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daisybeewrites · 4 days ago

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if anyone is interested, chapter 4 of my first ever reader insert series is out <3 a big thank you to @intrepidacious for doing nothing but posting her own bucky fics and making me go ‘hey they’re cool and they’re doing it, so maybe i can too?’ :))

like real people do iv.

“about that night, the bugs and the dirt / what did you bury before those hands pulled me from the earth?” — Hozier

cw: allusions to canon-typical trauma, shield being questionable but dw it was before hydra came out, getting into Sunny's story, angst and comfort y'all

part iii | series m. list | part v

pt. 4: flutter

You leave before anyone can say goodbye. Steve slept in — he’s got some sort of cold that wasn’t around in the thirties and thus he isn’t super-immune. You slip out when Bucky brings him a bowl of sliced peaches and oatmeal, planning to finally have a go at cooking in the kitchen (if only to make sure you ate before what you had described as ‘the longest day of the week at the garden’).

There’s a small sticky note on a box of cherry chocolate protein bars sitting on the counter, signed for James - ☀︎, but no sign of you. Everything is back exactly as it was the night before.

Yelena likes to steal snacks, so he pockets the note and hides the box in his room.

Probably bets that you left, anyway. Last night, Bucky talked. Genuinely talked. He couldn’t really see you, with the window behind you, even with enhanced vision. Maybe that made it easier. In the darkness, he didn’t have to be perceived. Or maybe it was because of the quiet, even while you talked, the building world settling down to listen. Eventually, between stories and secrets, the rule of three fell away.

You told him the story of the scar behind your right ear (a cat scratch that never fully faded), but skirted around his other questions regarding your childhood. He left it alone. You asked him about his. He talked quietly about his old home until his chest ached. He skipped over your questions about the war. You put on a nature documentary. Bucky made tea. You watched the sun start to rise from the lounge window.

Bucky’s running on the forest path when Red Wing appears ahead of him.

“You’re getting predictable,” Sam says gleefully. “You’re making habits, grandpa.”

Bucky glares at the bird-robot but doesn’t move to hit it. If he looks carefully, it’s kind of cute.

“What do you want, Sam?”

“Not me. Fury. What did you do?”

Bucky grimaces, “Nothing.”

“Must have done something.”

“Maybe he likes reminding me that he’s the one holding my leash,” he mutters. Bucky stops abruptly, letting the comment hang in the air. He collapses against his knees, the overwhelming feeling of being caged in returning like a phantom limb. His metal hand rests on the back of his neck, cool fingers digging into the pressure points there.

Sam stays quiet for a minute. “You say the word, we’ll figure out a different arrangement. You know that.”

“Like what, Sam?”

He doesn’t snap. He’s too tired. But Sam is silent on the line. So he gets up and walks back to the compound, letting Red Wing follow him without comment. When he gets to Fury’s office, Nat is already there, making easy conversation with Nick.

“She mentioned,” Nat says. “Any chance I could get some details on that assignment…?”

Fury laughs. “Nice try, Romanoff.”

“Might be better if she hears it from me,” Nat smirks, eyes flicking to the hall. “Just saying.”

Bucky raps on the door but walks straight in. It makes his hands shake, a loud voice in his head screaming at him to brace. For something, anything, because he didn’t wait for the order to enter. He’ll have to ask Nat if that ever goes away.

He stands in the center of the room, arms crossed. Fury looks expectantly at Natasha.

“I would like to stay,” she says easily, slipping into the chair in front of Fury’s desk. He rolls his eyes.

“What is this?” Nick says flatly. Not really a question. An order.

Natasha stills for a moment. Bucky catches the side of her smile. “Three spy organizations walk into a bar…” she murmurs. Fury rolls his eye and sits back in his chair. Bucky feels like he’s just witnessed an almost entirely silent argument, growing increasingly confused and impatient at the obvious covert conversation going on between them. He crosses his arms, trying to catch a slip in Nat’s mask for a clue as to what the hell is happening.

“I’m your apology sponsor,” Nat remarks dryly. Nick doesn’t take his unimpressed stare off an equally unimpressed Natasha when he speaks.

“I have been informed by Ms. Romanoff and an anonymous third party that employing concealed surveillance in a civilian residential area without probable cause is against SHIELD code 9-c-02.” He tosses a thick handbook on the table. “You’re an agent now, read that.”

Bucky picks up the book, peering inside. It’s a manual, but it might as well be the phone book with how many sections and pages there are. Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Nick,” Nat says flatly.

He sighs. “And… pardon me, for not informing you of such methods when they pertain directly to you.”

Bucky looks up sharply at this. “Sorry?”

“Apology accepted. Both of you leave.”

Bucky turns on his heel and exits, scowl deepening, wishing he had stayed frozen so he didn’t have to deal with this shit. Nat passes him in the hallway.

“You’re growing on him,” she sing-songs.

“I’d rather not.”

—

It’s a regular Saturday at the garden. From the time the first person walks through the gate to when you lock up, you are simply Sunny from down the street. It’s peaceful, in spite of the heat. Charlie brings some baked goods from his mom and leaves them out for others perusing vegetables. A few people come and help you with tasks, but the sun is high in the clear blue sky and most everyone would rather stay indoors with the AC.

“The heat island gets worse every year,” a familiar, warm voice calls. You turn your head from watering the latest seed trays and sprouts to see Tía striding up the path. Carrying her intricately carved walking stick, a bag of supplies and seeds from the NYBG in one arm, she heads directly for you. You open your arms and hug her, circling her small frame and holding out your soiled gloves so as not to dirty her shirt.

“Yes, it does,” you agree. “You look nice! Heading somewhere special?”

“Off to socialize our way into some big donations,” she says, winking and adjusting her dark green blazer. “You know míja, this tactic would work better if you went.”

You offer her a bright smile, leaning in to kiss her cheek to stop her from seeing the look flashing across your face. Memories of silky dresses and fine jewelry to make you sparkle, returned with blood stains and smelling of gunpowder. Draw them in. Make them love you. Complete the mission.

“So young and beautiful,” she fusses, brushing a piece of hair out of your face.

Exactly.

Your phone starts buzzing and you sigh in relief, and can’t stop the grin that curves on your lips. You almost drop your phone into a bucket of fresh soil.

Bucky is calling.

Calling.

Tía reads the screen, takes one look at your face, and shakes her head.

“Dearie, I have to go. I just needed to stop by and see you,” she smiles, pats your cheek, then walks away, confident as ever with her fancy walking stick and curly grey hair tied back in a bun. You smile after her, then refocus on your phone.

Okay, so it isn’t entirely out of the blue. But you hadn’t expected it. The only person that calls you is Tía. Natasha just… shows up. But now, this.

Last night was odd. You didn’t mind talking about yourself. Hendidn’t complain about the nature documentary you picked. Bucky held you like something worth holding, leaving room to breathe. That’s what convinced you not to sprint away when he started asking questions — he held space. He didn’t push. And you talked about things you never do. You leaned against the rough stone of the walls you’ve built and considered, for maybe the first time, if they were strictly necessary anymore. If it wouldn’t hurt to let a couple people in.

You press the green button quicker than you’d like to admit and glare at the oak branch where a tiny camera had been hidden just hours earlier. Thank god for Nat. She found the first one on the perimeter, brought it back to Tony to check out.

You don’t like people intruding on your space. So now you have a ziploc bag of crushed surveillance bugs in your tote.

You press the phone between your ear and shoulder.

“Hi,” you greet. Your heart is racing. He couldn’t hear that over the phone, right?

“Hi, sunshine,” he says. “Do you speak Russian?”

“Почему?” You smirk as hear him sigh on the line.

“Just curious?”

You switch the water setting to mist for the newly seeded trays. Some are already sprouting.

“Any other languages?” he asks. You can picture him, reclining on the couch, or walking around the compound, phone to his ear.

“Enough of the romance languages to do my job, a little Japanese from my stint in Osaka, some Lithuanian from a girl I dated,” you list. “Jack of all trades, master of none.”

He hums. “But better than a master of one.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” you point out, continuing to mist the sprouts. They were getting a bit soggy now.

“Wanted to talk.”

“About?”

He goes quiet. You almost check if the line’s gone dead. Then, “Just to you.”

You hold the phone away from your ear for a moment and squeeze your eyes shut. Deep breath. Don’t be weird about this.

And you’re definitely not weird about it. Just normal monarchs, testing out their new wings in your ribcage. Fluttering directionless and hopeful.

“What about you?” you ask, slightly breathless.

“You want the full list or the abridged version?” He quips. You wish he knew how facetime works so you could see the little smirk on his face, the one so clear in his voice.

“Give me a sample,” you say, coiling the hose as best you could with one hand.

“Tu ai adus culoare în viața mea,” he says.

“I…” you say lamely, breath caught in your lungs. You laugh to fill the silence. “That’s beautiful, James.”

“You speak Romanian?” he asks, an edge of nerves creeping in.

“Not a word,” you say, laughing. “But it’s a beautiful language.”

He laughs, the same low rumble as the night before.

“You- Uh,” he trips on his words. So close. “You’re beautiful.”

He says it so quietly it could have been static, like he’s hoping the receiver won’t pick it up. Wherever he is, birds are chirping.

“Back at ya, handsome,” you say, blushing. Okay, so maybe you’re glad he doesn’t know how to facetime. You crane your neck, paranoid about more cameras. Maybe he would double check for you next week.

“Did you eat?” he asks suddenly. “You left without breakfast.”

“Yeah,” you say airily. You snagged some tart blackberries off the bush and split half a slice of challah with Laurens when he dropped by to check on his newly planted carrot seeds.

“Mm,” he hums. “A meal?”

As if on cue, your stomach growls. “Well, no,” you say. You can easily imagine the Look he’d give you if he were here. “Thanks, Mom, but I’m okay. Did you eat?”

“I had one of the bars you left.”

A smile curls your lips. The last stragglers are trailing out of the garden as the sun blessedly sets, allowing the little square of green to start cooling.

“Thats not a meal, you hypocrite,” you tease, and don’t bother to guard the smile in your voice. It’s getting late, most people have left. “You like ‘em?” You lived on those things during the first months of the Blip — alone in a strange house with some of your closest friends turned to dust.

“They’re pretty good,” he says. “Sweet. But I expected nothing less from you.”

You groan. “No, stop. Don’t listen to Natalia, less game! I beg of you,” you plead, aiming for joking and getting lost somewhere between nerves and flat seriousness.

He’s quiet for a moment. Static crackles over the line.

“Okay nevermind, I miss it,” you rush out. He laughs, a short exhale of breath.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says finally. “See you later?”

You nod, then remember he can’t hear you.

“Count on it,” you say.

“Abia aștept,” he whispers, then the line disconnects. You're left standing in the garden, biting back a smile as you stare at the bed of milkweed. Oh, boy.

—

“Smooth, Barnes.”

Bucky glares over his shoulder at Sam, who has been standing in the living room doorway for God knows how long. He’s sneaky. And, well, Bucky was distracted. Sam enters the room fully, flopping into one of the chairs across from the couch and sighing. When Bucky doesn’t react, Sam sighs again.

“What?” Bucky gives in.

“Nothing.”

He blinks once, slowly, the lightness from speaking with you fading as Sam smirked like he knew something Bucky didn’t.

“You irritate me.”

Sam grins. “Ah, three words. Nice.”

“Forget I asked,” Bucky says, getting up to leave the room.

“You do that a lot,” Sam observes.

“Don’t analyse me,” He retorts, pausing in the doorway.

“Just saying. You’re always running away from conversations.”

“Maybe I only do that with people who annoy me.”

Sam shrugs. “You want pizza? I’m putting in an order.”

Bucky is too tired to keep up with this conversation.

“Yeah, sure.”

Which is how Bucky ends up sitting on the floor of Yelena’s room with Sam, watching Jurassic Park with three mostly empty pizza boxes between them.

“Bucky, I didn’t know you and Steve were actors,” Yelena says dryly, as two dinosaurs amble across the screen.

Bucky shoots her a glare as Sam laughs out loud.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, but hides a smirk by taking another slice of pizza. The night continues on like that, Yelena occasionally cracking jokes and Bucky giving her the rest of his pizza because, in all honesty, frozen pizzas are just not the same as a greasy slice from the city. And maybe he felt a little sick after two slices, and didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t actually had pizza in eighty years.

He’s just thinking that you’d like this Ellie Sattler character, the botanist, as she checks on a sick triceratops when Yelena speaks up.

“How is Sunny?” Yelena asks suddenly, like she’d been thinking the same thing. “I heard—”

Sam shakes his head subtly, and Yelena stops long enough for Bucky to look over and catch the movement.

“What?”

“The surveillance situation—” Yelena tries again, only to be interrupted by Sam having a very unconvincing coughing fit. She glares.

Sunny. Surveillance.

“Is she working again?” he asks carefully. Cautious. Unsure if he wants to know the answer. Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, but it’s too late. Can? Open. Worms? There.

“God, I wish,” Yelena groans, ignoring Sam’s reaction. “I’d kill to have her help on some of these missions. They’d be much more fun with her around.”

Sam picks at his nails.

“You know something.”

Sam shakes his head. “I just got off probation, man. They’re threatening to take away Red Wing.”

“Okay, to be fair, you were the one who decided to fly into the burning building to save that damn cat,” Yelena points out. He shushes her.

“My point,” Sam continues, “is that you aren’t even supposed to know. You figured it out through your freaky sister telepathy.”

“No, I saw Natasha dropping the cameras off at Stark’s lab,” Yelena argues. “And you aren’t supposed to know either!”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what are we talking about?” Bucky bursts, feeling his left eye twitch and a headache kick up behind it. He used to be a sniper. Not a care in the world about intelligence or counterintelligence or covert surveillance. Just find a nice ridge, do some mental math, and shoot the people trying to kill Steve. Simpler times.

“Natasha bogarakat talált elrejtve a kertjében,” Yelena rushes out, stealing another slice of his pizza. He’s not worried about it.

“Hey, I haven’t learned that one yet!” Sam cries, exasperated.

“If they give you orders in English, is it really insubordination if I break them in Hungarian?” Yelena asks, faux-philosophical tone and raised eyebrows hiding a smirk. Sam just breathes deeply.

“’Please, Sam! Help us train the next generation of Shield!’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun!’ they said,” he mutters.

Bucky’s brain is still playing catch-up.

“Wait, Nat found what where?”

Sam sends Yelena a warning look. Bucky has never once wished to be telepathic until now.

“Guys.”

Sam lets out a long-suffering sigh as a bunch of velociraptors chase a Jeep on the television.

“I was going to tell you more delicately. Thank you, Yelena,” Sam says, exasperated but appeased when she drops two garlic breadsticks on his plate with a shrug. “Sunny hasn’t mentioned anything?”

Bucky shakes his head.

Neither of them say anything more.

Cameras. Bugs.

Oh, sure. Another thing to spin around in his head until Thursday.

—

The week drags on, meetings and weeding and visitors taking up your days and texting with Bucky, however few and far between. He texts like a grandpa, you point out, and he uses ‘LOL’ for the first (and last) time ever trying to prove you wrong. It doesn’t work.

You are much too excited for work on Thursday. A couple women are there in the morning, picking the last of the strawberries and an early bell pepper. You offer them nutrition sheets, freshly printed in bright ink, thanks to Bobbi bringing color cartridges for the printer. They take them and promise to come back soon with bell pepper seeds.

Two p.m. rolls around slowly, with an ache in your shoulder and spring in your step. You hear car doors closing from your spot under the oak, planting an assortment of peas in the freshly overturned earth.

“Should get sun in the morning but are spared the scorch,” you murmur.

“Not when you’re around, babe,” Nat says.

“Are you implying I’m hot, Romanoff?” you say, turning to find her smirking and leaning casually against Bucky, like he’s a wall.

“Like the sun.” She winks. “I can think of at least one person who would agree.”

Bucky is suddenly very intently focused on a coral honeysuckle vining along the trellis, petals curled and ready to bloom. You roll your eyes at Nat and grin.

“You staying today?” you ask. She shakes her head.

“Nope. Just making sure this guy doesn’t run off,” she says, handing him what looks like a button. “And to deliver this.”

You recognize the EMP instantly.

“Your trail cams have a wireless set up, right?” she asks.

“Do you think we have wireless trail cams?” you ask, tutting. “It’s okay, I’ll reboot them later.”

Bucky holds up the tiny object, recognition dawning. His face twists into a deep frown.

“I still can’t believe they set up surveillance here,” Nat says. “Considering it’s mostly you puttering around and talking to yourself.”

“Okay first of all, unnecessary,” you say, laughing. “Second, I took down what I could find. Did a full sweep for the first time in ages.”

Your fingers brush Bucky’s wrist as you take the small disc. You eye his arm, the plates shifting slightly under the fabric of his long sleeve.

“Will this affect you?” you ask, searching his eyes. “I can wait to go around with it later.”

He shrugs. “Shuri said it shouldn’t be affected by most EMPs.”

“It should be charged enough to fry the mics, but let me know if it dies and I’ll get a couple more for you,” Nat says.

You hand the button back to Bucky, who’s looking up in the trees. He hasn’t made eye contact since arriving.

“What was Fury thinking?” you mutter. “I’ve been looking over my shoulder all week. Feels like old times.”

Natasha crosses her arms, clearly still upset. “Might not have been his orders,” she says. “There’s a lot of people who want eyes and ears on your man.”

The words don’t really register as she says them. You’re too busy checking Bucky’s expression for, well, anything. He’s completely neutral in a way that tells you he feels anything but.

“Outside of SHIELD?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“I already shut down the systems for any SHIELD monitors,” she says, pointing at the button. “That is a safety measure for anyone else who may be interested.”

Your lips press into a thin line. “If I find a single shred of evidence the CIA was here I might actually take Fury up on his offer for a job, if only to go visit Langley with top level clearance and a government-issued gun.”

“You’re a popular lady,” Nat says, smirking. “Bucky’s just a bonus.”

You glance at him and make a brief second of eye contact. He’s staring, looking like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. Like a habit, you reach out and squeeze his arm softly, meeting cool metal under his sleeve. You wonder vaguely if the arm registers pressure, if the touch would even transmit as comfort.

“I should probably get everything set up,” you say. Nat follows you to the office and slips you another EMP, this one obviously stolen with the serial number filed off.

“Called in a favor. Knocks out everything,” she says. “In case I missed something.”

You hear what she’s saying — in case SHIELD is falling apart again and she doesn’t have the full picture. She’s not too prideful to put people’s safety at risk. You set this one in your desk drawer next to your old firearm.

“Weren’t you supposed to turn that in?”

“Officially, I dropped it in Japan. So, uh, no,” you say, smile returning.

Nat shakes her head, smiling.

“Did Fury chew you out about the mics?” you ask, concern peeking through your casualness. “I’m sure he didn’t like Tony getting his hands on them.”

Nat laughs once, a burst of dry amusement. “I would’ve liked to see him try. I did most of the chewing.”

You crinkle your nose in a smile, kissing her cheek. “Thank you, Natasha.”

“Don’t mention it, Sunny.”

Bucky appears in the doorway, pointing outside.

“Joe and Laurens are here,” he says, a strange expression crossing his face as you bump the drawer shut with your hip. He couldn’t have seen, right? It’s at an angle. You smile.

“Be right there!” you reply cheerfully. Pulling them out of your bag, you toss the blue gloves he wore last week. He catches them with ease, shoving the left one on so quickly you think for a moment he might tear the poor glove.

“I think he short-circuited when you touched his arm,” Nat murmurs, all too amused.

“Please,” you reply, just as quietly. You don’t want to admit how much you wish that were the case.

“I’m serious!” she exclaims. At your dubious glare, she sighs. “Fine. Don’t believe me. But I get to say I told you so when the two of you—”

You hit her shoulder with your own glove, knocking some soil on her tee. She brushes it off airily.

“Nat, he has his own stuff. I’m only concerned with making sure he’s got a safe place to figure it out,” you say. “We’re friends.”

Her brow arches as she slips on her sunglasses, but doesn’t say anything.

Fuck. She’s got you all figured it out, no doubt. Perks of having a highly trained agent as your best friend.

Though, you were the first to tell she liked Steve. So. Perks of having a best friend.

“Is this payback for when I bet on you and Cap?” you ask, steering her out of the office to meet your volunteers in the garden. She shrugs, lips curling into a smirk.

“Maybe. Sam’s still mad about losing, by the way,” she says. “Come by soon okay?”

You nod, sending her off down the path. You finish tugging your gloves on and round the corner, taking in the sight of the veggie garden. Joe is talking with Del and Bobbi. Ryan stands behind them, arms crossed and baseball cap low over his eyes. Pete is silently showing the fruit trees to a young guy, who must be the new volunteer you registered on Saturday.

But what really gets you is the sight of Bucky and Laurens, already in rhythm, Bucky shaking out a bag of mulch around the butterfly beds while Laurens rakes it. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.

Del notices you and pulls you over, following your gaze.

She elbows you. “Smile a little wider, I don’t think he got the hint.”

Your hand flies to your mouth, a laugh bubbling up. Bucky looks over and the bag of mulch accidentally slips. He looks like he tries to apologize, but Laurens just gives him a quiet nod and spreads the excess mulch around the edge of the pink coneflowers. A white butterfly flutters away, which he stops to watch. Bucky pauses, too, his shoulders visibly dropping and his scowl softening. He hesitantly puts his hands on his hips to stand like Laurens, mirroring him as they watch the cabbage white flutter around.

Gods, he’s endearing. You look away before the pesky butterflies in your chest can wake up.

A tap on the shoulder pulls your attention as Del and Bobbi join Joe weeding the spinach bed. Ryan is beside you, seemingly sheepish.

“Hey,” he mumbles. He kicks a rock, watching it tumble in the dirt. “Mama said she told you what happened at school.”

“You were standing up for her. Just, next time, don’t use these.” You hold up your fists, suppressing a grin. “Thumb still hurting?”

He shakes his head.

“Good. You can do serious damage if you don’t use the correct form,” you say. You check over your shoulder. Del and Bobbi aren’t paying any attention. “Here.”

Using your body to shield your hands, you show him how to position his fingers in a fist, thumb tucked outside of the knuckles and under. “For self-defense only, capisce?” You raise your brows as he mirrors you, and nudge his hands up to cover his jaw.

“And protect your head. I got hit in the jaw once during training, I was out like a light.” You snap for emphasis.

Ryan tilts his head. “Training for what?”

You smile, and the lie slips out easily. “Boxing tournament.”

He nods. “Cool.”

You hold up a hand and let him punch once, making sure the impact point is his knuckles, and give him the okay. Tapping his fist, you jerk your head back towards the little group at the leafy greens. “Go join your moms. And don’t let me hear about any more fighting from you. Kids are stupid and you know better.”

He nods and jogs off, smile back in place. You take a deep breath, collecting some unused pots and throwing a discarded trowel in the top. You turn and run straight into a solid wall of muscle wearing cedar cologne — Bucky.

His hands come up to your arms to steady you, despite you holding your footing.

“Boxing tournament, huh?” he says.

Your smile grows. “Hush, you.”

He takes the pots and follows as you collect more here and there.

“Listen, I wanted to—”

“I need to ask—”

You both freeze. He gestures for you to go first.

But he’s looking at you like he has nothing better to do than listen to whatever you have to say, and it’s just slightly more terrifying than being on the other side of a loaded gun.

So you pivot. Physically turn away and continue gathering pots and tools.

“Will you wash these out?” you ask. Now you’re the one avoiding eye contact. “Hose is over there, shouldn’t take long. I’ve got some volunteers — off-shoots — from my roses at home I want to plant in ‘em. They’re the state flower, you know.”

You’re rambling. You know you’re rambling.

He hums, corners of his mouth lifting. “I do know, actually.”

You make rounds as an excuse to not be near him anymore, on the likely chance he looks at you like that again and you spill your guts to him. You help Bobbi tug a stubborn weed. It lands in the compost pile with Joe’s bucket of leaves, raked from under the magnolia. It’s a peaceful few hours. He doesn’t try to bring it up again (whatever ‘it’ might be) and the volunteers carry on conversation.

And then chaos walks through the rusty iron gate in khaki cargos carrying a bag full of sweet potato slips, her hair in a bun and mischief in her smile. Your head snaps up from where you and Bucky search for the monarch caterpillar, torso half-hidden in the pollinator bed.

“Tía! I didn’t expect you today!” You beam, already standing to hug her. She puts a hand on your shoulder and steers you to the side, fixing her gaze on Bucky. You try not to be offended.

“I’m glad to see you, too, Sunny. But I’m here to meet the new volunteers,” she says, eyes twinkling. She has the look of a mother about to pull out baby photos to embarrass her kid. “James, is it?”

Bucky stands, whisking his baseball cap off. A few strands of dark hair fall in his face, but he ignores them. Tía holds out her hand and Bucky removes his glove to shake hers.

“You’ve got strong hands. Good for gardening,” she says with a matter-of-fact smile. “Paloma Manzano, good to meet you.”

“Sergeant James Barnes, ma’am.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you turn back to the pretty flowers in front of you to avoid grinning like a maniac.

“What a gentleman,” Tía says. “What does mi sol have you doing today? Something fun, I hope.”

You clear your throat. I’m right here, you think.

“We’re, uhm, looking for a caterpillar,” he says, clearly flustered.

You look back up, squinting against the sun. Tía kneels next to you and points at the back of the bed, on the stem of a pink swamp milkweed.

“How did you find it so quickly?” you say, awe (and maybe a little frustration, you had just looked there—) lacing your tone. Tía shrugs.

“I may be old, but my vision is just fine,” she says. Then, Tía steps back, appraising him. “Now James, where are you from?”

Bucky flinches under the sudden attention. “Oh, um, Brooklyn, ma’am.”

“Where in Brooklyn?”

“Brooklyn Heights, ma’am,” he answers. “But I moved to Red Hook with Steve before enlisting.”

“You served in the military,” she states, less of an inquiry than an observation.

“Army, the 107th.”

“With our Steve,” she says. None of this is new information for her. Steve, despite being a SHIELD agent, is a chronic oversharer when it comes to his friends, or a nostalgic anecdote from his childhood, or the mission he went on last week. Tía nods, approvingly. “He speaks very highly of you.”

You watch in real time as Bucky holds back what you’re sure is a self-deprecating remark, and instead offers a tight smile.

“He’s my best friend, ma’am. I could say much better about him,” he settles on. You reach out again, brushing his shoulder with your glove and accidentally depositing a smear of dirt. He doesn’t pay any mind.

Tía beams. “Oh, please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’. If my math is correct, I do believe it’s quite unnecessary.” She winks, and Bucky ducks his head, a small smile working its way across his face.

“Afraid I can’t do that, Mrs. Manzano,” he says. “My Ma would have my head.”

Tía laughs, delighted. “Well, señor, we don’t want that. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders.”

He blushes, and you definitely can’t blame it on sunburn.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She turns to you, then, and you suffer a similar reaction to Bucky under her scrutinizing gaze.

“Sunny, don’t lie to me,” she begins.

Oh, god. Where is this going?

She fixes you with a hard stare. “How many hours did you work this week?”

“I… actually don’t know,” you begin. “Tía—”

“Tsk, you work too hard! I always tell her,” she shakes her head and reaches up to pinch your cheek. You crinkle your nose and fight the urge to swat her away. “Look after her, James. Make sure she’s taking breaks. That’s an order!”

He salutes very seriously, and you snort. He pushes your water bottle into your hands and raises his brows.

“I got my orders, sunshine,” he says, like he can’t help it. You narrow your eyes but can’t help the upwards curl of your lips.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you mutter, but drink the water anyway. You will never, ever admit how nice the cold water is in the heat.

“There. You’ve already got some glow back,” she says. “One time, I found her passed out at her desk—”

“Okay! I think he gets it, Tía,” you interject, sliding an arm around her shoulders and trying to lead her away. She doesn’t budge.

“Fine! Fine! But míja, you didn’t mention how handsome he is,” she whispers. He hears her. Obviously.

The only thing that saves you from dying of embarrassment is that Bucky is just as flustered. He rubs the back of his neck, shuffling his feet. Your face is burning. You wish you had the superpower to command the earth to swallow you whole.

“Tía, please,” you beg. She pats your cheek and sighs dramatically.

“Can’t have any fun anymore,” she says wistfully. “Ah, well. Young love.”

“God help me,” you breathe. Bucky looks like he might combust.

Tía is unaffected, gleeful even, if her smirk is any indication. “Did I see Ryan back there? He’s gotten tall!”

You nod, grateful for the change in subject. “Did Del tell you—?”

“Oh,” Tía says, eyes lighting up. “That other kid had it coming. He’s a troublemaker, but I heard he was suspended from the team.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh no, was Ry—?”

“No, not Ryan,” Tía says, grasping your arm. “I’ll go catch up with the Joneses.”

Tía walks off, leaning on her walking stick more than usual and laughing at her own joke.

“She’s fun,” Bucky says.

You smile fondly after her, still recovering from the rollercoaster of a conversation. “Yes. She is.”

“You passed out at your desk?”

You turn to him, tilting your head. “That’s what you got from all that?”

He shrugs. His eyes are trained on you like he’s trying to assess whether or not you need to sit down. “That was the important bit.”

You feel your lungs constrict. You narrow your eyes, biting back a smile. “Stop analysing me!”

“Can’t help it, sunshine,” he says. “You heard Mrs. Manzano. Gotta look after you.”

“You’re ridiculous. I was a senior special agent at one of the top spy organizations in the world, you know,” you point out, indignant.

He frowns. “You’re a bit young to be a senior agent,” he points out.

“Compared to you? Yeah,” Your smile fades when he doesn’t laugh. You turn to the milkweed and squint at the caterpillar. “I got an early start.”

Bucky clocks the shift in your energy immediately. Like you were hoping he wouldn’t. He extends his hand like he wants to reach out, but pulls back, his fingertips only ghosting over your arm.

“How early?” he asks.

You shrug, focusing on your breathing to control your heart rate.

“Early.”

“Early?”

You force your jaw to un-tense. “I was six.”

There it is — the change. Like the air before rain, charged and lit with unspoken questionsBucky freezes, frowning deeply, then his shoulders drop and he steps forward. “You’re shaking,” he says softly.

“Maybe the rest of the world is shaking and I’m perfectly still,” you argue. Bucky grants you an almost-laugh.

In all truthfulness, you’ve volunteered that information to three people your entire life: Yelena Belova, Sam Wilson, and now Bucky. Everyone else found out without asking, from a file or a rumor or the mythos of your work.

“Can I help?”

You shake your head.

“Was it…” he stutters, breathing out a stilted sigh. “You and Nat…?”

You bite your cheek. “No, just SHIELD.”

“Peggy would’a lost her mind if she knew they had kids working as operatives,” he scoffs.

“I wasn’t working until later, though,” you argue, feeling suddenly protective. “Got my badge at fourteen and had to practically beg Maria and Fury to even let me on Comms.”

It’s not like you were in the field that young. Not really. And it’s not like you think about it often. To you, it is just what was. It was good, for the most part. You give him a pained smile. “I used to have a poster of Peggy on my wall, you know.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, cursing yourself for the slip. He’s too observant to brush off your redirections and offhand jokes, and you have work to do. “We should check on the others.”

He lets you lead the way. You find everyone standing in a circle, listening to Tía tell a story about her neighbour’s dog that ran away and came back dyed teal. You’re pretty sure it’s a direct reference to Rebecca.

“It’s getting to be that time, folks,” you say brightly. “I’d love to keep y’all forever, but I know you’re busy people.”

Everyone breaks away, saying their ‘see ya’s and patting your shoulder. You begin tidying as volunteers wander off. Joe traps Bucky in a conversation by the sunflowers. The newest volunteer comes over, helping you collect trowels.

“Hi, I’m Peter,” he says. He extends his hand to shake, his grip surprisingly strong.

“Your application said Benjamin, I thought,” you say, already on edge from the past week, but— oh, he’s just a kid. Can’t be more than twenty. He doesn’t have the look of an undercover operative. Who are you kidding, there’s exactly two spies in this garden and it’s you and Bucky. You relax, forcing yourself to smile. “Sorry. Long day! I must have misremembered.”

Peter shakes his head vehemently. “No, it’s okay. You’re right. It’s my middle name. I’m trying something new.”

You nod. “So, Peter or Ben?

“Peter. It was a short-lived experiment,” he says sheepishly.

“What brings you out here, Peter?” you ask, moving on to re-wrap the hose — Joe did his best, but it’s a bit wonky and bugging you (for no reason, you think, why can’t you just leave it be?).

“School project. I’m taking a class at Brooklyn College for the summer,” he explains. “But I really like it out here. Worth the we—” he chokes. “Sorry. Worth the wait for the train.”

“Where are you coming in from that you have to take the train?” you ask, bewilderment entirely replacing suspicion, the hose be damned.

“Queens.”

Your jaw drops. “You came all the way from Queens? They have these over there, you know.”

He shrugs. “The assignment said to find a community project in Brooklyn.”

“If you say so, Pete,” you say. His own smile slips for a second, then returns. You tuck this information away for later. You only have room for one tragic backstory at a time and for the moment, it’s yours.

“Well, thank you for coming. I hope we see you again!” you say, smiling warmly.

He nods eagerly. “Definitely. It’s beautiful out here. I feel like I can actually think.”

You look around. Golden light spills over bright green leaves waving in the wind. Pops of colour catch your eye. The raised beds, still looking new despite being a few years old, stand tall.

“Thanks,” you say. “We put a lot of work into it.”

“Well, I gotta sw— um, swing out! That’s a new saying!” he says, grabbing a backpack and walking out behind the rest of the group. He waves as he disappears into the sunflowers that line the path.

“Weird kid,” you say, waving back. “I like him.”

“You’re good with kids,” Bucky says, sidling up from seemingly out of nowhere. “I saw you with Ryan earlier.”

You shrug. “I’ve worked with a lot of them.”

“Which job?”

“…both.”

“Ah.”

You turn your head up to study him, but he’s already looking at you. Your shoulders draw up and you cross your arms, noticing for the first time that the rocks that line the path are spaced in a pattern — dark, light, dark.

“I’m sorry, James,” you sigh. “This was supposed to be a safe space, away from work… your work. Our work, I guess—” you exhale sharply, jaw set. “It’s supposed to be a place to leave behind all that stupid shit, and then Fury went and put up cameras without even giving me a heads up and now I’ve just dumped more crap on you, and it’s such an inconven—”

“Hey,” he interrupts. You don’t look up.

His hand lifts to your shoulder, then up to your jaw. You try not to lean into the touch as he pulls you gently to look at him.

“Do I look like I’m inconvenienced?” he asks.

You meet his eyes. He honestly looks more relaxed than he has since you first laid eyes on him. Your chest rises and falls in a painful breath, like your lungs can’t get enough oxygen.

“You do have to drive like an hour to get here,” you whisper.

“Again. Do I look like I’m inconvenienced?” He drops his hand, his calloused fingertips brushing your neck. His tone remains light as he continues, “I thought you were taking an assignment or something. Bugs in the garden? Easy work. Expected, even.”

Your own hand comes up to curl around his wrist. You measure his pulse. There’s nothing about him that’s not steady, you decide.

“What were you going to ask earlier?”

Bucky straightens up, shifting his weight. His free hand comes up to run through his hair.

“It’s nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the bugs?” he breathes, barely loud enough to hear.

You wilt a little, wishing you had spoken up earlier.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just—” you sigh. “I guess I thought I was protecting your peace, or something.”

Bucky shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I lied.”

He doesn’t respond. Just stands in silence, the sun turning molten gold and elongating both shadows and time around you.

“You know the funny thing?” Bucky says lowly, gauging your reaction. You glance at him skeptically. “I wasn’t even worried that you were lying. I was just worried about you.”

Your heart stutters. For someone with trust issues (you, and probably also him), those words felt like getting hit by a freight train. Your experience is limited to jumping off of trains. You’re unprepared for how much the admission means to you. You count his pulse, realizing it might be a little weird that you’re still holding his wrist. His heart rate is quicker.

“You’re gonna be late,” you murmur, finally letting him go.

“Can’t be late to walk you home,” he says. “Steve didn’t wait up. I’ve got a date with two agents in an illegally tinted SUV after this, and I don’t think either of them are particularly concerned about my punctuality.”

You bite your lip. “Look who’s suddenly talkative.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“And I’m doing a damn good job at it, too,” you point out.

“C’mon sunshine, give me something,” he says, softer. “Are you alright?”

Your breathing evens out. The garden is not blurring around you, like it has so many times before. The birds chirp and shuffle through the grass.

“I’ll be okay.”

He lingers, close enough to breathe the same air. His fingers twitch, like he wants to reach for your hand again. Shaking your head, you lean into him, wrapping your arms around his back slowly. Giving him the same space he gave you in the lounge, comforting and present. His arm slips around your back and you melt a little closer.

You stay like that, the peacefulness of the garden enveloping you.

“This is really unprofessional of me,” you mutter against his shoulder. He laughs.

“You’re off the clock. I think it’s fine,” he says, but pulls back anyway. “Ready to go?”

He walks you home, a black car tailing you the entire way. The urge to duck into an alley and lose them presses on you. The weight of the week — finding the first mic on the bench while cleaning and subsequently upending the office in a panic, the scorching sun, the endless paperwork — it all melts bit by bit as the sun dips behind the houses and you and Bucky are cast in twilight, your shadows on the pavement linked arm and arm.

Bugs in the garden. Ha.

a/n: i think i'm reeeeeeally funny for the pun hehe... also! backstory! how about that!

#self-rb #bucky barnes x reader

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daisybeewrites · 6 days ago