nothing to do with wanting to see him in a suit.

“I’m doing the math on when we need to get to the airport.” You tell him.

“Knew it.” He says, “Is that your way of saying we should call it a night?” He asks, but doesn’t move an inch.

He’s giving you an out.

You shake your head. “I’ve done more with less sleep.” You take a sip of your drink. You feel wide awake but you’re pretty sure it’s not from the alcohol. “What about you Barnes, need your beauty rest?”

Bucky smiles, he had shrugged his jacket off when you first sat down. At some point the first few buttons of his shirt had been undone. You’re not even sure when he took the tie off. “Bold of you to assume I ever sleep.”

You had worn a long black dress, formal enough to blend in without drawing attention away from Bucky. It also looked perfect on you, not that you were worried about that though.

You had drank, eaten, and made so much small talk you’d probably have a sore throat tomorrow. Yet when Bucky asked if you were up for a night cap, you once again found yourself struggling to get that two-letter word off your tongue.

You didn’t want say goodbye just yet, and there was something about having him all to yourself that you were starting to become addicted to. So you sat down at a table in the nearly empty hotel bar, and you couldn’t help but think about how you probably looked like a couple to the rest of the world.

“Can I admit something?” You ask, tilting your head.

Bucky nods. “Anything.”

“I didn’t think you stood a chance.”

Bucky almost chokes on his drink. “Jesus, that’s reassuring.” He scoffs.

“You had terrible optics, no political background, and everyone who I asked about you either hated you or was scared shitless of you.” You explain.

“I do have a bad history with politicians.” He cracks. “If I was so hopeless, why’d you take the job?”

Your walls are lowered enough that you give him the real answer. “Needed a change. Didn’t hurt that I thought you were cute.” You take another sip, you can’t tell if it’s the drink making your cheeks feel hot or him.

Bucky hums, if he was going to say anything else you don’t give him the chance.

“Bucky you’re my unicorn.” You sigh, cue another embarrassed sip, “You’re a good man, willing to take feedback, and running for the right reasons.”

You let your words sit there in the silence, biting your lip to force yourself to stop talking. Christ you’re nervous, you’re never nervous, why is he making you so nervous?

“The other guys must’ve been real assholes.” He says, and you know it’s the closest you’ll get to him accepting the compliment.

“This is the first time in ten years I want the person I’m working for to actually win. I want you to win Bucky.”

You wouldn’t normally risk being this open with a politician, but you were beginning to feel like that word fits him less and less.

Or maybe it was the forced professionalism that’s ill suited.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you hate your job sweetheart.”

You’re already rolling your eyes when you hear it.

Sweetheart.

Your heart stutters, your fingers twitch, your face feels even hotter.

“Love the job, hate the people.” You manage to choke out, finally downing the rest of your glass in an attempt to collect yourself. Buy yourself a little time before you have to talk again. “I get the chance to help make the world better, by making sure the right people are in charge of it. But at the same time I’m the reason Whitmore ever got in office.”

Bucky’s eyes widen.

“Whitmore? I fucking hate that guy.”

You nod, grimacing.

Preston Clay Whitmore IV. You worked for him back when he was running for Senate in Texas, and using all of his Daddy’s money to do it.

“It was my first job, I was his communications consultant. God I hated him.” You shake your head, “But I was fresh out of college, green and broke.”

“A deadly combination.” He offers.

“He thought he was the next Kennedy, and he talked like it. Every single interview, debate, and ad sounded like Preston thought he was gods gift to humanity.” You can still hear his catchy little stupid theme song now.

Whitmore’s a comin’ to Whip DC into shape!

“How’d you turn it around?” He asks, a smile playing at those gorgeous lips.

Okay maybe you are a little buzzed.

“I made him drop the Roman numerals to start.”

You weren’t super enthusiastic about him, and you certainly weren’t thrilled about being in the South. Yet Preston’s father knew all the right people, you knew getting him into office would mean a career. A great one.

You don’t mean to bore Bucky with all of the details of Preston’s campaign, of his miraculous win, and how he ended up being elected the youngest Senator in Texas’ history. But the way he listens, the way he asks you questions. You almost think he enjoyed it.

Suddenly he’s telling you about how he recently got his hands on a tape of one of Steve’s old USO shows, and how he wishes he could hold it over his head.

You’re telling him about how you worked two jobs in high school in order to save up for college.

Then he’s promising to take you to Wakanda someday, once things have settled down some, how it’s nothing like how you picture it.

“I’ve got a few friends from when I lived there.”

You swear your jaw almost hits the floor, “You lived there?”

“Yeah for a few years,” he laughs, “They helped straighten my brain out, made it possible for me to almost be like a real person.”

He smiles, finally polishing off his drink.

“Why do you drink if it doesn’t affect you?” You ask.

He shrugs, the glass still in his hand. “I still like the taste of a good drink, that’s why I didn’t bother with beer or any of the crap being served at the game the other day.” He puts the cup back on the table.

“I think it still has a placebo effect on me too a little bit. Even though I can’t metabolize it, I still feel like it smooths the edges.”

You nod, understanding.

You can’t help but finally look at your phone again.

1:45 A.M. Shit.

You look back up and meet Bucky’s knowing gaze.

“We should go to bed, shouldn’t we?” He asks, this time he shrugs his jacket back on.

“Afraid so.” You answer, voice softer than you expected. “You have to go back to your apartment or can you get a room here?”

He shakes his head, “I got a few things I wanna pack up, plus I have to get Alpine ready.”

You smile, brightening at the mention of your new favorite feline. “You decided on a name!” He nods, his smile just as wide.

“Can I walk you up to your room?” He asks, finally standing.

God you almost forgot just how tall he is.

“You don’t have do that Bucky I’m all the way on the 8th floor.” You stand too, at some point you had kicked your heels off and you can’t be bothered to force them back on, instead leaning down to pick them up in one hand.

“Humor me. Please?” He gives you the eyes, ones you can only describe as begging. The ones he uses whenever his not getting his way, “It’d make me feel less guilty for keeping you up so late.” He takes the shoes out of your hand as he speaks, completely dwarfing them in his grasp.

“I guess it is the least you can do.” You joke, starting to walk towards the elevator.

The ride up is spent in silence, but not the awkward kind, like the day at the barbershop. It’s softer, warmer, like the air between you is humming.

Your room is all the way at the end of the hallway, and if you were in tune enough with your body to remember just had badly your feet hurt, you’d probably complain about it.

But right now, with Bucky so close so you can’t bring yourself to worry about a blister.

However, it was only a matter of time before you got to your door. While digging the hotel key out of your purse, you turn around to face Bucky.

“Thank you again, for tonight. And for walking me up to my room.” You nod toward the door, still not moving to open it.

When had he gotten so close? Less than a foot was between you now.

Bucky smiles, looking down at the floor, then back up to you. “Least I could do after you saved me from a night of getting people’s names wrong.”

You laugh, “Seriously, I had a really good time tonight Bucky.”

You feel yourself leaning into him, it’s not entirely conscious. The smell of his cologne is drowning out the voices screaming: Back up! Move away! Too close! Danger! Danger! Danger!

But he’s leaning in too. With him, it feels the opposite of scary.

“Me too.” He says, his voice is so soft now, and you know this proximity isn’t lost on him.

You feel yourself move before you can actually think about it, your heels lifting up from the ground, your hands rising and settling on his broad shoulders.

And then you kiss his cheek.

As you pull away, it’s like you’re stuck in slow motion. A slow sink down while your hands drift from his shoulders to his pecs.

Your eyes are shut, too afraid to open them and see his reaction when-

Bucky leans down and presses his head against yours, forehead to forehead. His chest brushing against yours as you each breathe, or in your case, try to. His eyes are closed too. His brows scrunched like when he’s thinking really hard about something.

Your body feels like a live wire when he’s this close. All rational thoughts are completely overwhelmed with the desire, no- the need to kiss him.

You angle your head, tilting your chin and just like that- contact.

He only takes a few seconds to respond.

He’s softer than you imagined, catching your top lip between his and treating it with such care and the whole moment feels so much more, gentle, than you had expected it to.

Not that you had been thinking about it or anything.

He pulls away, but you’re quick to grab one of his a lapels, ensuring he can’t go far. You do your best to read him, before either of you can open your mouths and ruin this.

You can’t decide if he wants to kiss you again or apologize. You’re not sure which you want either.

“I don’t do this.” You say, sounding a lot more breathless than you intended. “Kiss clients, I mean.”

“I know.” He says.

“We really shouldn’t do this.” You add, not sounding even a little confident.

“I know.” He says.

“I have a rule about it.” You try, sounding even weaker.

“I figured.” He says.

But Bucky has made up his mind, with his free hand (which had at some point made its way to your hip), he slowly guides you until your back is flat against the door to your room.

Your hands are still frozen, clutching his jacket. Your knuckles almost white with tension. Your noses are almost touching.

“Just one more.” He says, closing his eyes and pressing his lips back to yours.

Distantly you hear him drop your heels, and feel his hand come up to cradle the side of your face.

He’s not as gentle this time, the force behind his kiss is greater. It’s more confident, hungrier. You can’t help but melt into it, hands climbing until they find a home behind his neck.

You’re hungrier this time too.

You feel your body filling with want and need. The urge to bite and claw him, then kiss and stitch him back together. If you were anyone else you could let it consume you. Part of you wonders if he would let it consume him. The way he’s kissing you, it’s like he already has.

When you break for air, you’re suddenly aware of just how tightly he’s pressed himself against you. How delicious warm, firm, and broad he is.

He drops his head against your shoulder, pressing it into the crook of your neck. You feel him release a long, deep sigh against your neck as if he already knows what you’re thinking.

You allow yourself to run your hands through his hair, just once. Working up the strength to get the words out.

Bucky presses one last soft kiss to your neck and then detaches himself from you.

Wordlessly, he picks up your heels, fixes the strap that had fallen off of your shoulder, and manages to grab your long discarded key card.

He fixes you with a look, one that you hadn’t seen before. It’s reverent, deep, and knocks any words you had out of your mouth.

“After?” Is all he asks.

But you know what he’s asking. “After.” You answer, a firm nod to accompany it.

You don’t need to say more than that, as if the kiss had also created your own short hand.

He smiles, and leans forward to unlock your room. Propping the door open with one hand, he waits until you’ve stepped inside it to hand you your heels, and your key card. As if he can’t resist, he also presses one last chaste kiss to your forehead.

“See you in a few hours sweetheart.” Finally he turns around and he leave.

You stand in the door way dumbfounded until you hear the elevator ding, and then you finally close it.

Your typically nighttime routine takes twice the time it should, with frequently interruptions of muttering “what the fuck was I thinking?” and deep reflective pauses to try and remember what his lips looked like when they were well kissed.

When you finally fall onto the bed, the last thing you see is the digital clock blinking at you, or more accurately taunting you.

2:30 A.M.

“Shit.”

Bucky is Dragging.

He didn’t make it back to his apartment until after three, the walk took him twice as long as it should have because he was too busy thinking about you.

What else is new?

However, this time, his thoughts were clouded with memories, instead of hypotheticals. He remembered how you felt beneath his hands. How you tasted. How you smiled against his lips. How you wanted it as badly as he did.

By the time he’s packed, and the cat is finally stowed away in her travel carrier (a mesh backpack one of the interns had picked up) it’s time for him to head to the airport.

Safe to say the lack of sleep isn’t helping his clarity.

He’s trying his best to listen to what the flight crew is saying, Something something cat, something something landing, something something drink service.

He’s too busy ogling you. And too tired to try and hide it. You were sitting across from him, nose deep in a packet someone had handed to you while boarding.

Normally Bucky would try to sleep on this flight, after all he had kindergarteners to read too once he got to DC. Or something, he honestly wasn’t even sure what he’s rushing back for. All that matters is that he should be sleeping, but he can’t because he doesn’t know what you’re thinking.

Since sitting down you’d been able to spare him a glance, and a tight smile, but that was it.

Maybe you had changed your mind? Sure, your agreement last night wasn’t super fleshed out, but he thought the implication was clear.

After, meaning after the campaign.

He just needed to make sure. God it made him feel like a little boy, even just to admit it to himself.

He clears his throat, and waits for you to finally meet his eyes. “You get any sleep last night?” He asks, if the way your eyes droop are any indication the answer is no.

You shake your head, “About an hour, if I’m lucky.” You tell him, but you smile again, this time it looks more like your own. “You?”

He shakes his head, “Too much to think about.”

You hum, and he knows you’re acutely aware of the staff surrounding you in the plane. Each one is either napping or too engrossed in their own tasks, but still too risky.

“You’re in the home stretch now, little more than two weeks to go.” You say. Placing the files you had been pouring over to the side. “It’s a lot to think about.”

Despite the mention of the rapidly approaching election, Bucky can’t help but relax as you talk. “I was thinking about after.” He says. It’s as on the nose as he can get.

Your smile widens. “You need sleep to get to after, Bucky.”

“Too nervous.” He shoots back.

You shake your head, stretching your legs out in front of you, until the toe of your shoe touches Bucky’s.

“No reason to be nervous. It will still be there.”

That was all he needed to hear.

“It’s worth waiting for.” He says. It didn’t quite make sense in the conversation you’re having out loud. But in the real conversation, the one being had under a layer of professionalism, he’s saying:

You’re worth waiting for.

Based on the way you duck your head, embarrassed. He knows you heard the second one.

“Before you try to sleep, there is something else we should talk about.”

And just like that, you’ve slipped back into the professional. Your voice changes in a way Bucky can’t quite define, but he’s been spending enough time with you that he can hear the difference.

“We’re going to up your security, we have three more guards who will be joining your rotation when we land.”

It catches Bucky totally out of left field. “Wait, what?” He asks.

You nod, “I know it sounds dramatic,” you try to appease him, as if you can already hear the argument on his tongue. “But there have been three credible threats made against you in the past forty-eight hours.”

Bucky shakes his head, “Is it really neces-“

“Yes.” You cut him off, “I don’t care that you’re built like a tank Bucky.” He can’t help the smile that crosses his face at that, “I’m not taking any chances.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He relents, and he feels the shit-eating grinning that’s still plastered across his face. “Any thing else?”

You smile, pleased. “The social media team has drafted a post about Alpine- just stating you’ve adopted her and laying on the cuteness factor. Permission to post?”

“Yea that’s fine.” His eyes dart to the seat next to him, where the little creature is curled in a ball. It’d only been a few days, but it was nice to have a cat again. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

You nod, pulling out your tablet and he hears your (now French) nails tap at the screen.

Were they like that last night? He was pretty distracted, but he surprised he didn’t notice. The novelty of getting to touch you had turned just about everything but the memory of your lips to mush.

“You’re going straight from the airport to Howard Stark Elementary. The plan is for you to tell a few jokes, color a few pages, and read them a Doctor Seuss book or something.” You explain, “It’s grandparents day so there will be other people your age.” Bucky would have believed you if it weren’t for the way you started smiling at the end of the sentence.

It was more of smirk actually. Like you thought you were hilarious.

Even when it was at his expense he was inclined to agree. He doesn’t let it show though, keeping stoic until you break.

“Kidding.” You promise. “Then it’s off to a luncheon with a few of the other candidates. You should be done by three, and then you’re free to nap.”

“Thank god.”

“You mind if I put a suit fitting in your calendar for this week?” You sound like you’re asking, but Bucky knows it’s really just your way of telling him it’s happening. “You should have a new suit ready for election night.”

You make a good point. He had plenty of suits, but he wouldn’t mind having something a new for the big day. “Only if you help me pick it out.” He offers, playing right into your charade of his control.

“Of course.” You agree, standing up and your arms above your head. It causes your blouse to ride up just enough to make his fingers twitch. Then you- as casually as possible- look around.

You must be satisfied by what you see, because when you walk next to Bucky’s seat and lean down so you’re next to his ear. He feels your warm breath hit his skin, and the smell of your perfume has the hair on his neck standing up. He almost doesn’t hear what your whisper.

“As if I’d miss the chance to see you in a suit.”

Then you’re gone, turning around and making your way up to the bathroom as if you didn’t just send him into a tail spin.

Maybe flirting hasn’t changed that much.

You were honest on the plane.

Hell would freeze over before you miss a chance to see Bucky in a suit. Especially after the other night.

But it wasn’t just your new obsession driving this shopping trip.

He was going to win. You wanted him to look devastatingly handsome when he did.

You could feel it now, it was completely in his grasp. You were used to quick results, but this had been unlike anything you’d ever seen before. You’d never seen a candidate jump this far into the lead after only two months.

The numbers looked great. You felt confident saying that despite your very unprofessional bias.

Speaking of-

You’d been back in DC for a week and still hadn’t been alone since. You hadn’t even had a chance to talk about it since the plane.

Did that even count?

Sure, you’d stared at eachother about it, and smiled about it, and brushed eachothers hands about it, but no words had been spoken.

Inside this shop was the closet you’d gotten to privacy. Just you, Bucky, and the old man measuring his inseam.

Much to your surprise, the tailor, Eddie, was Bucky’s pick.

Even more surprisingly, the two of them hadn’t shut up since you walked in the door. You had sat down on one of the chairs in front of the mirrors while Eddie began the fitting. Trying your best to figure out who the hell replaced Bucky with this middle school girl.

“So,” you ask, after a lull in their conversation finally presents itself. “How did you two meet?”

Eddie perks up, as if he just remembered you were there. “We live in the same old folks home.” He tells you, just as Bucky is saying “Neighbors.”

If you had a water you would have done a spit take.

“I’m sorry the same, what?” You ask, lifting a finger in Bucky’s direction as you add “just Eddie.”

Eddie smiles, completely oblivious, as most old men are. “We live in the same apartment complex. Lincoln Estates.” He confirms, too busy measuring to notice your smirk. “Boss man over here just moved into the penthouse.”

“Bucky you told me you moved, but you never said where!”

“On purpose.” He says, voice flat.

Before you can comment, Eddie continues. “Yeah it took some convincing to get the HOA on board, but he technically meets the age requirement. Plus I told them having a congressman in our building might actually get the city to do something about the messed up sidewalk.”

It’s like Bucky can see the jokes forming in your head, “It’s an active adult complex!” He defends, jostling so much that Eddie has to pull him back into place.

“Mhm.” You hum, biting your lips to keep from laughing. “It’s a beautiful building, its by the hospital right?” You ask.

Eddie nods, “Yeah, it’s great! We also have a physical therapist who works out of the building. Plus, there’s a proposal to add a pickle ball court on the roof.”

You nearly choke. “That’s amazing!” You add, completely overdoing your enthusiasm.

Bucky melts in front of you, his face a brighter shade of pink with each passing comment.

Eddie taps Bucky’s shoulder, “Almost done, just gotta run to the back for a few minutes.” It’s innocent enough, but Eddie winks as he says it.

As soon as he’s gone Bucky speaks, “They were pet friendly.”

You don’t ease up, “Were you not gonna tell me?”

“That was the plan.”

“So you were just going to let me figure it out when I saw shuffleboard in the lobby?”

“Why are you in my lobby?” He fires back.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“There’s no shuffleboard in the lobby.” He laments,“Honestly, the apartment itself is normal.”

“Are there handle bars in your shower?” You ask.

Bucky sighs, it’s obvious he will not be winning this round, “They’re very convient.”

You stand up, walking over to a display of ties. You run your fingers over the different fabrics, stopping when your fingers land on a baby blue one. “Bucky do you know how much of your appeal as a candidate relies on the fact that you’re not an old man?”

“I thought my appeal was being an Avenger.”

“Avenger adjacent.” You add, part of your job is to keep him humble afterall. “Yes, that’s a lot of it too, but so is your physical age. If we take out the popsicle years, you’re about to become one the youngest senators on the floor.”

“Popsicle years?” He asks, making that stupid, cute questioning face he always gives you.

You give him a quick, but apologetic look, realizing how that sounded, “Seriously Bucky, just try to keep a low profile in the building for a bit. Last thing we need is someone’s Nana spreading gossip about you.”

He winces and you fix him with a stern, ‘What does that mean?’ look.

You grab the blue tie and walk over to Bucky. “I promised to bring Captain America to the next Barbecue.” He admits.

You’re standing in-front of Bucky now, so close your toes almost touch. Wordlessly, you bring the tie up and around his neck, tucking it under his collar. “You like it there?”

He nods, “I do.” You can feel the weight of his eyes as you begin to tie his tie. You try you best to focus on the steps, but the way he’s staring makes it hard not to mess up. “They play music I actually know, and treat me like I’m just a regular guy.”

You smile. “Then that’s all that matters.”

He smiles back. Clearing his throat as you finally pull the knot tight. You let your hands linger this time, the way they had wanted too that day in the barbershop. You rest your palms against his chest, finally lifting your chin to meet his eyes.

“Still pissed you didn’t tell me though.” You tease.

“Promise not to do it again.” He says. His tone isn’t quite as airy as yours.

Just as you’re about to back up, his hands find your hips. The short distance between you feels so charged, trying to come up with any words feels impossible.

You have a rule and you already broke it once. You’re not trying to get in the habit of breaking it again, not when you’re so close to the finish line. But you can smell his cologne, feel his breath, and it all makes you dizzy.

You should say something. Tell him you shouldn’t, tell him it’s not a good idea, tell him Eddie will be back any second.

“Hi.” You whisper.

Fuck that is not what you were gonna say.

“Hi.” He smiles back, pulling you just a little closer. He looks down at the tie, “Blue?”

“Matches your eyes.” You try and make it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, a futile attempt attempt to break the tension. You realized it had the opposite effect of when you feel his grip tighten.

“Bucky.” You warn, but still not dropping your hands.

He ignores it. “What if I fire you?” He asks

You laugh. Unable to help it, you lean forward and rest your forehead against his chest. “Don’t tempt me.” You exhale.

He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “One week, then you’re taking me dancing.” He says. You tilt your head up towards him, l body all but melted against him at this point and you give in. Leaning up onto your toes you’re just about to press your lips to his when-

“All right Buddy you are all set!” Eddie’s voice booms as he walks back into the room. You and Bucky jump apart like guilty teenagers.

Bucky recovers quicker than you do. “That’s great Eddie, what do I owe you?”

You pick up your bag, and do your best to try and fight the heat in your cheeks. “It’s my treat.” You insist, reaching into your purse to grab your card.

“No way.” Bucky fights back, his wallet is already opened on the counter.

“I’m the one who insisted you get a new suit Bucky.“ you fight back.

“It’s my treat.” Eddie says. “Consider it your house warming present.”

You can tell Bucky is stunned, “You sure it’s not a bribe to get that sidewalk fixed?” He jokes.

“Next one is free if you pull off that miracle.” Eddie smiles, and then not so gently adds, “Now get out of my shop and go flirt somewhere else.”

You laugh, embarrassed. “Thank you Eddie.” You look over at Bucky. “You do good work.”

“I know.” He winks.

The sun beats down on you as you step outside. Eager to get to air conditioning, you walk ahead of Bucky, joking about how he was going to sweat through his new suit.

He’s about fifteen feet behind you, halfway through a comment about how he won’t miss New York winters (as if DC is that much warmer) when you hear the car come to life. Your hand is a foot from the door when the world erupts.

There’s a sudden breeze, then a flash of heat. You feel yourself fly through the air, before you back crashes into something hard and jagged. Then you hear the blast, the reverberation of it shaking the ground you landed on.

Your body starts to catch up, the rest of the world coming back into focus. Your leg is throbbing and you can feel yourself coughing, but you can’t hear a thing over the ringing in your ears.

You look around, trying to find Bucky, but everything is covered in a blanket of smoke. Distantly, you register the car. The entire frame is on fire and either it flew across the street, or you did.

Then it all goes black.

It was like the entire thing had happened in slow motion.

One second you were laughing, smiling at him like you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else- the next thing he knew you were rumpled against a brick wall, covered in dust, blood, and your leg bent beneath you in a that definitely wasn’t natural.

Bucky was far enough away that he only had a few bumps and scrapes. He didn’t even need stitches.

You weren’t so lucky, and you didn’t even have serum on your side.

Every single Doctor who came to check on you marveled at the fact that you had managed to get away with just a few broken ribs, a punctured lung, a concussion, and a fractured leg.

Nothing absolutely this felt lucky to him. He spent three hours waiting for you come out of surgery. It felt like you had been seriously hurt, and it was his fault.

If he had gotten to the car first. If he hadn’t sent the extra security home early. If he had taken a separate car instead of making some lame excuse about saving gas just to be closer to you. This wouldn’t have happened.

Bucky has never needed help with coming up with new and inventive ways to feel guilty and he had plenty of time to do so while he waited for you to wake up.

As an act of contrition he forces himself to just watch. Watch you breathe, watch your fingers twitch, watch your monitors and try in vain to decipher them.

No pacing, no yelling, no tracking down the men who set it all up. None of the things he’d have done if it wasn’t for the fact that he could hear your voice in his head telling him not to.

Telling hum how violence doesn’t suit him, doesn’t match the Bucky he’s become. A man he’s trying very hard to be right now.

You also keeps telling him to call his therapist, but that’s not happening.

Somewhere around hour two he had taken off the tie, it was dirty, dusty, and speckled in your blood from when he lifted you out of the rubble. Now he just kept wrapping and unwrapping it in his hands, anxiety radiating off of him in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

It’s doesn’t matter how many people tell him you’re going to be fine. Their words don’t change how small you look in the hospital bed, how cold your hands feel when he tries to hold them. The bruise from where you hit your head looks brighter every time Bucky can bring himself to look at it, dark purple staining your forehead.

He’s exhausted. A few hours of sleep would do him a world of good, but he can’t sleep until he sees the whites of your eyes.

Bucky has always hated hospitals. He hated them back in when he’d go visit Steve as a kid. He hated them in the war, when they were just tents help to other by rope and a bandaid. He hated them in Wakanda, when he was getting his bearings, relearning how to be human.

He hated them most, when he was a visitor. Being patient comes with a certain degree of acceptance. There’s a surrender that comes with being a patient too, being able to let someone else make all the hard decisions for him.

As a visitor there is no comfort. He sits in the world’s most uncomfortable chair, and waits. He waits for doctors to come with news, he waits for you to need anything. Waits to to feel useful. The rest of the waiting is just a reminder of how no matter what he believes, what he trains for, or what he does, he has no control.

Looking at you here, connected to tubes is a reminder of why he has can never let his guard down. He knew better than to get close, he certainly knew better than to start whatever this thing between the two of you was. He’s already convinced himself that he’s going to get as much distance from you as possible as soon as-

You wake up, or more accurately you groan into consciousness.

Your eyes crack open, lips parting like you’re trying to speak. At your side your hand lifts, stretching as much as it can towards him.

Bucky grabs your hand, holding it between both of his. “Hey sleepyhead.” He whispers.

You hum, craning your head with a wince towards the untouched glass of water on your table. Bucky grabs it wordlessly and brings the straw to your lips, “Small sips.” He encourages. You nod, closing your eyes as you drink.

When you finally pull away, you fix him with a worried look, as if he’s the one laying in the hospital bed.

“You look,” You clear your throat, “-like shit.” You voice is hoarse. He knows how smoke inhalation feels, like swallowing around glass. That’s without having been intubated.

Bucky is sure his relief is palpable, his entire body unclenches. “Then you probably shouldn’t look in the mirror sweetheart.” He says, presenting you the cup for another sip. This time you take the cup from his hands. “You got one hell of a shiner on your forehead.”

You lift a hand to your temple, recoiling when you make contact. “I’ll get bangs.” You say, not giving it another thought. Dropping your hand back to your side, you take a deep breath, or you try too, but a wince interrupts it. “It was really bad wasn’t it?” You ask.

Bucky doesn’t want to be the one to tell you. He doesn’t want to say that you’ll be in a boot for at least three months. That you’ll be out of work for two. Doesn’t want to tell you that if you had been six inches closer to that car you’d be dead.

“What happened?” You whisper.

Of course you don’t remember, you were ten feet into a brick wall, how could you? Never-mind the concussion to the mix.

“Car bomb.” He explains, “Turns out you were right about needing the extra security.”

“Add it to the list.” You smirk at that, lips cracked from dehydration. You look down, noticing the bump of the bandages around your leg. You bring a hand to your ribs, gently feeling at the wrap there as-well. “Shit.” You whisper.

He nods. “Was worse than really bad.” One of his hands crept up to cradle your hand, two fingers pressed firmly to your pulse. He needs to feel anchored to this moment, to the reality that you’re okay.

He’s fixed his gaze on the blankets covering you, when all of sudden you start to cry.

Your chest heaves with silent sobs and a few scattered tears run down your cheeks. Then you let out a pathetic whimper than Bucky can’t for the life of him understand.

“Hey, hey it’s okay.” He tries to soothe, moving so he’s sitting on the edge of your bed next to your legs. He brings a hand up to cradle your face, sweeping away the tears with his thumb.

You nuzzle into his palm, resting the entire weight of your head against it while you mumble something.

“Honey I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, buts it’s okay. You’re okay now, everything is fine. You’re only gonna be in a boot for three months! The rest will heal on its own with some rest.” He explains, smoothing your hair as he speaks.

“I almost died.” You explain, slower this time. “And now I’m gonna have bangs when you win!” You add, sounding even more wrecked.

Already thinking about work. You’re still you. Under the scratchy voice and bruised skin, you still have all of your priorities out of order. You still have your sparkle. Something Bucky had spent the last several hours afraid you’d lost.

“It’s gonna be okay.” He promises, “We have a week until the election, no need to pull out the scissors just yet.” He reminds you.

“Six days.” You bite back. The ghost of a smile on your face as you calm down. You nod towards the nurses chart on the wall, “It’s tomorrow, only six days left.” You explain.

“My apologies.” He jokes. Dropping his palm from your face back to your hand.

“You’ve been here all night haven’t you?” You ask, eyes looking him over, taking in his disheveled state. Bucky nods, fighting a yawn as you say it. You give him a real smile this time, all of your warmth directed squarely at him. “Better not be blaming yourself Barnes.”

God, you know him better than he gives you credit for. “That’s because it is my fault.” He admits, suddenly finding great interest in the floor.”

“No.” You say, voice firm.

“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t-“ He stops, choking on the words.

“Did you put the bomb in the car Bucky?” You ask. Tone sharp and unyielding. He instantly recognizes it, having heard you use with anyone who tries to challenge you. He’s never heard anyone succeed.

“No.” He answers, still unable to look at you. “But that doesn’t change-“

“Bucky.” You interrupt, “Look at me.” He listens, as always. “This is not your fault.”

He wants to fight with you, to yell that is, to give you a hundred different reasons why you should run in the opposite direction.

“I got hurt, because someone wanted to hurt you.” Knife - twisted. “Both of those things can be true, without it being your fault. Okay?”

He nods, “Okay.” He says.

“It’s my pity party, don’t make it about you.”

He almost laughs at that, there’s something about you that makes wallowing so much harder. Besides, you’re you’re giving him that smile, how could he.

So he chooses to believe you, at least until the voices start up again.

“I talked to your boss.” He says.

“Oh?” You ask.

“Some wannabe congressman.” He elaborates.

“Oh!” You giggle, catching on. “How’d it go? He’s a real hardass.”

“He was tough,” he plays along, “But I managed to convince him to give you PTO for the next four months.”

“Wow.” You pretend to be surprised, “That’s very generous considering my contract is up in a week.”

“Mmm, he said something about that too.” You widen your eyes, “Said he had big plans for you.”

You nod, smiling wide. “I can’t wait to hear them.” The second half of your sentence is lost to a yawn.

Bucky feels lighter as he watches you snuggle into the blankets. It’s hard to resist the urge to crawl in next you, but he’s been fighting those kinds of thoughts since Brooklyn. He hasn’t earned the right to that domesticity- yet.

“You should go home. Sleep, feed your cat. Maybe go crazy and take a shower.”

He nods, already picturing the stink eye he’d get from Alpine when he got home. He still wasn’t used to having a roommate. “A shower is probably a good idea.” He says, standing up.

“Thank you,” you say, and Bucky looks at you quizzically. “For staying,” you explain, “I was so worried about you, waking up and seeing your face was-“ You stop, and he watches you search for the right word. “Everything.”

He leans over, kissing the crown of your head, something thats quickly become a habit. “No where else I would have been.” He answers. “Call me later?” He ask.

You nod, “I promise.”

This was arguably worst than being in an explosion.

Okay maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but never in your career had you been forced to watch your victory from the comfort of your deeply uncomfortable couch. If this injury has taught you anything, it’s that you really need to invest in better furniture. It’s amazing the things you learn when you actually spend time in your home.

You also didn’t have any food in the house, which is why you were still waiting on your third DoorDash of the day. No pity party was complete without a snack.

Back to the torture at hand.

On your screen, in gorgeous technicolor you watched in real time as it was revealed that the voters chose Bucky as New York’s newest Congressmen.

He had given a wonderful speech, short, succinct and powerful, like him. You had proofed it so of course it was perfect. Then as the crowd applauded you watched as the team you had spent the last several weeks of your life managing, celebrated without you.

Blue confetti rained down, getting tangled in his hair, and blurring with his gorgeous blue tie (you had a replacement delivered to him after seeing how ruined it was at the hospital). Sure they had all been calling and texting you throughout the night, you knew they missed you. Almost all of them had already sent you a congratulatory text

Almost all.

The entire day, the one person you didn’t hear from was the person you wanted to talk to the most.

Bucky was avoiding you.

At least you think he is, he wasn’t answering your calls or texts. You knew first hand how chaotic election days were, add to that how Bucky often forgot his phone even existed. A week ago you would’ve written it off as nerves clouding his mind. Two months ago you’d have forgiven it as him having other people to celebrate with.

That was before three things happened:

1. He kissed you so well, you forgot you’d ever been kissed by anyone else.

2. He spent all night at the hospital, waiting for you to wake up.

3. He spent all week texting, FaceTiming, and calling you non-stop. Partly because you were working remotely to get the campaign across the finish line. Partly because ‘he needed to hear your voice again.’

‘Needed too’ until this morning.

He was all vague promises of a plan and sending you cute photos of Alpine, until today.

Maybe this was his plan, ruin you for all other men, and then ghost. You were pretty sure he doesn’t even know what ghosting is, but it’s happened to enough times that you’re skeptical.

To top it all off, you can’t event drink. Your special cocktail of painkillers and antibiotics ruling it out completely. It was a sad predicament, just you, the dry bowl of cereal you had for dinner, and the eleven o’clock news.

It had been almost forty-fives minutes since the results were annouced, and still no word from Bucky. After triple checking your ringer is on, you shut the TV off. It was almost time for your next dose of Tylenol, hopefully it would give you the extra push towards sleep.

Knock knock knock.

For a moment you panic, no one knocks on your door. You don’t know your neighbors, and then you remember.

DoorDash!

Sacrificing grace for speed, you hobble over to the door. You weren’t used to maneuvering with the boot, still cringing everytime time it scraped against the floor.

You opened the door without thinking, looking down expecting to see a brown bag of greasy comfort. Instead you see black dress shoes.

Ones you instantly recognize, you bought them after all.

Your eyes work their way up slowly, clocking the brown bag clutched in his hands. Then the rest of the way to his handsome face.

“Shouldn’t you be at a party somewhere Bucky?” You ask.

He gives you that smile, the one that makes your stomach flip. “Yeah I should be.” He says, and despite how pissed you were five minutes ago, you let him in.

In all your time together you had never felt scared of Bucky. Nervous? Sure, but never scared. Except for right now. Staring at him in your apartment, watching him put the bag of food on down, you were scared. Not of the man, but of your very big, heart pounding in your chest feelings for him. Scared because you had let yourself fall, hard. You had let yourself plan and dream and fall asleep every night thinking about how you would grab him and kiss him the second they announced he won.

Then he ignored you all day. Had he finally realized your organization was annoying? That having a plan A, B, C and D wasn’t called being prepared and was actually called being crazy.

He was watching you too now, and despite your fear, it was like your body came to life under his gaze. A week without seeing him in person made being this close feel electric. Then Bucky broke your gaze and it was like all the sparks died.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to do this in person.” He explains, coming closer.

A sense of doom creeps up your neck as you watch him approach. You’re stuck in the entryway, as if the boot on your leg has become a cement block and your body can’t be bothered to try and move it.

This is it, you think he’s here to tell me, whatever this almost was, is over.

“You’re fired.” He says, his voice is monotone but his face is wearing an expression you can only describe as a satisfied grin. It feels a little tone deaf given the circumstances.

You open your mouth, hoping to find a biting comeback, or even a sour ‘congratulations’ would work, anything to show him you are not on the same wavelength when lips find yours.

Bucky kisses you, and it’s so obvious he had been holding out on you in Brooklyn. He’s cradling your face in between his palms, but this time he’s not holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. It’s not the desperate hunger and grabby hands from New York

This time it’s all softness. It doesn’t take long for you to melt, hands finding his neck and making a home there. You both relax into the kiss, all of the stress, the tension, and blurred lines finally lifted. All that’s left are two people.

You kiss Bucky in until your lungs feels like they will explode. Pulling away Bucky follows you, trying to chase your lips- briefly succeeding, before finally settling for resting his forehead against yours.

You catch your breath, lungs weak, leg going numb from standing on it for so long. lips smiling so wide you’re afraid your face might split in half. Delirium.

“You skipped your party to fire me?” You ask. Tone light, giggles interrupting each word.

Bucky nods and his hands travel to your waist, where they plant themselves firmly. He lifts you and brings you that last foot forward so your chest is pressed to his.. “Knew exactly how I wanted to celebrate.” He explains, lips brushing yours as he says it.

You want to ask him more questions, does he have to leave? can he stay forever? what does this mean? was the food still hot when he brought it in?

Instead you kiss him again. When you break away this time it’s because your lips are numb.

“I know today was crazy, and I should have called you back, I wanted to so badly. I just knew I wouldn’t be able to handle hearing your voice without coming here.”

It sounds a bit dramatic, but he says it so earnestly, you don’t question it. “That’s a good reason.” You whisper, “If you had come here and kissed me like that I wouldn’t have let you leave.”

Bucky tried to kiss you again, but it’s sloppy, both of you smiling too much into the kiss. “You gonna keep me?” He asks.

You nod, shoving the suit jacket down off of his shoulders you can you rest your hands there. Feel all of the strength and power there. Bucky is pliant under your touch, letting it fall to floor with a soft thump. “Yeah, Brooklyn’s gonna need to find someone else.” You answer, “Besides you ruined my job, how am I ever supposed to work with someone else now that I’ve had you.”

Bucky kisses you again, one hand snaking up under your shirt to ghost over your ribs.

“Had an idea for that.” Bucky says he pulling away, but still not detaching. You tilt your head, silently asking him to go on. “Gonna need to adjust my team, now that I’ll be sticking around in DC. There’s one job I need to fill.” He said explains, “You’d be around me constantly, telling me what to do and what not to do.” You smile.

“I do have some recent experience with that type of work.” You offer, “Need me to email you my resume?” You ask, bringing one hand up to scratch your nails down the back of his neck. You watch gleefully as he shivers beneath your touch.

He shakes his head, “You’re overqualified.”

“What is it?” You ask.

“Chief of Staff.”

If it wasn’t for the boot (and the concussion) you’d jump on him. Spend every day with him, and actually do good?

“I accept!” You answer, pressing your chest against his, afraid the ball of light forming inside of it will explode if you don’t glue yourself to him.

After months of calculated touches, and fighting your instincts, the freedom to hold him is addictive.

“Thank god.” He whispers and kisses your forehead, neither of you have stopped smiling. “There’s one other job though.” He says. “It would mean sneaking around, and flying under the radar.”

“Sounds dangerous.” You say.

“Mhmm, it is. Comes with the risk of spending even more time with me, maybe forever.”

“Don’t think that’s long enough.” You respond, distantly wondering who is this sappy, boy-crazy girl and what has she done with you?

Bucky squeezes you again, as if he’s making sure you’re still real. “I’ve got a lot of shit to unpack, you sure you wanna take all that on?”

You nod fervently, “I can handle it Barnes.”

He presses one more kiss to your lips. “I know better than to doubt you.”

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading! I have no expectations posting this, I just started writing and couldn’t stop! I love these two so much. Anyway, I hope it didn’t suck, love you say it back

Masterlist!

[2-11am]

I cannot emphasize enough how amazing this is! I’m such a sucker for soft, slightly grumpy Congressman Barnes. I LOVE THIS FIC! GO READ THIS FIC RIGHT NOW!

Tell Me I’m Your National Anthem

Bucky Barnes x Campaign Manager! Reader

Summary: Bucky wasn’t sure when this campaign stopped being about winning, and starting being about spending time with you. 

Word Count: 16.8K

Authors Note: first fic in almost five years!! I’m back from retirement. Anyway, yes I know Bucky’s hair was long in thunderbolts but I don’t care!

Warnings: cursing, inaccuracies about American politics (it’s been along time since I was in a social studies class okay?), gratuitous use of italics, yearning, Alpine, mention of St*ve, and light violence, no use of y/n

You’d always liked a challenge.

As a kid, if the teacher said to write six paragraphs, you’d push yourself to ten. In college, you had interned all four summers, double majored in Political Science and Marketing. Worked full time and still graduated with honors. You even made time to go to like three parties.

Nothing changed when you got into politics.

You took the first job you could get your hands on out of college, and have been running since.

Unfortunately you’ve been running with some of the most infamous assholes Washington has ever seen.

You had a talent for fixing campaigns, tweaking strategies, and saving reputations. This unique skillset was perfectly suited to saving the careers of politicians with questionable tweets, and more often than not, bright red, southern roots.

It wasn’t the “making the world a better place” politics you had dreamed of, you still hoped that a few of the assholes who had hired might find it in themselves to make a few good decisions while in office.

That was until you started working for Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes -former Avenger or something- was running for Congress and had asking your help.

Or more accurately, his Campaign manager was begging for it. An old friend, who was lucky enough to work with all of the good, kind people, you wished would hire you. All the people your candidates kept beating. You’d never had someone beg you to take their job before. So you agreed, part curiousity and part hope that maybe for once you’d get to see the side of politics you used to believe in.

You didn’t get your hopes up though. Preparing for the cycle to begin again. Another politician with skeletons in need of closets. Nothing you hadn’t seen before, and nothing you weren’t equipped to handle.

Oh how happy you were to be wrong.

Other than having no media training, Bucky Barnes was a good man. All of his baggage had already been aired out for the entire nation to see. It was a much welcome change. You’d always been paid to hide secrets, not use them.

However, this meant the Nation already had an opinion of him. Bucky’s reputation ranged from admired hero to public enemy number one. Nevermind the small subset of Winter Soldier fanatics who studied his every move and then dissected it all online.

You had spent a solid six hours just combing through forums to try and understand whether they loved or hated him. You finally gave up after finding one entirely dedicated to different versions of his prosthetic arm.

The only information this research did reveal was that people really, really like photos of him from his time in the service. The government’s Captain America archives made them easy to find.

Just like that your newest strategy was born. You didn’t like to lean so heavily on the veteran angle, but this felt like special circumstances. One of the first fundraising efforts you lead, was simply a release of t-shirts with him in his army fatigues on it. It sold out in twelve minutes.

Unfortunately, sepia stained Polaroids can only do so much heavy lifting.

While there’s no gentle way to tell someone ‘you’re perfect, now change everything’ Bucky took it well. Not enthusiastically, but he was open, which is all you could ask for. He didn’t grumble once when you sent him to an eight hour “media-training boot camp.”

He didn’t even argue when you picked him up afterwards and drove him to a Barber.

All things that further cemented his status as your favorite client.

Watching his hair fall to the floor broke a little piece of your heart. Alas, the short hair had tested better in focus groups, so off it came. It made more sense message wise too, helping consolidate the image of the 40’s soldier and this modern counterpart. Removing as many similarities to the Winter Soldier as you could afford.

“Can you take a little more off the back?” You ask. It’s easily your third interruption and you can almost hear the Barber roll his eyes.

“That okay?” You ask, the question directed at Bucky this time.

Favoritism aside, you were still deeply uncomfortable around each other. At least that’s how it felt. It had only been three weeks, but he was a quiet type. You were used to working with braggadocios, they always told you where you stood.

Bucky liked to watch. Usually giving you one word answers, if that. His stare is what made you uneasy, the weight of his attention was enough to make you falter. Not knowing what it meant was enough to make you second guess, you need to know what it means. Which means you need to know him. Then there was the handsomeness factor.

Today was exposure therapy. You’d worked with plenty of attractive clients before, none that made you fight a blush from eye contact. But that’s okay.

You’ve always liked a challenge.

“It’s just hair.” He replies, voice even and unemotional.

For a second you’re afraid the conversation will end as quickly as it started. You’re about to escape into your phone when Bucky finally makes eye contact with you in the mirror. You’re sitting against the wall behind him, close enough to watch, far away enough that you don’t have to smell his stupid fucking delicious cologne.

Professional distance.

“Besides. You’re holding my reputation in your hands. Whatever you want.” He smiles, as much as Bucky knows how to smile.

Whatever you want. That’s tempting, and three of your favorite words. Especially when coming from a man.

Stop. Professional.

“So if I suggested frosted tips?” You say, raising your eyebrows.

He huffs, it’s the closest thing you’ve gotten to a laugh.

The barber is nearly done, the effect the cut has on Bucky’s face already dramatic. He looks, young. Or at least the age he would’ve been if it wasn’t for all of- everything.

It’s still a little wet, you can see the ends curling as the barber combs through them and lifts them up to trim. You wonder if he left it long, if someone taught him how to take care of it, would it curl?

You do your best to ignore the stray drop of water that glides down the back of his neck, ghosting over his (now) perfect hairline.

The chair spins around to face you. The barber standing behind it with a satisfied smile, holding the comb triumphantly and letting out a little “Ta da!”

Bucky raises a eyebrow, and you’re startled when you realize- He’s waiting for your approval.

Your stomach burns with satisfaction. You like that a little too much too.

You nod, standing and walking over Bucky, and subsequently the barber. You smile, then hold out your hand.

“You mind?” You ask, though your tone makes it clear it’s not a question.

The barber grunts, giving you the comb and walking with a huff into the back of the shop, leaving you and Bucky alone.

You had called ahead, made sure they’d have the building cleared so you’d be the only ones inside during Bucky’s appointment. Too many variables and prying eyes otherwise.

Wordlessly, you begin to cut. There’s not much to trim, but the barber had left a few stray hairs, and his sides were uneven, which would’ve driven you crazy. It was a short cut, a little left on the top, specifically the front. Enough to let it sit naturally, but also long enough he could style with a smidge of a gel. Versatile, easy to manage for Bucky’s sake.

Then you look down at Bucky, realizing you had neglected to turn him back around, and find him already studying you. Suddenly feeling sheepish, you take a step back, spinning him around to get his opinion.

“You fixed the sides.” He says. You wait for noted but it doesn’t come. You realize that’s probably the closest you’d get to a compliment.

You reach over, putting the comb back and grabbing a small bit of gel. You rub it between your hands and before you can overthink it, run your hands through his hair. Giving the front a little bit of quaffing.

Almost satisfied, you put your hands down on the back of his chair. “You still trust me?”

Bucky lifts a hand to his beard, it’s scruffy, and while you don’t mind that (not even a little). It’s not exactly the look you’re going for.

“You can do it yourself, if you want?” You offer, very aware that this may count as over stepping.

He shakes his head, dropping his hand back into his lap. “I trust you.”

You reach over, grabbing a razor from the station and attaching the 4mm guard. “The beard has tested well, specifically with your female constituents.” Fancy excuse for it would make you sad to shave it all off. “We don’t want to lose it all, just polish it a little.”

Bucky hums, lifting his chin to give you a better angle as you finally switch the it on. The way it shakes to life in your hand once again reminds you of all the faith he has in you. All of his eggs, super glued into your basket.

The buzzing goes quickly. Bucky is inhumanly still. While it normally unsettles you, you can’t help but be grateful. Especially given the next step.

You shut off the buzzer, and reach into the barbicide glass to grab the straight edge razor.

Thankfully in the time it takes you to finish prepping the razor, Bucky has grabbed the oil from the counter and applied it himself.

You give him a moment to settle back into the chair, and wait for him to give the ‘go ahead’ nod.

Taking a deep breath to steel your nerves, you start on the top of his beard, tightening the edges just under his cheek bone until the form a sharp, smooth line.

“Are you normally this…” Bucky trails off, freezing as you get close to his nose, and subsequently his lips in all their blush pink glory (Not that you’re paying any attention to them).

“Hands on?” You offer, pulling back and cleaning the razor. It gives Bucky a chance to release the breath he was holding. He nods.

You hum. “Not, normally this literally. But yes.” You shape the other side as you speak, triple checking that they’re even. “I don’t normally have this much creative control though.”

“Does that make me a pushover?” He asks. Another borderline smile dancing on his face.

You use a finger to tilt his chin up, making sure to avoid eye contact as you do so. “Makes you the smartest client I’ve ever had.”

“Sweet talking won’t get you frosted tips.”

“Was worth a shot.”

You’re pleased to find that the more you talk, the easier it gets. However, the weight of your current position, isn’t lost on you. His attempts at breezy conversation isn’t enough distract you from the fact that his neck is ramrod straight. He’s hardly even breathing.

He must see you noticed his tension, “Haven’t let someone else shave me since before I was shipped out.” He explains, interrupting your study of his breathing patterns. “The first time.”

Shit. He really does trusts you.

It’s almost too much, overwhelming. This man who has been dragged through hell, is sitting here and letting you use a Sweeney Todd style razor on his neck.

You’re not sure what to say, how to acknowledge the hefty implications in his words. Trusting you with his career is one thing, this is his way of saying he trusts you with his life. You hum, your next swipe with the razor extra gentle.

You fall back into a comfortable silence as you finish. Drawing sharp lines to his neck until the edge of his beard is snug against his jaw. A neck beard is an enemy of the state as far as you’re concerned.

“All done.” You say, turning around and moving out of Bucky’s way so he can finally see his reflection. “A number two guard on your razor will keep it around this length.“ You offer while compulsively cleaning up the Barber’s station. You’re sure he’s watching you from the doorway of whatever room he disappeared into. But the only eyes you can feel on you are Bucky’s. “If you like it, that is.”

You finally turn back around to face him. You don’t know if he likes it, but it’s safe to say it’s exactly what you were going for. He looks cleaner, more professional, more like a politician.

But still Bucky.

All he does is hum in response, and your stomach drops to the floor.

He hates it. He hate it’s, he’s going to fire you, and then you’ll be back to helping assholes hide hush money and-

“You do good work.”

Deciding to become, or deciding to try and become a politician was something Bucky had yet to wrap his brain around.

His resume wasn’t that of your typical bureaucrat. No political science degree or volunteer work. Sure there was his time in the service, but last he’d checked the military had changed quite a bit since World War II. He had more experience in fighting U.S. forces than actually serving in them these days.

He knew better than to admit it out loud, but the choice to run for congress, was one he made a whim.

Part had been born out of desperation to leave Brooklyn. Another part was his desire to be useful. To make a good change for once, and do it in a way that didn’t involve voilence.

Bucky just wishes he’d done a little more research.

If someone had warned him about all of the paperwork and bullshit and he had to do just to run, (never mind the pile that would be waiting on the other side if he won), he may have reconsidered.

Bucky hated to admit it, but he didn’t start trying to win until you joined the team

Full of vigor and good intentions, you actually managed to make Bucky want to win this stupid thing. Your infectious energy (and the fact that you were completely overqualified) instilled a newfound confidence in his entire team. Everyone started doubling down on their efforts.

For fucks sake he even let you shave him.

Before he knew it, Bucky was only behind by five points instead of thirty.

Now he found himself in a pickle. Physically he was knee deep in mockups of lawn signs, poll numbers, and focus group answers. Mentally all he could think about was you.

You were talking, making expressive hand gestures as you tried (in vain) to explain what the statistics in front of him meant.

Bucky was too busy thinking about your fingernails to focus.

They’d changed overnight, from a soft pink to a bright eye-catching red. He wasn’t even sure when you would have had the time, you were with him at the campaign office until well after eight last night and you had beaten him there this morning.

“Bucky, do you understand what I’m saying?” You finally broke through, tone half exasperation and half exhaustion.

Luckily, his lack of experience saved him once again. As it so often did when he was too busy watching you, to actually listen. “You know I suck at the numbers stuff.”

Why red? Is red your favorite color? No, he’s pretty sure that green is your favorite, you wear it at-least once a week and your water-bottle has a single green sticker on it.

You gave him a small smile, “I think you could win Bucky.”

Why red? He remembered girls back in Brooklyn who would paint their nails red, talking about how they’d paint their lips to match. Subtle ways to get a boy to thinking about kissing them. He knows it’s none of his business, but he can’t help the ache in his gut when the thought of it being for a date crosses his mind.

Wait what did you just say?

“I could win?”

“A few strategic events, some well timed social media posts and I think you’ve got it in the bag.” You confirm with a smile, it’s one he hasn’t seen before. Confident, almost smug. You’re good at your job and you know it.

“Holy shit.” Is about all Bucky can manage right now.

You finally sit. “I think it might time to find an apartment.”

He groaned. He had hated apartment hunting in New York. Too many people, not enough leases and he doesn’t exactly have a credit score.

“Can’t have a future congressman living in a hotel.” You say, clicking your tongue for emphasis. “Don’t worry I have a friend who can set you up.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, feeling slack jawed.

“But, we’re still falling short in a few key demographics.” You explain, “We need to get you back to Brooklyn for a few days.”

He nods, sitting straighter and actually trying to read one of the papers in front of him, “Millennials?” He asks, pointing to a particularly sad pie chart. “I thought they liked me?”

“There’s a rumor on TikTok you killed Kennedy, true or not it’s been gaining some traction and it’s causing some of their trust to falter.”

Bucky opens his mouth to tell you they’re not totally off base, but before he can you lift your hand and pinch your fingers together in a shushing motion.

Why are they red?

“Less I know, the better.” You say.

Fair enough.

“We’re also falling short on the older, male, right leaning side of the fence.” You explain, shuffling to bring forward a poll dated from a week prior. “Their wives love you, which means they don’t think you’re a man’s man.”

“How do we fix both of those in just a few days.” He asks, trying to ignore the way your manicured fingers tap against the laminate desk. He’s beginning to think it might be intentional on your end.

“That’s why you hired me.” You smile, “Just have your bags ready for Friday morning and make sure you pack a pair of jeans.”

He nods, knowing better than to ask you to explain when you’re in business mode like this. He hasn’t known you long, but there’s something about seeing you in your element that makes you shine a little brighter.

“I could win?” He finally doubles back, still not sure it’s entirely he believes it. Still not sure he wants it to. Still wondering why are your nails are red.

“Bucky, You have me on your side. You’re going to win.”

You had a friend at a local pet rescue in the city, and to say he owed you a favor would be an understatement. Getting them to let Bucky host an event was easy.

Getting Bucky to agree was even easier.

As always, your instincts had been right on the money, and it was a perfect match. Animals are an easy win with Millennials, if you only you could have gotten him a puppy interview.

The event was a huge success anyway, truly a publicists wet dream. The people loved him, and after only being there for an hour, a majority of the available cats had already been adopted.

Never mind the visuals, since arriving Bucky hadn’t gone five minutes without a cat in his arms.

“Had one back in the day, used to kill the rats in our building and sleep at my feet.” He had explained as he casually picked up a black little soot ball in his right hand, while the left deftly scooped up a little grey tabby. Each cat a limp noodle in his arms.

His big, strong, straining through the sleeves of his button up arms.

It’s not your fault, you’re pretty sure theres some kind of law about men being allowed to look this good while holding a baby- dog, cat, or human.

You change your train of thought, getting ready to go find the intern with the good camera and ask them to snap some candids of Bucky with the animals. When a voice stops you.

“Hey stranger.”

Jack.

Your ‘friend’ or more accurately, ex-boyfriend/shelter contact. You had hoped he wouldn’t bother coming, so you wouldn’t have to bother having this conversation.

“Jack! How are you?” You smile, turning around to face him, which sadly meant turning your back to Bucky (just as he was picking up a little scrawny, white kitten). Your people-pleaser smile in full effect as you bring him into a half-hearted hug.

He squeezes you back with a lot more enthusiasm than the interaction warrants. “It’s so good to see you!” He says, dragging out the ‘so’ for emphasis. “You’re a big shot now. Working with an Avenger and everything.”

You fight the grimace, you’d already been well established when you met Jack, he was just completely politically uneducated and didn’t believe in watching the news because ‘If something is that important, I’ll hear about.’

He also didn’t know the difference between Senate and the House of Representatives.

In hindsight it’s a miracle your relationship lasted as long as it did.

“Thank you again for letting us borrow some of these cuties.”

“No big deal, it’s a great chance to get some of the animals adopted.” He nods in Bucky’s direction. “Seems like he might be taking one home.”

You turn around, finding Bucky holding the white kitten in the crook of his elbow, the little thing is stretched out with its arms straight above its head, belly up and fast asleep.

You resist the urge to groan, finding a pet friendly rental in DC is a fucking nightmare.

Then you watch as Bucky looks down to acknowledge the kitten, ever so delicately scratching under its chin with his free hand.

Worth it.

“Turns out he’s a cat person.” You say, turning back to Jack.

This time you really take the opportunity to study him, all the ways he’s changed. He’s shorter than you remember. He also started dyeing his hair black. It looks bad. He’s less imposing and handsome than your brain dreamt him up to be.

It’s hard to find anyone handsome when they’re in the same room as Bucky.

Jack still has the same eyes, vacant. Bright and engaging, not a whole lot happening behind them.

You hadn’t ended on bad terms per se. It was mostly a mutual break up, with each of your agreeing your lives were just too different. He wanted a golden retriever, Sunday night pasta dinners, and a house so loud he never has to hear himself think.

You need quiet.

“That cat hasn’t let a single person pick her up since she got to the rescue. I’m not letting him leave without her.” Jack says.

“I don’t think it’ll take much convincing.” You smile. “It’s good to see you Jack.”

“Yeah you too, you look good y’know.” He says

Oh you know.

“Thanks, you look happy.” You mean it. “I should get back to work though. Someone needs to make sure babies get their foreheads kissed.”

“Like I said, you’re a big shot.” He pulls you into another just a little too tight hug. “You think he’s gonna win?”

You give Bucky another look, this time surprised to find him watching you. You can quite read his expression, but you never can. The sleepy little kitten in his arm is pawing at his chest trying to get his attention.

“Yeah I do.”

With that you finally escape, grasping onto Bucky’s attention like it’s a lifeline. You use the few steps it takes to reach him to shoot off a quick text, make sure there was nothing on fire, and then you put your phone back into your pocket.

Looking up you give Bucky a smile. “You know they have dogs here too right?” You ask, tone light and facetious.

“Who was that guy.” Bucky asks, always straight to the point.

“My contact here.”

“He seemed awfully friendly.”

“Didn’t take you for a gossip Barnes.” You smile, stepping a little closer, bringing a hand up to pet the baby in his arms. “If you must know, we used to date.”

He hums. “Seems like he’s still interested.” The kitten stands on his forearm, leaning against his chest while it stretches. “If you are I mean.”

You would laugh if you weren’t so surprised. The conversation was beginning to tip toe on that line of unprofessional, you could hear the sirens beginning to wail inside your head. But Bucky is looking at you with all of his attention as he waits for your answer. It’s the same stare that always makes you melt, so you ignore the alarms.

You’re not stupid, you know what he’s really asking.

Are you interested? Single? Looking?

You’re just surprised he cares about the answer.

“I know he isn’t.” You answer, choosing your words carefully, “He has two little girls at home and a gorgeous wife who wants all the same things as him.” You finally leave the cat in his arms alone, resisting the urge to coo as it reaches for you with its paw. “I would’ve kept him waiting too long for all those things.”

It’s a more honest answer than you would normally give, but it’s Bucky. You feel safe with him holding the truth.

He nods, and you notice the slight twitch of his lips. Like he’s fighting a smile.

“I think I have to adopt this cat.” He says, sparring you any follow up questions. He guides the kitten up to his shoulder, where it quickly makes itself at home.

“I already had one of the interns start the paperwork.” You smile knowingly.

“How do you do that?” He asks.

“Do what?”

He holds the kitten up to his face, staring as if it might answer instead of you, “Know exactly what I’m thinking?”

Bucky knew you only acted in the best interests of the campaign. Each event carefully crafted to boost morale, or fix a statistic you didn’t liked

However, for the first time he wondered if maybe you had chosen this event, just because you wanted to go. Okay maybe it wasn’t the entire reason, he was sure you could back it up with a graph and something about polling numbers if he asked.

But after everything you’d done for the campaign, he was inclined to let you have the win. Besides, seeing you in a jersey and jean shorts wasn’t something he felt like he needed to be upset about.

Don’t forget the baseball cap, which it really brought home for him.

Honestly the only thing that really pissed him off about today, was the fact that the first baseball he got to watch in eighty fucking years was a Yankees game.

His Ma would be rolling in her grave, and he told you as much.

“What are you a Mets guy or something?” You ask barely tearing your eyes from the field to look at him.

“Mets?” He asks, tilting his head slightly. He hadn’t found much use for baseball since rejoining the world. Watching it on TV felt too static, but he didn’t have the heart to go to a real game alone either.

“Guess not.” You answer yourself.

“Dodgers were my team.” He explained.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this but they’re on the West Coast now.” You say with an over exaggerated grimace.

“Don’t get me started.”

“Didn’t realize you were such a fan.” It’s not a question, but the way your voice lilts up at the end sure makes it seem like one.

He doesn’t mind taking the bait.

“My Ma used to bring me and my sister down to Ebbet’s every Sunday. Could never afford tickets but there was a great park right out the stadium, we could hear everything.” He said, feeling himself start smiling just remembering it. “I’d lay on the grass, close my eyes, and pretend I was inside.”

“I hope you know, I’m picturing this all in black and white.” You cracked, if Bucky wasn’t so caught up the memory, he’d notice that your voice was dripping with fondness.

“Very funny.” He responds.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “Keep going.”

“Only got inside once, just me and Steve. We snuck in when we like fifteen. He was short enough to pass for a kid and I was fast enough to lose security after jumping the turnstile. Best game I ever saw.” He feels himself smiling while he pictures it, “Even though security kicked us out halfway through the fourth inning.”

“You got into a lot of trouble as a kid didn’t you?” You asked, turning yourself in your to face him. While at least as much as you can turn in a stadium seat.

“Steve did, I just felt guilty letting him get in trouble alone.”

“How selfless.” You joke.

“I’ve always been a man of the people.” Talking was so easy with you. Bucky couldn’t seem to stop himself lately.

“I’m sorry but hearing you refer to Captain America as Steve is never gonna stop being weird for me.” You say, taking another sip of your drink. A beer, which had surprised him. He had pegged you for spirits.

“Hearing you call Steve, Captain America is never gonna stop being a total mind fuck for me.”

“Since when do you curse so much Barnes.” You ask, tilting your head.

“Since I have to sit through a Yankees game, sober-“ He nudged you with his elbow, reaching over to tap the bottle in your cupholder, “-and since you’re too tipsy to yell at me about it.”

You shrug, apparently not finding much fault with his argument. “It’s not my fault you have a supernatural metabolism.” You take another sip, grinning at him as you do so. “I don’t get a lot opportunities to drink shitty beer and eat greasy food these days, gotta take advantage.” You finish.

“I’m not judging.” He defends.

“Everything has to be a bit of mind fuck for you though doesn’t it?” You ask. No malice, just curiosity.

“Who’s cursing now?” He deflects.

“No seriously. I mean, it can’t be easy, and yet here you are, still trying to make the world a better place.” You say. For the first time ever, Bucky thinks you might just feel sorry for him. Not because of his past, but because of his decision to go into politics. Which is fitting for you.

“Sure, it’s hard.” He admits, “Ebbet’s is a bunch of apartments, people don’t go dancing anymore, the Dodgers play for LA, a hot dog costs a month’s rent-“ He pauses, taking a deep breath, “-and Steve is gone.” No matter how many times he says it, it still tastes bitter. You’re right, his entire world had been turned upside down, twice.

“Trying to be good is the only thing I still know how to do.” He finishes. His words hang between you for a moment, and he’s worried he’s said too much.

“People do still go dancing.” You finally respond.

“They don’t dance the way they used to though. I don’t think I could keep up now.” He says.

“It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it.” You smile, “I’ll have to take you when this is all over.”

Bucky is too busy reading into that last sentence to try and respond to it.

A few minutes of quiet pass between you. You shake your head, taking another swig before speaking. “You don’t give yourself enough credit Bucky.” You say, finally leaving it at that.

Bucky is grateful, he wasn’t sure how he had veered so far off course. Somehow he’d managed to ruin a conversation that he swears could have been considered flirting.

Don’t get him started on how flirting as changed.

You’ve bumped his shoulder and laughed at enough of his jokes that the old Bucky would’ve asked you out by now. But he didn’t know if either of those things meant what they used to back then. He was pretty sure they did.

He was also pretty sure you’d had at least three beers. You’re the closest to relaxed he’d ever seen you. Laughing freely, not worried about optics, or the political implications of Bucky being seen eating cracker jacks. If he knows you as well as he thinks he’s starting too, you probably have some ‘no dating clients’ rule anyway. It wouldn’t be fair for him to make a move now, not when you could finally breathe.

Regardless of if you were flirting or not.

Besides you’re wearing jean shorts and it’s the first time he’s ever seen anything above your knee and staring at your thighs was the closest thing to drunk Bucky has felt in years. He isn’t of sound mind.

“You’re one of the most selfless men I’ve ever met,” You smile, and your hand reaches over to touch his that’s resting on top of his thigh. “And I’ve met a lot men.”

Bucky feels his brain get dangerously close to exploding.

Somehow, he still manages to find words. “It’s not all selfless.” He confesses. Turning the hand yours was resting on upwards and lacing his fingers through yours.

It’s as forward as his confidence can afford right now.

He squeezes your hand and then releases it. Bucky stands up and resists the urge to stretch his back because Jesus, these seats are uncomfortable. He gets ready to walk away, with the plan of shaking a few hands, and getting you a pretzel (for alcohol absorption purposes of course. It has nothing to do with an comment you made about craving one).

Before he leaves he bends over and whispers his last admission in your ear.

“I’m not trying to make the world a better place. I’m still trying to make him proud.”

8:00 A.M.

That’s when your flight leaves, which means it will board around 7:15 A.M.

So you should really be at the airport by 6 A.M. Your entire team has TSA Pre-check so it shouldn’t take too long but it’s better safe than sorry.

That means you have to leave the hotel by 5 A.M to get to JFK in time.

You need an hour to shower, and get ready so you look some version of human so you can hit the ground running when you land in DC. So wake up at 4 A.M.

You look down at your phone and sigh, 10:45 P.M. If you fell asleep right now you’d be lucky to get five hours of sleep.

Yet you can’t bring yourself to move.

Surely it had nothing to do with the man sitting across the table from you. Bucky raises his eyebrows, giving you that stupid, handsome, knowing look.

“Your brain is working.” He says, lifting his glass to his lips and taking a sip. This time you let yourself stare stare at them.

You had gotten back from the event a little over an hour ago. A charity gala for some businessman’s tax write off. It was a great opportunity for him to rub some elbows, smile and make small talk with all the right people. It was your last stop on his mini Brooklyn tour.

You had joined Bucky, acting as his -strictly professional- plus one. It was out of your normal scope of responsibilities, but Bucky had made a very convincing argument, something about how you were better with names, and faces, and how if you didn’t go he’d end up sulking in a corner all night.

It made the most sense for you to go. Keep Bucky company, feed him names and information. Maybe one quick dance.

It had nothing to do with the fact that saying no to him is quickly becoming impossible.

Definitely nothing to do with wanting to see him in a suit.

“I’m doing the math on when we need to get to the airport.” You tell him.

“Knew it.” He says, “Is that your way of saying we should call it a night?” He asks, but doesn’t move an inch.

He’s giving you an out.

You shake your head. “I’ve done more with less sleep.” You take a sip of your drink. You feel wide awake but you’re pretty sure it’s not from the alcohol. “What about you Barnes, need your beauty rest?”

Bucky smiles, he had shrugged his jacket off when you first sat down. At some point the first few buttons of his shirt had been undone. You’re not even sure when he took the tie off. “Bold of you to assume I ever sleep.”

You had worn a long black dress, formal enough to blend in without drawing attention away from Bucky. It also looked perfect on you, not that you were worried about that though.

You had drank, eaten, and made so much small talk you’d probably have a sore throat tomorrow. Yet when Bucky asked if you were up for a night cap, you once again found yourself struggling to get that two-letter word off your tongue.

You didn’t want say goodbye just yet, and there was something about having him all to yourself that you were starting to become addicted to. So you sat down at a table in the nearly empty hotel bar, and you couldn’t help but think about how you probably looked like a couple to the rest of the world.

“Can I admit something?” You ask, tilting your head.

Bucky nods. “Anything.”

“I didn’t think you stood a chance.”

Bucky almost chokes on his drink. “Jesus, that’s reassuring.” He scoffs.

“You had terrible optics, no political background, and everyone who I asked about you either hated you or was scared shitless of you.” You explain.

“I do have a bad history with politicians.” He cracks. “If I was so hopeless, why’d you take the job?”

Your walls are lowered enough that you give him the real answer. “Needed a change. Didn’t hurt that I thought you were cute.” You take another sip, you can’t tell if it’s the drink making your cheeks feel hot or him.

Bucky hums, if he was going to say anything else you don’t give him the chance.

“Bucky you’re my unicorn.” You sigh, cue another embarrassed sip, “You’re a good man, willing to take feedback, and running for the right reasons.”

You let your words sit there in the silence, biting your lip to force yourself to stop talking. Christ you’re nervous, you’re never nervous, why is he making you so nervous?

“The other guys must’ve been real assholes.” He says, and you know it’s the closest you’ll get to him accepting the compliment.

“This is the first time in ten years I want the person I’m working for to actually win. I want you to win Bucky.”

You wouldn’t normally risk being this open with a politician, but you were beginning to feel like that word fits him less and less.

Or maybe it was the forced professionalism that’s ill suited.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you hate your job sweetheart.”

You’re already rolling your eyes when you hear it.

Sweetheart.

Your heart stutters, your fingers twitch, your face feels even hotter.

“Love the job, hate the people.” You manage to choke out, finally downing the rest of your glass in an attempt to collect yourself. Buy yourself a little time before you have to talk again. “I get the chance to help make the world better, by making sure the right people are in charge of it. But at the same time I’m the reason Whitmore ever got in office.”

Bucky’s eyes widen.

“Whitmore? I fucking hate that guy.”

You nod, grimacing.

Preston Clay Whitmore IV. You worked for him back when he was running for Senate in Texas, and using all of his Daddy’s money to do it.

“It was my first job, I was his communications consultant. God I hated him.” You shake your head, “But I was fresh out of college, green and broke.”

“A deadly combination.” He offers.

“He thought he was the next Kennedy, and he talked like it. Every single interview, debate, and ad sounded like Preston thought he was gods gift to humanity.” You can still hear his catchy little stupid theme song now.

Whitmore’s a comin’ to Whip DC into shape!

“How’d you turn it around?” He asks, a smile playing at those gorgeous lips.

Okay maybe you are a little buzzed.

“I made him drop the Roman numerals to start.”

You weren’t super enthusiastic about him, and you certainly weren’t thrilled about being in the South. Yet Preston’s father knew all the right people, you knew getting him into office would mean a career. A great one.

You don’t mean to bore Bucky with all of the details of Preston’s campaign, of his miraculous win, and how he ended up being elected the youngest Senator in Texas’ history. But the way he listens, the way he asks you questions. You almost think he enjoyed it.

Suddenly he’s telling you about how he recently got his hands on a tape of one of Steve’s old USO shows, and how he wishes he could hold it over his head.

You’re telling him about how you worked two jobs in high school in order to save up for college.

Then he’s promising to take you to Wakanda someday, once things have settled down some, how it’s nothing like how you picture it.

“I’ve got a few friends from when I lived there.”

You swear your jaw almost hits the floor, “You lived there?”

“Yeah for a few years,” he laughs, “They helped straighten my brain out, made it possible for me to almost be like a real person.”

He smiles, finally polishing off his drink.

“Why do you drink if it doesn’t affect you?” You ask.

He shrugs, the glass still in his hand. “I still like the taste of a good drink, that’s why I didn’t bother with beer or any of the crap being served at the game the other day.” He puts the cup back on the table.

“I think it still has a placebo effect on me too a little bit. Even though I can’t metabolize it, I still feel like it smooths the edges.”

You nod, understanding.

You can’t help but finally look at your phone again.

1:45 A.M. Shit.

You look back up and meet Bucky’s knowing gaze.

“We should go to bed, shouldn’t we?” He asks, this time he shrugs his jacket back on.

“Afraid so.” You answer, voice softer than you expected. “You have to go back to your apartment or can you get a room here?”

He shakes his head, “I got a few things I wanna pack up, plus I have to get Alpine ready.”

You smile, brightening at the mention of your new favorite feline. “You decided on a name!” He nods, his smile just as wide.

“Can I walk you up to your room?” He asks, finally standing.

God you almost forgot just how tall he is.

“You don’t have do that Bucky I’m all the way on the 8th floor.” You stand too, at some point you had kicked your heels off and you can’t be bothered to force them back on, instead leaning down to pick them up in one hand.

“Humor me. Please?” He gives you the eyes, ones you can only describe as begging. The ones he uses whenever his not getting his way, “It’d make me feel less guilty for keeping you up so late.” He takes the shoes out of your hand as he speaks, completely dwarfing them in his grasp.

“I guess it is the least you can do.” You joke, starting to walk towards the elevator.

The ride up is spent in silence, but not the awkward kind, like the day at the barbershop. It’s softer, warmer, like the air between you is humming.

Your room is all the way at the end of the hallway, and if you were in tune enough with your body to remember just had badly your feet hurt, you’d probably complain about it.

But right now, with Bucky so close so you can’t bring yourself to worry about a blister.

However, it was only a matter of time before you got to your door. While digging the hotel key out of your purse, you turn around to face Bucky.

“Thank you again, for tonight. And for walking me up to my room.” You nod toward the door, still not moving to open it.

When had he gotten so close? Less than a foot was between you now.

Bucky smiles, looking down at the floor, then back up to you. “Least I could do after you saved me from a night of getting people’s names wrong.”

You laugh, “Seriously, I had a really good time tonight Bucky.”

You feel yourself leaning into him, it’s not entirely conscious. The smell of his cologne is drowning out the voices screaming: Back up! Move away! Too close! Danger! Danger! Danger!

But he’s leaning in too. With him, it feels the opposite of scary.

“Me too.” He says, his voice is so soft now, and you know this proximity isn’t lost on him.

You feel yourself move before you can actually think about it, your heels lifting up from the ground, your hands rising and settling on his broad shoulders.

And then you kiss his cheek.

As you pull away, it’s like you’re stuck in slow motion. A slow sink down while your hands drift from his shoulders to his pecs.

Your eyes are shut, too afraid to open them and see his reaction when-

Bucky leans down and presses his head against yours, forehead to forehead. His chest brushing against yours as you each breathe, or in your case, try to. His eyes are closed too. His brows scrunched like when he’s thinking really hard about something.

Your body feels like a live wire when he’s this close. All rational thoughts are completely overwhelmed with the desire, no- the need to kiss him.

You angle your head, tilting your chin and just like that- contact.

He only takes a few seconds to respond.

He’s softer than you imagined, catching your top lip between his and treating it with such care and the whole moment feels so much more, gentle, than you had expected it to.

Not that you had been thinking about it or anything.

He pulls away, but you’re quick to grab one of his a lapels, ensuring he can’t go far. You do your best to read him, before either of you can open your mouths and ruin this.

You can’t decide if he wants to kiss you again or apologize. You’re not sure which you want either.

“I don’t do this.” You say, sounding a lot more breathless than you intended. “Kiss clients, I mean.”

“I know.” He says.

“We really shouldn’t do this.” You add, not sounding even a little confident.

“I know.” He says.

“I have a rule about it.” You try, sounding even weaker.

“I figured.” He says.

But Bucky has made up his mind, with his free hand (which had at some point made its way to your hip), he slowly guides you until your back is flat against the door to your room.

Your hands are still frozen, clutching his jacket. Your knuckles almost white with tension. Your noses are almost touching.

“Just one more.” He says, closing his eyes and pressing his lips back to yours.

Distantly you hear him drop your heels, and feel his hand come up to cradle the side of your face.

He’s not as gentle this time, the force behind his kiss is greater. It’s more confident, hungrier. You can’t help but melt into it, hands climbing until they find a home behind his neck.

You’re hungrier this time too.

You feel your body filling with want and need. The urge to bite and claw him, then kiss and stitch him back together. If you were anyone else you could let it consume you. Part of you wonders if he would let it consume him. The way he’s kissing you, it’s like he already has.

When you break for air, you’re suddenly aware of just how tightly he’s pressed himself against you. How delicious warm, firm, and broad he is.

He drops his head against your shoulder, pressing it into the crook of your neck. You feel him release a long, deep sigh against your neck as if he already knows what you’re thinking.

You allow yourself to run your hands through his hair, just once. Working up the strength to get the words out.

Bucky presses one last soft kiss to your neck and then detaches himself from you.

Wordlessly, he picks up your heels, fixes the strap that had fallen off of your shoulder, and manages to grab your long discarded key card.

He fixes you with a look, one that you hadn’t seen before. It’s reverent, deep, and knocks any words you had out of your mouth.

“After?” Is all he asks.

But you know what he’s asking. “After.” You answer, a firm nod to accompany it.

You don’t need to say more than that, as if the kiss had also created your own short hand.

He smiles, and leans forward to unlock your room. Propping the door open with one hand, he waits until you’ve stepped inside it to hand you your heels, and your key card. As if he can’t resist, he also presses one last chaste kiss to your forehead.

“See you in a few hours sweetheart.” Finally he turns around and he leave.

You stand in the door way dumbfounded until you hear the elevator ding, and then you finally close it.

Your typically nighttime routine takes twice the time it should, with frequently interruptions of muttering “what the fuck was I thinking?” and deep reflective pauses to try and remember what his lips looked like when they were well kissed.

When you finally fall onto the bed, the last thing you see is the digital clock blinking at you, or more accurately taunting you.

2:30 A.M.

“Shit.”

Bucky is Dragging.

He didn’t make it back to his apartment until after three, the walk took him twice as long as it should have because he was too busy thinking about you.

What else is new?

However, this time, his thoughts were clouded with memories, instead of hypotheticals. He remembered how you felt beneath his hands. How you tasted. How you smiled against his lips. How you wanted it as badly as he did.

By the time he’s packed, and the cat is finally stowed away in her travel carrier (a mesh backpack one of the interns had picked up) it’s time for him to head to the airport.

Safe to say the lack of sleep isn’t helping his clarity.

He’s trying his best to listen to what the flight crew is saying, Something something cat, something something landing, something something drink service.

He’s too busy ogling you. And too tired to try and hide it. You were sitting across from him, nose deep in a packet someone had handed to you while boarding.

Normally Bucky would try to sleep on this flight, after all he had kindergarteners to read too once he got to DC. Or something, he honestly wasn’t even sure what he’s rushing back for. All that matters is that he should be sleeping, but he can’t because he doesn’t know what you’re thinking.

Since sitting down you’d been able to spare him a glance, and a tight smile, but that was it.

Maybe you had changed your mind? Sure, your agreement last night wasn’t super fleshed out, but he thought the implication was clear.

After, meaning after the campaign.

He just needed to make sure. God it made him feel like a little boy, even just to admit it to himself.

He clears his throat, and waits for you to finally meet his eyes. “You get any sleep last night?” He asks, if the way your eyes droop are any indication the answer is no.

You shake your head, “About an hour, if I’m lucky.” You tell him, but you smile again, this time it looks more like your own. “You?”

He shakes his head, “Too much to think about.”

You hum, and he knows you’re acutely aware of the staff surrounding you in the plane. Each one is either napping or too engrossed in their own tasks, but still too risky.

“You’re in the home stretch now, little more than two weeks to go.” You say. Placing the files you had been pouring over to the side. “It’s a lot to think about.”

Despite the mention of the rapidly approaching election, Bucky can’t help but relax as you talk. “I was thinking about after.” He says. It’s as on the nose as he can get.

Your smile widens. “You need sleep to get to after, Bucky.”

“Too nervous.” He shoots back.

You shake your head, stretching your legs out in front of you, until the toe of your shoe touches Bucky’s.

“No reason to be nervous. It will still be there.”

That was all he needed to hear.

“It’s worth waiting for.” He says. It didn’t quite make sense in the conversation you’re having out loud. But in the real conversation, the one being had under a layer of professionalism, he’s saying:

You’re worth waiting for.

Based on the way you duck your head, embarrassed. He knows you heard the second one.

“Before you try to sleep, there is something else we should talk about.”

And just like that, you’ve slipped back into the professional. Your voice changes in a way Bucky can’t quite define, but he’s been spending enough time with you that he can hear the difference.

“We’re going to up your security, we have three more guards who will be joining your rotation when we land.”

It catches Bucky totally out of left field. “Wait, what?” He asks.

You nod, “I know it sounds dramatic,” you try to appease him, as if you can already hear the argument on his tongue. “But there have been three credible threats made against you in the past forty-eight hours.”

Bucky shakes his head, “Is it really neces-“

“Yes.” You cut him off, “I don’t care that you’re built like a tank Bucky.” He can’t help the smile that crosses his face at that, “I’m not taking any chances.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He relents, and he feels the shit-eating grinning that’s still plastered across his face. “Any thing else?”

You smile, pleased. “The social media team has drafted a post about Alpine- just stating you’ve adopted her and laying on the cuteness factor. Permission to post?”

“Yea that’s fine.” His eyes dart to the seat next to him, where the little creature is curled in a ball. It’d only been a few days, but it was nice to have a cat again. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

You nod, pulling out your tablet and he hears your (now French) nails tap at the screen.

Were they like that last night? He was pretty distracted, but he surprised he didn’t notice. The novelty of getting to touch you had turned just about everything but the memory of your lips to mush.

“You’re going straight from the airport to Howard Stark Elementary. The plan is for you to tell a few jokes, color a few pages, and read them a Doctor Seuss book or something.” You explain, “It’s grandparents day so there will be other people your age.” Bucky would have believed you if it weren’t for the way you started smiling at the end of the sentence.

It was more of smirk actually. Like you thought you were hilarious.

Even when it was at his expense he was inclined to agree. He doesn’t let it show though, keeping stoic until you break.

“Kidding.” You promise. “Then it’s off to a luncheon with a few of the other candidates. You should be done by three, and then you’re free to nap.”

“Thank god.”

“You mind if I put a suit fitting in your calendar for this week?” You sound like you’re asking, but Bucky knows it’s really just your way of telling him it’s happening. “You should have a new suit ready for election night.”

You make a good point. He had plenty of suits, but he wouldn’t mind having something a new for the big day. “Only if you help me pick it out.” He offers, playing right into your charade of his control.

“Of course.” You agree, standing up and your arms above your head. It causes your blouse to ride up just enough to make his fingers twitch. Then you- as casually as possible- look around.

You must be satisfied by what you see, because when you walk next to Bucky’s seat and lean down so you’re next to his ear. He feels your warm breath hit his skin, and the smell of your perfume has the hair on his neck standing up. He almost doesn’t hear what your whisper.

“As if I’d miss the chance to see you in a suit.”

Then you’re gone, turning around and making your way up to the bathroom as if you didn’t just send him into a tail spin.

Maybe flirting hasn’t changed that much.

You were honest on the plane.

Hell would freeze over before you miss a chance to see Bucky in a suit. Especially after the other night.

But it wasn’t just your new obsession driving this shopping trip.

He was going to win. You wanted him to look devastatingly handsome when he did.

You could feel it now, it was completely in his grasp. You were used to quick results, but this had been unlike anything you’d ever seen before. You’d never seen a candidate jump this far into the lead after only two months.

The numbers looked great. You felt confident saying that despite your very unprofessional bias.

Speaking of-

You’d been back in DC for a week and still hadn’t been alone since. You hadn’t even had a chance to talk about it since the plane.

Did that even count?

Sure, you’d stared at eachother about it, and smiled about it, and brushed eachothers hands about it, but no words had been spoken.

Inside this shop was the closet you’d gotten to privacy. Just you, Bucky, and the old man measuring his inseam.

Much to your surprise, the tailor, Eddie, was Bucky’s pick.

Even more surprisingly, the two of them hadn’t shut up since you walked in the door. You had sat down on one of the chairs in front of the mirrors while Eddie began the fitting. Trying your best to figure out who the hell replaced Bucky with this middle school girl.

“So,” you ask, after a lull in their conversation finally presents itself. “How did you two meet?”

Eddie perks up, as if he just remembered you were there. “We live in the same old folks home.” He tells you, just as Bucky is saying “Neighbors.”

If you had a water you would have done a spit take.

“I’m sorry the same, what?” You ask, lifting a finger in Bucky’s direction as you add “just Eddie.”

Eddie smiles, completely oblivious, as most old men are. “We live in the same apartment complex. Lincoln Estates.” He confirms, too busy measuring to notice your smirk. “Boss man over here just moved into the penthouse.”

“Bucky you told me you moved, but you never said where!”

“On purpose.” He says, voice flat.

Before you can comment, Eddie continues. “Yeah it took some convincing to get the HOA on board, but he technically meets the age requirement. Plus I told them having a congressman in our building might actually get the city to do something about the messed up sidewalk.”

It’s like Bucky can see the jokes forming in your head, “It’s an active adult complex!” He defends, jostling so much that Eddie has to pull him back into place.

“Mhm.” You hum, biting your lips to keep from laughing. “It’s a beautiful building, its by the hospital right?” You ask.

Eddie nods, “Yeah, it’s great! We also have a physical therapist who works out of the building. Plus, there’s a proposal to add a pickle ball court on the roof.”

You nearly choke. “That’s amazing!” You add, completely overdoing your enthusiasm.

Bucky melts in front of you, his face a brighter shade of pink with each passing comment.

Eddie taps Bucky’s shoulder, “Almost done, just gotta run to the back for a few minutes.” It’s innocent enough, but Eddie winks as he says it.

As soon as he’s gone Bucky speaks, “They were pet friendly.”

You don’t ease up, “Were you not gonna tell me?”

“That was the plan.”

“So you were just going to let me figure it out when I saw shuffleboard in the lobby?”

“Why are you in my lobby?” He fires back.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“There’s no shuffleboard in the lobby.” He laments,“Honestly, the apartment itself is normal.”

“Are there handle bars in your shower?” You ask.

Bucky sighs, it’s obvious he will not be winning this round, “They’re very convient.”

You stand up, walking over to a display of ties. You run your fingers over the different fabrics, stopping when your fingers land on a baby blue one. “Bucky do you know how much of your appeal as a candidate relies on the fact that you’re not an old man?”

“I thought my appeal was being an Avenger.”

“Avenger adjacent.” You add, part of your job is to keep him humble afterall. “Yes, that’s a lot of it too, but so is your physical age. If we take out the popsicle years, you’re about to become one the youngest senators on the floor.”

“Popsicle years?” He asks, making that stupid, cute questioning face he always gives you.

You give him a quick, but apologetic look, realizing how that sounded, “Seriously Bucky, just try to keep a low profile in the building for a bit. Last thing we need is someone’s Nana spreading gossip about you.”

He winces and you fix him with a stern, ‘What does that mean?’ look.

You grab the blue tie and walk over to Bucky. “I promised to bring Captain America to the next Barbecue.” He admits.

You’re standing in-front of Bucky now, so close your toes almost touch. Wordlessly, you bring the tie up and around his neck, tucking it under his collar. “You like it there?”

He nods, “I do.” You can feel the weight of his eyes as you begin to tie his tie. You try you best to focus on the steps, but the way he’s staring makes it hard not to mess up. “They play music I actually know, and treat me like I’m just a regular guy.”

You smile. “Then that’s all that matters.”

He smiles back. Clearing his throat as you finally pull the knot tight. You let your hands linger this time, the way they had wanted too that day in the barbershop. You rest your palms against his chest, finally lifting your chin to meet his eyes.

“Still pissed you didn’t tell me though.” You tease.

“Promise not to do it again.” He says. His tone isn’t quite as airy as yours.

Just as you’re about to back up, his hands find your hips. The short distance between you feels so charged, trying to come up with any words feels impossible.

You have a rule and you already broke it once. You’re not trying to get in the habit of breaking it again, not when you’re so close to the finish line. But you can smell his cologne, feel his breath, and it all makes you dizzy.

You should say something. Tell him you shouldn’t, tell him it’s not a good idea, tell him Eddie will be back any second.

“Hi.” You whisper.

Fuck that is not what you were gonna say.

“Hi.” He smiles back, pulling you just a little closer. He looks down at the tie, “Blue?”

“Matches your eyes.” You try and make it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, a futile attempt attempt to break the tension. You realized it had the opposite effect of when you feel his grip tighten.

“Bucky.” You warn, but still not dropping your hands.

He ignores it. “What if I fire you?” He asks

You laugh. Unable to help it, you lean forward and rest your forehead against his chest. “Don’t tempt me.” You exhale.

He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “One week, then you’re taking me dancing.” He says. You tilt your head up towards him, l body all but melted against him at this point and you give in. Leaning up onto your toes you’re just about to press your lips to his when-

“All right Buddy you are all set!” Eddie’s voice booms as he walks back into the room. You and Bucky jump apart like guilty teenagers.

Bucky recovers quicker than you do. “That’s great Eddie, what do I owe you?”

You pick up your bag, and do your best to try and fight the heat in your cheeks. “It’s my treat.” You insist, reaching into your purse to grab your card.

“No way.” Bucky fights back, his wallet is already opened on the counter.

“I’m the one who insisted you get a new suit Bucky.“ you fight back.

“It’s my treat.” Eddie says. “Consider it your house warming present.”

You can tell Bucky is stunned, “You sure it’s not a bribe to get that sidewalk fixed?” He jokes.

“Next one is free if you pull off that miracle.” Eddie smiles, and then not so gently adds, “Now get out of my shop and go flirt somewhere else.”

You laugh, embarrassed. “Thank you Eddie.” You look over at Bucky. “You do good work.”

“I know.” He winks.

The sun beats down on you as you step outside. Eager to get to air conditioning, you walk ahead of Bucky, joking about how he was going to sweat through his new suit.

He’s about fifteen feet behind you, halfway through a comment about how he won’t miss New York winters (as if DC is that much warmer) when you hear the car come to life. Your hand is a foot from the door when the world erupts.

There’s a sudden breeze, then a flash of heat. You feel yourself fly through the air, before you back crashes into something hard and jagged. Then you hear the blast, the reverberation of it shaking the ground you landed on.

Your body starts to catch up, the rest of the world coming back into focus. Your leg is throbbing and you can feel yourself coughing, but you can’t hear a thing over the ringing in your ears.

You look around, trying to find Bucky, but everything is covered in a blanket of smoke. Distantly, you register the car. The entire frame is on fire and either it flew across the street, or you did.

Then it all goes black.

It was like the entire thing had happened in slow motion.

One second you were laughing, smiling at him like you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else- the next thing he knew you were rumpled against a brick wall, covered in dust, blood, and your leg bent beneath you in a that definitely wasn’t natural.

Bucky was far enough away that he only had a few bumps and scrapes. He didn’t even need stitches.

You weren’t so lucky, and you didn’t even have serum on your side.

Every single Doctor who came to check on you marveled at the fact that you had managed to get away with just a few broken ribs, a punctured lung, a concussion, and a fractured leg.

Nothing absolutely this felt lucky to him. He spent three hours waiting for you come out of surgery. It felt like you had been seriously hurt, and it was his fault.

If he had gotten to the car first. If he hadn’t sent the extra security home early. If he had taken a separate car instead of making some lame excuse about saving gas just to be closer to you. This wouldn’t have happened.

Bucky has never needed help with coming up with new and inventive ways to feel guilty and he had plenty of time to do so while he waited for you to wake up.

As an act of contrition he forces himself to just watch. Watch you breathe, watch your fingers twitch, watch your monitors and try in vain to decipher them.

No pacing, no yelling, no tracking down the men who set it all up. None of the things he’d have done if it wasn’t for the fact that he could hear your voice in his head telling him not to.

Telling hum how violence doesn’t suit him, doesn’t match the Bucky he’s become. A man he’s trying very hard to be right now.

You also keeps telling him to call his therapist, but that’s not happening.

Somewhere around hour two he had taken off the tie, it was dirty, dusty, and speckled in your blood from when he lifted you out of the rubble. Now he just kept wrapping and unwrapping it in his hands, anxiety radiating off of him in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

It’s doesn’t matter how many people tell him you’re going to be fine. Their words don’t change how small you look in the hospital bed, how cold your hands feel when he tries to hold them. The bruise from where you hit your head looks brighter every time Bucky can bring himself to look at it, dark purple staining your forehead.

He’s exhausted. A few hours of sleep would do him a world of good, but he can’t sleep until he sees the whites of your eyes.

Bucky has always hated hospitals. He hated them back in when he’d go visit Steve as a kid. He hated them in the war, when they were just tents help to other by rope and a bandaid. He hated them in Wakanda, when he was getting his bearings, relearning how to be human.

He hated them most, when he was a visitor. Being patient comes with a certain degree of acceptance. There’s a surrender that comes with being a patient too, being able to let someone else make all the hard decisions for him.

As a visitor there is no comfort. He sits in the world’s most uncomfortable chair, and waits. He waits for doctors to come with news, he waits for you to need anything. Waits to to feel useful. The rest of the waiting is just a reminder of how no matter what he believes, what he trains for, or what he does, he has no control.

Looking at you here, connected to tubes is a reminder of why he has can never let his guard down. He knew better than to get close, he certainly knew better than to start whatever this thing between the two of you was. He’s already convinced himself that he’s going to get as much distance from you as possible as soon as-

You wake up, or more accurately you groan into consciousness.

Your eyes crack open, lips parting like you’re trying to speak. At your side your hand lifts, stretching as much as it can towards him.

Bucky grabs your hand, holding it between both of his. “Hey sleepyhead.” He whispers.

You hum, craning your head with a wince towards the untouched glass of water on your table. Bucky grabs it wordlessly and brings the straw to your lips, “Small sips.” He encourages. You nod, closing your eyes as you drink.

When you finally pull away, you fix him with a worried look, as if he’s the one laying in the hospital bed.

“You look,” You clear your throat, “-like shit.” You voice is hoarse. He knows how smoke inhalation feels, like swallowing around glass. That’s without having been intubated.

Bucky is sure his relief is palpable, his entire body unclenches. “Then you probably shouldn’t look in the mirror sweetheart.” He says, presenting you the cup for another sip. This time you take the cup from his hands. “You got one hell of a shiner on your forehead.”

You lift a hand to your temple, recoiling when you make contact. “I’ll get bangs.” You say, not giving it another thought. Dropping your hand back to your side, you take a deep breath, or you try too, but a wince interrupts it. “It was really bad wasn’t it?” You ask.

Bucky doesn’t want to be the one to tell you. He doesn’t want to say that you’ll be in a boot for at least three months. That you’ll be out of work for two. Doesn’t want to tell you that if you had been six inches closer to that car you’d be dead.

“What happened?” You whisper.

Of course you don’t remember, you were ten feet into a brick wall, how could you? Never-mind the concussion to the mix.

“Car bomb.” He explains, “Turns out you were right about needing the extra security.”

“Add it to the list.” You smirk at that, lips cracked from dehydration. You look down, noticing the bump of the bandages around your leg. You bring a hand to your ribs, gently feeling at the wrap there as-well. “Shit.” You whisper.

He nods. “Was worse than really bad.” One of his hands crept up to cradle your hand, two fingers pressed firmly to your pulse. He needs to feel anchored to this moment, to the reality that you’re okay.

He’s fixed his gaze on the blankets covering you, when all of sudden you start to cry.

Your chest heaves with silent sobs and a few scattered tears run down your cheeks. Then you let out a pathetic whimper than Bucky can’t for the life of him understand.

“Hey, hey it’s okay.” He tries to soothe, moving so he’s sitting on the edge of your bed next to your legs. He brings a hand up to cradle your face, sweeping away the tears with his thumb.

You nuzzle into his palm, resting the entire weight of your head against it while you mumble something.

“Honey I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, buts it’s okay. You’re okay now, everything is fine. You’re only gonna be in a boot for three months! The rest will heal on its own with some rest.” He explains, smoothing your hair as he speaks.

“I almost died.” You explain, slower this time. “And now I’m gonna have bangs when you win!” You add, sounding even more wrecked.

Already thinking about work. You’re still you. Under the scratchy voice and bruised skin, you still have all of your priorities out of order. You still have your sparkle. Something Bucky had spent the last several hours afraid you’d lost.

“It’s gonna be okay.” He promises, “We have a week until the election, no need to pull out the scissors just yet.” He reminds you.

“Six days.” You bite back. The ghost of a smile on your face as you calm down. You nod towards the nurses chart on the wall, “It’s tomorrow, only six days left.” You explain.

“My apologies.” He jokes. Dropping his palm from your face back to your hand.

“You’ve been here all night haven’t you?” You ask, eyes looking him over, taking in his disheveled state. Bucky nods, fighting a yawn as you say it. You give him a real smile this time, all of your warmth directed squarely at him. “Better not be blaming yourself Barnes.”

God, you know him better than he gives you credit for. “That’s because it is my fault.” He admits, suddenly finding great interest in the floor.”

“No.” You say, voice firm.

“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t-“ He stops, choking on the words.

“Did you put the bomb in the car Bucky?” You ask. Tone sharp and unyielding. He instantly recognizes it, having heard you use with anyone who tries to challenge you. He’s never heard anyone succeed.

“No.” He answers, still unable to look at you. “But that doesn’t change-“

“Bucky.” You interrupt, “Look at me.” He listens, as always. “This is not your fault.”

He wants to fight with you, to yell that is, to give you a hundred different reasons why you should run in the opposite direction.

“I got hurt, because someone wanted to hurt you.” Knife - twisted. “Both of those things can be true, without it being your fault. Okay?”

He nods, “Okay.” He says.

“It’s my pity party, don’t make it about you.”

He almost laughs at that, there’s something about you that makes wallowing so much harder. Besides, you’re you’re giving him that smile, how could he.

So he chooses to believe you, at least until the voices start up again.

“I talked to your boss.” He says.

“Oh?” You ask.

“Some wannabe congressman.” He elaborates.

“Oh!” You giggle, catching on. “How’d it go? He’s a real hardass.”

“He was tough,” he plays along, “But I managed to convince him to give you PTO for the next four months.”

“Wow.” You pretend to be surprised, “That’s very generous considering my contract is up in a week.”

“Mmm, he said something about that too.” You widen your eyes, “Said he had big plans for you.”

You nod, smiling wide. “I can’t wait to hear them.” The second half of your sentence is lost to a yawn.

Bucky feels lighter as he watches you snuggle into the blankets. It’s hard to resist the urge to crawl in next you, but he’s been fighting those kinds of thoughts since Brooklyn. He hasn’t earned the right to that domesticity- yet.

“You should go home. Sleep, feed your cat. Maybe go crazy and take a shower.”

He nods, already picturing the stink eye he’d get from Alpine when he got home. He still wasn’t used to having a roommate. “A shower is probably a good idea.” He says, standing up.

“Thank you,” you say, and Bucky looks at you quizzically. “For staying,” you explain, “I was so worried about you, waking up and seeing your face was-“ You stop, and he watches you search for the right word. “Everything.”

He leans over, kissing the crown of your head, something thats quickly become a habit. “No where else I would have been.” He answers. “Call me later?” He ask.

You nod, “I promise.”

This was arguably worst than being in an explosion.

Okay maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but never in your career had you been forced to watch your victory from the comfort of your deeply uncomfortable couch. If this injury has taught you anything, it’s that you really need to invest in better furniture. It’s amazing the things you learn when you actually spend time in your home.

You also didn’t have any food in the house, which is why you were still waiting on your third DoorDash of the day. No pity party was complete without a snack.

Back to the torture at hand.

On your screen, in gorgeous technicolor you watched in real time as it was revealed that the voters chose Bucky as New York’s newest Congressmen.

He had given a wonderful speech, short, succinct and powerful, like him. You had proofed it so of course it was perfect. Then as the crowd applauded you watched as the team you had spent the last several weeks of your life managing, celebrated without you.

Blue confetti rained down, getting tangled in his hair, and blurring with his gorgeous blue tie (you had a replacement delivered to him after seeing how ruined it was at the hospital). Sure they had all been calling and texting you throughout the night, you knew they missed you. Almost all of them had already sent you a congratulatory text

Almost all.

The entire day, the one person you didn’t hear from was the person you wanted to talk to the most.

Bucky was avoiding you.

At least you think he is, he wasn’t answering your calls or texts. You knew first hand how chaotic election days were, add to that how Bucky often forgot his phone even existed. A week ago you would’ve written it off as nerves clouding his mind. Two months ago you’d have forgiven it as him having other people to celebrate with.

That was before three things happened:

1. He kissed you so well, you forgot you’d ever been kissed by anyone else.

2. He spent all night at the hospital, waiting for you to wake up.

3. He spent all week texting, FaceTiming, and calling you non-stop. Partly because you were working remotely to get the campaign across the finish line. Partly because ‘he needed to hear your voice again.’

‘Needed too’ until this morning.

He was all vague promises of a plan and sending you cute photos of Alpine, until today.

Maybe this was his plan, ruin you for all other men, and then ghost. You were pretty sure he doesn’t even know what ghosting is, but it’s happened to enough times that you’re skeptical.

To top it all off, you can’t event drink. Your special cocktail of painkillers and antibiotics ruling it out completely. It was a sad predicament, just you, the dry bowl of cereal you had for dinner, and the eleven o’clock news.

It had been almost forty-fives minutes since the results were annouced, and still no word from Bucky. After triple checking your ringer is on, you shut the TV off. It was almost time for your next dose of Tylenol, hopefully it would give you the extra push towards sleep.

Knock knock knock.

For a moment you panic, no one knocks on your door. You don’t know your neighbors, and then you remember.

DoorDash!

Sacrificing grace for speed, you hobble over to the door. You weren’t used to maneuvering with the boot, still cringing everytime time it scraped against the floor.

You opened the door without thinking, looking down expecting to see a brown bag of greasy comfort. Instead you see black dress shoes.

Ones you instantly recognize, you bought them after all.

Your eyes work their way up slowly, clocking the brown bag clutched in his hands. Then the rest of the way to his handsome face.

“Shouldn’t you be at a party somewhere Bucky?” You ask.

He gives you that smile, the one that makes your stomach flip. “Yeah I should be.” He says, and despite how pissed you were five minutes ago, you let him in.

In all your time together you had never felt scared of Bucky. Nervous? Sure, but never scared. Except for right now. Staring at him in your apartment, watching him put the bag of food on down, you were scared. Not of the man, but of your very big, heart pounding in your chest feelings for him. Scared because you had let yourself fall, hard. You had let yourself plan and dream and fall asleep every night thinking about how you would grab him and kiss him the second they announced he won.

Then he ignored you all day. Had he finally realized your organization was annoying? That having a plan A, B, C and D wasn’t called being prepared and was actually called being crazy.

He was watching you too now, and despite your fear, it was like your body came to life under his gaze. A week without seeing him in person made being this close feel electric. Then Bucky broke your gaze and it was like all the sparks died.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to do this in person.” He explains, coming closer.

A sense of doom creeps up your neck as you watch him approach. You’re stuck in the entryway, as if the boot on your leg has become a cement block and your body can’t be bothered to try and move it.

This is it, you think he’s here to tell me, whatever this almost was, is over.

“You’re fired.” He says, his voice is monotone but his face is wearing an expression you can only describe as a satisfied grin. It feels a little tone deaf given the circumstances.

You open your mouth, hoping to find a biting comeback, or even a sour ‘congratulations’ would work, anything to show him you are not on the same wavelength when lips find yours.

Bucky kisses you, and it’s so obvious he had been holding out on you in Brooklyn. He’s cradling your face in between his palms, but this time he’s not holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. It’s not the desperate hunger and grabby hands from New York

This time it’s all softness. It doesn’t take long for you to melt, hands finding his neck and making a home there. You both relax into the kiss, all of the stress, the tension, and blurred lines finally lifted. All that’s left are two people.

You kiss Bucky in until your lungs feels like they will explode. Pulling away Bucky follows you, trying to chase your lips- briefly succeeding, before finally settling for resting his forehead against yours.

You catch your breath, lungs weak, leg going numb from standing on it for so long. lips smiling so wide you’re afraid your face might split in half. Delirium.

“You skipped your party to fire me?” You ask. Tone light, giggles interrupting each word.

Bucky nods and his hands travel to your waist, where they plant themselves firmly. He lifts you and brings you that last foot forward so your chest is pressed to his.. “Knew exactly how I wanted to celebrate.” He explains, lips brushing yours as he says it.

You want to ask him more questions, does he have to leave? can he stay forever? what does this mean? was the food still hot when he brought it in?

Instead you kiss him again. When you break away this time it’s because your lips are numb.

“I know today was crazy, and I should have called you back, I wanted to so badly. I just knew I wouldn’t be able to handle hearing your voice without coming here.”

It sounds a bit dramatic, but he says it so earnestly, you don’t question it. “That’s a good reason.” You whisper, “If you had come here and kissed me like that I wouldn’t have let you leave.”

Bucky tried to kiss you again, but it’s sloppy, both of you smiling too much into the kiss. “You gonna keep me?” He asks.

You nod, shoving the suit jacket down off of his shoulders you can you rest your hands there. Feel all of the strength and power there. Bucky is pliant under your touch, letting it fall to floor with a soft thump. “Yeah, Brooklyn’s gonna need to find someone else.” You answer, “Besides you ruined my job, how am I ever supposed to work with someone else now that I’ve had you.”

Bucky kisses you again, one hand snaking up under your shirt to ghost over your ribs.

“Had an idea for that.” Bucky says he pulling away, but still not detaching. You tilt your head, silently asking him to go on. “Gonna need to adjust my team, now that I’ll be sticking around in DC. There’s one job I need to fill.” He said explains, “You’d be around me constantly, telling me what to do and what not to do.” You smile.

“I do have some recent experience with that type of work.” You offer, “Need me to email you my resume?” You ask, bringing one hand up to scratch your nails down the back of his neck. You watch gleefully as he shivers beneath your touch.

He shakes his head, “You’re overqualified.”

“What is it?” You ask.

“Chief of Staff.”

If it wasn’t for the boot (and the concussion) you’d jump on him. Spend every day with him, and actually do good?

“I accept!” You answer, pressing your chest against his, afraid the ball of light forming inside of it will explode if you don’t glue yourself to him.

After months of calculated touches, and fighting your instincts, the freedom to hold him is addictive.

“Thank god.” He whispers and kisses your forehead, neither of you have stopped smiling. “There’s one other job though.” He says. “It would mean sneaking around, and flying under the radar.”

“Sounds dangerous.” You say.

“Mhmm, it is. Comes with the risk of spending even more time with me, maybe forever.”

“Don’t think that’s long enough.” You respond, distantly wondering who is this sappy, boy-crazy girl and what has she done with you?

Bucky squeezes you again, as if he’s making sure you’re still real. “I’ve got a lot of shit to unpack, you sure you wanna take all that on?”

You nod fervently, “I can handle it Barnes.”

He presses one more kiss to your lips. “I know better than to doubt you.”

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading! I have no expectations posting this, I just started writing and couldn’t stop! I love these two so much. Anyway, I hope it didn’t suck, love you say it back

Masterlist!

[2-11am]

the many faces of sebastian stan

[2-11am]

my fav happy rory photos! fingers crossed for a strong end to such a monumental season

[2-11am]

so grateful for you every day ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Came here in a last ditch attempt to find some Rory fics, found a great writer who we then became friends ( @2-11am MY GOAT ), then found out about McGavmore and made more friends. What a life ✌️🔥💛

[2-11am]

do you even understand the cultural significance behind these men posting these photos?! with that crop?! with the captions?!

[2-11am]

how did i not notice this hahahahahah

Disney+ edited out all the guns so now Bucky is aggressively pointing at John.

[2-11am]

The Life of a Showgirl, poster by me

[2-11am]

so what i’m hearing is we’re getting a natasha/yelena album pairing!

the life of a showgirl has all the potential to be a sister album to reputation. max martin and shellback returning after reputation, the same photographers for the shoot, and a theme that’s parallel and completely opposite. reputation was born from a time when everyone hated her and people thought her career was over. the mood was angry and quietly serene in its melancholy. on the contrary, the life of a showgirl is the child of a time when she’s been at the top of the world and her career has never been more successful and we'll have a sparkling, fun mood (at least from what she said). these two albums mirror each other in a shared theme, but seen under two completely different lights. they are like sisters that share the same blood, yet have completely different and opposite personalities.

[2-11am]

wow i can’t believe this video is 5 hours long

[2-11am]

seb wallpapers for you 🫶🏻

[2-11am]

TS12 x Bucky Barnes ?!?!?

heavens real. it’s this right here

the life of a showgirl | bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: when the new avengers go undercover at the glamorous orange-lit club sunset mirage, bucky barnes is supposed to be gathering intel—not falling into an all-consuming obsession with the showgirl who owns the stage and, before long, his every thought.

warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact, no use of y/n, protected p in v, male recieving oral, fingering, riding, dry humping, male masturbation, voyeurism (lap dance with an audience), dirty talk, over stimulation, non-consenual touch (not from bucky), violence/physical fight, body worship, aftercare, misconceptions/stereotypes about dancers, mentions of sex work, mob/mafia themes, wilson fisk is here lol don't ask i've been playing spiderman on ps5.

word count: 11K

author’s note: today is my day off work, and the TS12 news that came this morning had me vibrating with excitement. so of course, i had to channel my inspiration into a bucky fic for you all. fun fact: one of my all time favourite movies is moulin rouge, so expect those sort of vibes. i hope you enjoy! & feedback is appreciated, always.

bucky barnes masterlist

You weren’t there to see how the city bared its teeth that night.

Vegas—no, not Vegas; something older wearing Vegas like a costume—glimmered beneath a sheath of neon, all vibrant orange seams and gold thread, a seamstress’s dream stitched over a bruise. Down on Kestrel Boulevard, where the air tasted like champagne and cigarette sugar, the club’s sign curved in cursive: Sunset Mirage. The promise and the warning in one breath.

Inside, the place was plush and sinful in a way that made men feel rich even before they’d lost a dime. Velvet booths, brass rails polished to a fever shine, mirrors angled to multiply every light and make the room look endless. Music lapped the walls—lazy horns, a piano with a sly grin. Waiters in white gloves sluiced between tables with bottles, the bubbles winking like secrets. A stage slept behind a curtain of glittering beads, a closed eye with a heavy lash.

Bucky and John walked in like sin had a dress code they were determined to obey. Tailored suits, cufflinks that caught the light, the solemn grace of men pretending to be the kind of men who threw money for sport. John was showier; he liked to be seen. Bucky was a bruise under a sleeve—present, quiet, impossible to ignore if you knew where to look. He carried the room with a stillness that turned heads, as if the noise bent around him out of habit.

“Play nice, gentlemen,” Valentina’s voice purred through the comm in Bucky’s ear, silk over steel. “Blending in looks a lot like money. Try to look expensive.”

“I am expensive,” John said, already flashing a smile at the hostess. “Tell ’em Walker’s here to lose a little dignity and a lot of cash.”

“More dignity than cash,” Yelena’s dry Russian lilt crackled across the channel, followed by the faint clink of rhinestones. “I am down a pair of earrings already. I hate this.”

Bucky’s mouth tipped at the corner. “You volunteered for feathers,” he murmured, eyes sweeping the room the way a current reads a shoreline—mapping exits, counting faces, weighing posture. He clocked the pit boss with a shark’s smile, the corner table with too much privacy for a club that sold spectacle, the balcony rail with a perfect vantage and no drinks left sweating on it. He catalogued the weight of the space in his bones. Whole, then hollow, then whole again.

“Yeah, better me in feathers than Bob,” Bucky could practically hear Yelena’s eye roll through the comms as she scoffed incredulously.

“Last time I was in feathers was when Alfredo’s Bail Bonds had me dressed in a chicken costume,”  Bob muttered from somewhere on a different channel. Bucky hadn’t even realised he was part of this mission.

“Right, when you were addicted to meth,” Walker grumbled.

“Anyways,” Yelena interrupted. “I volunteered to outshine. Feathers are just a path to glory.”

A second voice joined hers: Ava, soft but amused. “Yeah, if glory is a ten-pound headdress that doesn’t clear the dressing-room doorway.”

“Beauty is pain,” Yelena replied. “Also, pins. Lots of pins. Bucky, if you step on my train, I will dislocate your shoulder.”

“Copy,” he said, not bothering to hide the warmth in his voice. Family had a thousand dialects; theirs was bickering on an encrypted channel.

Outside, Alexei revved the engine of a limousine so ostentatious it should have come with its own brass band. The paint job was a wet, boastful red; the chrome trim winked like it knew all your secrets and charged by the hour. RED GUARDIAN glowed on the dash in block letters, an overly dramatic threat and a promise of a ride.

“I am parked,” Alexei announced, proud. “The valet tried to take keys. I told him only a true champion drives this beast. He cried. From respect.”

“From fumes,” John muttered, accepting two glasses of whiskey from a passing tray and handing one to Bucky. “Here, Barnes. Toast to another night of pretending we like each other.”

Bucky didn’t toast. He lifted the glass, let the smell curl into his head—oak and smoke, memory and heat—and put it down untouched. His gaze continued its slow prowl, always moving without looking like it was. John sprawled in the booth like he owned it, knee jacked out, tie loosened with the impatience of a man allergic to collars.

“Eyes on the prize,” Valentina reminded them over the secure channel, grounded and calm from an unmarked van three blocks away. “We’re not here to get cute. Fisk runs a network that moves hardware and information under casino lights. We confirm the ledger. We get out.”

“Ledger,” Yelena echoed. “Small black notebook, raised emboss on the spine, smells like leather and laundering.”

Ava hummed. “Back office is keyed to a biometric. I’ll need a friend.”

“You have me,” Yelena said, and Bucky could hear the smile.

They were good, the girls. Soft where the world expected hard, bright where the world dismissed. The trick wasn’t feathers or lipstick. It was eye contact. It was knowing precisely when to let it slide away.

A hostess led Bucky and John to a corner booth with a clean line of sight to the stage. The table was shadowed enough to keep them unremarkable, but not so dark a security camera would wonder why. The lighting was intentional here—everything in this club was—because the house understood the power of suggestion. Give a man two-thirds of a picture and he’ll spend his fortune inventing the rest.

“You see the pit boss?” John asked, too close to Bucky’s ear, breath warm, tone pitched just for him. He’d learned spycraft, but he wore it like cologne—loud, for other people to smell. “That guy’s wired like a Christmas tree.”

“Mmh.” Bucky tracked the gleam at the boss’s wrist, the bump at his lapel, the habit of touching his right hip when someone laughed too hard. Not a weapon. A comfort tick. Holster memory. “Former security. Not military. Walk’s wrong.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” John said.

“You’re slouching,” Bucky answered.

John huffed. “Bite me.”

“After the mission,” Yelena said sweetly.

Ava’s laugh came like chimes. “Doors are coded but the runners chat. One mentioned ‘the King’ arriving late. Think that’s Fisk?”

“Kingpin,” Valentina supplied. “Yes. He’s not expected front-of-house, but his shadow is long. Don’t touch him if he touches you. Not tonight.”

Bucky’s hand, flesh and metal, went quiet on the table. Not tonight was different from never. He filed it. He filed everything to the back of his mind.

A pianist slid into something slow and honeyed. The mirrors behind the bar caught it and turned it to light. A trio of dancers crossed the back of the room, feathers bobbing like exotic birds migrating south for the season. Guests leaned in. Credit cards thought about their choices.

“House is seating the whales,” John murmured, eyes on the tuxedos drifting toward the rope line nearest the stage. “Show’s in five.”

“Copy,” Yelena said, voice suddenly lower, breath a little closer to the mic. Bucky pictured her in sequins, shoulders bared, posture perfect, a blade wrapped in velvet. “Ava and I are on the move.”

“Watch your corners,” Sam said.

“Watch your corners,” Yelena returned, and the channel crackled with fond exasperation that softened the edges of the night.

Bucky watched the staff, the exits, the way the air shifted moments before a curtain rose. He listened to the hush as anticipation slipped its hand into the room’s pocket, stealing breath. He felt John bristle beside him with a restless, competitive energy that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the way John wanted the world to see him—loud enough to drown the quiet parts.

Bucky didn’t need to be seen. He needed to see.

The club’s lighting dipped, as if someone had pinched the wick of the evening between finger and thumb. Conversations thinned to whispers. The bead curtain at the stage’s mouth shivered as if a gust had made it blush. A spotlight traced a lazy circle across velvet, slow as a heartbeat, then tightened like a promise.

“Positions,” Ava breathed, and there was a new note in her voice—anticipation’s cousin, nerves dressed as bravery. Somewhere behind that curtain, backstage lights seared white, hands smoothed satin, pins were checked and checked again. Somewhere a breath was held.

“Alexei,” Valentina said. “Engine.”

“Already purring,” Alexei replied, delighted. “She likes to be ready.”

John drummed his fingers. “Let’s get the ledger and go before I start tipping out of boredom.”

“You don’t tip,” Bucky said mildly.

“I tip when I’m pretending to be a gentleman.”

“Oh, this is you pretending to be a gentleman?”

John grinned, flashing teeth. “I prefer the term ‘artist’.”

“This club is adults only,” Yelena warned, and Bucky could hear the grin in her voice now. “So stop acting like kids before it draws unnecessary attention.”

A low laugh rolled through Bucky before he could stop it. It lived in his chest and warmed his throat and did nothing to slow the clocking, the methodical scanning, the weight of habit that kept him intact. He sipped his whiskey finally, just enough to look like he belonged, and set the glass down where a fingerprint wouldn’t matter.

On the balcony, a camera’s red eye winked. At the rope line, a guard shifted his stance to hide a key fob that wasn’t for show. Near the bar, a runner with ink on his fingers slipped a slim black book beneath a tray liner before vanishing toward the back corridor.

“There,” Bucky said, quiet. “Ava, your door’s about to open. Runner headed your way with a book. Black, embossed spine.”

“Copy,” Ava replied, and the flirt lilt fell away, leaving something sharp. “On him.”

“Yelena?” Sam prompted.

“Already moving,” she said, unconcerned. “Try not to miss me.”

The stage lights bloomed.

Sound gathered itself like silk being drawn through a ring; the room inhaled with it. The curtain’s fringe swayed, the brass rails caught starbursts, and somewhere deep in the structure of the building, the bass thumped like a second, larger heart.

Bucky didn’t know he’d been waiting for it until his pulse answered.

He didn’t know your name yet. He didn’t know the particular shade of red they’d painted your mouth, or the way your laugh would sound later when the audience had gone home and the glitter lay on tile like fallen constellations. He didn’t know the cadence of your steps or the way your gaze would skim over men who howled for you and land on the one who didn’t.

He only knew the room leaned toward the stage as if gravity had shifted—every eye, every breath, every dollar and sin—and that whatever stepped through those beads would change the night.

“On you,” Valentina murmured, and Bucky folded himself into the booth’s shadow, a patient line of tension from shoulder to ankle.

The music swelled.

The curtain parted.

The moment the beads parted, the room forgot itself.

The hush that had draped over the crowd broke apart, spilling into a wave of low whistles, appreciative murmurs, the clink of glasses raised instinctively toward the stage.

And then there was you.

Orange—not just orange, but the molten glow of a desert sunset—wrapped your body in sequins and silk. It caught every lick of light and flung it back into the room until the air seemed warmer for it. The color made your skin luminous, the way fire does when you stand too close. It bled into the long, arched plumes of your headdress, the tips of the feathers dusted gold so they winked when you moved. Every step sent a ripple of shimmer down the line of your legs, sheer stockings catching hints of light, rhinestones flashing like sparks along your hips.

The band hit a brassy, sultry note, and you walked like the music belonged to you—hips swaying just enough to make the crowd lean forward, shoulders back so the delicate straps of your costume curved against your skin.

Bucky wasn’t breathing. He was certain of it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Valentina’s voice was a faint, “Yelena, status?” but it might as well have been happening in another universe.

“Would you look at that…” John’s voice came from just over the rim of his glass, lazy and smug. “I’ll take her over the ledger any day. Wonder what’s under—”

Bucky’s head turned just enough for John to see the flicker in his eye, the kind of cold that didn’t require words. John lifted both hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Easy, Barnes. I’m just appreciating the view.”

But Bucky wasn’t appreciating. He was studying. He was learning.

You commanded the stage like you’d been born under its lights. Your eyes swept over the front tables, a playful pass that made strangers feel chosen, and yet—when you looked away—they seemed almost disappointed, as if they’d imagined the connection. You gave the crowd enough to keep them leaning in but never enough to take.

It was the armour of a woman who knew the difference between power and danger.

From his seat, Bucky tracked the subtle tells—the way you let a leering man’s comment slide off without so much as a twitch in your smile, the precise angle of your arm when you bent to lift a long cigarette holder from the prop tray, the half-second pause before you let one of the tuxedoed “high rollers” take your hand for the choreographed spin.

Orange sequins flashed as you turned, laughter spilling from your painted mouth, and Bucky’s whiskey sat untouched on the table.

“Ledger secured,” Ava’s voice came low and quiet in his ear. “Meet point in ninety seconds.”

Yelena followed, her own voice bright with the aftertaste of adrenaline. “I’m on the stairs. Pit boss didn’t even blink.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. The corner of his vision was full of you—your heels clicking against polished wood as you moved into the next sequence, a cascade of feathers swaying like they’d been trained to follow the curve of your body.

“Barnes,” Val prompted.

He blinked, tore his gaze from you with effort, and gave the barest nod toward the exit. John was already sliding out of the booth, smoothing his tie and muttering about “leaving before the real fun starts.”

Bucky stood slower. One last glance at the stage—at you, framed in gold light, eyes catching for the briefest heartbeat on the tall, broad-shouldered man leaving the shadows of the back corner. You didn’t falter in your step, but he saw it. A glint. A question.

And then the curtain beads shivered behind him, and you were gone.

Outside, Alexei’s limo door swung open like the flap of a magician’s cape. Yelena and Ava were already inside, their showgirl makeup still sharp, glitter clinging to their skin like it belonged there.

“Got it?” Sam’s voice was tinny over the comm.

Ava held up the small black ledger, triumphant. “Got it.”

John sank into the seat beside her with a sigh. “Good. Now can we go somewhere less… feathered?”

Yelena smirked, settling back against the seat. “You looked. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

Bucky said nothing. The club lights still burned in his peripheral vision, and the image of you—in orange, laughing under the weight of a thousand eyes—was already burned into the inside of his skull.

He told himself it was just a face. Just a performer. Just another night in another club on another mission.

But deep down, he knew better.

Bucky told himself it was nothing.

Nothing but the aftertaste of a mission, a leftover scrap of detail his mind hadn’t filed away yet. Just another performer in another club, the kind of distraction the city sold wholesale.

And yet…

The next night, his boots found the sidewalk outside Sunset Mirage without his permission. No comm in his ear. No team in sight. Just him and the low hum of the street, neon humming overhead like a siren’s low laugh.

Inside, the club hadn’t changed—why would it? The same dim brass glow. The same tangerine velvet curtains like a closed mouth hiding a secret. The same sour-sweet perfume of champagne and smoke curling into the rafters.

And the same table in the back, shadows just deep enough to swallow him if he sat still.

So he did.

A whiskey slid onto the table without him asking—same server as the night before. The man gave him a glance that said, I’ve seen your kind before. Bucky didn’t bother correcting him.

The stage was empty for now, occupied by a jazz quartet sawing through something lazy and low. Bucky’s eyes skimmed the crowd the way they always did, cataloguing exits, reading posture, noting tells. But the truth was, he wasn’t here for them.

When you stepped out—different costume tonight, silver and white with bursts of coral feathers—he felt it hit low in his ribs, that strange pull.

You didn’t see him. Not yet.

The crowd did what crowds do—leaned forward, called out, threw money like they could buy the way you looked at them. Bucky sat in the dark, hands loose around his glass, eyes never leaving you.

Night two became night three.

Night three became night four.

Always the same—he’d slip in just before your set, find that table, nurse the same drink, and let the rest of the club blur around the edges.

You started noticing him on night five.

Not because he was loud—he wasn’t. In fact, he was the only man in the room who didn’t whistle, didn’t shout what he wanted to do to you, didn’t flash money in some clumsy bid for attention. He just sat there, still as a stone, watching like the whole show was just for him.

By night seven, you found yourself looking for him before the lights came up.

And there he was—ocean blue eyes catching the stage lights when they swept over the crowd, steady and unblinking, following the line of your arm as you spun, the arch of your back when you dipped low.

It wasn’t the way most men watched you. Most wanted to take. He looked like he wanted to memorise.

You wondered what he’d do if you gave him something worth remembering.

The city was quieter by the time Bucky stepped out into the street, the club’s neon still bleeding into the slick black pavement. Sunset Mirage loomed behind him, all velvet glamour and gold filigree, like it knew it had secrets worth keeping. He tugged his jacket collar up against the night air and started the walk toward where he’d parked his bike.

He hadn’t spoken to you. Not once. He’d just sat there, same as every other night—nursing a single whiskey, letting the noise of the crowd wash over him while his eyes stayed locked on you.

And now, walking under the weak yellow glow of the streetlamps, he could still see you.

That night’s costume had been emerald green, sequins climbing over your hips in swirling patterns, feathers arcing over your shoulders like the wings of some exotic bird. Your smile—sharp, deliberate, meant for the crowd—had skimmed over him more than once. Or maybe he’d imagined that part.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

By the time he reached the New Avengers tower, the city’s hum had faded to a low murmur. The door clicked shut behind him, and silence swallowed the space—too still, too clean, too empty. He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed the keys onto the counter, the clink echoing louder than it should have.

He didn’t turn on the main lights. Just left the kitchen lamp on, its golden halo spilling over the edge of the counter. He poured himself a whiskey, the sound of liquid against glass sharp in the hush, and carried it to the bedroom.

The place was bare—bed neatly made, no personal clutter. Functional. Which made the picture in his head all the sharper: you here, your laugh soft against the walls, the sequins from your dress catching on the sheets.

He sat on the edge of the bed, glass in hand, elbows on his knees. Tried to drink slow. Tried to think about something else. Anything else.

Didn’t work.

His mind went straight back to the way your hips moved when you turned on stage, the deliberate sway of your shoulders, the way you leaned into the mic like it was a secret lover. He thought about your legs wrapping around his waist instead of strutting past his table. Thought about how you’d sound saying his name in that low, teasing voice you used to make the crowd lean forward.

The whiskey glass clinked softly as he set it down on the nightstand. His flesh hand dragged over his face; his metal one braced against his thigh.

He gave in.

His fingers slid over the hard line already pushing against the front of his slacks, stroking lazily at first, just to feel the ache sharpen. He unzipped, pulling himself free, the heat of his own skin a shock against the cool air. Thick, flushed, already slick at the tip—he wrapped his hand around the base and gave a slow, steady stroke.

A breath hissed out between his teeth.

He thought about you leaning down into his lap, sequins brushing his thighs, your perfume curling around him. He pictured your dress hiked up, your bare skin hot against his palms as he pulled you down onto him, filling you inch by inch until you were gasping.

His strokes quickened, breath hitching as the image sharpened—your hands on his chest, your hips grinding, your voice breaking when he fucked into you deep enough to make the bed creak.

“Fuck…” The word was barely audible, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.

He thumbed the sensitive underside, imagining your lips there instead, the wet heat of your mouth. His hips lifted into his own hand without thinking, chasing it. The thought of you looking up at him while you took him in made his grip tighten, made the muscles in his thighs go taut.

It didn’t take long. It never did, not when he’d been sitting in that damn club for nights on end, storing you up like ammunition. His head tipped back, jaw clenched, and he came hard into his hand, his breath ragged in the stillness.

For a moment, all he could hear was his own breathing, the faint tick of the cooling radiator, the echo of your laugh in his head.

He cleaned himself off mechanically, dragging his hand back through his hair.

The glass of whiskey was still waiting for him. He took a long swallow, the burn grounding him.

And he had no choice but to wait for tomorrow night, to do it all over again.

────୨ৎ────

You’d been dancing long enough to know the room before you even saw it. The heat of it. The pitch. The way men leaned forward when they were hungry for the next act, the way they slouched when they thought they’d seen it all.

Tonight, though, you weren’t reading the room. You were reading him.

There he was again, exactly where you’d come to expect him: the back corner table, half in shadow, one whiskey in front of him. Not a drop spilled. Not a second glass ordered. And those eyes—God, those eyes—blue in a way that made the lights jealous, tracking you like he could feel every step.

You’d started to anticipate him. In the dressing room, while the other girls laughed and pinned each other’s costumes, you found yourself wondering if he’d be there. Wondering if he’d notice the way the seamstress had let the hem out on your new skirt so it swayed a little more when you walked. Wondering if he’d feel the heat when you looked right at him.

Tonight, you decided to stop wondering.

The bassline rolled under your skin like warm honey as you made your entrance, sequins in deep orange catching the light like embers. You felt the shift in the room the moment you stepped into it—men straightening, eyes narrowing, mouths opening in practiced whistles.

But you didn’t look at them.

You looked at him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But there was a tautness to his jaw, the faintest flex in the muscle there, that told you you had his full attention.

Halfway through your set, the music dipped, and the floor opened for the “audience number”—a quick, sultry tradition where you’d choose someone from the crowd for a little… personal attention.

The girls always picked the loud ones. The ones who’d play along and tip big. The ones who’d laugh about it later.

You walked past them all.

The crowd parted in waves of confused murmurs as you crossed the room. You could feel his gaze as you came closer, the stillness in him sharpening like a blade. When you stopped in front of his table, the corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a warning. 

You didn’t ask. You just slid onto his lap, one knee on either side of his hips, your hands finding the back of the booth on either side of his head.

Up close, you could smell him—clean soap under leather, whiskey he hadn’t touched, something faintly metallic you couldn’t place.

He didn’t touch you.

But you could feel him. Every inch of him. The heat through his suit pants, the heavy press beneath you that told you exactly how wound tight he was.

The crowd roared. Whistles and shouts, men egging him on, telling him to “get a handful.” But he didn’t move. His hands stayed on the seat, gripping the worn leather like it was the only thing keeping them there.

You moved slowly—hips rolling, spine arching, feathers brushing his chest. The music swelled, and you leaned in, close enough for your lips to nearly graze the shell of his ear.

“You’re a hard one to read,” you murmured, voice pitched low so no one else could hear.

His breath hitched, just once. Then, quiet enough that you almost missed it: “Not that hard, doll.”

You smiled like you hadn’t just felt it in the base of your spine and slid off him with one last deliberate grind, leaving him there—tense, silent, blue eyes following you all the way back to the stage.

When the set ended, you didn’t need to look to know he was still watching. You could feel it.

The show ended in a burst of applause, the kind that bounced off the velvet and brass until it became something heavier than sound—a haze you had to wade through to get backstage. You moved through it with the practiced grace of someone who’d learned to let hands brush your arm without flinching, who knew how to smile without letting the smile touch anything inside you.

You kept your head high, glitter still clinging to your skin, feathers bobbing with each step as you made your way toward the dressing rooms.

That was when you saw him.

Wilson Fisk was waiting.

“Beautiful,” he said, not as a compliment, but as a fact he thought he owned. His pale eyes swept over you, landing on the curve of your hips in that way men did when they wanted to make you feel smaller.

“Glad you enjoyed the show, Mr. Fisk,” you said, keeping your voice even, professional. You’d been trained in this—smile, acknowledge, move on. “If you’ll excuse me—”

His hand clamped around your arm. Thick fingers, grip like iron.

“I think we should enjoy something a little more… private.”

The hallway behind the stage was dim, lined with gilt-framed mirrors and racks of costumes. You knew every exit. Every camera. And yet your pulse spiked, because men like Fisk didn’t care about being seen.

“I’m not that kind of performer,” you said, trying to step back.

He didn’t move. “I wasn’t asking what kind you were.”

The room tilted—not literally, but in that way adrenaline can tip the whole world sideways. You were aware of the muffled music in the club, the distant sound of laughter, the cool press of the wall at your back as he started steering you toward the private corridor.

You thought about calling for security. You thought about running. But you knew the truth: the owner didn’t tell Fisk no. No one did.

The private back room was smaller than you expected when you’d first seen it weeks ago—low ceiling, leather couches along the walls, a round table with an ice bucket sweating in the centre. Dim amber lighting gave everything a warm glow that felt sickly under the circumstances.

Fisk shut the door behind you, the click loud in your ears.

“You’ve been on that stage, making all those eyes hungry,” he said, taking a slow step forward. “Now I get the first taste.”

“Mr. Fisk—” you started, keeping your voice steady out of sheer will.

“You can drop the ‘Mr.’” His smile was wrong—too wide, too sure.

You stepped back, the edge of the couch catching you behind the knees. Your palms went damp. This was one of those moments where you wished you could step outside yourself, become the version of you people saw on stage—untouchable, fearless, made of fire. But that version didn’t exist here. Not now.

“I told you, I’m not for sale, I don’t do this—”

Fisk had you cornered now, and the walls felt like they were closing in on you. “If you keep babbling like that, I’m going to have to shut you up myself.”

But you didn’t let up.

“Sir, please, I already told you—“

His hand shot up, fast enough that your body flinched before your brain caught up. Not to touch, but to strike.

And then something in the room shifted. An energy. A voice—low, steady, cutting through the heavy air like a wire pulled taut: “Don’t.”

You froze. Fisk froze.

From the shadowed corner by the coat rack, a figure stepped forward, and your brain did a double-take so hard it nearly tripped over itself.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you blurted before you could stop yourself. “You?!”

Bucky Barnes—tall, broad-shouldered, looking like he’d just stepped out of some noir fantasy in that dark suit—walked toward you with the calm of a man who’d already decided exactly how this would end.

Fisk turned toward him, disbelief sharpening into anger. “Barnes? You think this is your business?”

Bucky didn’t even look at him at first—just kept his eyes on you, and there was something in them that made the walls feel less close. “You okay, doll?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I… what—how—”

Finally, he turned to Fisk, stepping between you. “Let her go.”

“She’s not yours,” Fisk said, his voice darkening.

Bucky’s tone didn’t change. “She’s not yours, either.”

For a moment, it was just the two of them staring each other down. Then Fisk made the mistake of trying to tighten his grip on your arm.

The vibranium hand came up like a flash, clamping around Fisk’s wrist and squeezing until the big man’s teeth clenched with the effort of not showing pain.

“You’re gonna walk away,” Bucky said, voice dropping lower. “Or I’m gonna put you down, and you’ll be lucky if you can still write checks with this hand.”

Fisk’s lip curled. “You don’t scare me.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m not here to scare you.”

The punch came without warning—short, sharp, all shoulder and precision. Fisk hit the couch, then the floor, cufflink popping loose and skittering under the table.

You were still standing where he’d left you, heart pounding in your throat. “You just punched Wilson Fisk?”

“He had it coming.” Bucky turned back to you, holding out his flesh hand, palm open. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Your mouth worked. “I… I barely know you.”

“Right,” Bucky nodded understandingly. “My name is Bucky Barnes and I’m an Avenger. You’re safe with me, I promise.”

“An Avenger?” You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t recognise you.”

“A New Avenger,” Bucky corrected himself. “We’re like, really new. Don’t you watch the news?”

You stayed silent, squaring him up, and honestly? Bucky respected it. 

“Please, let me take you home.”

“I’m fine—” you said quietly, your eyes darting between Fisk’s unconscious body and the door. In one long stride, you headed towards the exit.

“Doll.” The way he said it—quiet, but threaded with enough steel to cut—made you stop. “Please.”

You didn’t know if it was the please or the way he’d stepped in without hesitation, but your hand was in his before you’d even decided to give it. He sounded desperate. Like he was begging, almost. But he had just saved your life, and he was an Avenger, apparently. 

And God, something compelled you to him. He was magnetic. Tall and broad and older. 

The next thing you knew, you were outside, the air sharp and cool against your skin. A gleaming black motorcycle waited at the curb, chrome glinting under the streetlight.

Bucky swung a leg over the motorcycle and held out a helmet. “Hold on tight, doll.”

The engine roared to life, deep and throaty, and when you climbed on behind him, your arms wrapping around his solid frame, you realised you were already holding on tighter than you needed to.

The club disappeared behind you in a smear of neon and asphalt, the city lights bending into streaks as he pushed the throttle. The wind pulled at your hair, carried away the scent of smoke and perfume, left you with nothing but the pounding of your heart and the warm, unyielding line of him under your hands.

You gave him your address willingly. 

The helmet felt heavier than you expected when he set it gently on your head, the strap snug under your chin. You could still feel the echo of Fisk’s grip on your arm, but the way Bucky’s hands had replaced it—steady, careful—was grounding.

“You ever been on a bike before?” he asked, his voice muffled under his own helmet.

“Once,” you admitted, glancing at the gleaming black machine beneath you both. “Didn’t end well.”

He gave you a look over his shoulder, a flicker of something like amusement in those piercing blue eyes. “You’ll be fine, doll. Just hold on.”

You swung one leg over, your dress hitching higher than you meant it to. Your arms wrapped around his middle, and he was warm under the leather, solid in a way that made you want to hold on even tighter.

The engine growled to life, deep and smooth, and then the city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow.

For a few minutes, there was only the hum of the tires and the rush of wind. Then, his voice came back to you over his shoulder.

“You from Vegas?”

“No.” You shifted your grip slightly, leaning in so he could hear you better. “Came here a few years ago. Couldn’t resist the lights, I guess.”

“What got you into the club?”

You huffed a small laugh. “The money. The costumes. The stage. I like performing… most of the time.”

His head tilted slightly, like he was tucking that away. “You’re good at it.”

“Yeah? You watch a lot of showgirls?” you teased, your voice light, but your heart thudding at the thought of him in the crowd night after night.

“Just one,” he said without missing a beat.

The words landed warm in your chest, making you grip him a little tighter. “And why’s that? Professional interest?”

“Keeping an eye on things,” he said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Things?”

“Maybe you,” he admitted, low enough that the wind almost swallowed it.

You leaned your cheek against his back, letting the thrum of the bike and the strength in his frame soothe the last of your adrenaline. “Guess I don’t mind that.”

When the city lights thinned and your building came into view, you almost wished for a longer route. The ride had been… safe. Not in the boring way—safe like the feeling you’d get if you were dangling off the edge of a building and someone caught your wrist in time.

He slowed to a stop outside your door, killing the engine. You climbed off, pulling the helmet free and shaking your hair out, suddenly aware of how close you’d been pressed to him the whole time.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said, handing the helmet back.

“Thanks for trusting me,” he replied, his gaze steady on yours.

That was when you heard yourself say it—light, easy, like it was nothing. “Come up for a drink?”

His pause was brief, but the way his eyes darkened told you the answer before he even spoke.

“Yeah,” he said finally, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’ll come up.”

And just like that, the next part of the night was decided.

The hallway smelled faintly of old carpet and someone else’s cooking, the faint rattle of pipes in the walls. You let him follow you up the narrow flight of stairs, the sound of his boots steady behind you.

Inside, your apartment was warm and a little messy—the kind of lived-in that didn’t need apologising for. Costumes hung on a rack in the corner, glitter clung to the edges of the rug from quick changes at home, and a half-finished mug of tea sat abandoned on the counter.

“Make yourself comfortable,” you said, shrugging off your jacket and kicking off your heels. Your sequined dress caught the light from the kitchen like it was still under the stage’s spotlights. “Whiskey okay?”

“Always.”

You poured two glasses and handed him one. He took it with a nod, his flesh fingers brushing yours—brief, but enough to leave a trace of warmth against your skin.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You sipped your drink, leaning back against the counter, watching him take in the room. He wasn’t restless—he was too controlled for that—but there was a charge in the air, like the coil of a spring.

Finally, you broke it. “You’ve been coming to the club every night.”

His gaze found yours, steady and unflinching. “Yeah.”

“You don’t whistle. You don’t shout. You don’t try to get me alone.” You tilted your head, curious. “So what is it you want, exactly?”

He set his glass down on the counter without looking away from you. “Wanted to see you. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” You gave a soft laugh, shaking your head. “You’re not very good at lying.”

He stepped closer—not enough to touch, but enough that the heat from him reached you, made your skin prickle. “I’m not lying, doll.”

The pet name hit harder here, without the noise of the club to hide it. You swallowed, trying to keep your voice light. “You always this intense?”

“So I’ve been told.”

You laughed again, but softer this time. “You know, most guys would’ve just asked me out instead of stalking my stage for a week.”

“I’m not ‘most guys’.”

That was true. And the thought should’ve been unnerving. But instead, you found yourself leaning forward, testing the line between you.

His eyes flicked to your mouth for the briefest moment before returning to your gaze. “You should get some rest,” he said quietly, but his voice wasn’t convincing—like the words belonged to a man trying to do the right thing, while the rest of him was waiting for you to close the space between you.

You tilted your head, smiling faintly. “What if I’m not tired?”

The pause that followed was thick enough to taste—heat and want and something else you didn’t want to name yet.

His jaw flexed, and he took a slow breath, like he was holding himself in check. “Then I’m in trouble.”

The words still hung in the air between you, low and weighted, like the bassline of a song only the two of you could hear.

You tilted your head, sipping slowly from your glass, letting the heat of the whiskey warm your throat. “Those nights when you watch me… You look at me like you want to ruin me.”

His jaw flexed, and he didn’t look away. “I’ve thought about it.”

You set your drink down on the counter and closed the space between you, your heels clicking against the floor. “Tell me.”

“What?”

“What you’ve been thinking,” you said, voice low, stepping right into his space. “All those nights you’ve been sitting there, just… staring.”

He tilted his head, studying you the way he did in the club—like he was memorising every detail, storing it away for later. “Thought about getting my hands on you. Pulling you into my lap and not letting you go ‘til you knew exactly who you’ve been performing for all week.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, your hands coming up to the lapels of his suit jacket. “Then why don’t you?”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Careful what you ask for, doll.”

“Careful’s not really my style.”

That earned you a quiet, rough chuckle, and when you slid your hands down his chest, you could feel the heat of him through the fabric. “Sit down,” you murmured, nodding toward the couch.

He obeyed without a word, leaning back against the cushions, watching you with that steady, unblinking gaze. You stepped in front of him, the sequins of your dress catching the lamplight, and began to sway your hips—slow, deliberate, the same way you’d done on stage but without the distance.

His eyes tracked you like a hunter tracking prey, his tongue flicking briefly over his bottom lip when you turned and lowered yourself into his lap.

This time, you felt his hands.

They were big and warm, one gripping your waist, the other sliding down over your hip to palm your ass through the thin fabric. He pulled you flush against him, and the hard line pressing into you left no doubt about what sitting in that club all week had done to him.

“See what you do to me?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You rolled your hips slowly, biting back a smile. “And here I thought you were just there for the music.”

“Only music I hear is the sound you make when I touch you.”

You shifted again, your hands sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. “You gonna tell me what else you’ve been thinking, Barnes?”

His breath was hot against your jaw when he answered. “I’ve been thinking about peeling this dress off you, inch by inch. About getting you under me and hearing you beg me to make you come. About how many ways I can get you to say my name before the sun comes up.”

The words sank into you like heat in muscle, spreading low and sharp.

You smiled, letting your fingers toy with the first button of his shirt. “Guess we’d better find out, then.”

His jacket was the first to go, sliding off his shoulders in one smooth motion before you were tugging at the loosened tie around his neck. The sequins at your side brushed against his shirt as you shifted, and you could feel his hands start to roam—over your thighs, up your ribs, memorising the shape of you like he’d been starving for it.

“Been a long week, doll,” he said, his voice gone rougher now. “Don’t think I can take it slow.”

You smiled like you’d just won a bet. “Good.”

You shifted your weight forward, your knees digging into the couch cushions on either side of him, and rolled your hips down slow. His breath caught—just enough for you to notice—when your core pressed right over the thick, hot line straining against his pants.

Bucky’s hands tightened on your waist, thumbs stroking small, absent circles as if he was trying to memorise every dip and curve. “You’re killin’ me, doll,” he murmured, voice low and frayed.

You rocked forward again, your dress sliding higher with each motion, the sequins whispering against his shirt. “You’ve been sitting there all week, watching me move like this,” you teased, dragging yourself over him with lazy precision. “I bet you’ve thought about it every night after.”

His jaw clenched, blue eyes dark under the shadow of his lashes. “Every damn night.”

The friction was maddening—heat building where his cock pressed against you through the barrier of your panties, the pressure growing with each grind. You felt him meet your movements, his hips pushing up into you in slow, deliberate thrusts.

One of his hands slid down from your waist, fingers skimming your thigh, over the curve of your hip, until his palm cupped you fully. The heel of his hand pressed against your clit through the thin lace, and you bit down on your lip to keep the sound in.

“Mm, that’s it,” he coaxed, his voice rasping like gravel under silk. “Let me feel you.”

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders as his fingers slipped beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the damp heat they found there. His touch was confident but unhurried, middle finger stroking through your folds before pressing up into you, curling just right.

Your breath hitched, hips stuttering against his, but he didn’t stop—his thumb found your clit and began slow, deliberate circles, timed perfectly to the way his cock kept nudging against you through his pants.

“Fuck, Bucky…” you breathed, your forehead dropping to his.

“That’s it, doll,” he murmured, his other hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the tight peak through your dress. “So wet for me already. You like it when I talk to you like this? When I tell you what I’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ to you?”

You managed a shaky nod, the pleasure winding tight inside you with every flick of his thumb, every roll of his hips.

“Good,” he said, his voice dropping to something dark and possessive. “Because I’m not even close to done with you.”

Your muscles clenched around his fingers, and his gaze sharpened, sensing how close you were. He pressed harder, curling deeper, coaxing you toward the edge until you couldn’t hold back the soft, broken sound that escaped your throat.

“Bucky—”

“Come for me, doll,” he urged, the command hitting low in your belly. “Right here, on my fuckin’ hand.”

It was the way he said it—like it was inevitable—that sent you over. You came with a gasp, shuddering against him, his fingers working you through it until you were trembling in his lap.

When you finally caught your breath, he withdrew slowly, bringing his glistening fingers up to his mouth. His eyes stayed locked on yours as he sucked them clean, groaning low in his chest.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he said, and your whole body flushed hot at the admission.

You were still catching your breath when the thought slid into your head—wicked, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

Pushing up from his lap, you let your palms trail down his chest, feeling the steady pound of his heartbeat under your hands. His eyes tracked every movement, blue and dark, the heat in them pulling you forward like a current.

“My turn,” you murmured.

Bucky’s brows drew together slightly. “Your turn?”

Instead of answering, you sank to your knees between his spread legs. The shift in height made his breath catch audibly, and you could feel his gaze drop to follow the motion.

“Doll…” His voice had an edge now—half warning, half want.

You just smiled, running your hands up the insides of his thighs, feeling the tension thrumming there. His suit pants were warm from your body, the fabric stretched slightly over the thick bulge straining against the zipper.

“You’ve been sitting in that club all week, looking at me like you want to devour me,” you said, your fingers brushing over the hard outline of him. “I think you’ve earned this.”

He let out a quiet, rough laugh. “I’m not gonna stop you.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

Your fingers made quick work of his belt, the clink of metal loud in the quiet apartment. You slid the leather free, unbuttoned his pants, and tugged the zipper down. The tension in his body was a live thing now, coiled and waiting.

When you freed him, your breath hitched—thick, heavy, already flushed a deep pink, the head glistening in the low light. He was big enough that you had to take a second just to picture how he’d feel inside you.

“Christ, doll,” he muttered, watching your reaction with a half-smile. “Gonna stare all night?”

You arched a brow. “I call it my Bucky Barnes impression.”

You wrapped your fingers around the base, feeling the heat of him pulse under your touch, and leaned in to press your mouth to the tip. The taste was clean and faintly salty, the slick heat making your tongue curl instinctively.

Bucky’s head tipped back against the couch, his jaw tightening. “Fuck…”

You took him slowly at first, letting your lips slide down just past the head before pulling back, your hand stroking the length you couldn’t fit yet. The combination had him groaning, a sound low and ragged in his chest.

“You’re killin’ me,” he said, voice hoarse, one hand coming down to brush your hair back from your face.

You hummed around him in answer, the vibration making his thighs tense under your palms. You picked up the pace—deeper now, sucking harder, twisting your wrist as you moved, letting your tongue tease the sensitive ridge under the head each time you pulled back.

Bucky’s breathing was rough now, his free hand curling into a fist against the couch cushion. “Look at you,” he rasped, glancing down, his eyes burning into yours. “So fuckin’ pretty with your lips around me. Good girl.”

The praise hit like a spark, heat flaring low in your belly. You took him deeper, pushing until you felt the stretch at the corner of your mouth, your throat working around him.

“Shit—” His hand tightened in your hair—not pulling, just grounding himself. “You keep doin’ that and I’m not gonna last.”

You pulled back just enough to grin up at him, your lips slick. “That’s the idea.”

Before he could answer, you took him back into your mouth, this time stroking him in rhythm with each bob of your head, your other hand cupping and massaging the weight of him below. His hips shifted subtly, a restrained thrust you felt as much as saw.

He swore again, the sound guttural, and you could tell by the twitch in your hand that he was close. But before he could reach the edge, you pulled away slowly, letting your tongue trail over the head one last time.

“Doll—” His voice was wrecked, and that alone was worth the smug smile tugging at your mouth.

“Not yet,” you said softly, climbing back into his lap, straddling him again so you could feel every inch of him, hot and heavy, pressed against you.

You were still flushed from the way he’d sounded, still feeling the weight of him in your hand and the slick heat on your lips, when you sank onto his lap again. This time, there was no teasing.

Bucky’s hands went straight to your hips, steady and firm, pulling you forward so the hard length of him pressed right against the soaked fabric of your panties. You both groaned at the contact, and then you were fumbling for the small foil packet he pulled from his pocket.

His smirk was fleeting, swallowed by focus as he tore it open, rolled the condom down over himself with quick, efficient movements.

You lifted yourself onto your knees, your dress bunched high around your waist, panties pushed aside with a quick tug of his fingers. The head of him nudged against your entrance, and you couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through you.

Bucky’s gaze locked on yours, his hands cradling your hips like he was holding something precious. “Take your time,” he murmured.

You sank down slowly, inch by inch, feeling the stretch as your body took him in. He was thick, filling you until your breath hitched and your hands gripped his shoulders for balance. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the point where you joined, watching the way you took him.

“Fuck, doll,” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “You feel so good. Like you were made for me.”

When you finally settled into his lap, your thighs pressed to his, the fullness had your head spinning. You rolled your hips experimentally, the friction sparking bright in your belly.

“Just like that,” he said, thumbs stroking over your hips. “Ride me.”

You obeyed, lifting and sinking, your rhythm slow at first, savouring the drag of him inside you. Bucky’s hands roamed—over your thighs, your waist, up your sides to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric still clinging to you.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his head tipping back for a second before snapping forward again, his eyes burning into yours. “So fuckin’ beautiful. Been dreamin’ about this all week—having you like this, hearin’ those sounds you make.”

Your pace quickened, the wet slap of skin meeting skin filling the room, but the angle wasn’t enough—you wanted more, needed more. You were close to saying it when he suddenly stilled your hips with both hands.

“Not enough for you either, huh?” he said, his voice gone darker now, that rough edge back in it.

Before you could answer, he was moving—lifting you off him just enough to push you down onto your back on the couch. Your legs bent over the armrest, your dress shoved higher until it bunched around your ribs. He settled between your thighs, his hands pushing your knees wider as he lined himself up again.

“Bucky—”

“Shh, doll,” he said, sinking back into you in one long, deep thrust that had your mouth falling open. “I got you now.”

He started slow, each stroke purposeful, his hips rolling just enough to hit that spot deep inside that made your toes curl. Then he picked up the pace, the sound of his body meeting yours echoing off the walls, his breaths coming hard and fast above you.

One hand gripped your hip, the other came up to hold your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his. “Keep your eyes on me,” he rasped. “Wanna see you when you come.”

The tension coiled tighter and tighter, your nails digging into the couch as you clung to him. His thumb found your clit, pressing and circling in perfect rhythm with his thrusts, and that was all it took.

“Bucky—!” Your climax hit hard, pleasure ripping through you as your body clenched around him.

His groan was guttural, his hips grinding deeper into you as he chased his own release. “Fuck, baby—” Two more hard thrusts and he was spilling into the condom, his forehead dropping to yours as he caught his breath.

For a moment, the only sound was the thud of your heart and the slow, uneven rhythm of your breathing. He stayed inside you, holding himself there like he couldn’t quite let go yet.

Then, softer now, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear: “Told you I couldn’t take it slow.”

Your breathing came in shaky little bursts, the kind that didn’t match the stillness settling over the room. Every muscle in your body felt like it was caught between melting and twitching, the lingering hum of too much sensation still sparking in your nerves.

Bucky stayed close, one hand braced on the couch beside your head, his chest still rising and falling with deep, steady pulls of air. His gaze swept over your face, lingering for a beat like he was checking you for something only he could see.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmured.

You swallowed, your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” he said gently, shifting his weight so his body caged you in without pinning you. “But you’re still shakin’.”

The fact that he’d noticed made something loosen in your chest. You hadn’t realised until that moment how many men never did.

He slid out of you slowly, careful like he was easing you away from the edge of something dangerous. The absence left you empty and a little too aware of the cool air against your skin. Before you could pull your dress back down, he was already gathering you up, tucking your body against his like you weighed nothing.

You let him.

The couch creaked under his weight as he sat back with you curled into his lap, one arm wrapped firm around your waist, the other smoothing over your spine in slow, grounding strokes. The steady rhythm of his hand, the quiet rasp of his breath, the faint scent of leather and faint cologne—it all worked its way into your body until the trembling began to fade.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The world outside could have been a hundred miles away.

When he finally did move, it wasn’t to pull away. He shifted you gently, murmuring, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You let him carry you into the bathroom, your cheek resting against the solid line of his shoulder. The light in here was softer, golden, throwing long shadows over the tile. He set you on the edge of the counter like you were porcelain.

The warm cloth he fetched was damp and soothing against your skin, his touch slow and deliberate as he wiped you down. Not hurried, not clinical—just careful. He was quiet the whole time, not in an awkward way, but in a way that said he was making sure every movement counted.

When he finished, he pressed the cloth into the sink and reached for his shirt draped over the back of the door. “Arms up.”

You obeyed, and the fabric fell over you, soft and far too big, smelling faintly of him. It hung mid-thigh, covering you in a way that felt more intimate than being naked.

Back in the living room, he settled into the couch and pulled you with him until you were tucked under his arm, your legs stretched out across his lap. His thumb traced idle lines against your hip through the cotton.

For a long moment, the only sound was the slow, even rhythm of your breaths. Then you spoke, voice quiet but steady. “I’m… not the type of girl who just has one night stands.”

You felt him pause—not with judgment, but with that same listening stillness he’d had at the club.

“I know what people think,” you went on, keeping your eyes fixed on the faint pattern in the carpet. “The way I dress for work, the way I dance, the way I smile like that—it’s a job. But to them, it’s an invitation. They think I’m easy. That I go home with whoever asks. That I sleep around.”

He didn’t interrupt. He just let you talk, his hand steady on your hip.

“It’s not true,” you said finally, your throat tightening on the words. “But it’s easier to let them believe it than to waste my breath trying to convince them otherwise.”

His fingers flexed slightly against you. “I’m not the type of guy to look for one night stands either.”

You gave a quiet, tired laugh. “You could’ve fooled me tonight.”

That earned you a faint smile—one of those almost-hidden ones that didn’t reach his mouth so much as his eyes. “Wasn’t your body that kept me comin’ back to that club, doll.”

You blinked, glancing up at him. “No?”

“No.” He said it with a certainty that left no room for doubt. “It was the way you held that room like it was yours. The way you made every single person think they were the one you were singing to, and then walked away like you owned the place. The way you moved—not just on stage, but like you knew exactly who you were the second those lights hit you.”

You didn’t know what to do with the warmth creeping into your chest at his words.

“I want to get to know you,” he continued, his voice softer now. “Not just the dancer. I want to take care of you. Make sure you never have to be in a room with men like Fisk again.”

The sincerity in his tone left you off-balance, because it didn’t feel like a line—it felt like a vow.

Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt where it hung loose on you. “I don’t know if I’m used to someone wanting all that.”

He pressed his lips to the top of your head, the gesture almost absent but achingly gentle. “Then I guess we’ll take it slow.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink against him, your body no longer trembling but still buzzing in a different way. His arms tightened slightly around you, like he was making sure you wouldn’t slip away.

And for the first time in a long while, you felt like maybe you didn’t have to.

────୨ৎ────

The next few nights felt different. Not because the stage lights burned any brighter or because the applause lasted longer—but because you knew he was there.

Even if you couldn’t see him past the glare of the spotlights, you could feel him. The weight of that steady, unblinking gaze from somewhere in the crowd, like an invisible tether holding you anchored in a room full of noise.

Bucky didn’t sit in the shadows anymore. He’d trade the whiskey glass for a vantage point just off the main floor, close enough to intercept any hand that might stray too far when you worked the crowd. The men who got too bold suddenly found their attention shifting elsewhere, a quiet but unmistakable warning in the way Bucky’s eyes met theirs.

It didn’t take the other girls long to notice.

“Your shadow’s here again,” Clarissa, one of the other showgirls, whispered in the wings one night, a teasing lilt in her accent. “You must be his favourite act.”

You’d only smiled, adjusting the angle of your headdress. “Maybe he just likes sequins.”

But when the curtain fell and the crowd dispersed, you always found him waiting—backstage now, leaning against the wall just far enough from the chaos of the dressing rooms, arms folded, hair curling faintly at his collar from the humidity of the club.

Some nights he’d walk you out, quiet but solid at your side, making sure you got to your car or your apartment without so much as a wrong look from anyone. Other nights, he’d just hand you your coat and murmur something low—“Good show tonight, doll”—before vanishing into the night like a shadow that belonged only to you.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

One evening, after a particularly rowdy crowd, you stepped offstage to find John Walker standing just outside the wings, hands in his pockets, wearing the half-smile of a man who thought he had a right to be there.

“Hell of a performance,” John said, his tone dripping with that drawl you’d heard him use on half the waitresses in the city. “You’ve got the whole room eatin’ out of your hand.”

Before you could answer, Bucky appeared from around the corner, eyes flicking briefly to John before settling on you. “Ready to go?”

John’s smile twitched. “You her driver now, Barnes?”

Bucky didn’t bite. Just stepped closer, his presence filling the space between you and John without a word. “I’m whatever she needs me to be.”

You bit back a laugh, sensing the heat under John’s casual posture. “Play nice, boys.”

John held your gaze for a moment longer, then turned with a shrug, muttering something under his breath as he walked away.

Bucky watched him go, jaw tight, before looking back at you. “You okay?”

“Better now,” you said, and meant it.

From then on, it was a quiet rhythm: the shows, the crowd, the hum of the club—and somewhere in all of it, the certainty that Bucky Barnes was out there, watching. Always watching. Not like the others, who wanted pieces of you they hadn’t earned. His watchfulness was different. Steady. Protective.

The kind that didn’t fade when the lights went down.

The kind that stayed.

────୨ৎ────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan @allhailbuckybarnes @torntaltos @risingwolf97 @overwintering-soldier @doilooklikeagiveafrack @brelione @boomyoulookingforthis

[2-11am]

sooooo

where’s my gold star???

My official mood board for TS12. Based on what we’ve been given/been shown, I think it’ll be 1920s burlesque and 1970s party culture. This record might be loud and dynamic with a disconnect between the sound atmosphere and the lyrical picture.

[2-11am]

and, baby, that's show business for you❤️‍🔥

[2-11am]

another one, thank you!

[2-11am]

SEBASTIAN STAN IS 43 TODAY!!!!

I think a lot about what I would say to Seb if I ever had the chance to talk to him. He used to be on my list of people I do not want to meet (up there with Taylor Swift). People whom I’ve built up so tall in my mind and I don’t want to be crushed upon meeting them. Recently, I’ve changed my mind regarding Seb. I think I know what I’d say to him. I think it’s important for him to know how much of an impact he’s had on the landscape of men’s mental health and mental health as a whole. He has really helped me with accepting myself as a shy introvert. Having a low social battery doesn’t have to be debilitating. I also hope he knows how hugely the internet loves him. He has an army of people around the world who would fight tooth and nail for him. I hope he knows how much we love and support him.