sjsmith56

[sjsmith56]

There will never be another band like them.

For the girls

[sjsmith56]

Cowboy Cassanova || Cowboy!Bucky x Fem!Reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Summary: You return to your rural hometown after living in the big city since high school. Your grandma—your safe space—offers you a room in her house for the summer to escape everything going on in your life. Which, sounds like exactly what you need, until you meet a grumpy cowboy who seems to hate you. And, you hate him too.

Word Count: 5.7k

Series Warnings/Tags: 18+ mdni, smut, enemies to lovers, small town, swearing, drinking, limited understanding of how cowboys work, heavily influenced by Sweet Home Alabama and Hart of Dixie, Alexa play cowboy cassanova by Carrie Underwood

Series Masterlist

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Dividers by @uzmacchiato

This little dance between you went on for two weeks.

You showed up at group outings. He looked pissed off. He fixed the window in your grandma’s truck. You scowled as you watched from the window.

For two weeks, both of you found small yet astounding ways to piss each other off. If you were in a movie, a montage would play, showing scenes of:

You blasting your pop princess playlist on the porch while he tried to work on Ruth’s truck in peace, mouthing the words dramatically while sipping iced coffee out of a ridiculous, glittery cup.

Him revving the engine of his truck obnoxiously as you tried to film a yoga video Ruth convinced you to do, mud flying across the grass and onto your mat.

Him showing up shirtless to mow the lawn. You rolled your eyes and claimed it was a pathetic thirst trap—then walked face-first into the screen door while watching.

The hatred couldn’t be more clear.

You could tell your friends saw it, too. Natasha snickered when you mouthed off. Steve rose his brows when Bucky mouthed back. Sam, ever the mediator, would end up between the two of you, pushing limbs back and swearing under his breath that you two ‘were relentless.’

You continued your cat-calling at the rodeo, which admittedly almost did get you kicked out after Bucky fell flat on his ass with a bull’s hooves about to kick him seven ways to Sunday.

But, every time you thought you won, he retaliated.

Which was why, right now, you were riding your old bike up his long driveway—pink-striped frame, rusted handlebars, and a squeaky white wicker basket bobbing with every bump in the gravel.

You were pretty sure walking in the June heat would’ve been less humiliating.

Inside the basket?

A rhubarb pie.

Because that’s how small-town apologies work.

Not words. Not texts. Pie.

Grandma had insisted—no, ordered—you to deliver it after Bucky stormed off in a cloud of dust, mid-project, porch half-finished and jaw clenched like it might snap in half.

Curiosity got the better of you, though, and you couldn’t help but wonder what his house looked like. You couldn’t even see it from your front porch, much like most of the houses on this side of town. You continued pedaling until you spotted his stupid black truck at the end of a driveway similar to Gran’s.

The gate was open. So was the front door.

You swung your leg off the bike with a sigh, gravel crunching beneath your heeled boots as you pushed the pink-striped relic toward the porch like it was your cross to bear. The wicker basket creaked with every wobble, the damn pie bouncing slightly with each step.

Deep breaths did little to steady your nerves—or your pride—as you approached the steps. Shame settled heavy in your chest, thick like the summer heat.

Because nothing screamed “mature adult resolution” like showing up on a pastel bike with a homemade pie you didn’t bake, about to face a man you’d personally driven off your half-painted porch.

And yet here you were.

Riding the line between apology and humiliation.

You cleared your throat. “Barnes,” You called, your tone unsteady as you wondered why the front door was open.

“It’s me,” You continued after no response. “Anyone home?”

Well, the door was open.

You figured you’d be in and out—drop off the pie, disappear before he ever noticed, and pretend the whole humiliating errand never happened. Easy. Clean. Dignified.

Pie in hand, you stepped inside.

Cool air wrapped around your flushed face like a quiet relief from the heat. The house smelled faintly of cedar and something faintly spicy—maybe cologne, maybe just him.

It reminded you a bit of Gran’s place—homey, lived-in, the kind of warmth that didn’t come from the furniture but from the history soaked into the walls. Framed photos lined a side table. A dusty bookshelf near the TV.

It was smaller—just one story—but there was comfort in the way the late afternoon light spilled through the windows, golden and soft.

You hesitated in the doorway, pie hovering in your hands, and for a second… it felt like trespassing. Like stepping into something more personal than you’d meant to.

The pictures along the wall were scattered haphazardly—uncentered, slightly crooked.

You squinted at one near the hallway, drawn in despite yourself.

A younger version of Bucky stared back at you—maybe four, maybe five—perched atop a chestnut horse, all gangly limbs and untamed hair. Beside him stood an older man, weathered and strong, one hand steady on the reins, the other holding Bucky’s side like the world could tip if he let go.

Too old to be his father, you thought. Maybe a grandfather. But the look in his eyes—full of pride and something quieter, more private—made it clear: there was blood between them.

Most of the photos featured the two of them, you noticed. Shaking your head, you suddenly remembered your covert operation and scanned the room for any surface to place this pie and split.

“Don’t remember lettin’ you in here,” a low voice drawled from behind.

You jumped—actually jumped—nearly dropping the damn pie as your heart launched into your throat.

Spinning around, you glared at him, breath catching in your chest.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, shirt clinging to his chest like he’d just come in from working outside, brow arched like he was enjoying every ounce of your panic.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first—caught somewhere between embarrassment and rage.

”That your cute little bike outside?” He continued with a smirk.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.” You huffed. “Got it for Christmas one year.”

“What, when you were six?”

The way you hesitated made his grin spread wider. His tongue touched the inside of his cheek, stifling a laugh as your face burned.

“…Eleven.”

“And you still fit on that thing?”

“Made it over here, didn’t I?” You carried an annoyed tone.

“With a pie, all for me.” He tsked, cooing sarcastically. “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have,”

“Gran made me bring this to you. I didn’t make it. Nor do I care if you eat it.”

He sauntered over, glancing down at the pie in your hands before his eyes snapped to yours. His finger hovered over the pie—still steaming, you noted—and smirked.

“I’d never pass up one of Ruthie’s pies.”

His finger dipped straight into the crust, breaking it apart with zero shame. You watched, horrified, as he scooped out a chunk of the sticky, ruby-red compote—rhubarb and sugar clinging to his skin.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he slid it into his mouth.

And sucked the damn thing clean.

Your jaw dropped.

“You’re disgusting,” you breathed, voice caught somewhere between outrage and disbelief.

He just shrugged, licking the last bit from his thumb like it was nothing.

“Could’ve just left it on the porch,” he said, voice low and maddening. “But I guess you wanted to watch.”

Your mouth was still open in shock as he pointed that same finger near your lips. “Wanna taste?”

“And put your dirty fingers in my mouth?”

“Hey, I don’t know what you’re into.”

“Not a rhubarb fan.”

“Doesn’t have to be rhubarb on ‘em.”

Before you could register the way your cheeks hummed in response, you shoved the pie straight into his hands and brushed the flyaways (consequence of biking in the humidity) away from your face.

“Do you ever give it a rest?” You breathed.

“You’re in my house. I didn’t ask you to be here.”

“I came to deliver that, and now that I have—good day.”You brushed past him with as much dignity as you could muster, shoulder nudging his arm on the way out.

But it was like trying to push a tree.

You stumbled slightly from the impact, caught off balance by how solid he was—like your presence hadn’t moved him an inch. Angrily, you turned back to him to find him simply staring at you, his finger dipping again.

“Why is your front door even open?” You groaned.

“It sticks,” He replied evenly. “Then the wind blows it wide open,”

“Shouldn’t you fix that? It doesn’t bother you that your front door doesn’t even close?”

”Not a lot of axe murderers ‘round these parts, city girl.”

“This is literally where axe murderers would be, you idiot.” You snapped, “Children of the Corn? Texas Chain Saw Massacre? The Blair Witch Project?”

He only amusedly continued to devour his own compote-stained finger. Shaking your head, you turned—again— to walk out, but his voice stopped you in your tracks.

“It’s such a wonder you grew up here.” Was all he said.

Turning slowly, you furrowed your brows. “That so?”

“You hate mud, stomp around in those heels—you won’t even stick your finger in this delicious pie because you’re too much of a priss.” He lectured, a mischievous glint in his eye as you crossed your arms. “City really did a number on you, didn’t it?”

“A priss?” Your voice was low, menacing as you stalked towards him.

You knew what he was doing. This man lived to get a rise out of you. But, something about that word…something about his words, attacking who you were to your core—whether or not you’ve been that girl in a decade—it awoke something in you.

“You heard me,” His voice was teasing, no, taunting. “Priss.”

You dipped your finger into the pie—slow, deliberate—dragging it through the sticky filling until it clung thick and red.

Then, locking eyes with him, you brought it to your lips.

Messy. Sweet. Unapologetically bold.

You sucked—hard—cheeks hollowing as your finger slid between your lips, the sound soft but unmistakable in the silence between you.

His gaze didn’t budge. If anything, it sharpened, fixed entirely on you like you were the only thing in the room.

With one final flick of your tongue, you pulled your finger out—slow, controlled.

Pop.

You swore his eyebrow twitched. Just barely. But it was enough.

He recovered quickly, though, shaking his head. “Still a priss, sweetheart. All that hair gel and leather…bite of pie ain’t gonna change that.”

“Fine,” You breathed, out of energy to care about anything he had to say. “Enjoy the stupid pie.”

You walked out, slamming his front door—and groaning when you heard the way it popped back open from where it stuck.

You rode that stupid pastel bike all the way back to your grandma’s, the wicker basket bouncing with every bump like it was mocking you.

She was waiting on the porch, arms crossed, smile too knowing.

“Well? Did you apologize? And did he love the pie?”

Yes, Gran. He loved the pie.

You stormed past her and headed straight to your room, ignoring her raised brow and that little hum she did when she knew she’d gotten under your skin.

Inside, you paced like a caged animal, replaying every damn word that man said—especially the ones that hit a little too close to the truth. You hated how deep they cut. Hated more how he knew exactly where to aim.

Your phone buzzed.

Nat: Get ready. We’re going out.

A slow grin spread across your face.

“Gran,” You called. “Where’s that box of old clothes you told me about?”

Bucky was having a great day. Not only did he get free pie, but he about pissed you off so much he figured he wouldn’t be seeing you for a good while. To top it off, it was half-priced beers at Coyote Jack’s.

He stepped inside like he owned the place—short-sleeved black plaid button-up tucked clean into worn denim, boots thudding against the wooden porch before the door swung shut behind him.

He clapped the bouncer on the shoulder with a familiar ease, hat tipped low over his brow, casting a shadow across his eyes.

The place was alive—loud, rowdy, the floor shaking slightly from the synchronized stomps of line-dancers moving in rhythm to some twangy country hit. But he moved through it like a ghost, slipping between bodies, careful not to break the pattern.

He clocked Sam and Steve by the record machine, hunched and bickering over which song to put on next, one of them already holding a quarter mid-air.

“Buck,” Steve greeted, toothpick wedged between his molars and a grin to match. “Was wonderin’ where you were,”

“You been here long?”

“Nat’s had me here since happy hour.”

Bucky whistled. Happy hour was from 7 to 9, and it was about half-past ten. Steve only laughed, nodding over to where his fiancée was swaying and laughing, holding hands with her dance partner.

His eyes slid past Nat—until they didn’t.

He did a double take, breath catching as his gaze landed on her dance partner.

Even from behind, she nearly knocked the wind out of him.

A white scarf top clung to her, tied at the back and leaving her toned shoulders and back on full display. His eyes dipped lower—to tight denim shorts that barely contained the curve of her hips, the frayed edges hugging her thighs like they had no business doing.

Worn tan boots clung to her calves, scuffed just enough to say she didn’t care about impressing anyone—and somehow, that made her even harder to look away from.

And then there was her hair.

A riot of curls that bounced with every sway of her hips, wild and hypnotic, catching the light and the rhythm of the beat like they had a pulse of their own.

“Damn,” He muttered, nudging Steve without prying his eyes from her. “Who’s her friend?”

Steve’s eyes almost left his skull as he gawked at his friend, who still hadn’t looked away. “Buck, you feeling okay?”

”What? Why—“

And then it hit him.

As Nat and her dance partner turned toward the group, something shifted in Bucky’s chest. His blood ran cold.

That wasn’t a ‘her’. That was you.

His brain short-circuited.

You threw your head back with laughter at something Nat said, the sound practically swallowed by the music—but the sight? It knocked the air clean out of him.

That scarf top, that body, that wild hair—you were the one turning every damn head in the room. And you didn’t even seem to notice. Or worse, maybe you did.

His eyes dropped instinctively—traitorously—to the way your figure curved beneath the low tie of the top, to the way those shorts fit you like sin itself.

You moved like you had nothing to prove—and somehow that made it so much worse.

“Oh, look who showed up,” Nat tossed a smirk towards Bucky’s way, all-too-knowing.

Coming up beside her, you took the beer from Sam, bringing it to your lips as your teeth caught the cap with a clean—snap.

You spat the cap to the side, didn’t even flinch, and tipped the bottle back like it was nothing.

A long, deliberate gulp. Bucky just about died.

He was still staring—jaw just slightly slack, like his brain hadn’t quite caught up with what his eyes were seeing.

And you couldn’t get enough of it.

“You alright, cowboy?” You drawled, the rest of the group in the background. Your eyes were focused on him—his reaction—and how it fulfilled the prophecy you had conjured as you tore through the box of your old clothes from high school.

He couldn’t muster a single word. You did that. Usually so smug and suave, and now, speechless.

“I guess I was just itching to get those prissy clothes off,” You continued, voice low just for him. “Found an old box of clothes in Gran’s attic, thought I’d try ‘em on for size. How do they look?”

You made a show of it, turning and grinning as he unapologetically let his eyes fall to your torso, your legs—your everything. Fine, you were drunk. You’d been there since happy hour too, and you took full advantage of the free drinks.

“I just,” He coughed. “Where the fuck did all that hair come from?”

You laughed, lips grazing your beer bottle. “Under all that gel, I suppose.”

You won. He’d even admit it. This was a final battle, and you demanded victory. The look on his face, the words that left his tongue, it was sweet, sweet victory.

Suddenly, the song on the record machine switched, the words ringing out into the bar: “Let’s go girls.”

Your eyes locked with Nat, both squealing so loud Sam jumped and clawing at each other towards the dance floor. The square filled with women, hopping in step with each other to dance to the anthem that was Shania Twain’s ’Man, I Feel Like a Woman.’

Bucky’s eyes still couldn’t connect to his brain as he watched you again, the way you knew every step, the way you effortlessly moved to the beat. Your hips swayed, arms loose, smile wide. Steve and Sam exchanged a knowing glance, coming up to either side of him.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam nonchalantly, saying your name. “Quite the sight, huh?”

“Shut up.” Bucky grunted, but his eyes betrayed him.

“You should’ve seen how many people recognized her at happy hour, asking when she got into town.”

“And their reactions when she said two weeks ago,” Sam added.

“Nat seems to believe this is some kind of…’payback?’”

“You could say that,” He muttered, downing his beer.

Sam whistled. “Surprised the two of you haven’t blown up the entire west side of town yet. All that bickering Ruth said she’s been hearin’”

“Just ‘cause she finally took those fucking heels off don’t mean she’s any less annoying.”

“Right,”

Bucky ignored the way his friends looked at him like they didn’t believe him. He was still trying to understand how the girl that tore up the dance floor was the same one in his house this afternoon.

As the song ended, Nat sauntered over, breathless and grinning, grabbing Steve’s hand without a word and tugging him out onto the floor.

You stayed where you were.

No partner. No plan. Just the music and the beat thumping beneath your boots.

You started to sway—slow, easy—like you didn’t have a care in the world. Like the whole bar wasn’t watching. Like he wasn’t watching. His jaw ticked as he watched how the men at the bar eyed you, his fingers squeezing the bottle in his hands.

Someone stepped into your orbit, smooth and confident, hand extended with a practiced smile. You hesitated for half a second—then took it.

From where he leaned against the record machine, Bucky’s jaw ticked. Something growled low in his gut as he watched the stranger’s hands settle on your hips. Respectable distance or not, it didn’t matter. The way you moved, the way you smiled—he couldn’t stand it.

The music picked up, rhythm fast and wild, and your bodies followed. The man tried pulling you closer. You leaned away—subtle, barely there—but Bucky saw it.

And that was all it took.

He pushed off the machine, eyes locked on you like a magnet he couldn’t resist.

Then it happened.

The man’s hand dropped low and squeezed.

You shoved him hard, sending him stumbling back and disrupting the entire flow of the dance floor. He caught his footing and rounded on you, face twisted.

Bucky was already moving.

You shouted something—he didn’t hear what—but the man reached for his beer and dumped it on you.

You gasped, soaked and furious, anger blazing across your face. But before you could get a word out—

CRACK.

Bucky’s fist collided with the man’s jaw, the sound splitting over the music like a thunderclap.

The man reeled back, but came swinging—catching Bucky in the ribs. It didn’t matter. The brawl ignited fast, violent and messy, a storm in the center of stomping boots and stunned stares.

Nat’s hand yanked you back before you could jump in, dragging you out of the chaos. Your eyes were glued to the scene as Bucky landed another brutal hit, fury in every movement.

The man tried again—but two massive arms appeared, yanking him back. Security. A familiar one, by the way Bucky nodded at him.

He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, chest rising and falling as the adrenaline simmered.

You stood there, dripping, breathless—burning with something you couldn’t name.

However, right now, embarrassment settled in as you looked down at yourself. Your top was soaked, jeans uncomfortably clinging to your sticky thighs. You could feel makeup the trailing down your face.

Bucky looked at you over the back of his hand, still pressed to his mouth, blood smeared across his knuckles. His eyes locked onto yours—intense, unreadable.

You grabbed his hand—still bloodied, still warm—and ignored the way he winced.

He barely had time to react before you were dragging him across the bar like he weighed nothing, shoving past stunned onlookers who knew better than to get in your way.

Without a word, you threw open the bathroom door, yanked him inside, and slammed it shut behind you. Click.

The lock slid into place.

You turned then, half-crazed look on your face from the anger you felt, and crossed your arms.

“What the fuck was that?”

His brows furrowed, blinking like that was the last thing he’d expected you to say. “Pardon?”

“Why did you do that?”

“He was grabbing you like you were a fucking piece of meat!”

Your eyes burned into his, arms crossing deeper. “And so what? What’s that to you?”

”Excuse me?”

“I had it all covered, I don’t need you—“

”Right, okay, was that before or after he dumped his beer all over you?”

”Fuck you, Bucky,” You growled, his name reverberating around the single stall restroom. “It’s not your damn concern—“

“You’re a lady, makes it my concern enough.”

“So now I’m a lady?” You gaped. “Thought I was just a prissy city-girl.”

“Oh, you are.” He grumbled, wincing at the way his nose moved as he sneered. “But that don’t mean I’m gonna let some asshole dump beer all over you. Would’ve done it for anyone.”

“I can’t believe you, getting into a bar fight over all that.”

“I’m not sure how they do things in New York, sweetheart, but here, good men don’t just let that slide.”

“Is the ‘good man’ here in the room with us right now?”

He shook his head, chuckling humorlessly. “You’re such a pain in my ass, you know that?”

“Likewise.”

“This is all your fault, you know. Showing up dressed like that,”

Your mouth hung open. “Are you slut-shaming me?”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“You’re saying it’s my fault that he got handsy because of what I’m wearing.”

“What?” His face scrunched together. “No, god—you came dressed like that and expected me to think straight? Fucking threw me off. Now I got a bloody nose.”

You blinked, the fluorescent lights buzzing above you, casting a sterile glow that made your headache pulse sharper.

Your vision swam for a second, the edges blurring just enough to remind you how much alcohol was still in your system. Your brain felt like cotton—thick, slow—and for a second, you weren’t sure you heard him right.

So you just stared at him, heartbeat ticking in your ears, waiting for the words to make sense.

“Technically, you’re still slut-shaming me.”

“Is there a reason you dragged me in here?” He barked.

“I wasn’t about to yell at you out there and let everyone think we’re having some sort of lover’s quarrel after you punched out the man I was dancing with.”

“I need a fucking beer.”

You rolled your eyes. “Just come here.”

He looked at you, brow furrowed, questioning—like he couldn’t quite figure out what you were doing as you raised your beer bottle.

When he didn’t move, you let out an irritated huff and yanked him closer by the front of his shirt. He grunted, caught off guard, but you ignored it.

You pressed the cold bottle to the bruising cut on his cheek, holding it there with firm fingers.

A breath slipped out of him—low, almost a sigh—as the cold met his skin. His eyes fluttered shut for just a second, like he couldn’t help it.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

But in that tiny, quiet pause, the room felt smaller.

Warmer.

”You okay?” He muttered. “You’re kind of trembling.”

“My clothes are damp.” You deadpanned. “So now I’m cold.”

“That fucking asshole.”

“Hey, he did you a favor, though.” Your tone picked up. “This blood won’t come out, so you’ll have to throw away this plaid shirt. I call it a win.”

“I basically just beat a guy’s ass for you and you’re still making fun of me.”

”I didn’t ask you to.”

”Didn’t have to.”

Your eyes lifted to his—and found him already watching you.

You were closer than you realized. So close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips, uneven from the adrenaline still buzzing through him. The beer bottle stayed pressed to his cheek, your fingers wrapped around it like an anchor, but your focus had shifted entirely.

His eyes—those sharp, steel-blue eyes—bored into yours with something unreadable. Not anger. Not quite tenderness. Just…heat. Tension.

He swallowed hard. You did too.

“Well,” You coughed. “I think my night is pretty much over.”

You stepped back, awkwardly handing him the bottle so he could hold it on himself. You brushed past him, the scent of your perfume and the beer you were caked in filling his nose as he turned to follow you out.

The music hit you as you opened the bathroom door. The bar had moved on—line-dancing had picked back up, people were laughing and cheering—and your friends were no where to be seen.

Bucky grabbed his phone off the sticky bar table, the screen lighting up his face just enough for you to see the way his brow furrowed.

He looked back at you and sighed.

“They all took off.”

You stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was.”

You rubbed your temples, smearing what was left of your makeup and instantly reminded you of how ridiculous you probably looked—drenched in beer, hair tangled, eyeliner likely trailing halfway down your cheek.

God, you just wanted to leave.

To disappear into the hot spray of your shower, let the night wash off you. Crawl into bed and pretend none of this happened.

You dropped your hands with a sigh. “Of course they did.”

”Come on.”

“What?” Your head snapped to his.

“I’m taking you home, since I ruined your night and all,”

If it weren’t for the cheeky grin, you would’ve thought he was being genuine. Fresh out of options and desperate for cleanliness, you followed him reluctantly. As you approached the black truck, he looked you over.

“You’ll have to sit in the truck bed, though. You’re soaked.”

“Is that your idea of a joke?”

“I don’t joke about my truck, city girl.”

“You know,” Your sharp voice pierced the dusty parking lot air. “I hate when you call me that.”

His voice was muffled as he fished through his backseat. “Precisely why I do,” Leaning back out, he held a large sweatshirt in your direction.

You stared at it blankly, looking to him like you were awaiting instructions.

“Well, go on,”

Shock etched onto your face as he nodded to his backseat.

“Are you insane?”

“Are you?” He retorted. “You’re shaking—plus, you’re barely even wearing a shirt anyway. What is that, a bandana?”

“It’s a scarf.” You deadpanned. “Folded into a triangle and tied around my tits.”

“Innovative.”

You scoffed. “I caught you looking in the bathroom, don’t pretend you weren’t.”

“You’re so damn mouthy.” He shook his head. “Will you just change in the backseat? You’re not sitting on my seats with those damp shorts.”

“What if someone sees?”

“I have pretty dark tint, but I’ll keep watch.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” You grabbed the sweatshirt reluctantly. He opened the back door wider, gesturing for you to get in.

You ignored his outstretched hand, climbing into the backseat with an exasperated shake of your head.

“I cannot believe I’m about to get naked in the back of Bucky Barnes’ truck.”

“I sure can,” he muttered, far too smug for someone with a busted lip.

“Turn around,” you snapped, slamming the door shut and cutting off the sound of his laughter.

He chuckled anyway, leaning back against the side of the truck, the metal cool against his spine as he stared out into the night—trying to think of anything other than the fact that you were stripping off those soaked shorts, one foot away, on his cloth seats.

His jaw tensed.

Yep. Thinking of anything else was not going well.

Finally, you shoved the door open—pushing him aside in the process—and hopped out.

In one hand, your damp scarf top. In the other, your soaked denim shorts.

And on you?

His sweatshirt. It swallowed you whole, the hem falling mid-thigh, sleeves bunched around your fists. Your hair was still damp, curls wilder now—clinging in places, frizzing in others, like the chaos of the night had taken root in every strand.

Your face looked softer too, scrubbed clean with the scarf, traces of makeup gone. Raw. Real.

His eyes dropped—couldn’t help it—and caught the edge of your underwear sticking out from the balled-up shorts in your hand. Like you’d tried to hide them but gave up halfway.

So, in conclusion, you had his sweatshirt on and literally nothing else.

“Done staring? Or you wanna snap a photo?” Your irritated voice pulled him from the fantasy that begun to build in his mind.

He opened the passenger door for you, suddenly mute, looking the other way as you lifted yourself up. He shut the door behind you, rubbing his face as he rounded the truck to the other side.

He quickly started up the truck, like he couldn’t get to Ruth’s any faster. You crossed your legs, very conscious of how naked they were on his truck seats, and you couldn’t help but shake. Despite the wet clothing being gone, the cold night air still nipped at your legs.

Without saying a word, Bucky reached down and flicked on the heat.

Warm air began to hum through the vents, brushing against your bare thighs. The gesture was so small, so unceremonious—and yet it settled in your chest like something heavier.

You tried not to think about it.

Tried not to acknowledge the fuzzy, fluttering feeling it stirred deep in your stomach.

“How are you going to partake in the rodeo?” You wondered aloud.

“Hm?” His mind was elsewhere, that much was clear.

“With your face all fucked up like that?”

“Can I ask you somethin’?” His face finally turned, forearm stretched out as he gripped the wheel. “Do you get off on being annoying?”

“No, but I bet you do.”

“Do…”

”You get off on me being annoying.”

He made a noise, like he couldn’t decide between a laugh or a groan. “I wish that were the case, I’d be a real satisfied man.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Nah, that’s gonna stick with you as you lie in bed tonight.”

“Just drive, asshole.”

Silence fell between you two, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable—just full. The only sound was the faint twang of a love song drifting from the local station, soft and crackling through the old speakers.

You snuck glances at his hands every so often—still gripping the wheel like it had wronged him. White-knuckled. Tense.

Eventually, you gave up trying to read him and leaned your cheek against the cool glass of the window. The hum of the engine and the warmth from the vents wrapped around you like a lullaby.

Bucky glanced over, noticing how your eyes began to fall droopy, a tiny smile spreading on his lips.

“I prefer you like this,” He spoke softly.

You mumbled in response, alcohol and drowsiness catching up to you. “That’s such a serial killer thing to say,”

“Well, we already established this place is rampant with ‘em.”

“Gran’s gonna kill me,”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain,”

“Are you gonna explain the part where you were eye-fucking me in the bar?”

“No, sweetheart, I’ma leave that out.”

A lazy giggle made its way out. “Knew it.”

He didn’t say another word as you drifted off, your breathing evening out, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.

The rest of the drive was slow, deliberate—each curve taken gently, each bump avoided like sacred ground. He kept one eye on the road and the other on you, making sure the hem of his sweatshirt didn’t ride up too far, pulling it down whenever it crept too high.

Even the crunch of gravel under his tires in Ruth’s driveway wasn’t enough to wake you.

Bucky climbed out quietly, the door shutting with a soft thunk, and jogged up to the porch. He knocked once before Ruth opened the door, her eyes narrowing instantly at the sight of the dried blood on his lip.

You stirred then, glancing up to see how he animatedly talked to Gran, gesturing wildly and holding his hands up when she pointed a finger at him. Then, they both turned to the truck, looking at you. Gran hurried down the stairs—using Bucky as a railing—and threw open the truck door.

“Sweetpea,” She cooed softly, taking you in.

“I danced, Gran,”

“I heard,”

Bucky gingerly helped you out of the truck and into Gran’s arms, only shaking his head when she offered for him to come inside for some tea, a shower, anything. He chuckled as you sheepishly told Gran the story, slightly different and more dramatic than how he’d just told it.

Ruth’s arm wrapped around your waist as she helped guide you up the porch steps, mumbling something about hot tea and strong showers. Your legs wobbled beneath you, the last bits of adrenaline and alcohol still fading from your system.

Halfway to the door, something pulled at you.

You turned slightly, just enough to look over your shoulder.

Bucky stood at the bottom of the steps, hands in his pockets, bruised lip catching the porch light. His eyes were already on you—steady, unreadable, but undeniably there.

You didn’t smile.

Didn’t thank him.

You just looked at him.

And he looked right back.

Tag List: @kiatjuddae @whisperingwillowxox @g0back2bed @peanutbutt3rcup @greatenthusiasttidalwave

[sjsmith56]

Thank you!🌹🌹🌹

Perfect

Summary: After being rescued by Bucky Barnes a woman wonders if her fantasy can ever become reality.

Length: 2.9 K

Characters: Named but undescribed OFC, Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Dangerous situation with fear of death, self-deprecation, lack of confidence, no smut.

Author notes: Set after Avengers: Doomsday when I assume ALL the Avengers will be one big happy family. Information about the phenomena of crowd panic from Science.org website article No Panic Please, September 28, 2000. https://www.science.org/content/article/no-panic-please. Information on statistics of the first name Violet was based on data from https://www.mynamestats.com/First-Names/V/VI/VIOLET/index.html

🔹 🔹 🔹

They meet

It wasn't a meet cute. In fact, it was one of the most frightening days of her life. A day at the crowded zoo with Violet's sister and her children was supposed to be fun, full of laughter and joy. While her sister pushed the baby in the stroller, Violet held hands with her four-year-old nephew Casey, swinging them back and forth as they recited nursery rhymes. They were walking towards the children's zoo when they heard a commotion ahead of them. Then they noticed people running in their direction; parents holding their children close to their chests, couples running with their hands clenched together, others doing their best to hurry their families away from whatever was happening.

Picking Casey up, Violet looked past the people that were streaming towards them to determine the reason for the problem. As several masked people with guns came into view, firing them into the air and roaring for everyone to move, it felt like the end of the world to her. There was only chaos and when she turned back, her sister was gone, swept away by the rush of people, leaving her with Casey. Jostled by the swarm of everyone trying to escape the shooters, Violet held him tight, running with the flow of humanity with only one thought in her mind ... to get away.

The scary thing about being in the middle of a panicked crowd is that there is no organization to it. If you are caught up in it, you don't know where to go or what to do, really. It's not like there are guides on how to handle being in a group of people that are running amok. Scientists who study the phenomenon certainly can't get to an event while it happens because it's over so fast. Even if they studied later footage of such occurrences taken from security cameras, there were still blind spots that removed valuable data leaving the experts to make assumptions that may or may not be correct. For a time, they did use computer simulations, where the crowds were programmed to behave like fluids but the big disadvantage to that was that fluids didn't feel pain, didn't stumble, causing a chain reaction of more people stumbling and creating a choke point that would have dire consequences. More importantly, fluids didn't make decisions on which way to go, because a panicked crowd doesn't always choose the path of least resistance. They choose the closest or the most prominent path or exit and in the case of people with guns herding them by firing them in the air, they would go in any direction away from that danger, even if that led them to a solid wall.

That was certainly true of the mass of people that Violet followed as they ran haphazardly away from the guns. Being so far back in the crowd, she couldn't even see where the exits were and had to trust that the people at the front could. Then the crowd suddenly slowed down, stopped, and backed up when they reached a single gate that let only a trickle of people out. As she turned to face the shooters, realizing that she couldn't get out before they reached her, she held Casey close to her chest, covering his eyes so that he couldn't see the people who were coming to kill them. In what she thought were her last moments she told the little boy that she loved him, that Mama loved him, as well as Dada, Nana, and Papa, and that she was with him. Then she began to cry.

Suddenly a man in black with a metal arm fell from the sky right in front of her, told her to get down, and faced the people with the guns, literally using his metal arm to deflect bullets away from her and Casey. While the guns kept firing, he stalked towards the shooters and beat the everliving shit out of those that got too close to him. Still sheltering Casey, she laughed and yelled as she witnessed the man in black and several others who had also dropped onto the scene battle the shooters back, to where an armed task force waited with guns drawn, forcing them onto their knees and surrender, ending what the media called the Zoo incident.

When the man in black turned around, and made eye contact with her, she knew that she had just met the love of her life. Standing up, she watched and waited as he walked towards her and Casey, his blue eyes focused just on her. She had never seen a man as magnificent as him, with a body that could have been on the cover of a romance novel and thick dark hair that was swept back just so. He was perfect.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, when he was just a few feet away from her. "Is your son alright?"

"He's not my son," she murmured. "We're good. Who are you?"

"Avengers," he said, looking to where several of his fellow Avengers were also inquiring about whether people were hurt before returning his gaze to her. "You're sure?"

"Um, I might have twisted my ankle."

She limped, bringing a smile to his face that almost made her swoon right there. Coming closer to her, she looked up at him, totally lost in the moment at the sight of the bearded man in front of her.

"May I?" She nodded then yelped a little when he easily picked her and Casey up in his arms. "Let's get you checked out."

Effortlessly, he carried her to where emergency personnel had already set up a treatment area. Directed to place her on a gurney, he gently laid her on it, ruffled Casey's hair, then turned to leave.

"Wait!" she cried. "What's your name?"

"Bucky," he answered, his body poised to return to evacuate more of the wounded. "What's yours?"

"Violet."

That smile appeared again. "Pretty name. I'll be seeing you, Violet."

Then he turned and headed back out to where others were waiting to be helped. She watched him carry more people into the treatment area, mostly kids or senior citizens, and each time Bucky returned he looked more and more heroic. Then her sister found her, and they had a tearful reunion that made it onto the evening news. When she looked again, straining to see her rescuer, the Avengers were gone. After being released with a taped-up ankle, Violet returned to her family and another tearful reunion. Over the following week she accepted that meeting the love of her life wasn't meant to lead to anything more and decided to move on. Still, whenever the Avengers showed up on the news for the next month, she looked to see if Bucky Barnes was featured.

They meet again – one month later

Checking her phone for the umpteenth time as she waited near a Midtown restaurant, Violet wondered what was keeping her girlfriend, Nina. It had been a few months since they last saw each other, and she had taken today off to have lunch with the woman who had been her best friend since junior high school. Her phone vibrated with the message that Nina couldn't make it. A four-year-old who had been the reason she was late due to having a tantrum had just thrown up all over her. With a sigh, Violet texted her back that it was alright and she looked around, wondering what she was going to do now that she had an empty afternoon ahead of her.

Somehow, she found herself a block away from the Watchtower, home of all the Avengers. She could grab a hot dog and sit across the street on the off chance that Bucky Barnes would come strolling out the door. Perhaps, he would recognize her and look at her, remembering the day he saved her and Casey at the zoo. Then he would smile and touch her cheek, ask her out and .... She sighed. Who was she kidding? That day was a brief moment in her boring life where she allowed herself to believe in a fantasy, nothing more. With a last look up at the tower, she turned around and walked right into a brick wall, built in the shape of a man. Falling backwards she landed on her backside, then looked up into the blue eyes of the object of her fantasy, Bucky Barnes himself.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, grinning a little. "It's Violet, isn't it? You were at the zoo."

She gulped. "You remember me?"

"Sure, I remember you. It's not everyday you meet a pretty lady with the name Violet." He offered her his hand, easily pulling her up, then gazed at her with those mesmerizing blue eyes. "Why are you here?"

"I was supposed to meet a friend for lunch, but she cancelled," replied Violet. "I started walking and ended up...." Her voice trailed off as her face heated up in embarrassment, and she looked away. "Sorry. I'll just go."

His face softened as he tilted his head a little. "Have lunch with me."

"Oh, no. You don't want that." She shook her head and stepped away, fidgeting with her purse. "I'm not ...."

Her voice trailed off again, and she stepped back once more, desperate to remove herself from his scrutiny. It was stupid to think that someone like him would ever see anything in someone like her.

"Are you afraid of me?"

She stopped in her tracks. "No! No, I'm just ... flustered." Her hands fluttered in front of her. "You're so ... perfect and I'm ... not."

Pressing her lips together, Violet turned around and walked away, lowering her head, speeding up in order to put as much distance as she could between herself and Bucky. All she could think of was how stupid she must be to ever believe that a fantasy could become reality. Life didn't work that way, at least it didn't for her. Aware of someone walking quickly behind her, then beside her, she glanced in that direction, startled to see it was Bucky. Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, she ignored the people who swore at her for blocking them. His hand touched her elbow, gently guiding her to the side. If it had been any other man, she would have pulled away, but she just let him move her.

"Hey," he said, in a soft voice, as he leaned against the building. "Look at me."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Sweetheart, you're not making sense," he chuckled. "Just look at me and explain why you think I'm perfect, because I assure you, I'm far from it." She remained mute, not trusting herself to say anything that didn't sound demented. "I've thought about you."

"What?" She looked at him.

"I've thought about you, of how you looked from above, just before I dropped down in front of you. You had no place to go but you protected that little boy you were holding, making sure that he didn't see the guys with the guns. I could hear what you were telling him." He tapped his ear. "Super hearing. You wanted him to know that he was loved. You were very brave."

"I was terrified."

"You can be both." He smoothed some loose hair over her ear. "Then you started to cry, and I wasn't going to wait for the quinjet to land. I jumped right then and there. Saving you and that little boy was the most important thing for me at that moment. Is he okay?"

"Casey? He's fine." She swallowed then it was like she couldn't stop talking. "He doesn't remember anything. He's my nephew. We got separated from my sister and her baby girl. It happened so fast, and I got swept up in that crowd and I couldn't see where to go. Then we stopped and I realized we weren't going to make it. So, I just decided that if that was where we died then I would make sure he wasn't alone. That he had me right to the end."

She wiped her face, startled to realize that she was crying when her hands came away wet. Suddenly she was wrapped in Bucky's muscular arms, as he murmured soft words to her, words that she really didn't hear but felt because they rumbled from where her head pressed against his chest, making her feel safe and warm. Placing her arms around his waist, she accepted the comfort that he freely gave to her. It felt so right in ways that she couldn't even articulate. Every part of her absorbed everything he gave her as they stood at the side of the busy sidewalk in Manhattan, being held by this man who had jumped from the sky to save her.

Time seemed to slow for them until Violet loosened her hold on him, and Bucky followed her lead. He already had a folded handkerchief in his hand and used it to dab away the remaining tears from her cheeks, his face close enough to hers that she could see freckles on his skin. A hiccup escaped from her throat, making that incredible smile creep across his face.

"Better?" She nodded. "Your makeup needs some fixing. Come to the Tower to get cleaned up. I can order some lunch in."

"You're sure I won't be intruding?"

"I'm sure."

Lifting his hand towards her, he took a few steps then looked back, waiting for her to take it or not. With a quick breath, she took his hand and walked into the Watchtower with him. As a visitor, she had to provide ID to prove she wasn't a reporter or a deranged fan, but Bucky stayed beside her through the process, that included having her picture taken. When the security desk issued her a temporary ID card for access, she grimaced at how her face looked.

"I should have cleaned up before they took my picture."

"Don't worry about it," said Bucky, as they approached the elevator. "You can get a new picture when you get your permanent card."

Violet stopped. "A permanent card?"

The elevator doors opened. Taking her hand, he stepped inside, then waited for the doors to close.

"I meant to come back to you at the zoo, but we were called to another incident and had to scramble. When I got back you were gone. Do you know how hard it is to find a single person in the city of New York, even when she has such a unique first name? At the last census there were almost 57,000 people named Violet in the United States, almost 3700 in New York State. I didn't know if you lived here or if you were a visitor. You weren't on any of the security videos, so I had no way to even do a facial recognition search. I gave up hope that I would ever find you."

"You were looking for me?"

He leaned across her and pressed the STOP button on the elevator. There was music playing at a volume that was just loud enough to hear, something familiar but Violet couldn't remember what it was. Bucky licked his lips then leaned sideways against the wall, casually crossing his arms over his chest. He was close enough that she was aware of the heat that radiated from him, but far enough away that she didn't feel crowded.

"Yeah, I was looking for you. Why wouldn't I? You're beautiful, brave, and from the moment I saw you I thought you were perfect."

In one of Violet's favourite movies, Sense and Sensibility, there's a moment when the heroine, Eleanor Dashwood, finds out that the man she loves with all of her heart isn't married and is free to marry her. At that rare moment of Eleanor losing her composure, she gasped out a sudden cry. It always affected Violet whenever she watched that scene but the rational part of her knew that it was something written into the script to emphasize the scene, since it wasn't really something written in the book, except to say she ran out of the room and gave into a crying fit once the door was closed, away from the view of Edward Ferrars, the man she loved.

The cry that came out of Violet's throat when Bucky called her perfect would always come back to her whenever the couple shared how they met. Its sudden eruption, and the fact that the man who caused it immediately engulfed her in his arms again, became the moment they both knew that they were perfect for each other. In a repeat of what happened on the street, Bucky held her, with the addition of placing a comforting kiss on top of her head. That led to their first actual kiss, gently bestowed on each other in the stationary glass elevator car that looked out over New York City. By the time they got to the residential floor so Violet could use Bucky's bathroom to "fix her face," the common area was full of the other Avengers who witnessed the kiss via the security camera. They all thought it was a unique way to begin a relationship. To her amusement several called dibs on being part of the wedding party. That was when she remembered the name of the song playing in the elevator.  It was Perfect by Ed Sheeran, and suddenly her fantasy became her reality.

One Shots Masterlist

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[sjsmith56]

Cowboy Cassanova || Cowboy!Bucky x Fem!Reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Summary: You return to your rural hometown after living in the big city since high school. Your grandma—your safe space—offers you a room in her house for the summer to escape everything going on in your life. Which, sounds like exactly what you need, until you meet a grumpy cowboy who seems to hate you. And, you hate him too.

Word Count: 4.4k

Series Warnings/Tags: 18+ mdni, smut, enemies to lovers, small town, swearing, drinking, limited understanding of how cowboys work, heavily influenced by Sweet Home Alabama and Hart of Dixie, Alexa play cowboy cassanova by Carrie Underwood

Series Masterlist

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Dividers by @uzmacchiato

The third week in June was your favorite when you were young.

It meant the fair was in town.

You couldn’t wait for Gran to get home from her job at the market, waiting by the porch so she could braid your hair into pigtails and take you, hand in hand. Back then, your grandpa would drive the two of you, paying for kettle corn and tossing rings on bottles just so you could get the prize you wanted.

You hadn’t been here since high school. Funnily enough, the clothes on your body were from that same era.

Your denim cutoffs hugged your waist the way they used to—snug, but still comfortable. The red halter top tied behind your neck, dipping low in the front, giving your chest just enough lift to remind you of why you’d loved it so much as a teenager. Back then, you wore it to feel grown, to feel powerful—even if it gave Gran half a heart attack every time.

You ran your hands through your curls, fluffing and scrunching in a futile attempt to tame the frizz the humidity had summoned.

Tugging on your worn cowgirl boots—still a little damp from a few nights ago despite sitting on the porch in the sun—and made your way downstairs. Your grandma looked you over as she always did, but this time, she smiled.

“Feels like Deja vu,” She chuckled. “You waiting for a boy to pick you up and take you to the fair.”

“Okay,” You held your finger out. “Let’s get one thing straight, Gran, Barnes is only taking me because Nat lives all the way across town and he unfortunately lives next door.”

“Whatever you say, sweetpea.”

“No, that’s all there is to say!”

You turned at the sound of gravel crunching outside. A truck had just pulled up. Your eyes widened as you saw him climb out, his slow swagger toward the porch too familiar by now.

You could already feel the smirk forming on Gran’s face behind you.

Snatching your purse, you darted out the door before she could get a single teasing word out.

You met him halfway down the walkway, grabbing his arm and tugging him back toward the truck.

“You’re gonna set her off,” you muttered under your breath. “Couldn’t you just wait in the damn truck?”

He grinned, unapologetic. “Not how we do things ’round here—”

Then, with a not-so-subtle glance at your outfit:

“—and my, don’t you look like a cowboy’s wet dream?”

You scoffed, scrunching your face as you stepped aside to let him open the passenger door.

“You really know how to charm the pants off a lady, Barnes.”

You climbed up, ignoring the hand he offered, and settled into the seat with a huff. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered. With one hand on the doorframe and the other bracing the inside of the door, he leaned in slightly—smirk locked and loaded.

“Considering you had even less than pants on in that very seat,” he drawled, voice smug, “I’d say I’m doin’ just fine.”

Before you could fire back, he gave the door a firm shove—closing it between you with a little too much satisfaction.

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face to center yourself. When you looked up, Gran was standing in the front window, waving at you like she knew everything.

He hopped into the truck, not before giving her a salute to your chagrin, and switched on the engine. Like before, he used your headrest as an anchor as he turned in his seat, backing out of the long driveway.

“Surprised you wanted to go to this thing,” He muttered. “Figured the fair ain’t your scene,”

“If you must know, I used to love going to the fair.”

“Coulda’ fooled me.”

“I’m surprised you want to go,” You retorted. “I would’ve guessed you’d be too busy brooding and running around shirtless.”

“Well, between brooding and running around shirtless, I carve out time to drive your annoying ass around town.”

“How sweet.”

He smirked as he chewed on a toothpick. “Anything for Ruthie.”

“I’ll never understand this ‘debt’ you owe her—why do you even live next door, anyway? You don’t need all that land.”

“Is that a genuine question about me? If it is, I’ll need to document this for the press. City girl finally talks about something other than herself.”

You turned to him, mouth open in shock. “I ask questions.”

“You haven’t asked me a single question ‘bout myself.”

“That’s because I don’t want to know you.”

“Fine,” He took the toothpick out, pointing it at nothing in particular. “What do you know about Sam, then?”

“Um, I know he has a sister named Sarah and two nephews.”

“Vis?”

“Went to boarding school for high school.” You answered triumphantly.

“And when’s Nat’s wedding?”

You paused. You weren’t aware she’d set a date. “I…I don’t—“

“You don’t know the date of your best friend’s wedding.”

“You’re tricking me. You don’t know either.”

“October 16th.”

A deep frown settled on your face, jaw tightening as you stared straight ahead.

His laugh came low and victorious, like he’d just won a game you didn’t realize you were playing. You huffed, fed up, and turned toward the window, making it clear the conversation was over.

The ride stretched on in silence, tension simmering in the space between you. Outside, the fields blurred past—but all you could focus on was the heat in your cheeks and the sound of his smug chuckle still echoing in your head.

Finally, you reached the fairgrounds.

The second the truck rolled to a stop, you threw open the door and hopped out, barely resisting the urge to slam it harder than necessary. Your eyes locked on your friends waiting near the entrance, and you made a beeline toward them without a second glance back.

Behind you, Bucky trailed at a slower pace, shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn blue jeans. He straightened the backwards hat on his head, like he had all the time in the world—and none of the tension from the ride was his problem.

You walked straight up to Nat, the sounds of the boys clasping hands fading into the background.

“You set a date for your wedding?” You asked, a little breathless.

“Oh, yeah—I was going to tell you the other day, but when I came by, Ruthie said you were at Bucky’s delivering a pie…so that totally took over my mind. Is that a euphemism for something?”

“No, I was giving him a stupid apology pie.”

“Still sounds like a euphemism.” She chuckled, turning to follow the boys toward the entrance. You swatted her arm in response. “Sorry,”

“I can’t believe I didn’t know you set a date for your wedding.”

“I guess I figured… since it’s after summer’s over…”

She trailed off, and that unspoken you won’t be here filled the space between you like a fog.

You had no response. Not because you didn’t care, but because you hadn’t let yourself think that far ahead.

The city—once the center of your universe—had started to lose its shine. Things here were simpler. Slower. The noise in your head quieted a little more each day. But that didn’t mean you knew what came next.

And the truth was… you didn’t.

“Hey, what should we hit first?” Steve’s voice cut in, saving you both from the awkwardness. “Anyone want a beer?”

“Me,” You and Nat spoke in unison, giggling as if the conversation never happened.

A local country band played on the small stage near the vendor booths, the twang of guitars and stomping boots echoing through the air. People danced in lines without missing a beat, their movements instinctual, practiced. Children darted between legs, laughter trailing behind them like smoke.

The fair was in full swing—and exactly how you remembered it.

The sweet scent of funnel cake lingered on the breeze, mixing with the smoky aroma of grilled corn and fried everything. Food truck lights flickered like fireflies in the darkening sky, casting a warm glow on the crowds below.

Beers were passed down in a line, finally landing to you. You opened it with ease, the condensation on the bottle’s neck sweating down your fingers. Sam nodded to you, a grin on his face.

“I’m loving this new look,” Sam teased. “Very cowgirl-esque.”

“Please,” Bucky finally spoke, rolling his eyes, the first words he’d uttered since the car ride. “You can’t ride in an outfit like that—you’ll fall right off.”

Your eyes snapped to his, something devilish flickering behind your smirk.

“You think?”

“I know.”

“Wasn’t ever much of a horse rider anyway,” you said airily, turning to Sam with a knowing glint. “What’s that saying again? Save a horse…”

“Ride a cowboy?” Sam grinned, catching on immediately.

“That’s the one.” You took a slow sip of your beer, watching Bucky’s throat bob as he swallowed hard. “See any around?”

He stared at you, unreadable, but clearly rattled.

“But since you’re so sure, Barnes,” you continued, voice lilting with mock sweetness, “how ‘bout a wager?”

“A wager?”

“That I can’t ride in this outfit.”

“Meaning?” he asked, cautiously now.

You turned your head, and he instinctively followed your gaze—to the mechanical bull pen about fifty yards away.

Nat smirked beside you, whispering something in Steve’s ear, but Bucky? He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

“Fine, what are we wagerin’?”

“If I win, you have to get your face painted,” you said, flashing a wicked smile.

You nodded toward the booth where a teenager was expertly turning small children into pandas, unicorns, and glittery tigers. Bucky followed your gaze, unimpressed.

“Ain’t no problem,” he shrugged, like you’d just challenged him to a nap. Then his eyes began scanning the fairgrounds, calculating. When they stopped, they locked on the glowing beast in the distance.

“I win,” he said, jerking his chin toward the rickety Ferris wheel, “we’re ridin’ that.”

You followed his gaze, and your stomach immediately dropped.

The Ferris wheel creaked ominously in the distance, spinning slow and swaying gently in the summer wind. Your face went pale.

Nat spoke your name, lightly interjecting, but you held your hand up. “Deal.”

You weren’t about to back down—especially not from him. With the group trailing behind you, snickering and exchanging amused looks, you led the way to the mechanical bull pen. You threw a sharp glance at the operator, then stepped onto the inflatable mat, your boots sinking slightly into the surface.

Your eyes found Bucky’s across the ring—arms crossed, smirk locked in place, pure amusement written all over his face. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to.

You could feel it—he didn’t think you’d last a second.

“Better hold on tight, sweetheart—bulls ain’t as easy to ride as they look.” His voice drawled.

You rolled your eyes but swung one leg over anyway, adjusting your grip as the bull rocked slightly under you. Your back was slightly arched, leather caressing your inner thighs in the way you remembered—from when you begged Gran to let you ride the bull until you didn’t fall off anymore.

The ride started slow—jerking back and forth in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic way. You got your groove back quickly, one arm raised in the air as you ground your hips with each twist. You glanced toward Bucky and caught the surprise in his face. Music blasted and your friends cheered as the bull’s speed picked up, and you laughed. Laughed.

Bucky couldn’t believe his damn eyes. Your curls bounced wildly with each jolt, your head tilted back in laughter, and your forearm flexed as you clung to the saddle’s horn. Your thighs hovered just above the seat, body moving fluidly with every sharp twist the bull threw your way. You weren’t just staying on—you were riding like you meant it.

“Where the fuck did she learn how to do that?” He muttered to Nat.

Nat only grinned, eyes fixed in awe. “She used to hold the record for staying on,”

He gripped the edge of the ring, shocked at how you stayed on even when the speed increased. He cupped his hand around his mouth, speaking at a volume intended only for you as he said, “Didn’t think those thighs were good for more than struttin’!”

Your focus slipped. Your concentration shattered. Heat rushed to your face just as the bull jerked violently to the left. Your grip loosened for half a second—and that’s all it took.

You hit the mat with a loud thump, landing square on your ass, legs sprawled ungracefully as the bull kept spinning behind you. You glared up at him, shoving the hand he’d extended outward to you and accepting Sam’s instead. You dusted your shorts off, hopping out of the ring with reddened ears.

Reluctantly, you followed as Nat and Steve led the group toward the dreaded Ferris wheel. Bucky fell into step with you at the rear, chuckling still from watching you fall.

“I gotta admit,” Bucky said, adjusting his hat as he ran a hand through his curls, “I’m impressed. You stayed on longer than I thought you would.”

“Would’ve stayed on longer if it weren’t for you, asshole,” you shot back, brushing dirt off your thighs.

“Hey,” he shrugged, “Had to get you back for the rodeo.”

“I still lasted longer than you,” you said triumphantly, a smirk tugging at your lips as the image of him getting bucked off replayed in your mind like a highlight reel. “Reckon that’s exactly how it’d go if I ever gave you the satisfaction—you finishing before me.”

His jaw ticked, eyes darkening as he stepped just a little closer.

“Trust me, sweetheart,” he murmured, lowering his head until his lips brushed your ear, “Ladies first. Always.”

You shoved him in response, too distracted to come up with anything better. Your steps slowed as you reached the line for the Ferris wheel, your gaze climbing up—up—until it hit the top. The cars swayed in the breeze, groaning with every gust like the old metal was begging for retirement. You gulped, heart thudding as you took in just how tall it was.

If you hadn’t been busy silently praying for divine intervention, you might’ve noticed Nat whispering something to the ride attendant—with a grin that definitely spelled trouble.

“This’ll be fun, city girl. Just you and me, at the very top.” His voice cut through the air, thick with smug satisfaction—mocking you in a way that dredged up the sting of that bet you’d been so damn sure you’d win. A bet that made you wager something far more reckless than you should’ve.

As you stepped toward the car, Bucky waved you in first. You took a shaky breath, fingers tightening around the edge of the seat as it trembled beneath your touch. When he climbed in after you, the whole thing wobbled, and you couldn’t help but yelp.

The door slammed shut with a sharp bang, making your heart skip.

“So jumpy,” he muttered with a smirk.

“I’m afraid of heights, you fucking asshole,” you snapped, knuckles white as you gripped the seat, bracing for the wheel’s slow, nerve-wracking climb.

He turned fully toward you, brows knitting in surprise. “What?”

“Yes, okay,” You began to slightly tremble as Sam started shrinking from how high you climbed. “I really thought I would win.”

“You live in a high-rise.” He deadpanned.

“It’s different.”

“God, you are so stubborn—why didn’t you just say something?”

“What, so you could laugh at me?”

The grin vanished from his face as he dragged a hand down it. “I wouldn’t have laughed at you.”

“You’re literally laughing at me right now—”

A sudden lurch of the car cut you off. You yelped, gripping the edge of the seat. “I can’t believe I’m gonna die next to you of all people.”

“You’re not gonna die, holy shit.” He leaned in slightly. “Just hold onto me.”

“I’d rather die,” you hissed.

He burst out laughing—full, chest-shaking laughter that rocked the car again.

“Stop it!” you yelped, instinctively clutching the sleeve of his shirt like it was a damn lifeline.

He quieted, the laughter dying on his lips as he watched your grip tighten. Slowly, his arm stretched across the back of the car—not quite steadying it, but close enough to give you the illusion of safety.

The warmth of him radiated just inches away, and though it did nothing to still the creaking sway of the ride, it settled something in your chest.

“Better?” he asked, voice low now, almost gentle.

You didn’t answer—just let your fingers inch from his sleeve to his forearm, grounding yourself there instead.

“I know you’re excited, finally gettin’ to touch those arms, sweetheart.”

“You think so highly of yourself, it’s remarkable.” You grumbled.

“Look, we’re almost to the top.”

“I’m not looking.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “You ain’t gonna fall, I got you—just look, damn it.”

You peeked cautiously over the side of the car, your breath catching—not from fear this time, but from the view. The world stretched out beneath you in a patchwork of soft, rolling hills bathed in twilight.

The lights of the fair blinked below like fireflies, music drifting faintly up into the night sky. Up here, the air felt different—cooler, cleaner, like the kind of air that belonged to somewhere far from heartbreak and city noise.

“Worth it, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He grinned, watching as you leaned further toward the edge, curiosity finally outweighing fear. Your fingers wrapped around the cold metal bar, and you perched your chin atop it, eyes wide and reflecting the glow of the fair below.

His hand shifted lazily behind you, steady but unassuming—just enough contact to make sure you didn’t tip too far. You felt the warmth of it up your arm, subtle but undeniable.

“This isn’t so bad,” you murmured, eyes still on the view.

He tilted his head toward you, the smirk tugging at his mouth betraying that he knew exactly what you meant—and exactly what you didn’t.

“Careful, sweetheart, don’t remind me that this is supposed to be a punishment.”

“It definitely feels like a punishment.” You deadpanned.

Suddenly, the car lurched again—and you backed away from the side like it was scalding hot. Bucky caught you, gripping you instinctively as he looked over the side. “I think it’s stopped.”

“What?” You asked in horror. “There’s no way. Please tell me there’s no way.”

His eyes fixated on Sam, who grinned from the ground with a lazy ‘thumbs up’.

“Unfortunately, there’s a way.”

“What did I do to deserve this?” You mumbled, face buried into his arm. “I pay taxes, I’m nice to people—”

“You hit me with your car.”

“How long are we gonna be stuck for?”

“I don’t know,” He exasperated. “But you’re gonna make it ten times worse with all that whinin’.”

“I’m not whining.”

“Just try to calm down.”

You groaned, shifting upright in the rickety seat as the gondola swayed ever so slightly. You tried to look at the view again—tried to summon the awe you felt just a minute ago—but it wasn’t the same.

Now that the wheel had stalled at the very top, the view didn’t feel so breathtaking. It felt like it stole your breath and held it hostage.

“God,” you muttered, gripping the metal bar a little tighter, “this is where I die.”

“Just take your mind off it. Think about shoes.”

“How vapid do you think I am?”

“Should I answer honestly?” He smirked.

You let out a whimper, the ground becoming fuzzy as you looked down.

“Hey.” His voice softened, but there was a tug on your arm that made you look over.

Your eyes met his, and you froze—those steel blues locked on you, steady and unflinching despite the sway of the cart.

“Look at me,” he repeated, quieter this time.

You did. You weren’t sure you had much of a choice when he looked at you like that.

“We are probably not going to die.”

Your brow shot up. “Probably?”

His lips twitched. “Well, I didn’t wanna lie.”

“You are the worst comforter in the entire universe.”

“Yet somehow, here you are… clutchin’ my arm like it’s a lifeline.” He smirked, glancing down at where your fingers were still digging into his sleeve.

You immediately let go.

“See? You’ll be fine. We’ll be down before you know it. And then you can go back to pretendin’ you don’t secretly like hangin’ out with me.”

“I don’t have to pretend.”

“Sure, you don’t. You know I can feel the goosebumps on your arm, right?”

You snorted. “That’s from how much you creep me out.”

“You’re the one always bringing up my arms and how shirtless I am.”

“You are always shirtless.”

“And you’re always pantsless. Or is that just for me?”

“That was one time. Let it go.”

“Hard to let something like that go.”

You looked up, smirking. “Doesn’t happen often, I gather?”

“You being pantsless in my truck? Not nearly as much as I’d like.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

For a moment, all you could do was stare—wide-eyed and stunned. He didn’t even flinch, didn’t backtrack or soften the blow of his words. No teasing smirk, no nervous laugh to play it off.

Just that same steady, confident look in his eyes that told you he meant every damn syllable.

And you? You were trapped in a swaying metal box suspended stories above the ground with nowhere to run.

Your mouth opened, maybe to fire something back—something sharp and sarcastic to reclaim control—but all that came out was a weak, breathless, “I hate you.”

He leaned back slightly, one arm draped still lazily behind you on the backrest, a smug glint flickering in his eyes. “So you’ve said.”

“I’m gonna list Gran’s house on Zillow. I can’t live next to you all summer.”

“You should blame my pop, it’s his fault we live there.”

“I’ll make sure to tell him when I see him.” You huffed.

“If you did, I’d call you crazy.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well, considerin’ he died six years ago, I’d have a hard time believin’ you.”

You straightened up, your brows knitting together in confusion and guarded disbelief. A heavy silence settled between you, leaving your next words caught somewhere between doubt and hesitation.

“I…didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t gotta do all that, sweetheart. But, yeah, he went and died and left me the damn farmhouse. All those acres to take care of—I think it was the old man’s version of a joke. Not a very funny one if you ask me.”

“Were you close?”

“He stepped in when I was a teenager. Set me on the right path. Funny thing is, I used to hate that house. I thought it was too big—I was used to a one bedroom apartment, squeezed in with my mom…then she passed and, well, I needed to be in a house that felt like a home. Moved in with him, started helping around, turns out it was kind of peaceful.”

You looked up at him, your head resting lightly against the curve of his forearm. It was easier when he was teasing—easier to stay angry, to keep your walls up. But when the sarcasm faded and all that remained was the man behind it… that’s when things got complicated.

“That sounds really nice,” You said, voice falling into a whisper.

“It was.”

Thankfully, the wheel jolted back to life—rescuing you from the weight of what you might’ve said next, and sparing him from the same. The tension eased as the car descended, the two of you falling into an easier rhythm of light chatter. Still, his arm stayed behind you, casual… but not quite forgettable.

When the cart finally touched down and the door creaked open, you scrambled out like a woman reborn. Solid ground met your feet—you nearly dropped to your knees and thanked it.

“Come on,” Bucky chuckled, nudging your shoulder as he motioned toward the beer stand where the others waited. “I’ll buy you a beer, since you were so brave.”

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. For once, a sarcastic quip didn’t rise to meet the moment—just a quiet, unexpected sense of triumph. You took the beer from his outstretched hand, your fingers brushing his for the briefest second—just long enough to spark something that made your pulse stutter. When you looked up, he was already watching you, bottle poised.

You clinked yours against his with a soft tap, and together, you tipped them back.

Something shifted in the air between you—undeniable, but unspoken.

“I can’t believe you survived that,” Nat swooped in, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “I really thought you were gonna crap your pants the second he said ‘Ferris wheel.’”

“I damn near did,” you laughed, eyes wide. “It was fine—until we got stuck.”

“Right… stuck…” Nat’s voice stretched suspiciously.

You didn’t catch the way she looked sharply at Sam, who gave her a smug shrug, hands raised in mock innocence.

“I want to win something,” Wanda looked up at Vis. “Let’s go play some games,”

“Alright, but I’m starting with the strength test—“ Steve was cut off by the boys arguing over which carnival game to start with.

You glanced down the neck of your beer, noticing its empty contents, and glanced around for a trash can. You walked a few steps away, glancing behind the row of food vendors, finally spotting one in the corner of the lot. You made your way over quickly to toss it, but something stopped you on the way.

You almost didn’t recognize him.

It wasn’t the same man who used to stumble through your childhood. This one looked… clean. Put together. A crisp blue polo hugged his frame, tucked neatly into a pair of jeans that didn’t look secondhand. In one hand, he held a small lemonade—sweating in the heat. In the other, a little girl—no older than four—clutched his fingers, babbling excitedly as she pointed off toward the carousel.

He looked up—and froze.

So did you.

The noise of the fair faded beneath the sharp ring of blood rushing in your ears. His eyes widened when they met yours, caught in a stare that anchored you both to the dusty midway. Neither of you moved. Not a step. Not a breath.

The little girl tugged at his hand again, giggling, but he didn’t look down.

Clearing your throat, a single word left your mouth. “Dad?”

Tag List: @kiatjuddae @whisperingwillowxox @g0back2bed @peanutbutt3rcup @greatenthusiasttidalwave @flockoff-featherface @sebastians-love

[sjsmith56]

Cowboy Cassanova || Cowboy!Bucky x Fem!Reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Summary: You return to your rural hometown after living in the big city since high school. Your grandma—your safe space—offers you a room in her house for the summer to escape everything going on in your life. Which, sounds like exactly what you need, until you meet a grumpy cowboy who seems to hate you. And, you hate him too.

Word Count: 6.2k

Series Warnings/Tags: 18+ mdni, smut, enemies to lovers, small town, swearing, drinking, limited understanding of how cowboys work, heavily influenced by Sweet Home Alabama and Hart of Dixie, Alexa play cowboy cassanova by Carrie Underwood

Series Masterlist

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Dividers by @uzmacchiato

It was no one’s fault.

Okay, it might have been your fault.

In your defense, however, you hadn’t driven a car in years! How were you supposed to know leaving the light inside the truck on would lead to a dead battery. Still, Ruth made you feel better, assuring you the truck had been long overdue for a laundry list of repairs—thanks to its age and the fact that it hadn’t been driven in years.

“I’ll call a repairman, don’t you worry, honeybee. We’ll have it fixed up in no time—just in time for you to get back to running men over.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, giving her hand a grateful squeeze as she grinned, clearly pleased with herself.

That was yesterday.

By morning, the car was the last thing on your mind—pushed out entirely by the demons you’d been trying to outrun since the moment you stepped off the plane at LaGuardia.

Sunlight slipped through the sheer curtains, soft but relentless, and you squinted against the glare. Sleep had officially left the building, and it was clear you weren’t getting any more of it today.

Groaning, you stood, rubbing your tired eyes while you walked, half-blind, to your suitcase. It had been three days since you got here, and your suitcase still neatly contained all your clothes. Fishing through it, you found a pair of running shorts and a black sports bra.

If you couldn’t sleep off these thoughts, you’d burn them.

You padded down the steps, careful not to step too heavy and wake your grandma, sneakers in your hands and determination on your mind. You settled on the porch steps, slipping your feet into your shoes as the crisp morning air brushed against your skin, chasing away the last traces of sleep. The grass sparkled with fresh dew, and beyond the yard, the sun was just beginning to stretch over the hills, casting a soft golden glow across the quiet countryside.

Damn, you’d forgotten how peaceful mornings could be—when they weren’t drowned out by blaring horns or frantic dashes to the nearest coffee shop, only to find the line snaking two blocks down the street. Slow. That’s how these mornings were.

You didn’t bother grabbing headphones—you longed to hear the crunch of gravel underneath the soles of your Hokas, a physical reminder of how hard you were working. You started a light jog down the stretch of the driveway, wind whipping at the sides of your face.

Soon, as your thoughts began to pour into your mind, your pace picked up. You thought of your job, the people you left behind to be here—your heartrate climbed along with your pace.

Four miles down the empty road, you were in a full sprint, lungs burning in the best way. When you finally slowed to a stop, hands on your knees, chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths, you realized something strange—this air felt easier. Lighter.

Not like the thick, exhaust-filled fog of Manhattan, where even the simplest run came with a side of struggle. Out here, it felt like your lungs could finally breathe.

You noticed how your mind felt clearer too, like the endorphins had finally kicked in and you could relax. Something about the tall grass stretching across neighboring pastures brought you peace, even laughing at the way a nearby cow moo’ed at you, as if to say hello.

You turned back then, deciding you’d gone far enough for today. The rest of the way was an easy jog, your mind lighter, a quiet smile tugging at your lips from the clarity the run had brought.

About forty-five minutes later, the familiar red mailbox came into view at the end of grandma’s long drive. You turned in, breath steady, and jogged the final stretch toward the porch steps, the house slowly coming into view like an old friend waiting patiently.

A large, black truck blocked your usual view of the old Ford as your brows scrunched, wondering who could be visiting Ruth at this hour. As you walked closer, you could hear the light tinkering of tools, metal clanging against iron, and you remembered—the repairman.

You took a deep breath as you braced yourself against the tailgate of the black truck, pushing away the strands of curls that had plastered themselves to your forehead. Your throat burned from the lack of water and the humidity that began to creep up with the sun.

“Hey, you want some water? It’s so hot out here,” You breathed, your head tilting back against the truck. “Thanks for coming out, though, that truck is an accident waiting to happen.”

You turned then, finally peering around the truck to find the repairman on a low, wooden platform on wheels. Your mind, hazy from your run and the heat, couldn’t register words as he slid out from underneath the car—very shirtless, and slick with sweat—and cocked his backwards-hat-wearing head, a smirk growing on his lips.

Bucky.

Bucky was under your grandma’s car. Sweating and grunting, and lacking the one thing you’d never thought you’d miss—a plaid shirt.

“Seems to me that the only accident waitin’ to happen is you, city girl.” He spoke, sarcasm and smugness dripping from his lips. “But I’ll take that water, thank you kindly.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Your body lurched forward off the truck, as if touching it was suddenly poisonous.

“Besides watchin’ you sweat all over my truck? What does it look like I’m doin’?” He held up a wrench mockingly, sitting upright on the platform now.

It took every single remaining ounce of your energy to not let your eyes follow the beads of sweat that raced down his chest.

“Looks like you’re stinking up the front yard.”

He chuckled, eyes flicking down to your sweat-stained torso. “You don’t look like you smell too nice right now, either.”

You crossed your arms instinctively, only to wince at the uncomfortable slick of sweat between your skin. Heat radiated off you in waves, your whole body flushed and sticky from the run—and now, from his gaze.

Flustered and desperate to cool down, you simply walked into the house, ignoring the way his eyes burned a hole in your back. The air conditioning hit you like a tight hug, your breath finally finding your lungs as you walked into the kitchen. Your grandma was sitting, an apple in one hand and the morning paper in the other.

“Gran,” Your tone was sweet, laced with warning. “Why is that man in our yard?”

“He’s fixin’ my car, honeybee.”

“Right, no, I gathered that—why is that specific man doing it?”

”He fixes everyone’s cars ‘round here.”

“There’s no one else?”

She looked up finally, a questioning look crossing her features. “Do you have a problem with him?”

“Do I have—Gran, that’s who I hit with the truck.”

“You hit poor Bucky with my truck?”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Poor Bucky? He was a total jerk about it!”

“Honey, imagine someone hit you with their car.”

“I’ve been hit by cars many times! I lived in Manhattan for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, ‘round here I reckon it happens a lot less. He’s a nice boy, he’s friends with Sam. Been around here a bunch of times, fixin’ random crap of mine. Even brings me his compost for the pig pen.”

“He is not a nice boy,” you groaned, yanking open the fridge and leaning into the cool air like it might save your soul. “Why is he here so much? He got a crush on you, Gran?”

“Oh, honey, please,” she waved a hand, amused. “I’m way past my prime for men lookin’ like that.”

“Gran!”

“He lives next door, sweet pea.”

You finally turned to her, the fridge door swinging shut as your skin already mourned the loss of cold.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

You winced as she used your full name. “Language in my kitchen.”

“Sorry,” You muttered, opening the fridge again and grabbing a water bottle. “He just enrages me.”

“Yes, well, I can see that, but he’s a very helpful boy to your old, demented grandmother. So you’ll bring him some water.”

“What? Gran, come on—“

She gave you that look—the one that stopped you dead in your tracks, the same one she gave you years ago when you stormed through her house in muddy boots with two baby goats and zero remorse.

It was the look that said “I raised you better.” And maybe “I’m two seconds from throwing a dish towel at your head.”

“Fine. I will bring him water.” You sweetly spoke, grabbing a second water bottle and marched outside.

He had retreated back under the car, muscles flexing and pulling as he fastened something underneath the belly of the engine. As if hearing your footsteps was his cue, he rolled back out, a grin flashing at the sight of the bottle in your hands.

“What a good girl—“

You twisted the cap off in one swift motion, turned, and dumped the bottle straight over his head—completely dousing him. Cold water cascaded down his face and body, his mouth falling open in shock, eyes squeezed shut as he let it happen, not moving an inch.

When the last drop hit the dirt, his eyes finally snapped open—slowly rising to meet yours.

Your triumphant smirk faltered.

He reached up, peeled off that damn hat, and dragged a hand through his thick, dripping curls. Water clung to his stubble, his jaw practically glowing in the sunlight.

And then your eyes dropped—just for a second.

His chest gleamed, slick and defined beneath the thin fabric now plastered to his skin.

Suddenly, your attention snapped back to the way he eyed the other bottle in your hands. You glanced down at it, then back at him, frozen in place in anticipation of his retaliation.

Then, quick as a fox, he jumped up and lunged for the bottle in your hands. You, dry and more nimble, evaded his grip and went sprinting in the other direction. He slipped on the wet gravel before taking off after you—mobility threatened by his jeans—but you were already gone.

He chased you around the side yard, vengeance burning in his eyes as he bellowed your name. You laughed—loud and manic—watching him flail through the grass, jeans soaked and clinging, hat slipping off the back of his head like a battle-weary soldier.

But your laughter cut off the moment your feet hit the edge of the backyard.

The pig pen loomed ahead.

You spun around, chest heaving—only to find him right there, just a step behind you, smirk wide and wicked.

“Alright,” you panted, throwing up your hands. “Okay, I’m sorry—”

He didn’t care. He lunged for the bottle, fingers swiping at yours. You jerked back on instinct—too hard.

Your feet slipped out from under you. Arms flailed. Balance lost.

And then—splat.

You landed flat on your ass in the thickest, smelliest patch of mud the pig pen had to offer. The impact sent sludge up your back and down your legs, sucking at your clothes as you sank just a little deeper.

You slowly looked up, sure as the day was long that your face held nothing but pure rage as you watched his face contort from shock…to the picture of amusement. His head tilted back as laughter rang out, his hands clutching his stomach as if it pained him, as you attempted to stand up.

You slipped, causing him to only laugh more. Embarrassment burned at your cheeks, deepening when he finally held a hand out to steady you. You grabbed it, pulling hard—but he was too strong.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” He murmured, flicking a tear from his eye as he pulled you clean out.

As soon as your feet were free, you stomped towards the front yard, steam billowing out of your ears. He trailed behind you, apologies ruined with laughter, but you ignored him. Your feet, heavy from how mud had filled your shoes, carried you to the front porch where Ruth had been standing, chewing on her apple nonchalantly as she took you in.

“What in the Sam Hill happened?”

That only made Bucky start up again. He was starting to cough from continued laughter, eyes widening as you turned slowly, finger rising to point accusingly.

“You,” You muttered lowly.

“She fell, Ruthie,” He solemnly said, face dropping. “I tried to catch her, but—“

“You’re so full of shit!” You growled as Ruth shook her head, making her way down the porch.

“No, I think you are,” He spoke, low enough to evade elderly ears. In a normal tone, he spoke, “Here, you want some water?”

You looked at his outstretched hand—sure enough, there was that fucking water bottle. You weren’t sure your teeth could bite down any harder without breaking your skull. Ruth had walked over to the hose, slowly uncoiling it and pulling it in your direction.

“Gotta hose you off, dear, can’t have you going in the house like this.” She mumbled, a laugh catching on her lips.

Bucky leaned on his truck, unscrewing the bottle with one hand as the other perched on his hip, watching with amused eyes as your grandmother fussed with the hose nozzle. He tilted his head back, lips puckered around the bottle and eyes never leaving you. Just when the humiliation couldn’t get more potent, the cold water spurted on—and drenched you.

You shivered as cold water trailed down your face, snaking along your arms and legs, carrying thick streaks of mud with it. Ruth angled the hose higher, dousing your hair while you leaned into the spray, spitting water from your mouth like it might help you regain some dignity.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Bucky watching—smug as ever.

You turned your head just slightly and, with exaggerated slowness, raised your fist.

Then, with perfect timing and a deadpan expression, let your middle finger rise into the air—shielded carefully from Ruth’s view.

He swallowed the water thickly, teeth baring as he full-on smiled at your gesture. His hand went up to his hat, tipping it slightly.

Then, he winked.

After two showers and half a bottle of body wash, you were still convinced you could smell pig on your skin. You paced your room, towel in hand as you aggressively scrubbed at your damp hair, muttering under your breath.

You’d played in mud as a kid—barefoot, wild, not a care in the world.

But now?

Now you were a grown woman with a skincare routine, dry-clean-only labels, and a healthy fear of bacteria.

You weren’t sure at what point Bucky left, or if he even finished fixing the car. You did, however, make your Gran swear to warn you if he was coming back. The last thing you needed was another surprise attack.

Your cheeks burned at the memory of his gaze—how he’d watched you so intently while Ruth hosed you down, arms crossed, smug as hell. He hadn’t even tried to hide it, like he was perfectly content being in control, watching you flail and fume.

You clenched your jaw, towel still in hand, the heat in your chest not entirely from embarrassment anymore. You ached to flip the script—to get under his skin the way he’d gotten under yours.

Game on.

You knew he hated that you came around. So, now? You were about to infiltrate every area of his life.

You: Nat, plans for tonight?

Natty: it’s rodeo night! Bucky’s bull riding. Wanna join?

It was comical how the fates aligned for you. Not only were you going to join, you were going to make damn sure that Bucky didn’t stay on that bull for one second.

You fired off a quick text, confirming you’d ride over with her and Steve.

As you tossed your phone aside and got ready, something electric flickered to life in your chest—a slow, steady flame. It wasn’t just nerves. It was anticipation.

Because you couldn’t wait to see the look on Bucky’s face… and you definitely couldn’t wait to piss him off.

Finally, you were ready. Your hair was slicked back, a tight leather romper hugging your frame—chic, urban, and just casual enough to pass. You topped it off with black heeled boots, because if you were going to piss Bucky off, you damn well were doing it in heels.

With a sigh and a dramatic eye roll, you tied a crisp white bandana around your neck—your one reluctant nod to rodeo culture. It was your way of blending in just enough without sacrificing your dignity.

With a kiss to Grandma’s cheek, you flew out the front door, hopping in the back of Steve’s truck with a grin on your face. Nat turned in her seat, smirking at you.

“Don’t you look cute,” She marveled as Steve backed out of the driveway. “Hoping to catch a cowboy’s eye tonight?”

”Absolutely.”

The rodeo was just as you remembered—loud, rowdy, alive with the clatter of boots on bleachers and the whoops of cowgirls cheering from the sidelines. Families packed the stands, vendors shouted over the buzz, and the air was thick with the scent of popcorn, hay, and spilled beer.

You walked beside Nat, your face lighting up as the familiar smells and sounds wrapped around you like a memory come to life.

In an instant, you were a kid again—hand in Gran’s, Grandpa lifting you to sit on the rail, swearing one day you’d be the one in the ring, riding a bull like it was nothing.

Sam, Wanda, and Vis approached, bottles of beers in their hands and more outstretched to you. You took one, struggling less to open it this time, and brought it to your lips. The men all wore their signature cowboy hats, each one worn in like a badge of pride. Sam gave you a playful grin and tipped his in your direction, earning exactly what he wanted—a laugh from you, despite yourself.

An announcer somewhere called out scores and upcoming events as you followed the group to the side, where riders sat waiting. That’s when you saw him, casually strolling over and clasping Steve’s hand in greeting.

He wore his cowboy hat and signature belt buckle like before—and like second skin. His long-sleeved plaid shirt caged his arms, but it was his pants that caught your attention. The chaps were a gorgeous leather with fringe hanging off the sides and he looked like the picture of a rodeo boy younger you would’ve fawned over.

As he made his way through the group—which was now preoccupied with the barrel-racing taking place—he settled on you.

“Wash all that mud off?” He spoke lowly, eyes surveying you as if to see if you missed a spot. “You smell a little better to me,”

“I know you don’t usually get close enough to smell a woman, so you can enjoy yourself while it lasts.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, I get close enough.”

“Love this outfit,” You sarcastically enthused, glancing down. “Where’d you get it? Cowboys ‘R’ Us?”

“Oh, right.” His face dropped into mock seriousness as his hands took hold of your shoulders. He turned you around toward the crowd, his voice low in your ear. “This is a rodeo, city girl. We dress up and we ride pretty horses—“

You swatted his hands from your shoulders, turning back with a frown. “I grew up here, asshole. Probably went to the rodeo more times than you could count. Actually, how high can you count again?”

“Coulda’ fooled me,” He plucked your beer out of your hands, throwing back a sip. “Especially with all that gel—say, how many buckets did it take to achieve that look?”

“Why, you want to borrow some for that mop you call hair?”

He chuckled. “If you have any left,”

“We’re gonna take some shots,” Sam interrupted your conversation by clapping Bucky on the shoulder, eyes darting between you. “If you’re done with whatever this is. Good luck out there, man.”

“Yeah, good luck,” You sweetly cooed. “Don’t fall off too hard.”

You followed the group toward the bar, jaw tight, blood already simmering the way it always did when he was around. The sound around you dulled to a buzz as you knocked back your shot, the burn doing nothing to cool your nerves.

You chucked the empty plastic cup aside, barely glanced at your now-tainted beer, and shoved it away.

Another drink—stronger—was already on your mind as you waved off the second round Nat and Steve offered. You needed something to drown the heat rising in your chest—and it had nothing to do with the whiskey.

Sam, noticing your absentminded stare, handed you another beer, already opened. The two of you leaned against the bar top in silence as the sounds of the commentators filled your ears.

The local ring was smaller, only really for community spectating. You hadn’t needed to come early to get seats—or god-forbid, buy any—which was what you loved about it. It wasn’t like the lines and ticket scalpers that New York events anticipated.

“Let’s go, I know a great spot to watch,” He grinned, pulling you through the crowd.

You found yourself in the same area as before—technically off-limits to the general crowd, but Sam’s status as a rider granted him access, and by extension, you.

Nat and Steve stood off to the side, deep in conversation, while Vis casually slipped an arm around Wanda’s waist, pulling her in close. You smiled at the sight, warmth flickering through you, and nodded in their direction before turning to Sam.

“How long that been going on?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Since the second he stepped into town. Both too shy to make any real move.”

For a moment, everything felt easy. Familiar. Like maybe you almost belonged here. Talking with Sam about the group, drinking the locally made beer. For a moment, you forgot why you came tonight.

Until he stepped out, in all his glory, the crowd cheered like he was a favorite. His hat was pulled down low, jaw tight. You could tell he was in his head, focused, as he glanced over to Steve, who was whooping and hollering—in full support and half-drunkenness—for his best friend.

Then, his eyes fell to where you and Sam spoke. Your hands were gesturing like they usually did when you told a story, and he imagined what you were saying. Probably some bullshit about how you supposedly grew up here.

His gaze held for a second too long, neither you or Sam noticing, as he got behind the gate and mounted the bull. The crowd grew a tad quieter in anticipation, signaling you that your show was on.

The gate flung open, and the bull exploded out like a shot, kicking dust high into the air. Bucky gripped tight with one hand, jaw clenched, body coiled with muscle and instinct.

But he wasn’t fully there.

His eyes flicked—just for a second—toward the edge of the arena. Toward you.

And that’s all it took.

The bull twisted hard, and his grip slipped. In a flash, he was airborne, slammed down into the dirt with a thud that echoed through the arena. The crowd gasped, but he popped up fast, more pissed than hurt, brushing himself off as the bull was wrangled away.

Sam clapped anyway, shaking his head—but you laughed. You couldn’t help it. Vindication was sweet as pie.

You leaned lazily against the fence rail, one heel hooked over the bottom rung, an infuriating smirk playing at your lips. You waited until his eyes met yours. Then, casually, you called out:

“Hey, Barnes! Try not to fall off in the first three seconds this time. I’d hate to have to come scrape you off the dirt.”

Sam’s head snapped to you, half-shocked and half-amused, but you were too focused on Bucky. The way he maintained his composure for the crowd, but one look at those steel blues—he was pissed.

A few riders nearby chuckled. One gave a low whistle.

Bucky’s jaw twitched, hands tightening on the rope. The dust hadn’t even settled before he was making his way back to the chute, brushing off dirt and bruised pride. The bull had been wrangled back in, still snorting and stomping.

But Bucky wasn’t done.

With a sharp nod to the rodeo hands, he grabbed his rope again, climbed back over the rail, and swung his leg over the bull like a man with something to prove. Cheers and scattered whistles rippled through the crowd—half admiration, half disbelief.

He reset. Gloved hand wrapped tight. Body tense.

This time, he didn’t look toward the sidelines.

But that didn’t stop you from being in his head anyway.

Your leather romper. Your legs, smooth and sheen in the rodeo lights. Your lips around the beer bottle. He wasn’t thinking about how you’d just called him out, he was thinking about you—which is what infuriated him.

The bull surged forward, more pissed off than before—an angry blur of muscle and fury.

Bucky held on tight for longer this time.

But then—one flick of the bull’s back end, one flash of your laugh in his head—and he lost his rhythm. And then, gravity won.

He hit the dirt again, harder this time. A solid thud that rattled the crowd and echoed in his ears.

The crowd roared, the announcer yelling some record time into the microphone as Sam grabbed your shoulders, cheering and hooting. You rolled your eyes, drowning the beer but not the noise.

Seven seconds. Stayed on the damn thing for seven seconds.

Bucky waved to the crowd, flashing that stupid, cocky smile as he brushed dirt from his jeans like he hadn’t just hit the ground—twice. The crowd roared back with cheers, eating it up.

You looked away.

Instead, you focused on your friends—on the sound of Nat’s laugh, the clink of beer bottles, Steve saying something that made Wanda throw her head back and laugh. You forced a smile, willing it to stretch wide enough to pass.

But under it all, your ego throbbed like a bruise.

You accepted a celebratory shot from Steve, scowling when Bucky sauntered over to join the group at the bar. He’d changed out of the gear, left only in the jeans and plaid shirt. Still, the hat persisted. You wouldn’t give the smug bastard the satisfaction of meeting his gaze, tilting your head back to drain the liquid instead.

About a half hour passed, and you found yourself at the bar with Wanda, both of you laughing as she effortlessly eased the tension from your shoulders. Her stories and light teasing distracted you, giving your mind something else to hold onto.

Out in the ring, the tone had shifted—less intense, more playful. The crowd cheered as kids were let loose to run wild across the dirt, chasing ribbons and each other while someone set up for the next round of events. At one point, a group of squealing pigs bolted out of a chute, prompting delighted screams and a wave of laughter from the stands.

For the first time all night, you let yourself relax—just a little.

Until, well, Steve walked over to you with an apologetic look on his face. “Hey, Nat’s feeling super sick, need to take her home before she turns the back of my truck into a biohazard. I usually wouldn’t mind takin’ you back—“

“Hey,” You waved at him. “Not a problem at all. I’ll call an Uber.”

He scrunched his brows. “Uh—“

“I’ll take her.”

You told yourself you weren’t hearing the voice you thought you were. It was Vis’ voice. It had to be. Because if it wasn’t Vis, that meant it was—

His smug face came into view as he clapped Steve on the shoulder. Your hard eyes were set on the way his jaw twitched in his smile.

“You sure, Buck?”

“Of course—it’s on the way.”

So, Grandma wasn’t playing a cruel trick on you. He truly did live next door. Well, ‘next door’ in this town meant your neighbor’s front door could be two miles from yours. But, still. Alaska wasn’t far enough.

”We’ll make it up to you,” Steve gave you one last apologetic glance.

“Don’t worry about it, just get my best friend home.”

Your smile dropped as Steve turned his back, frowning at the cowboy who looked at you like he knew he’d won. Again.

The group slowly trickled toward the exit, their laughter fading into the night. Goodbyes were exchanged over the sound of gravel crunching under boots—hugs, back slaps, and promises to meet up again soon floating into the warm air.

And then, it was quiet.

Just you and Bucky left, standing in the glow of the overhead lights, the buzz of the rodeo still hanging in the distance. The parking lot stretched around you, emptying out as the last few trucks pulled away.

“I’ll Uber.”

He shook his head. “Ain’t no Ubers out here, city girl.”

“Then I’ll walk.”

“It’s five miles.” He crossed his arms, stupid plaid fabric stretching to accommodate his size. “Besides, wouldn’t want to get dirt on the Manolo’s.”

Your lips twitched, a smile threatening to break free at the idea of him remembering a shoe brand that he definitely didn’t know anything about. Instead, you scoffed.

”These are just Steve Madden. You think I’d wear the expensive stuff to a rodeo?”

“I wouldn’t think anyone would wear any of that to a rodeo.” He gestured to you lazily, finally tossing his bag in the truck bed. “Get in the truck.”

“After you just insulted my outfit?”

“Didn’t insult it. Called it out of place.”

“Because that’s any better?” You scrunched your face. ”I’m definitely walking.”

“You’ve had three beers and two shots. You ain’t walkin’.”

You squinted accusingly. “Are you keeping track of what I drink?”

“I was standing right next to you, smart-ass. But it was the way you got all flushed that gave it away.”

Your hand flew to your cheek on instinct—sure enough, the warmth was undeniable, blooming beneath your fingertips.

Busted.

You tried to play it cool, but the smug glint in his eye told you he wasn’t buying it for a second.

“Now, get in the truck and I’ll forget all about how you tried to throw me off my game.”

“I didn’t even have to try. You fell straight off right out the gate, what was that, like two seconds?” You laughed, remembering the sight. “You always finish that fast, Barnes?”

He smirked. “Not even close. You might, though.”

The laughter fell from your lips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just get in the damn truck.”

You obeyed, finally, not wanting to hear whatever came next. He followed close behind, footsteps heavy in the gravel. You felt the heat of him at your back, his arm moving toward you—your breath hitched, bracing for his touch.

But instead, his hand landed on the handle, pulling the door open like it was nothing.

You glanced at him, a little off-kilter—probably the alcohol—and he let out a quiet sigh.

“You need help gettin’ up?”

“Of course not,” you snapped, already reaching for the step.

But the ground tilted beneath you, just slightly—the spin catching you off guard as your foot landed on the metal step. You grasped the handle inside the door, hauling yourself up, determined not to lose your balance.

Then, as if the universe had it out for you, your foot slipped—mud still clinging stubbornly to your sole—and suddenly you were tipping backward.

His hands shot out without hesitation, fingers digging into your waist, steadying you before you could hit the ground.

You slipped into the seat quickly, escaping his grasp and jumping when the door shut behind you. Seconds of silence followed as he walked around the truck, gone in an instant as he opened his own door and climbed in. The truck started with a roar, and it really dawned on you how alone the two of you were.

He switched the gear into reverse, his hand landing on your seat as he twisted to look behind him. You could feel the warmth of his fingertips that were mere inches from your neck, coldness in their wake as he finished backing up.

“That’s how you back out of a parkin’ space.” He smugly spoke.

“I hate you.”

He barked a laugh as he pulled the truck forward, the engine’s low rumble vibrating through the seat beneath you. Soft music hummed from the radio, filling the quiet space between you.

You kept your eyes fixed on the passing road, watching the world blur by faster with every mile. As the drive continued, though, you grew bored of blurry fences and began to look around the truck. It was surprisingly clean, save for a jacket thrown haphazardly across the backseat and some rope.

“Why do you have rope in your truck, psycho?”

“Because I’m taking you to a field to tie you up and kill you.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m sure you’d love to.”

”I always carry extra rope when I go to the rodeo. In case mine breaks.”

“Don’t they have extra rope?” You squinted your eyes.

“Yeah but—I don’t know, guess I’m superstitious.”

“Still can’t believe you fell on your ass.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Kinda the main part of bull ridin’, sweetheart.”

“I’ll remember that forever.”

“Good to know you’ll be thinkin’ of me.”

“Please, you’re the one that jumped at the chance to take me home.”

“Only ‘cause Ruthie scolded me after you went inside earlier. Need to get in her good graces again.”

“From what she told me, she can’t seem to get rid of you!” You exclaimed sarcastically.

“She helped me out a few years back when I shattered my arm from ridin’. Made me food everyday and shit. I guess I’ve been in her debt ever since.”

“Funny, she never mentioned you.”

“She talked about you all the time.”

Your head turned sharply at his words, ears tuning in like a wire pulled taut. He kept his eyes on the road, face unreadable, voice calm—like he hadn’t just unraveled something in you.

“Went on and on about you,” he said. “How you used to bake with her, how much you loved the rodeo yourself…how much she missed you. Her eyes would just light up.”

You clung to every word, breath catching slightly. The way he spoke about your grandmother—steady, almost reverent—wrapped around your chest in a way that made it hard to breathe.

But then he smirked.

“So imagine my shock,” he added, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, “when Satan incarnate introduces herself as Ruthie’s granddaughter.”

The veil shattered.

You let out a groan and smacked him in the arm, hard enough to make him flinch and laugh.

“I swear, you make it your personal mission just to piss me off.” You huffed.

“Oh, and you don’t? That little stunt at the rodeo, that was because you wanted me to smile at you?”

“That was for pushing me in the mud today,” You pointed an accusing finger at him, digging into his bicep but not making any headway.

”You fell in all by yourself, sweetheart.”

“Unbelievable.”

The car was in the driveway now, pulled up to the porch. You hadn’t noticed pulling in, too distracted by the anger that built up in your stomach. You turned fully, a deep frown taking over your features.

“Don’t ever come by this house again.”

Your attempt at threatening didn’t phase him in the slightest. “That’s a funny way to say ‘thank you’ for drivin’ you home.”

“I’m sorry, do you expect me to fawn all over you? Oh, thank you so much, Mister, how would I have managed without you and your strong arms?”

“There you go with the arms again. You know, you can touch ‘em if you want.”

“The literal last thing I want,” You slammed your hand on the center console. “Is to touch you.”

“You’ve touched me twice on this drive.”

You scoffed. “Look who’s counting,”

“Look who’s still in the truck.”

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts, and followed his gaze—realizing he was staring straight at your front door.

You’d been parked there for minutes now. Engine idling. Silence stretching.

And you still hadn’t moved.

“Need help gettin’ out?” He pointedly stared at the door that you’d battled back in the parking lot.

“I hate you.” You grunted, throwing the door open and jumping out. Your landing was a little wobbly, but you stuck it nonetheless.

“You keep sayin’ that,” He called.

You turned, the blinding glare of his F-150’s headlights washing over you like a spotlight. Still, you stood your ground.

Without hesitation, you lifted your fist—just like you had that afternoon—and slowly raised your middle finger, your face locked in a scowl.

No words. Just one final message.

Loud and clear.

Then, you turned on your heel, stomping towards the front door. Annoyingly, he sat in the drive until you disappeared into the house, the echo of his laugh reverberating in your head like a nightmarish lullaby.

Tag List: @kiatjuddae @whisperingwillowxox @g0back2bed @peanutbutt3rcup @greatenthusiasttidalwave

[sjsmith56]

The New Avengers… And Their Mom

Chapter Ten: A Dare and a Truth 

*****

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Kay Romano, a plus sized/curvy ofc; Platonic Thunderbolts x Kay

Word Count: 4.8k

Summary: Bob’s birthday begins quietly, but one by one the team offers him unexpectedly thoughtful gifts. The day ends with laughter and games, as Bob experiences a celebration that finally reflects the love, belonging, and warmth he craves. Longing continues to simmer between Bucky and Kay. 

Trigger warnings: A birthday celebration and a Truth or Dare game? Like, it's fluff with some Bucky spiraling.

Author's Note: I may have gone overboard for Bob's birthday. I love Bob. And, yes, I want to knit him a sweater. He deserves it. Enjoy the fluff.

Story Masterlist

Chapter 9

*****

Bob’s birthday began the way every day did: with coffee.

The compound was still quiet, wrapped in the hush of early morning. Pale sunlight filtered through the windows and the air smelled faintly of fresh coffee, toasted bread, and something warm and sweet. 

Bob wandered in half-asleep, hair rumpled from sleep, wearing a threadbare hoodie stretched at the cuffs and plaid pajama pants. He yawned into his elbow as he padded across the floor, fully expecting to go through the motions like always: grab the chipped mug with the brand new Avengers logo, pour a fresh cup, add just a hint of creamer and an ungodly amount of sugar.

But this morning, something was different.

Kay stood at the kitchen island, leaning casually against the counter, a steaming mug cradled between her palms. She turned with a small smile and held it out to him in both hands.

It was a matte purple ceramic mug with a glossy black handle, and across the front in bold, ridiculous Comic Sans lettering were the words “World’s Okayest Superweapon”.

Bob blinked twice. 

His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. He stared at it like it might explode, or turn into a trap, or maybe just disappear if he moved too fast.

Kay raised an eyebrow, the smile tugging wider at one corner of her mouth.

“Figured you needed a proper title,” she said lightly, her voice low and warm like a secret shared over campfire.

Bob reached for the mug, slower than necessary, taking it with both hands. His fingers curled around the heat. He ran his thumb once across the lettering, as if to make sure it was real. Something about it, about her standing there, about the way she looked at him without expectation, calmed him in the gentlest way.

His cheeks flushed a soft, unmistakable pink, and he dipped his head slightly as he brought the mug to his lips. The coffee was perfectly strong, just sweet enough, and still steaming.

“Perfect,” he murmured.

And he meant the coffee, but he meant the mug, too.

*****

Later that afternoon, Kay was passing through the lounge on a mission. 

She saw Bob curled into one corner of the oversized couch, a hardcover novel balanced in his lap, spine barely cracked. His socked feet were tucked beneath him, one ankle poking from under the cuff of sweatpants. He was in a loose tee now, the hoodie he wore that morning draped across the back of the cushion.

Kay tilted her head, observing him for just a beat too long.

“You look cold,” she said, casually, but with that sharp Kay-accuracy that always seemed to cut right through to the marrow.

He startled slightly, looking up from his book. “I’m not—”

Before he could finish the sentence, she stepped forward and dropped something into his lap.

It was a soft bundle of yarn in deep, storm-gray tones, folded carefully and tied with a single red ribbon. It was a thick, warm, and gently weighted sweater. The sleeves spilled slightly across his legs as he took it out of the ribbon, careful not to ruin the bow.

Book forgotten, fingers curled around the fabric. He lifted it slowly, brushing his fingertips along the ridged knit pattern. There were cable twists and subtle ribbing, tight enough to hold shape, and soft enough to sink into. It wasn’t store-bought, the slight imperfections made that clear. Some stitches were a little looser on the cables, but it was beautiful in its humanity, in the time it must have taken to make.

He held it up fully, letting the light catch the faint sheen of the yarn.

It was perfect, and it was for him.

“You made this?” he asked, voice lower now. There was something raw and unguarded behind his eyes. “For me?”

Kay shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t spent evenings with her feet curled under her on the couch, needles clicking as she worked row after row. Like she hadn’t taken his favorite hoodie on laundry day and secretly taken its measurements.

“Knitting helps me wind down,” she said simply. “And you could use something with sleeves that don’t look like they’re about to disintegrate.” She watched as he stood slowly and tugged the sweater on over his head.

It fit perfectly.

The sleeves reached his wrists. The shoulders rested right where they should. The hem hit just below his hips, cozy and solid. He pulled it down gently, palms smoothing across the front like he still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Kay,” he said, and his voice was full of gratitude and disbelief.

She just gave him a small smile, not expecting anything of him.

“Keep warm,” she said. 

Then she turned, leaving him there with his book forgotten and his hands hugging himself in the sweater.

*****

John’s gift arrived with all the subtlety of a battering ram, and about the same decibel level.

“Happy birthday, buddy!” he bellowed from the doorway, striding in like he was making a military entrance, not entering a cozy common room. In his arms was an enormous, garishly wrapped box with bold comic book paper, lopsided tape, and a crumpled bow.

He marched straight to the coffee table and dropped it with such force that the entire thing shuddered on impact, rattling glasses. Yelena raised an eyebrow without looking up from her phone. Bucky just reached out calmly and steadied a tipping bowl of pretzels.

John beamed like he’d just performed a magic trick.

Bob blinked at the box, which now took up most of the table. “What in the…”

“Open it!” John said, practically vibrating with excitement, like a labrador in boots. “Come on, man!”

Bob hesitated for only a moment before peeling back a corner of the chaotic wrapping, revealing the bold, unmistakable lettering of the LEGO logo. The rest came off quickly, crinkling to the floor until the full set was revealed in all its glory: a massive, detailed LEGO castle, complete with battlements, tiny flag-topped towers, a working drawbridge, armored knights, and a fire-breathing dragon posed mid-roar. The box practically gleamed in the overhead light.

Bob stared in absolute wonder.

“This is…” he started, fingers trailing over the glossy cardboard. “This is actually kind of amazing.”

John puffed up like a proud uncle. “Right? I know we’ve got top-secret tech, biometric security systems, and like… a jetpack in the garage or something, but look at the turrets, man! That’s craftsmanship.”

Bob tilted the box to better examine the details: the modular dungeon, the catapults, the tiny figurines.

“It’s got… a working drawbridge?” he said, awed.

“And the dragon has posable wings,” John added, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Then, without warning, he clapped Bob on the back with the force of a congratulatory linebacker. Bob pitched forward on the couch, catching himself just in time before the gift, or his dignity, hit the floor.

“Happy Birthday!” John crowed, utterly unrepentant.

Bob, breathless but grinning, sat upright again, still clutching the box like it was made of gold bricks instead of plastic ones. Around the room, the rest of the team exchanged small, amused glances, but no one teased. There was something touching about a massive, slightly absurd gift delivered with the force of a hurricane.

Bob looked up at John, still half-stunned. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” John said, plopping onto the armrest beside him. “We’re building it tonight. I call the dragon.”

Bob smiled, a little crooked, a little shy, and maybe a little younger than usual.

“You can make the dragon,” he said. “But I’m naming him.”

*****

Yelena’s gift came wrapped in a sheet of newspaper. It was bound tightly with electrical tape, the black kind usually reserved for patching wires.

“Subtle,” Kay murmured from her spot on the arm of the couch, one brow raised.

“I had no ribbon,” Yelena replied evenly, hands shoved into the pockets of her cargo pants. “And I was out of duct tape.”

She stood across from Bob with her usual posture, shoulders square, chin tipped slightly up, face unreadable. But her boot tapped once against the floor, betraying a flicker of nervous energy she didn’t acknowledge.

Bob looked down at the lumpy, lopsided package in his lap like it might be booby-trapped, then carefully began peeling away the layers of newspaper. The tape gave a reluctant snap as he worked, crackling under his fingers, revealing a folded bundle of dark leather within.

He pulled it free, and for a moment, just stared.

It was a real, old-fashioned bomber jacket.

Aged brown leather, soft and weathered, the elbows were slightly worn, the stitching at the cuffs hand-repaired in places. It smelled faintly of cedar and engine grease. The interior was lined with thick wool, real and warm, not the synthetic kind you see in newer copies. A single patch on the inside collar read: Property of S.R., 1964.

Bob ran his fingers along the sleeve seam, almost reverent. “This is… this is too nice,” he said, already starting to fold it back up with fumbling care. “I can’t—I mean, really, I can’t take this. It’s—”

“Yes, you can,” Yelena interrupted, sharp and immovable as bedrock. “You wear nothing but sad sweatshirts. This is an intervention. You're welcome.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Bob laughed softly, and shook his head in disbelief. He unfolded the jacket again and slipped it on, the weight settling across his shoulders like it had always belonged there.

“It fits,” he murmured, tugging the hem down, fingers brushing the edge of the zipper.

“Obviously it fits,” Yelena said. “I am not an amateur.”

He looked up at her, smile blooming slowly across his face. A little crooked. A little stunned. And a little glassy around the eyes.

“Thanks, Lena.”

*****

Alexei’s gift was, somehow, even less expected.

“Is traditional,” he announced with heavy ceremony, striding into the room like he was entering a Cold War tribunal rather than a birthday gathering. In his hands, he held a small dented tin that had seen better days.

“Army-issue hard candy,” Alexei declared, nodding once as he handed it over. “Soviet classic. None of this weak capitalist sugar nonsense.”

The tin was olive green and stamped with faded Cyrillic letters. The lid squeaked as Bob pried it open, revealing rows of small, glassy, amber-colored lozenges nestled like bullets in a box. They shimmered faintly under the light, like relics preserved in sap. The scent hit first: menthol, sharp and aggressive, undercut with a hint of something like burnt sugar, maybe a whiff of pine tar.

Bob blinked at them. “They look like cough drops for people who don’t survive the cough.”

“Strong flavor,” Alexei added, folding his arms across his broad chest, the air of a man confident in the power of nostalgia and questionable confectionery. “Will put hair on your chest.”

Bob picked one up between thumb and forefinger and held it to the light, squinting. It caught the glow like amber glass, deceptively pretty for something that smelled like it belonged in a med kit.

“Should I be worried?” he asked cautiously, sniffing the candy again like it might hiss.

“Absolutely,” Yelena muttered, not even looking up from where she was scrolling through her phone on the arm of the couch. “One time he gave those to a raccoon. It walked in a circle for ten minutes and then fell over.”

Alexei grunted, pleased. “Raccoon was weak.”

Bob raised his eyebrows but popped the candy into his mouth with bravery.

He lasted three seconds before his eyes went wide. “Oh my God, is this legal?”

Alexei beamed like a proud father. “You are welcome.”

Bob coughed once, eyes watering, but gave a thumbs up between wheezes. “Tastes like… pine trees. And pain.”

“That is how you know it works,” Alexei said with a sage nod.

*****

Ava’s gift was small but unexpectedly heavy, wrapped in crinkled silver tissue paper tied neatly with a single loop of natural twine. No bow, just intentional simplicity.

She held it out with both hands, her expression quiet but purposeful, like the gesture itself carried more weight than the contents.

“For you,” she said, her voice steady in the low hum of the lounge. “Happy birthday.”

Bob took it with a mix of curiosity and caution, unwrapping the paper slowly, his fingers careful not to tear it. The tissue peeled back to reveal a sleek black box with subtle embossed lettering. 

Inside, nestled in charcoal foam, was a chess set.

The board was tempered glass, pristine, and faintly mirrored. The resin pieces gleamed against the dark interior, half opaque, half crystal clear, each one sculpted with elegant precision. 

“A chess set,” Ava confirmed before he could ask. 

He looked up at her, brow furrowed slightly. “You think I know how to play chess?”

“I think you should, and I’m going to teach you.” she replied, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You’ve got a strategic mind, Bob. You just don’t know how to sharpen it yet.”

He stared at the set a moment longer, fingers brushing reverently over a rook. The resin was cool and smooth beneath his touch.

“I… I don’t know if I’m smart enough for chess,” he admitted, voice barely above a murmur. “I’ve never really…”

“You are,” Ava said, cutting him off with quiet certainty. She knelt beside where he sat, meeting his eyes. “You just think in a different rhythm. Chess will teach you how to trust your gut and see the board all at once. It’s like tactical training, only more elegant.”

Bob swallowed, nodding slowly as he turned one of the bishops between his thumb and forefinger. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

Ava tilted her head, her smile widening just a touch. She touched his shoulder briefly, warm and grounding. “You’re welcome! Happy birthday, my friend.”

*****

Bucky waited until nearly dinnertime. The compound had quieted from the earlier whirlwind of noise and celebration. Laughter still drifted faintly from the kitchen, where Kay was prepping something that smelled warm and garlicky. 

Bob sat low on the couch in a patch of sun, one knee drawn up, absently flipping through a small rule book that came with the chess set. Beside him, the LEGO castle stood half-finished on the coffee table, dragon lying on its side like a sleeping giant. 

Bucky stepped in quietly, his boots soft against the floor. He lingered in the doorway for a second, watching the way Bob sat with his shoulders slightly hunched, wholly absorbed in the chess book.

“Hey,” he said at last. “Got something for you.”

Bob looked up, blinking once.

Bucky handed him a neatly wrapped plain brown paper rectangle, tied with a thin cord.

Bob accepted it slowly, turning it over in his hands. He untied the cord carefully, and inside was a hardcover book, the jacket faded with time but intact. The title embossed in bold type across the top: The Way Things Work. Not the new one, but the original, illustrated and strange and beautiful. Mammoths pulling pulleys. Labeled schematics of hinges and gears and levers. The kind of encyclopedia that felt like a treasure map for a mechanically curious kid.

Bob’s breath caught.

He ran his fingertips reverently over the worn spine, then down the front cover where a cross-section of a medieval catapult stared back at him.

“I… used to see this in the school library,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear. “They wouldn’t let me check it out.” His thumb brushed a corner. “Said I bent the pages.”

There was no bitterness in his voice, just a quiet sadness.

Bucky just said, calm and steady, “No rules like that here.”

Bob swallowed, nodding slowly.

He opened the book and the spine cracked softly. The pages, dense with linework and diagrams, fell open like they’d been waiting for him. 

Bob reached for the corner of a page, more carefully than he’d ever done anything in his life. “This is…” He blinked once, twice. “This is perfect.”

Bucky let the corner of his mouth lift. Just barely. “I thought maybe it could be… familiar. But yours this time.”

Bob didn’t reply right away. But the way he kept turning the pages, slow and deliberate, said more than words could. “Thanks, Bucky.”

And Bucky, who had spent a lifetime learning the weight of silence, just nodded.

*****

After dinner, the lights were dimmed, the sky outside was darkening, and the windows fogged faintly from warmth and laughter and the remnants of garlic bread. The faint thrum of acoustic guitar music played low from someone’s speaker.

Kay had vanished into the kitchen momentarily. 

She reappeared, careful hands steadying a cake so beautiful it could’ve been plucked straight from a Parisian bakery window.

Three towering layers, impossibly fluffy, the white sponge kissed with pink where the strawberries bled into the cream. Ribbons of whipped cream curled in elegant waves around the edges, and fresh fruit glistened atop the cake like jewels. Delicate specks of edible gold leaf shimmered beneath the candlelight—glinting every time she moved, like tiny sunbursts frozen midair.

The room stilled.

Bob’s mouth dropped open with comic timing. His eyes went wide, then blinked like he was trying to reset a reality that had suddenly turned surreal.

“You said no sparklers,” Kay reminded gently, her voice carrying the lilt of a smile. “Not no cake.”

She placed it on the coffee table, now cleared of lego towers and drinks, and the candle flames flickered, warm and steady, reflecting in the dark glass of the window and in the awed eyes of the team surrounding him.

Bob didn’t speak at first. His hands were frozen in his lap, unsure of what to do with themselves. His ears went scarlet as he stared at the cake like it might vanish if he blinked too hard.

Then Kay leaned forward just slightly, her expression soft and glowing with pride. “Happy birthday, sweetie.”

Bob ducked his head as if to hide from the attention, but he couldn’t stop the wide genuine smile from cracking across his face. It was an uncertain smile that didn’t know how to exist, but was trying anyway.

He blew out the candles in one breath.

A chorus of cheers went up, not singing, but rich with affection. Ava whooped loudest. John shouted “What did you wish for?!” like he would actually get an answer. Yelena simply clapped once, sharply, like a judge approving a performance.

The cake was sliced in thick wedges. It tasted like summer: soft sponge, sweet cream, and strawberries.

Alexei declared it “obscenely good,” and tried to take a second piece before Kay swatted his hand. Bucky ate his slowly, with quiet appreciation. Yelena scraped every last dollop of whipped cream from her plate like she was extracting evidence. Kay, finally seated beside Bob, simply watched him eat, quiet and pleased, her expression a private kind of proud.

Afterward, the board games came out.

Monopoly (briefly, then angrily discarded). Scrabble (chaos). Codenames (where Ava, somehow, guessed “Hammer” from “Fish” and “France”). 

Bob’s new mug was full of hot cocoa, the scent mixing with the remnants of candle smoke and strawberries. His new sweater clung snug around his shoulders. His fingers occasionally drifted up to tug at one of the sleeves, still getting used to the garment.

The LEGO castle sat half-finished nearby, the dragon parts still in a pile, wings waiting to be snapped into place. The glass chess set gleamed from a side table, untouched for now, but no less present. 

And for the first time in as long as anyone could remember, Bob laughed.

Not the shy, quiet chuckle they were used to. But real, full-bodied laughter. The kind that shook his shoulders and crinkled his eyes. That spilled out uncontained and caught them all off guard in the best way.

It was the sound of healing, as though this birthday had given back a piece of the childhood he never got to have or a piece of joy he thought he’d missed forever.

And in that room of misfits, murderers, and second chances, no one could begrudge him a single second of it.

*****

The common room was darker now, dimmed overhead lights casting golden pools over the furniture. A nest of blankets and half-empty mugs cluttered the space. The remnants of cake clung to paper plates, and a few chess pieces from Ava’s set had migrated onto the coffee table. 

Yelena lounged across the couch like a queen draped in blankets, her socked feet propped on a pillow someone else was definitely using earlier. She swirled the last inch of hot cocoa in a mug.

“Alright, alright.” she drawled, smirking like someone who knew she was about to start something. “Since it’s past midnight, and we do eventually have to sleep, I propose we finish the day with a round of Truth or Dare. And none of that cowardly ‘truth every time’ crap.”

Kay rolled her eyes. “How old are we?”

“Old enough to make this game dangerous,” Ava replied, already grinning.

The first few rounds came with harmless teasing and a slow descent into chaos. Bob was dared to do five pushups with Alexei on his back. He did six.

John confessed, with no shame whatsoever, that he stole one of Alexei’s medals “out of curiosity,” then never gave it back out of spite. 

Ava’s turn ended in failure when Bucky dared her to wink "without looking like she wanted to murder someone." Bob nearly choked laughing.

And then Yelena straightened from her sprawl, eyes narrowing with slow delight. Her voice dropped into something purring and dangerous.

“Kay.” 

Kay raised an eyebrow, mouth half-full of popcorn. “Dare.”

“I dare you to kiss one of the team.”

A brief silence fell. It wasn’t scandalized, just interested. As though the game had suddenly become something worth leaning forward for.

Kay swallowed slowly, brushed a thumb across the corner of her mouth, and tilted her head as though she were making mental calculations. She wasn’t flustered, just measuring the mood. Then she tilted her head, amused by how quiet they'd gotten. “Before I begin…” she said carefully, her voice clear and cool, “does anybody not consent to a kiss?”

Her question was its own kind of dare where the resulting silence was an answer. 

She rose slowly, unfolding herself with the elegance of a cat stretching after a nap. The hem of her sweater swayed as she stood, and one sleeve slipped a little farther down her arm, exposing the slope of her shoulder. Her jeans hugged her curves, worn soft in all the right places. The movement was casual, but there was intention in every step.

Bucky’s mouth went dry. 

She began walking with slow, deliberate steps. Her gaze passed over each of them in turn.

She passed Alexei first. He straightened up, puffing out his chest.

Ava tilted her head like a predator watching a gazelle get cocky.

John sat up straighter.

Then Bob, who looked like he was trying to simultaneously act cool and not inhale his own shirt collar.

And then… Bucky.

Her gaze landed on him and lingered.

The air between them tightened. It crackled with something quiet and yet groundbreaking. He met her eyes, steady and guarded, but inside it was a cliff-edge sensation. His chest was tight, his stomach dropped, he felt like if he moved even a muscle the earth beneath him might split open.

He didn’t breathe. He didn’t even blink. Part of him swore this was the moment, and if she kissed him, he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

Her lips parted. 

Then she shifted a half-step. 

She bent diagonally. 

And leaned down and pressed a soft, featherlight, tender kiss to Bob’s forehead. 

Bob blinked once. Then again. And then his face broke open into a smile so wide it seemed to light him from the inside, like someone had uncorked a little sunshine in his chest.

The room groaned in unison. Ava flopped dramatically sideways in her beanbag. John made a wounded noise. Alexei muttered something under his breath in Russian that sounded suspiciously like a swear.

Kay straightened. She adjusted the fall of her sweater like it had gotten ideas of its own, and turned to face the room with perfect calm.

Then she said, looking around the team in quiet disbelief: “What, you think I’m gonna crawl in someone’s lap and play tonsil hockey on a dare?”

The chuckles that followed cracked the tension. Yelena raised a hand half-heartedly. “Well… it was worth a shot.”

Ava nearly snorted her drink. “Alright, damn.”

John laughed, muttering under his breath. “I feel like I just got rejected and I wasn’t even in the running.”

Kay sat down again with a calm ease, dusting popcorn crumbs off her seat. 

Her voice was bone-dry, but steady, “Sorry to disappoint,” not really sorry at all. 

*****

Bucky didn’t move, didn't even breathe too deeply. His body stayed still, spine straight, fists flat on his thighs, knuckles white against denim. But inside, it hit like him a car crash.

Crawl into someone’s lap. Play tonsil hockey. 

She’d said it like it was a joke, and the room had laughed. But Bucky couldn’t laugh. He still couldn’t even move. He wanted her lips on him too desperately.

He had imagined it too many times to count: slow and soft, urgent and needy, pressed against a wall, tangled in sheets, claimed and claiming back.

He knew the shape of that kiss before it had even happened.

But if she’d actually kissed one of the others, really kissed them, right there in front of him?

He wasn’t sure what he would’ve done.

Something reckless, definitely.

Something permanent, if only because there’d be no coming back from it, not for him. Not for the way he’d feel watching her give away what he hadn’t even let himself ask for.

He’d imagined a thousand ways she might kiss someone, but never not him while in front of him.

And yet, she hadn’t done it. She’d made a show of choosing the safe sweet option. She chose kiss that didn’t mean anything. Or rather, didn’t mean everything.

She’d looked at him first. She had held his gaze and pinned him with it like a warning. 

And her half-step had saved his sanity.

Bob leaned back into his bean bag throne, smug and oblivious to Bucky's inner turmoil. He was beaming so brightly it was a miracle he hadn’t caught fire.

“Told you I was Mom’s favorite.”

The room exploded with raucous relieved laughter. Kay let out a quiet chuckle too, soft and automatic.

But her eyes still didn’t meet Bucky’s, though she felt him watching her.

“Parents don’t have favorites,” Kay smiled, soft and automatic. She played it off with practiced ease. Her voice breezy and warm. “We love all our children equally.”

Yelena grinned. “Sure, Mom.”

“Your turn, Barnes,” John said, grinning obliviously as he turned to Bucky. “Truth or dare?”

Bucky didn’t blink. “Truth.”

Kay smiled, slow and wicked. “I’ve got one.”

He turned back toward her, jaw loosening just enough to show interest.

She leaned forward, eyes glinting with amusement. “Do you put deodorant under one arm or both?”

There was a beat. He could have passed and shut it all down. But instead, he replied, completely straight-faced: “One.”

Without missing a beat, she raised an eyebrow.“Motor oil under the other?”

He tilted his head slightly. “WD-40, actually.”

The room lost it.

Yelena dropped her drink.

Bob fell off his bean bag chair. 

John wheezed like he’d aged ten years.

Ava doubled over with a full-body laugh.

Even Alexei boomed with laughter and clapped twice. 

Bucky’s smirk barely twitched upward, just enough to register, but his eyes never left Kay.

She was laughing freely now, head tilted back, hair spilling loosely over her shoulders, eyes crinkled, nose scrunched. It was the kind of laugh that started deep in her chest and bloomed upward, like spring breaking through frost.

He watched her with something caught between reverence and devastation. Because in that moment, it hit him that it wasn’t just her kiss he wanted. It was this version of her, glowing and free. The way her joy unfolded without apology. And he wanted to be the reason she looked like that. He wanted to be the one to make her laugh like that again, not once, in passing, but always. Every morning, every night, and every breath in between.

And that was the part that scared him. Not the ache of wanting her, but the deep and quiet knowing that this wasn’t just attraction anymore. It wasn’t quite love, not yet, but it was headed there fast and with no brakes. 

He could survive gunfire. He could survive ghosts of his past. But wanting her like this?

That was the one battle he wasn’t sure he could walk away from unscathed.

 

Chapter 11

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods

[sjsmith56]

@winterslove1917

send this to other bloggers that you think are wonderful. keep the game going, make someone smile!! 🩷🩷

[sjsmith56]

send this to other bloggers that you think are wonderful. keep the game going, make someone smile!! 🩷🩷

Aww, thanks!

[sjsmith56]

Perfect

Summary: After being rescued by Bucky Barnes a woman wonders if her fantasy can ever become reality.

Length: 2.9 K

Characters: Named but undescribed OFC, Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Dangerous situation with fear of death, self-deprecation, lack of confidence, no smut.

Author notes: Set after Avengers: Doomsday when I assume ALL the Avengers will be one big happy family. Information about the phenomena of crowd panic from Science.org website article No Panic Please, September 28, 2000. https://www.science.org/content/article/no-panic-please. Information on statistics of the first name Violet was based on data from https://www.mynamestats.com/First-Names/V/VI/VIOLET/index.html

🔹 🔹 🔹

They meet

It wasn't a meet cute. In fact, it was one of the most frightening days of her life. A day at the crowded zoo with Violet's sister and her children was supposed to be fun, full of laughter and joy. While her sister pushed the baby in the stroller, Violet held hands with her four-year-old nephew Casey, swinging them back and forth as they recited nursery rhymes. They were walking towards the children's zoo when they heard a commotion ahead of them. Then they noticed people running in their direction; parents holding their children close to their chests, couples running with their hands clenched together, others doing their best to hurry their families away from whatever was happening.

Picking Casey up, Violet looked past the people that were streaming towards them to determine the reason for the problem. As several masked people with guns came into view, firing them into the air and roaring for everyone to move, it felt like the end of the world to her. There was only chaos and when she turned back, her sister was gone, swept away by the rush of people, leaving her with Casey. Jostled by the swarm of everyone trying to escape the shooters, Violet held him tight, running with the flow of humanity with only one thought in her mind ... to get away.

The scary thing about being in the middle of a panicked crowd is that there is no organization to it. If you are caught up in it, you don't know where to go or what to do, really. It's not like there are guides on how to handle being in a group of people that are running amok. Scientists who study the phenomenon certainly can't get to an event while it happens because it's over so fast. Even if they studied later footage of such occurrences taken from security cameras, there were still blind spots that removed valuable data leaving the experts to make assumptions that may or may not be correct. For a time, they did use computer simulations, where the crowds were programmed to behave like fluids but the big disadvantage to that was that fluids didn't feel pain, didn't stumble, causing a chain reaction of more people stumbling and creating a choke point that would have dire consequences. More importantly, fluids didn't make decisions on which way to go, because a panicked crowd doesn't always choose the path of least resistance. They choose the closest or the most prominent path or exit and in the case of people with guns herding them by firing them in the air, they would go in any direction away from that danger, even if that led them to a solid wall.

That was certainly true of the mass of people that Violet followed as they ran haphazardly away from the guns. Being so far back in the crowd, she couldn't even see where the exits were and had to trust that the people at the front could. Then the crowd suddenly slowed down, stopped, and backed up when they reached a single gate that let only a trickle of people out. As she turned to face the shooters, realizing that she couldn't get out before they reached her, she held Casey close to her chest, covering his eyes so that he couldn't see the people who were coming to kill them. In what she thought were her last moments she told the little boy that she loved him, that Mama loved him, as well as Dada, Nana, and Papa, and that she was with him. Then she began to cry.

Suddenly a man in black with a metal arm fell from the sky right in front of her, told her to get down, and faced the people with the guns, literally using his metal arm to deflect bullets away from her and Casey. While the guns kept firing, he stalked towards the shooters and beat the everliving shit out of those that got too close to him. Still sheltering Casey, she laughed and yelled as she witnessed the man in black and several others who had also dropped onto the scene battle the shooters back, to where an armed task force waited with guns drawn, forcing them onto their knees and surrender, ending what the media called the Zoo incident.

When the man in black turned around, and made eye contact with her, she knew that she had just met the love of her life. Standing up, she watched and waited as he walked towards her and Casey, his blue eyes focused just on her. She had never seen a man as magnificent as him, with a body that could have been on the cover of a romance novel and thick dark hair that was swept back just so. He was perfect.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, when he was just a few feet away from her. "Is your son alright?"

"He's not my son," she murmured. "We're good. Who are you?"

"Avengers," he said, looking to where several of his fellow Avengers were also inquiring about whether people were hurt before returning his gaze to her. "You're sure?"

"Um, I might have twisted my ankle."

She limped, bringing a smile to his face that almost made her swoon right there. Coming closer to her, she looked up at him, totally lost in the moment at the sight of the bearded man in front of her.

"May I?" She nodded then yelped a little when he easily picked her and Casey up in his arms. "Let's get you checked out."

Effortlessly, he carried her to where emergency personnel had already set up a treatment area. Directed to place her on a gurney, he gently laid her on it, ruffled Casey's hair, then turned to leave.

"Wait!" she cried. "What's your name?"

"Bucky," he answered, his body poised to return to evacuate more of the wounded. "What's yours?"

"Violet."

That smile appeared again. "Pretty name. I'll be seeing you, Violet."

Then he turned and headed back out to where others were waiting to be helped. She watched him carry more people into the treatment area, mostly kids or senior citizens, and each time Bucky returned he looked more and more heroic. Then her sister found her, and they had a tearful reunion that made it onto the evening news. When she looked again, straining to see her rescuer, the Avengers were gone. After being released with a taped-up ankle, Violet returned to her family and another tearful reunion. Over the following week she accepted that meeting the love of her life wasn't meant to lead to anything more and decided to move on. Still, whenever the Avengers showed up on the news for the next month, she looked to see if Bucky Barnes was featured.

They meet again – one month later

Checking her phone for the umpteenth time as she waited near a Midtown restaurant, Violet wondered what was keeping her girlfriend, Nina. It had been a few months since they last saw each other, and she had taken today off to have lunch with the woman who had been her best friend since junior high school. Her phone vibrated with the message that Nina couldn't make it. A four-year-old who had been the reason she was late due to having a tantrum had just thrown up all over her. With a sigh, Violet texted her back that it was alright and she looked around, wondering what she was going to do now that she had an empty afternoon ahead of her.

Somehow, she found herself a block away from the Watchtower, home of all the Avengers. She could grab a hot dog and sit across the street on the off chance that Bucky Barnes would come strolling out the door. Perhaps, he would recognize her and look at her, remembering the day he saved her and Casey at the zoo. Then he would smile and touch her cheek, ask her out and .... She sighed. Who was she kidding? That day was a brief moment in her boring life where she allowed herself to believe in a fantasy, nothing more. With a last look up at the tower, she turned around and walked right into a brick wall, built in the shape of a man. Falling backwards she landed on her backside, then looked up into the blue eyes of the object of her fantasy, Bucky Barnes himself.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, grinning a little. "It's Violet, isn't it? You were at the zoo."

She gulped. "You remember me?"

"Sure, I remember you. It's not everyday you meet a pretty lady with the name Violet." He offered her his hand, easily pulling her up, then gazed at her with those mesmerizing blue eyes. "Why are you here?"

"I was supposed to meet a friend for lunch, but she cancelled," replied Violet. "I started walking and ended up...." Her voice trailed off as her face heated up in embarrassment, and she looked away. "Sorry. I'll just go."

His face softened as he tilted his head a little. "Have lunch with me."

"Oh, no. You don't want that." She shook her head and stepped away, fidgeting with her purse. "I'm not ...."

Her voice trailed off again, and she stepped back once more, desperate to remove herself from his scrutiny. It was stupid to think that someone like him would ever see anything in someone like her.

"Are you afraid of me?"

She stopped in her tracks. "No! No, I'm just ... flustered." Her hands fluttered in front of her. "You're so ... perfect and I'm ... not."

Pressing her lips together, Violet turned around and walked away, lowering her head, speeding up in order to put as much distance as she could between herself and Bucky. All she could think of was how stupid she must be to ever believe that a fantasy could become reality. Life didn't work that way, at least it didn't for her. Aware of someone walking quickly behind her, then beside her, she glanced in that direction, startled to see it was Bucky. Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, she ignored the people who swore at her for blocking them. His hand touched her elbow, gently guiding her to the side. If it had been any other man, she would have pulled away, but she just let him move her.

"Hey," he said, in a soft voice, as he leaned against the building. "Look at me."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Sweetheart, you're not making sense," he chuckled. "Just look at me and explain why you think I'm perfect, because I assure you, I'm far from it." She remained mute, not trusting herself to say anything that didn't sound demented. "I've thought about you."

"What?" She looked at him.

"I've thought about you, of how you looked from above, just before I dropped down in front of you. You had no place to go but you protected that little boy you were holding, making sure that he didn't see the guys with the guns. I could hear what you were telling him." He tapped his ear. "Super hearing. You wanted him to know that he was loved. You were very brave."

"I was terrified."

"You can be both." He smoothed some loose hair over her ear. "Then you started to cry, and I wasn't going to wait for the quinjet to land. I jumped right then and there. Saving you and that little boy was the most important thing for me at that moment. Is he okay?"

"Casey? He's fine." She swallowed then it was like she couldn't stop talking. "He doesn't remember anything. He's my nephew. We got separated from my sister and her baby girl. It happened so fast, and I got swept up in that crowd and I couldn't see where to go. Then we stopped and I realized we weren't going to make it. So, I just decided that if that was where we died then I would make sure he wasn't alone. That he had me right to the end."

She wiped her face, startled to realize that she was crying when her hands came away wet. Suddenly she was wrapped in Bucky's muscular arms, as he murmured soft words to her, words that she really didn't hear but felt because they rumbled from where her head pressed against his chest, making her feel safe and warm. Placing her arms around his waist, she accepted the comfort that he freely gave to her. It felt so right in ways that she couldn't even articulate. Every part of her absorbed everything he gave her as they stood at the side of the busy sidewalk in Manhattan, being held by this man who had jumped from the sky to save her.

Time seemed to slow for them until Violet loosened her hold on him, and Bucky followed her lead. He already had a folded handkerchief in his hand and used it to dab away the remaining tears from her cheeks, his face close enough to hers that she could see freckles on his skin. A hiccup escaped from her throat, making that incredible smile creep across his face.

"Better?" She nodded. "Your makeup needs some fixing. Come to the Tower to get cleaned up. I can order some lunch in."

"You're sure I won't be intruding?"

"I'm sure."

Lifting his hand towards her, he took a few steps then looked back, waiting for her to take it or not. With a quick breath, she took his hand and walked into the Watchtower with him. As a visitor, she had to provide ID to prove she wasn't a reporter or a deranged fan, but Bucky stayed beside her through the process, that included having her picture taken. When the security desk issued her a temporary ID card for access, she grimaced at how her face looked.

"I should have cleaned up before they took my picture."

"Don't worry about it," said Bucky, as they approached the elevator. "You can get a new picture when you get your permanent card."

Violet stopped. "A permanent card?"

The elevator doors opened. Taking her hand, he stepped inside, then waited for the doors to close.

"I meant to come back to you at the zoo, but we were called to another incident and had to scramble. When I got back you were gone. Do you know how hard it is to find a single person in the city of New York, even when she has such a unique first name? At the last census there were almost 57,000 people named Violet in the United States, almost 3700 in New York State. I didn't know if you lived here or if you were a visitor. You weren't on any of the security videos, so I had no way to even do a facial recognition search. I gave up hope that I would ever find you."

"You were looking for me?"

He leaned across her and pressed the STOP button on the elevator. There was music playing at a volume that was just loud enough to hear, something familiar but Violet couldn't remember what it was. Bucky licked his lips then leaned sideways against the wall, casually crossing his arms over his chest. He was close enough that she was aware of the heat that radiated from him, but far enough away that she didn't feel crowded.

"Yeah, I was looking for you. Why wouldn't I? You're beautiful, brave, and from the moment I saw you I thought you were perfect."

In one of Violet's favourite movies, Sense and Sensibility, there's a moment when the heroine, Eleanor Dashwood, finds out that the man she loves with all of her heart isn't married and is free to marry her. At that rare moment of Eleanor losing her composure, she gasped out a sudden cry. It always affected Violet whenever she watched that scene but the rational part of her knew that it was something written into the script to emphasize the scene, since it wasn't really something written in the book, except to say she ran out of the room and gave into a crying fit once the door was closed, away from the view of Edward Ferrars, the man she loved.

The cry that came out of Violet's throat when Bucky called her perfect would always come back to her whenever the couple shared how they met. Its sudden eruption, and the fact that the man who caused it immediately engulfed her in his arms again, became the moment they both knew that they were perfect for each other. In a repeat of what happened on the street, Bucky held her, with the addition of placing a comforting kiss on top of her head. That led to their first actual kiss, gently bestowed on each other in the stationary glass elevator car that looked out over New York City. By the time they got to the residential floor so Violet could use Bucky's bathroom to "fix her face," the common area was full of the other Avengers who witnessed the kiss via the security camera. They all thought it was a unique way to begin a relationship. To her amusement several called dibs on being part of the wedding party. That was when she remembered the name of the song playing in the elevator.  It was Perfect by Ed Sheeran, and suddenly her fantasy became her reality.

One Shots Masterlist

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Stopping Winter, Chapter 4 - Action

Summary: Arrested on suspicion of being a spy, Steven Grant is given the opportunity to tell the truth to Phillips and Carter after he learns the 107th has been captured a week earlier than in his timeline.

Length: 5.2 K

Characters: Steven Grant, Corporal Rose, General Phillips, Peggy Carter, Steve Rogers (new timeline), Bucky Barnes.

Warnings and other notes: The scenes in the factory of Barnes, Dugan, and Jones after being captured are based on a digital comic book titled Captain America: First Vengeance by Fred Van Lente. There is violence causing injury and death.

<<Chapter 3

The first survivors of the battle at Azzano began drifting back through the lines a day after they narrowly escaped becoming prisoners of HYDRA. They told the commanders in that forward division that first noticed the approach of the survivors, of being separated from the other companies in the 107th, unable to contact them by radio. There were also reports of blue flashes of light coming from the distance, accompanied by the loudest tank sounds any of them had ever heard. As they were being transported back to the main command base to be debriefed, Special Agent Steven Grant and his right-hand man Corporal Rose were stuck in the stockade.

Word of them trying to recruit certain soldiers with special skills had reached the ears of General Phillips. Already peeved at the audacity of Grant in questioning how Phillips commanded the forces under him, the general had sent a letter to General Eisenhower asking why the Army CIC agent was being inflicted on him. The response he quickly received, disavowing any knowledge of Grant's special mission, other than verifying his agent status, resulted in Phillips issuing arrest orders. Since then, Grant and Rose had been cooling their heels in the stockade, which was actually a tent with a barred enclosure inside, and a continuous guard at the entrance, for three days. Every attempt by Grant to request an audience with Phillips was ignored and he almost contemplated escaping custody using his own enhanced skills to expedite that. Then he received a visit, hearing her voice before seeing Agent Peggy Carter enter the tent.

"Carter," he said by way of a brief greeting. "Did the general send you?"

"No, I'm here on my own," she said, eyeing him suspiciously. "I have some questions for you."

He huffed a little and rolled his eyes; Rose watched the two with interest. "What do you want to know?"

"Why were you really interested in the 107th?" she asked.

There must have been something in the way she asked as he stood up and came over to her, standing inside the makeshift bars that had been set up in the tent.

"What's happened to them?"

"They were surrounded by German mortar divisions and infantry," she stated. "Then there were reports of weapons that fired blue flashes and a glimpse of the biggest tank any of the survivors recalled ever seeing."

"Prisoners?" he demanded angrily. "Were they taken prisoner?"

"Over a hundred, possibly more," she said. "Less than 50 have returned and they report being overwhelmed with German mortar divisions before their lieutenant ordered their retreat as they were cut off from the other two companies."

"Which companies were taken prisoner?" he asked, his face set in stone. She didn't answer and he snapped. "Which companies?"

"A and C Companies," she answered. "What's left of them at least. Those that got back were in B Company."

He looked back at Rose. "A week early," he muttered. He looked back at her. "The USO tour, with Steve Rogers. Where is it, right now?"

"Finishing off in Salerno, then on to Rome before it's on its way here," she said. "Should be here in five days, first show the morning after they arrive."

He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, then noticed how closely she was watching him. Putting his glasses back on he focused on her.

"Can you get us out of here?" he asked.

"Not without getting in trouble myself," she said. "I don't trust you enough to do that."

"Fair enough," he replied. "Can you get Steve Rogers involved in rescuing the 107th? I can tell you exactly where they are. You'll have to use Howard Stark."

Grant was expecting her to be surprised by all of that, but she actually smirked. "Why doesn't any of that surprise me? You knew this was going to happen, didn't you? That's why you've been asking about the 107th movements. You're not a Nazi spy who gave them up. You were trying to stop them from becoming prisoners."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he replied cynically. "Is that what Phillips thinks we are, Nazi spies?"

She nodded. "He contacted General Eisenhower to ask about your orders advising him on HYDRA intelligence. Eisenhower knew nothing. Yet, you are a legitimate agent of Army CIC with a surprisingly unknown past. Who are you, really?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," replied Grant. "But if you can get Rogers to agree to attack that HYDRA position then I'll tell you what I can." He looked back at Rose who seemed surprised. "I actually think she already suspects who I am. I would just be confirming her suspicions."

The dark-haired woman stared at him. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do." When he finished outlining his plan to her, she shook her head as if to reject his suggestion. "I'll likely be court-martialled for this. You realize that."

"No, you won't," replied Grant. "The worst he can do is send you back to England, although British Intelligence can likely arrest you." He grinned. "You have to believe that this is how it has to happen. If Rogers is successful, all will be forgiven."

"What about you?" she asked. "You're just going to sit here?"

"It's not my first choice but I will," he answered. "Just get him here as soon as you can. It's important that Steve Rogers does the rescue. It sets in motion a lot of the successes against HYDRA, but it has to be him that does it."

She sighed but agreed to do her best. After she left Corporal Rose came to Grant's side.

"What happens to us?"

"I honestly don't know," replied Grant, gesturing to the bars. "This is all new to me. I've been told it works out, but I have to keep my eye on the ultimate goal, rescuing Bucky and defeating HYDRA. Everything else is secondary."

Two days later Grant woke up to a surprise visitor. Sitting on a stool in front of the bars of their makeshift jail was General Phillips. Nudging Corporal Rose to wake up, Special Agent Steven Grant stood up and faced the worn out looking senior officer.

"Sir," he said, in a neutral tone.

"How did you know about the 107th being surrounded and the majority of their soldiers being taken?" asked the older man. "You warned me of it happening and it happened exactly how you said."

"Yes, sir, so I've heard," replied Grant. "I would like to tell you, but you won't really believe me."

"Try me," said the general.

Looking back momentarily at Rose, Grant placed his hands on two of the vertical metal bars and began to pull them apart. Reaching for the horizontal cross piece that connected the two bars together he snapped it then continued pushing the vertical bars far enough apart so that he could step out. Almost at attention he stood in front of the general, waiting for his reaction.

"You're showing me that you could have escaped anytime you wanted to, but you didn't," noted the general.

"Yes sir," replied Grant. "I'm not the enemy so there was no reason for me to escape. I'm here to make sure you use the right people to take the fight to HYDRA. Steve Rogers was the right person and you left him in the States to do a dog and pony show. Several other people who are the right ones for the job are prisoners of Red Skull right now, in Austria. They were in the 107th Infantry Regiment that you sent north. Some others that are right for the job from other units were already prisoners there."

"You know this how?"

Grant sighed then took a leap of faith. "Because when I was Steve Rogers in my original 1943 that's what you did to me," he said firmly. "You were a colonel in my timeline, but you left me behind in the States doing a Victory Bond song and dance tour, as if I was nothing but a dancing monkey. When I got here on that tour and found out the 107th was taken prisoner I disobeyed a direct order from you and talked Agent Carter into helping me. She convinced Howard Stark to fly me behind enemy lines and I rescued the survivors of the 107th plus many other soldiers being held there, marching them back through enemy territory to here where you finally realized that you had made a mistake. We formed a special unit to go up against HYDRA and were more successful than any other regiment or division in the allied war effort."

"Why is it so important that Rogers perform this miraculous rescue?"

This time Grant smiled. "It's part of the mythology that will be created by his actions; mythology that will demoralize the Nazis and HYDRA. You yourself know that Hitler has spent a lot of time and effort finding mythological artifacts to bolster his claim of Nazi superiority. Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull, has done the same. He believes he is the superior being and he plans to make more superior beings like him. He doesn't care who he transforms and one of my friends becomes his victim, or more precisely, Dr. Arnim Zola's victim as he's in charge of what they will call the Winter Soldier program. I came back to prevent that and got into Army CIC to make sure Zola doesn't make it back alive to the United States. He is a cancer who will infiltrate American security intelligence agencies and corrupt them from the inside. I won't allow that to happen."

"Yet he is the only one doing super soldier research," said Phillips, "by your own admission. Project Rebirth died with Abraham Erskine's death."

"No, Zola is HYDRA's only hope," smiled Grant. "We still have our own program, operating in secret."

The general peered at him, working through what the man in front of him wasn't saying out loud.

"You're insinuating that Dr. Abraham Erskine is alive? I saw him die with my own eyes."

"Faked," said Grant, "with Howard Stark's help. He has Steve Rogers' blood and is working to replicate the serum in a secret lab. We're going to need it to treat my friend, making him our second super soldier. Dr. Erskine was right about picking the right man for the serum. Even though my friend is injected with HYDRA's serum they have to go to great lengths to make him their tool. When he is finally able to escape from them, he turns against them completely to fight on the right side. You can't give the serum to bullies as it just makes them worse. Good men become great with the serum and my friend is a good man."

General Phillips harrumphed as he stood up, fixing his critical stare on Grant. "You're either telling the truth or you're crazier than Hitler. I'm not sure which it is but you'll be happy to know Steve Rogers is on his way here. Agent Carter pulled some strings to get that dog and pony show here early which is when I began to suspect you had something to do with it. When he does arrive, I want you to stand next to him. Maybe shave that beard and remove the glasses. If I'm convinced that you're a different version of him, I may believe you. Of course, if I don't, I'll have you and the Corporal shot."

Motioning at both men to leave the stockade with him he told them they could return to their tent, but they were not to recruit anyone to their unit until Grant's claims had been proven. Once that was done, he was willing to listen to the man's plan for a second unit to go against HYDRA, in addition to the one that Steve Rogers would apparently lead.

Returning to their tent both Grant and Rose were pleasantly surprised to see that nothing had been taken from their possessions. When they were imprisoned, both were certain that the MPs would go through their tent with great precision, looking for evidence of their treachery. Realizing that the arrival of Steve Rogers would necessitate a leap of faith on his part Steven Grant did as General Phillips suggested, by shaving his beard. The following day, when Howard Stark arrived, having been summoned by the general to explain his part in saving Erskine, Grant presented himself to the billionaire, who shook his head, unsure if this was the right move.

"I knew at some point I would have to enlighten the General," Grant said to Howard. "It wasn't my original plan to show myself to Steve Rogers but if it helps, then I'll do it."

"He threatened me with arrest," said Stark. "Said if I had been in the military, I would have been court-martialled just for faking Dr. Erskine's death. At least he's not reporting either of us."

"Well, we did save Project Rebirth from being mothballed," reasoned Grant. "I think Agent Carter suspects who I am."

"Can I ask you something about her?" asked Howard. "Were you and her ...?"

Grant smiled. "We danced around it," he replied. "She was one of the reasons I came back but I've been rethinking that part of my decision."

"Why?"

"I don't think I feel the same about her anymore," said Grant. "The more I see her, the more I realize I've changed, moved on. I am 12 years older than I was when I went into the ice, so I'm 39 now. She's only 22. Steve is only 25. They're much better suited for each other just on age alone."

"I'm 26," said Stark. "I could still ask her out."

Steven smirked. "She was never interested in you," he stated. "Sorry to burst your bubble but she didn't want to be a notch on your bed post."

Stark made a bit of a face at that observation, but he didn't really argue the point and Steven realized he may have just changed that part of history as well. They talked for some time on Dr. Erskine's progress in recreating the serum. It was better that the general knew about that as well. He could get more funding and help for the doctor to work on that part of the project. Something told Steven that Bucky was going to need it more than even he had previously realized.

The next morning word rippled through the camp that the USO show had arrived. Steven had already told Peggy and the general to ask Steve Rogers not to perform as the men wouldn't accept him.

"They want the girls," he said. "Let them have the girls while we plan his attack on the factory."

"I still have to be convinced of that, but I'll request his presence here," said General Phillips. Then he looked pointedly at Grant. "I must say, that without the beard I do see the resemblance."

Steven shrugged. Until the two of them were standing side by side he didn't think Phillips would be willing to even entertain the operation. Minutes later Steve Rogers walked in, wearing his captain's uniform, drawing a critical look from the general. It was still amusing to Steven to see how Senator Brandt had pushed that commission through for the untried soldier. Peggy smiled at Rogers, confirming to Grant that he was the object of her affection. He smiled back then saluted the general and stood waiting, still unaware of Grant's presence.

"Rogers," drawled the general. "Do you have any brothers?"

"No sir, I'm an only child," replied the young captain.

"Cousins?"

"No sir."

Phillips looked at Grant and the latter stepped forward to stand next to Rogers, who glanced briefly at him then did a double take before facing forward again. Both the general and Peggy looked back and forth between the two.

"I'll be damned," said Phillips. "Grant, how old are you?"

"39, sir," replied the older man. "Captain Rogers is 25, both of us born July 4, 1918. He has a birthmark behind his right knee, in the same place mine is. The serum fixed any childhood scars that we may have shared. Our mother's name was Sarah, our father's name was Joseph who died of mustard gas poisoning in 1918 two months before our birth. We met our best friend Bucky Barnes after he intervened in a beating we received from some bullies trying to steal our milk money. We're both artists and lost our virginity on the USO tour."

"Now just a minute," said Steve. "Have you been spying on me? Who is this guy and why does he look like me?"

"Is everything he said true?" asked General Phillips.

Rogers blushed angrily then nodded his head. "Yes sir, all of it," he replied, glancing at Peggy.

"Well, Special Agent Grant, I guess you get to introduce yourself," said the general. "Then we'll sit down together, and you'll tell us how Captain Rogers here rescues the 107th from HYDRA's clutches."

"Wait, what about the 107th?" asked the younger man.

"At ease, Captain," said Grant. "First things first. Look at me, really look at me."

The two men faced each other, both of them the exact same height, weight and build. Grant was older, his face a little more lined and his hair darker in colour. As Rogers continued to study him, he began looking at General Phillips then Peggy Carter before looking back at Grant. It took several minutes before he opened his mouth to speak.

"Are you me?" he asked. "How?"

"I know Bucky was the one who loved reading science fiction but it's pretty simple," said Grant. "We'll have time to talk more but I was born the same day you were, to the same parents, in the same hospital. I was a sickly child who never thrived but had a mouth on me that always got me into trouble. Bucky bailed me out many times. After he shipped out, I signed up for Project Rebirth and was chosen to receive the serum that Dr. Abraham Erskine created that made my body look just like yours. He's alive, by the way, unlike in my original time. I arrived a few days before the procedure and convinced him to wear a bullet proof garment. Howard provided some blood packets to make it look good. He's in a secret location working on recreating the serum."

"You're from another timeline?" asked Steve, hesitantly. "You're older ... you said you're 39 so that means you came back from 1957?"

Grant shook his head. "2023. I ended up in the 21st century but I'll explain how later. I came back to make sure that what happened to Bucky in my timeline didn't happen in this one." He looked at Peggy. "I came back for you as well, but you're not mine. You and Steve belong together, always did." His gaze returned to Rogers. "Once I was here, I realized there were more people I could save from HYDRA and with the general's help I hope to have a second secret unit to do that while you lead the first unit. But first you have to rescue Bucky and the 107th, alone. Trust me, it's better than this dog and pony show that Senator Brandt set you up in. You're capable of being a leader, Steve, and you'll put fear into HYDRA."

Rogers said nothing for several long moments but continued to stare at Grant until he turned to the General.

"What do I have to do to help Bucky?"

Both versions of Steve looked at the General now and a hint of a grin appeared on his face at the possibilities that had just been offered to him.

"Grant, tell us everything."

HYDRA weapons facility, Kreischberg, Austria

It had been some time since the soldiers of the 107th were herded into the cramped circular cells in the weapons facility. In that interval, they had been starved, beaten, and forced to work 12-14 hours a day helping to build weapons for HYDRA, under the sadistic eye of Colonel Lohmer. Any little thing could set him off and he always seemed to take it out on the same soldiers. For the 107th, that seemed to be focused on their sergeants, Bucky Barnes and Aaron Ginsburg, from C Company. Ginsburg died first, having been beaten to death by Lohmer within a few days of their arrival. Then Lohmer went elsewhere for several days but since his return had focused his anger on Barnes, beating him for all sorts of imagined infractions. It was all the more brutal because Barnes was also sick, likely suffering from pneumonia due to the poor conditions in the facility.

The breaking point for the men was when he beat Barnes for causing a cart full of munitions to fall, after he passed out. Lohmer viciously beat and kicked Barnes even though the unconscious man offered no resistance. Lieutenant Kleiber was ordered to clean up the mess when Lohmer had his fill of sadism, ordering Dum Dum Dugan and Gabe Jones to take Barnes back to the cell. The two men conferred with their cell mates, Falsworth and Dernier, coming up with a plan to kill Lohmer. As word was passed through the other cells it was decided to put a substance on the chains that were attached to the cranes that lifted bins of scrap metal to the foundry to be melted and turned into munitions. Focusing their attention on just one link of a specific chain on that one day, every man that was working near that chain smeared a "lubricant" on it, as part of their usual work, but substituted a corrosive substance instead. It soaked into the metal overnight, eating away at the integrity of the metal.

The following morning, Barnes woke up, his breathing laboured due to the broken ribs he almost certainly had, in addition to the illness he was suffering from. With the assistance of Dugan and Jones he stood up, ready to do the labour he was ordered to do. He filled up a bin with scrap metal then one of the prisoners who had the job of handling the crane pressed the controls that brought the chains over to the bin. Several other prisoners attached the chains to the bin then the order was given to raise it and transport it to the foundry. As the bin passed overhead it matched the path of Lohmer as he walked. A loud metallic snap was heard, and the bin toppled, its contents landing on Lohmer, killing him instantly. Every prisoner cheered for several seconds until Kleiber got his wits together and ordered that everyone be returned to their cells.

As Dugan and Jones helped Barnes back to their cell the big man whispered to his sergeant.

"Alright Bucky, we got you. Lohmer won't hurt you again."

"Thanks," was all that Bucky managed to get out before he collapsed onto the floor of the cell.

It was obvious by the next day that Bucky was in no shape to work. Kleiber allowed him to stay in his cell as Dum Dum and Gabe took turns bringing his food and helping him to the latrine when he needed it. As best as they could manage over the next few days, they took care of their sergeant, but his coughing grew worse, and he began bringing up a bloody discharge.

"Pneumonia or maybe even tuberculosis," speculated Farnsworth. "Your man's had it."

"Fuck off," said Dum Dum. "Sarge is the strongest one of us. He'll beat this." He looked desperately at Gabe. "He has to."

On the fourth day Kleiber brought a doctor to see Bucky. A slight man with thinning hair, glasses, and a reedy voice Dr. Zola was not what Dum Dum would consider to be a doctor that inspired confidence. His manner, although polite, was still disturbing in that he didn't really look at Bucky as a patient. Rather he mumbled about his overall physical appearance, taking note that he had heard Sergeant Barnes had been a boxer.

"I think he'll do nicely," he finally said, rising from where he had been bent over Bucky's prone form. "Lieutenant, bring the sergeant to my lab. We'll start him on the treatment."

Three guards came over to the cell. One of them armed with a gun, motioned the other prisoners to move aside while the other two picked him up under his arms and dragged him out. As they closed the barred door Dum Dum yelled at them in both fear and frustration at his own inability to keep Barnes safe.

"Don't kill him, you dirty bastards!"

Zola stopped just before the door and turned back towards the soldiers still in the circular cell.

"I have no intention of killing your sergeant. Whether he survives the treatment is up to him. If it works, it will be a new day in science and your sergeant will never be sick again."

The little man gave everyone a smile that chilled them all with its lack of warmth and left them to wonder if they would ever see Sergeant Bucky Barnes again. For several days the remaining prisoners continued working under the watchful eyes of their armed guards, never receiving any acknowledgement of whether Bucky was alive or dead.

Then, late one night as they were all trying to sleep on the cold hard floor of their cells, they heard the sound of a body falling and looked up, seeing their guard unconscious. A quick check of the other cells showed the same phenomena of unconscious guards. A man, wearing a costume under a leather jacket while wearing what looked like a toy helmet and carrying a toy shield was bent over the guard, searching for his keys.

"Who are you?" asked Gabe.

He shrugged and answered in a Brooklyn accent. "Captain America."

Jumping off the cell to the floor he unlocked the door of the one cell then gave the keys to one of the men, who unlocked the other cells.

"I'm looking for Bucky Barnes," said the rescuer. "Is he here?"

"Sarge, yeah, but they took him for medical treatment," said Dum Dum. "He was sicker than hell and could barely stand. You look like Sarge's friend, Steve. I remember seeing you at Grand Central, but you were shorter."

"I grew," grinned Rogers. "Do you know where they took him?"

"No, but there is an isolation unit," said Falsworth. "It's where Zola does his experiments. You should start there."

"Alright, I'm going to get him," said Rogers. "You guys get out of here, raise some hell on your way out, and wait at the tree line for us."

"Hey, do you know what you're doing?" asked Gabe, as Rogers started towards the door. "You're not exactly wearing a uniform."

Rogers grinned. "It's okay, I've fought Hitler over 200 times and won."

He headed out, looking for the signage that Steven Grant told him about, finding the hallway. At the end of the hallway, he saw a little man in a hat, carrying his coat and a briefcase. Grant had told him to let the man go as they would have another opportunity to capture him again. Rushing into the door that the man came out of he found himself in a lab and heard the sound of someone muttering. It was Bucky and Steve hurried to where his friend was restrained, pulling the straps apart. It took a moment for Bucky to come around and recognize him but as soon as he did, he noticed Steve had changed.

"You were smaller. What happened?" he asked, still gathering his wits.

"I got into the army," replied Steve, placing his arm around Bucky's waist. "Come on, we've only got a few minutes before this place goes up."

"What about the others?" asked Bucky, pulling away to get to where the men were.

"Already released them."

They made their way to the cavernous factory just as the explosive charges went off. As they approached a movable walkway that spanned across the floor, they began walking across it, with Rogers expecting Red Skull to appear on the other side as he had been warned. However, the man never did, and both he and Bucky made it out to the roof, making their way down to the ground then out towards where Steve told the others to wait. He would have to make sure to tell Grant that Red Skull and the little man, Dr. Zola, left right away rather than confront him and Bucky. It was strange getting intel on what was supposed to happen, but it also confirmed that Grant was an older him who had already lived through a version of this rescue. He glanced at Bucky. That was going to be interesting when he met Grant.

When Steve and Bucky got to the tree line, he was happy to see a significant number of PoWs waiting for their arrival, most of them armed with the strange weapons. They had some tanks with them, which the weapons guys were going to love as well as the components he grabbed with the blue glowing portions on them. It was a power source unlike any of them had seen although Grant said it was important.

They began the long walk back to the base although General Phillips said they would send trucks for them, once they were sure there were no enemy units along the way. Either way, Special Agent Steven Grant said it was important to set up the mythology of Captain America, of his strength, ingenuity and tactical ability. They weren't just going to fight HYDRA physically; it was going to be a propaganda war as well, exposing those thugs for what they were.

As he kept glancing at the beaten face of Bucky, with the dried blood that was evident on his ears Steve confirmed something that Grant had briefly mentioned. Bucky had already been given some serum. The others, specifically that Dum Dum Dugan fellow, said Bucky was barely able to stand, as he was so sick and injured. Yet, there he was, a gun in hand, walking just as strongly as all the others. He still wasn't completely well, but he wasn't dying anymore. Steve was sure that HYDRA had done something else to him, but Bucky never said a word of it to him on the journey back, his best friend never spoke of it. Grant told him that what they did had likely already affected Bucky emotionally. Steve didn't want to believe that of the strongest man he knew and idolized but it was right there in front of him, as plain as day. As happy as Steve was that he had done something good in rescuing all the PoWs, he feared that he couldn't help his best friend deal with what HYDRA forced onto him. That one thing made him feel like he had already failed Bucky, before they even got started and he didn't like it.

Chapter 5>>

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Perfect

Summary: After being rescued by Bucky Barnes a woman wonders if her fantasy can ever become reality.

Length: 2.9 K

Characters: Named but undescribed OFC, Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Dangerous situation with fear of death, self-deprecation, lack of confidence, no smut.

Author notes: Set after Avengers: Doomsday when I assume ALL the Avengers will be one big happy family. Information about the phenomena of crowd panic from Science.org website article No Panic Please, September 28, 2000. https://www.science.org/content/article/no-panic-please. Information on statistics of the first name Violet was based on data from https://www.mynamestats.com/First-Names/V/VI/VIOLET/index.html

🔹 🔹 🔹

They meet

It wasn't a meet cute. In fact, it was one of the most frightening days of her life. A day at the crowded zoo with Violet's sister and her children was supposed to be fun, full of laughter and joy. While her sister pushed the baby in the stroller, Violet held hands with her four-year-old nephew Casey, swinging them back and forth as they recited nursery rhymes. They were walking towards the children's zoo when they heard a commotion ahead of them. Then they noticed people running in their direction; parents holding their children close to their chests, couples running with their hands clenched together, others doing their best to hurry their families away from whatever was happening.

Picking Casey up, Violet looked past the people that were streaming towards them to determine the reason for the problem. As several masked people with guns came into view, firing them into the air and roaring for everyone to move, it felt like the end of the world to her. There was only chaos and when she turned back, her sister was gone, swept away by the rush of people, leaving her with Casey. Jostled by the swarm of everyone trying to escape the shooters, Violet held him tight, running with the flow of humanity with only one thought in her mind ... to get away.

The scary thing about being in the middle of a panicked crowd is that there is no organization to it. If you are caught up in it, you don't know where to go or what to do, really. It's not like there are guides on how to handle being in a group of people that are running amok. Scientists who study the phenomenon certainly can't get to an event while it happens because it's over so fast. Even if they studied later footage of such occurrences taken from security cameras, there were still blind spots that removed valuable data leaving the experts to make assumptions that may or may not be correct. For a time, they did use computer simulations, where the crowds were programmed to behave like fluids but the big disadvantage to that was that fluids didn't feel pain, didn't stumble, causing a chain reaction of more people stumbling and creating a choke point that would have dire consequences. More importantly, fluids didn't make decisions on which way to go, because a panicked crowd doesn't always choose the path of least resistance. They choose the closest or the most prominent path or exit and in the case of people with guns herding them by firing them in the air, they would go in any direction away from that danger, even if that led them to a solid wall.

That was certainly true of the mass of people that Violet followed as they ran haphazardly away from the guns. Being so far back in the crowd, she couldn't even see where the exits were and had to trust that the people at the front could. Then the crowd suddenly slowed down, stopped, and backed up when they reached a single gate that let only a trickle of people out. As she turned to face the shooters, realizing that she couldn't get out before they reached her, she held Casey close to her chest, covering his eyes so that he couldn't see the people who were coming to kill them. In what she thought were her last moments she told the little boy that she loved him, that Mama loved him, as well as Dada, Nana, and Papa, and that she was with him. Then she began to cry.

Suddenly a man in black with a metal arm fell from the sky right in front of her, told her to get down, and faced the people with the guns, literally using his metal arm to deflect bullets away from her and Casey. While the guns kept firing, he stalked towards the shooters and beat the everliving shit out of those that got too close to him. Still sheltering Casey, she laughed and yelled as she witnessed the man in black and several others who had also dropped onto the scene battle the shooters back, to where an armed task force waited with guns drawn, forcing them onto their knees and surrender, ending what the media called the Zoo incident.

When the man in black turned around, and made eye contact with her, she knew that she had just met the love of her life. Standing up, she watched and waited as he walked towards her and Casey, his blue eyes focused just on her. She had never seen a man as magnificent as him, with a body that could have been on the cover of a romance novel and thick dark hair that was swept back just so. He was perfect.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, when he was just a few feet away from her. "Is your son alright?"

"He's not my son," she murmured. "We're good. Who are you?"

"Avengers," he said, looking to where several of his fellow Avengers were also inquiring about whether people were hurt before returning his gaze to her. "You're sure?"

"Um, I might have twisted my ankle."

She limped, bringing a smile to his face that almost made her swoon right there. Coming closer to her, she looked up at him, totally lost in the moment at the sight of the bearded man in front of her.

"May I?" She nodded then yelped a little when he easily picked her and Casey up in his arms. "Let's get you checked out."

Effortlessly, he carried her to where emergency personnel had already set up a treatment area. Directed to place her on a gurney, he gently laid her on it, ruffled Casey's hair, then turned to leave.

"Wait!" she cried. "What's your name?"

"Bucky," he answered, his body poised to return to evacuate more of the wounded. "What's yours?"

"Violet."

That smile appeared again. "Pretty name. I'll be seeing you, Violet."

Then he turned and headed back out to where others were waiting to be helped. She watched him carry more people into the treatment area, mostly kids or senior citizens, and each time Bucky returned he looked more and more heroic. Then her sister found her, and they had a tearful reunion that made it onto the evening news. When she looked again, straining to see her rescuer, the Avengers were gone. After being released with a taped-up ankle, Violet returned to her family and another tearful reunion. Over the following week she accepted that meeting the love of her life wasn't meant to lead to anything more and decided to move on. Still, whenever the Avengers showed up on the news for the next month, she looked to see if Bucky Barnes was featured.

They meet again – one month later

Checking her phone for the umpteenth time as she waited near a Midtown restaurant, Violet wondered what was keeping her girlfriend, Nina. It had been a few months since they last saw each other, and she had taken today off to have lunch with the woman who had been her best friend since junior high school. Her phone vibrated with the message that Nina couldn't make it. A four-year-old who had been the reason she was late due to having a tantrum had just thrown up all over her. With a sigh, Violet texted her back that it was alright and she looked around, wondering what she was going to do now that she had an empty afternoon ahead of her.

Somehow, she found herself a block away from the Watchtower, home of all the Avengers. She could grab a hot dog and sit across the street on the off chance that Bucky Barnes would come strolling out the door. Perhaps, he would recognize her and look at her, remembering the day he saved her and Casey at the zoo. Then he would smile and touch her cheek, ask her out and .... She sighed. Who was she kidding? That day was a brief moment in her boring life where she allowed herself to believe in a fantasy, nothing more. With a last look up at the tower, she turned around and walked right into a brick wall, built in the shape of a man. Falling backwards she landed on her backside, then looked up into the blue eyes of the object of her fantasy, Bucky Barnes himself.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, grinning a little. "It's Violet, isn't it? You were at the zoo."

She gulped. "You remember me?"

"Sure, I remember you. It's not everyday you meet a pretty lady with the name Violet." He offered her his hand, easily pulling her up, then gazed at her with those mesmerizing blue eyes. "Why are you here?"

"I was supposed to meet a friend for lunch, but she cancelled," replied Violet. "I started walking and ended up...." Her voice trailed off as her face heated up in embarrassment, and she looked away. "Sorry. I'll just go."

His face softened as he tilted his head a little. "Have lunch with me."

"Oh, no. You don't want that." She shook her head and stepped away, fidgeting with her purse. "I'm not ...."

Her voice trailed off again, and she stepped back once more, desperate to remove herself from his scrutiny. It was stupid to think that someone like him would ever see anything in someone like her.

"Are you afraid of me?"

She stopped in her tracks. "No! No, I'm just ... flustered." Her hands fluttered in front of her. "You're so ... perfect and I'm ... not."

Pressing her lips together, Violet turned around and walked away, lowering her head, speeding up in order to put as much distance as she could between herself and Bucky. All she could think of was how stupid she must be to ever believe that a fantasy could become reality. Life didn't work that way, at least it didn't for her. Aware of someone walking quickly behind her, then beside her, she glanced in that direction, startled to see it was Bucky. Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, she ignored the people who swore at her for blocking them. His hand touched her elbow, gently guiding her to the side. If it had been any other man, she would have pulled away, but she just let him move her.

"Hey," he said, in a soft voice, as he leaned against the building. "Look at me."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Sweetheart, you're not making sense," he chuckled. "Just look at me and explain why you think I'm perfect, because I assure you, I'm far from it." She remained mute, not trusting herself to say anything that didn't sound demented. "I've thought about you."

"What?" She looked at him.

"I've thought about you, of how you looked from above, just before I dropped down in front of you. You had no place to go but you protected that little boy you were holding, making sure that he didn't see the guys with the guns. I could hear what you were telling him." He tapped his ear. "Super hearing. You wanted him to know that he was loved. You were very brave."

"I was terrified."

"You can be both." He smoothed some loose hair over her ear. "Then you started to cry, and I wasn't going to wait for the quinjet to land. I jumped right then and there. Saving you and that little boy was the most important thing for me at that moment. Is he okay?"

"Casey? He's fine." She swallowed then it was like she couldn't stop talking. "He doesn't remember anything. He's my nephew. We got separated from my sister and her baby girl. It happened so fast, and I got swept up in that crowd and I couldn't see where to go. Then we stopped and I realized we weren't going to make it. So, I just decided that if that was where we died then I would make sure he wasn't alone. That he had me right to the end."

She wiped her face, startled to realize that she was crying when her hands came away wet. Suddenly she was wrapped in Bucky's muscular arms, as he murmured soft words to her, words that she really didn't hear but felt because they rumbled from where her head pressed against his chest, making her feel safe and warm. Placing her arms around his waist, she accepted the comfort that he freely gave to her. It felt so right in ways that she couldn't even articulate. Every part of her absorbed everything he gave her as they stood at the side of the busy sidewalk in Manhattan, being held by this man who had jumped from the sky to save her.

Time seemed to slow for them until Violet loosened her hold on him, and Bucky followed her lead. He already had a folded handkerchief in his hand and used it to dab away the remaining tears from her cheeks, his face close enough to hers that she could see freckles on his skin. A hiccup escaped from her throat, making that incredible smile creep across his face.

"Better?" She nodded. "Your makeup needs some fixing. Come to the Tower to get cleaned up. I can order some lunch in."

"You're sure I won't be intruding?"

"I'm sure."

Lifting his hand towards her, he took a few steps then looked back, waiting for her to take it or not. With a quick breath, she took his hand and walked into the Watchtower with him. As a visitor, she had to provide ID to prove she wasn't a reporter or a deranged fan, but Bucky stayed beside her through the process, that included having her picture taken. When the security desk issued her a temporary ID card for access, she grimaced at how her face looked.

"I should have cleaned up before they took my picture."

"Don't worry about it," said Bucky, as they approached the elevator. "You can get a new picture when you get your permanent card."

Violet stopped. "A permanent card?"

The elevator doors opened. Taking her hand, he stepped inside, then waited for the doors to close.

"I meant to come back to you at the zoo, but we were called to another incident and had to scramble. When I got back you were gone. Do you know how hard it is to find a single person in the city of New York, even when she has such a unique first name? At the last census there were almost 57,000 people named Violet in the United States, almost 3700 in New York State. I didn't know if you lived here or if you were a visitor. You weren't on any of the security videos, so I had no way to even do a facial recognition search. I gave up hope that I would ever find you."

"You were looking for me?"

He leaned across her and pressed the STOP button on the elevator. There was music playing at a volume that was just loud enough to hear, something familiar but Violet couldn't remember what it was. Bucky licked his lips then leaned sideways against the wall, casually crossing his arms over his chest. He was close enough that she was aware of the heat that radiated from him, but far enough away that she didn't feel crowded.

"Yeah, I was looking for you. Why wouldn't I? You're beautiful, brave, and from the moment I saw you I thought you were perfect."

In one of Violet's favourite movies, Sense and Sensibility, there's a moment when the heroine, Eleanor Dashwood, finds out that the man she loves with all of her heart isn't married and is free to marry her. At that rare moment of Eleanor losing her composure, she gasped out a sudden cry. It always affected Violet whenever she watched that scene but the rational part of her knew that it was something written into the script to emphasize the scene, since it wasn't really something written in the book, except to say she ran out of the room and gave into a crying fit once the door was closed, away from the view of Edward Ferrars, the man she loved.

The cry that came out of Violet's throat when Bucky called her perfect would always come back to her whenever the couple shared how they met. Its sudden eruption, and the fact that the man who caused it immediately engulfed her in his arms again, became the moment they both knew that they were perfect for each other. In a repeat of what happened on the street, Bucky held her, with the addition of placing a comforting kiss on top of her head. That led to their first actual kiss, gently bestowed on each other in the stationary glass elevator car that looked out over New York City. By the time they got to the residential floor so Violet could use Bucky's bathroom to "fix her face," the common area was full of the other Avengers who witnessed the kiss via the security camera. They all thought it was a unique way to begin a relationship. To her amusement several called dibs on being part of the wedding party. That was when she remembered the name of the song playing in the elevator.  It was Perfect by Ed Sheeran, and suddenly her fantasy became her reality.

One Shots Masterlist

Please support the author by reblogging.

[sjsmith56]

Thank you! ❤️❤️❤️

Perfect

Summary: After being rescued by Bucky Barnes a woman wonders if her fantasy can ever become reality.

Length: 2.9 K

Characters: Named but undescribed OFC, Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Dangerous situation with fear of death, self-deprecation, lack of confidence, no smut.

Author notes: Set after Avengers: Doomsday when I assume ALL the Avengers will be one big happy family. Information about the phenomena of crowd panic from Science.org website article No Panic Please, September 28, 2000. https://www.science.org/content/article/no-panic-please. Information on statistics of the first name Violet was based on data from https://www.mynamestats.com/First-Names/V/VI/VIOLET/index.html

🔹 🔹 🔹

They meet

It wasn't a meet cute. In fact, it was one of the most frightening days of her life. A day at the crowded zoo with Violet's sister and her children was supposed to be fun, full of laughter and joy. While her sister pushed the baby in the stroller, Violet held hands with her four-year-old nephew Casey, swinging them back and forth as they recited nursery rhymes. They were walking towards the children's zoo when they heard a commotion ahead of them. Then they noticed people running in their direction; parents holding their children close to their chests, couples running with their hands clenched together, others doing their best to hurry their families away from whatever was happening.

Picking Casey up, Violet looked past the people that were streaming towards them to determine the reason for the problem. As several masked people with guns came into view, firing them into the air and roaring for everyone to move, it felt like the end of the world to her. There was only chaos and when she turned back, her sister was gone, swept away by the rush of people, leaving her with Casey. Jostled by the swarm of everyone trying to escape the shooters, Violet held him tight, running with the flow of humanity with only one thought in her mind ... to get away.

The scary thing about being in the middle of a panicked crowd is that there is no organization to it. If you are caught up in it, you don't know where to go or what to do, really. It's not like there are guides on how to handle being in a group of people that are running amok. Scientists who study the phenomenon certainly can't get to an event while it happens because it's over so fast. Even if they studied later footage of such occurrences taken from security cameras, there were still blind spots that removed valuable data leaving the experts to make assumptions that may or may not be correct. For a time, they did use computer simulations, where the crowds were programmed to behave like fluids but the big disadvantage to that was that fluids didn't feel pain, didn't stumble, causing a chain reaction of more people stumbling and creating a choke point that would have dire consequences. More importantly, fluids didn't make decisions on which way to go, because a panicked crowd doesn't always choose the path of least resistance. They choose the closest or the most prominent path or exit and in the case of people with guns herding them by firing them in the air, they would go in any direction away from that danger, even if that led them to a solid wall.

That was certainly true of the mass of people that Violet followed as they ran haphazardly away from the guns. Being so far back in the crowd, she couldn't even see where the exits were and had to trust that the people at the front could. Then the crowd suddenly slowed down, stopped, and backed up when they reached a single gate that let only a trickle of people out. As she turned to face the shooters, realizing that she couldn't get out before they reached her, she held Casey close to her chest, covering his eyes so that he couldn't see the people who were coming to kill them. In what she thought were her last moments she told the little boy that she loved him, that Mama loved him, as well as Dada, Nana, and Papa, and that she was with him. Then she began to cry.

Suddenly a man in black with a metal arm fell from the sky right in front of her, told her to get down, and faced the people with the guns, literally using his metal arm to deflect bullets away from her and Casey. While the guns kept firing, he stalked towards the shooters and beat the everliving shit out of those that got too close to him. Still sheltering Casey, she laughed and yelled as she witnessed the man in black and several others who had also dropped onto the scene battle the shooters back, to where an armed task force waited with guns drawn, forcing them onto their knees and surrender, ending what the media called the Zoo incident.

When the man in black turned around, and made eye contact with her, she knew that she had just met the love of her life. Standing up, she watched and waited as he walked towards her and Casey, his blue eyes focused just on her. She had never seen a man as magnificent as him, with a body that could have been on the cover of a romance novel and thick dark hair that was swept back just so. He was perfect.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, when he was just a few feet away from her. "Is your son alright?"

"He's not my son," she murmured. "We're good. Who are you?"

"Avengers," he said, looking to where several of his fellow Avengers were also inquiring about whether people were hurt before returning his gaze to her. "You're sure?"

"Um, I might have twisted my ankle."

She limped, bringing a smile to his face that almost made her swoon right there. Coming closer to her, she looked up at him, totally lost in the moment at the sight of the bearded man in front of her.

"May I?" She nodded then yelped a little when he easily picked her and Casey up in his arms. "Let's get you checked out."

Effortlessly, he carried her to where emergency personnel had already set up a treatment area. Directed to place her on a gurney, he gently laid her on it, ruffled Casey's hair, then turned to leave.

"Wait!" she cried. "What's your name?"

"Bucky," he answered, his body poised to return to evacuate more of the wounded. "What's yours?"

"Violet."

That smile appeared again. "Pretty name. I'll be seeing you, Violet."

Then he turned and headed back out to where others were waiting to be helped. She watched him carry more people into the treatment area, mostly kids or senior citizens, and each time Bucky returned he looked more and more heroic. Then her sister found her, and they had a tearful reunion that made it onto the evening news. When she looked again, straining to see her rescuer, the Avengers were gone. After being released with a taped-up ankle, Violet returned to her family and another tearful reunion. Over the following week she accepted that meeting the love of her life wasn't meant to lead to anything more and decided to move on. Still, whenever the Avengers showed up on the news for the next month, she looked to see if Bucky Barnes was featured.

They meet again – one month later

Checking her phone for the umpteenth time as she waited near a Midtown restaurant, Violet wondered what was keeping her girlfriend, Nina. It had been a few months since they last saw each other, and she had taken today off to have lunch with the woman who had been her best friend since junior high school. Her phone vibrated with the message that Nina couldn't make it. A four-year-old who had been the reason she was late due to having a tantrum had just thrown up all over her. With a sigh, Violet texted her back that it was alright and she looked around, wondering what she was going to do now that she had an empty afternoon ahead of her.

Somehow, she found herself a block away from the Watchtower, home of all the Avengers. She could grab a hot dog and sit across the street on the off chance that Bucky Barnes would come strolling out the door. Perhaps, he would recognize her and look at her, remembering the day he saved her and Casey at the zoo. Then he would smile and touch her cheek, ask her out and .... She sighed. Who was she kidding? That day was a brief moment in her boring life where she allowed herself to believe in a fantasy, nothing more. With a last look up at the tower, she turned around and walked right into a brick wall, built in the shape of a man. Falling backwards she landed on her backside, then looked up into the blue eyes of the object of her fantasy, Bucky Barnes himself.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, grinning a little. "It's Violet, isn't it? You were at the zoo."

She gulped. "You remember me?"

"Sure, I remember you. It's not everyday you meet a pretty lady with the name Violet." He offered her his hand, easily pulling her up, then gazed at her with those mesmerizing blue eyes. "Why are you here?"

"I was supposed to meet a friend for lunch, but she cancelled," replied Violet. "I started walking and ended up...." Her voice trailed off as her face heated up in embarrassment, and she looked away. "Sorry. I'll just go."

His face softened as he tilted his head a little. "Have lunch with me."

"Oh, no. You don't want that." She shook her head and stepped away, fidgeting with her purse. "I'm not ...."

Her voice trailed off again, and she stepped back once more, desperate to remove herself from his scrutiny. It was stupid to think that someone like him would ever see anything in someone like her.

"Are you afraid of me?"

She stopped in her tracks. "No! No, I'm just ... flustered." Her hands fluttered in front of her. "You're so ... perfect and I'm ... not."

Pressing her lips together, Violet turned around and walked away, lowering her head, speeding up in order to put as much distance as she could between herself and Bucky. All she could think of was how stupid she must be to ever believe that a fantasy could become reality. Life didn't work that way, at least it didn't for her. Aware of someone walking quickly behind her, then beside her, she glanced in that direction, startled to see it was Bucky. Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, she ignored the people who swore at her for blocking them. His hand touched her elbow, gently guiding her to the side. If it had been any other man, she would have pulled away, but she just let him move her.

"Hey," he said, in a soft voice, as he leaned against the building. "Look at me."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Sweetheart, you're not making sense," he chuckled. "Just look at me and explain why you think I'm perfect, because I assure you, I'm far from it." She remained mute, not trusting herself to say anything that didn't sound demented. "I've thought about you."

"What?" She looked at him.

"I've thought about you, of how you looked from above, just before I dropped down in front of you. You had no place to go but you protected that little boy you were holding, making sure that he didn't see the guys with the guns. I could hear what you were telling him." He tapped his ear. "Super hearing. You wanted him to know that he was loved. You were very brave."

"I was terrified."

"You can be both." He smoothed some loose hair over her ear. "Then you started to cry, and I wasn't going to wait for the quinjet to land. I jumped right then and there. Saving you and that little boy was the most important thing for me at that moment. Is he okay?"

"Casey? He's fine." She swallowed then it was like she couldn't stop talking. "He doesn't remember anything. He's my nephew. We got separated from my sister and her baby girl. It happened so fast, and I got swept up in that crowd and I couldn't see where to go. Then we stopped and I realized we weren't going to make it. So, I just decided that if that was where we died then I would make sure he wasn't alone. That he had me right to the end."

She wiped her face, startled to realize that she was crying when her hands came away wet. Suddenly she was wrapped in Bucky's muscular arms, as he murmured soft words to her, words that she really didn't hear but felt because they rumbled from where her head pressed against his chest, making her feel safe and warm. Placing her arms around his waist, she accepted the comfort that he freely gave to her. It felt so right in ways that she couldn't even articulate. Every part of her absorbed everything he gave her as they stood at the side of the busy sidewalk in Manhattan, being held by this man who had jumped from the sky to save her.

Time seemed to slow for them until Violet loosened her hold on him, and Bucky followed her lead. He already had a folded handkerchief in his hand and used it to dab away the remaining tears from her cheeks, his face close enough to hers that she could see freckles on his skin. A hiccup escaped from her throat, making that incredible smile creep across his face.

"Better?" She nodded. "Your makeup needs some fixing. Come to the Tower to get cleaned up. I can order some lunch in."

"You're sure I won't be intruding?"

"I'm sure."

Lifting his hand towards her, he took a few steps then looked back, waiting for her to take it or not. With a quick breath, she took his hand and walked into the Watchtower with him. As a visitor, she had to provide ID to prove she wasn't a reporter or a deranged fan, but Bucky stayed beside her through the process, that included having her picture taken. When the security desk issued her a temporary ID card for access, she grimaced at how her face looked.

"I should have cleaned up before they took my picture."

"Don't worry about it," said Bucky, as they approached the elevator. "You can get a new picture when you get your permanent card."

Violet stopped. "A permanent card?"

The elevator doors opened. Taking her hand, he stepped inside, then waited for the doors to close.

"I meant to come back to you at the zoo, but we were called to another incident and had to scramble. When I got back you were gone. Do you know how hard it is to find a single person in the city of New York, even when she has such a unique first name? At the last census there were almost 57,000 people named Violet in the United States, almost 3700 in New York State. I didn't know if you lived here or if you were a visitor. You weren't on any of the security videos, so I had no way to even do a facial recognition search. I gave up hope that I would ever find you."

"You were looking for me?"

He leaned across her and pressed the STOP button on the elevator. There was music playing at a volume that was just loud enough to hear, something familiar but Violet couldn't remember what it was. Bucky licked his lips then leaned sideways against the wall, casually crossing his arms over his chest. He was close enough that she was aware of the heat that radiated from him, but far enough away that she didn't feel crowded.

"Yeah, I was looking for you. Why wouldn't I? You're beautiful, brave, and from the moment I saw you I thought you were perfect."

In one of Violet's favourite movies, Sense and Sensibility, there's a moment when the heroine, Eleanor Dashwood, finds out that the man she loves with all of her heart isn't married and is free to marry her. At that rare moment of Eleanor losing her composure, she gasped out a sudden cry. It always affected Violet whenever she watched that scene but the rational part of her knew that it was something written into the script to emphasize the scene, since it wasn't really something written in the book, except to say she ran out of the room and gave into a crying fit once the door was closed, away from the view of Edward Ferrars, the man she loved.

The cry that came out of Violet's throat when Bucky called her perfect would always come back to her whenever the couple shared how they met. Its sudden eruption, and the fact that the man who caused it immediately engulfed her in his arms again, became the moment they both knew that they were perfect for each other. In a repeat of what happened on the street, Bucky held her, with the addition of placing a comforting kiss on top of her head. That led to their first actual kiss, gently bestowed on each other in the stationary glass elevator car that looked out over New York City. By the time they got to the residential floor so Violet could use Bucky's bathroom to "fix her face," the common area was full of the other Avengers who witnessed the kiss via the security camera. They all thought it was a unique way to begin a relationship. To her amusement several called dibs on being part of the wedding party. That was when she remembered the name of the song playing in the elevator.  It was Perfect by Ed Sheeran, and suddenly her fantasy became her reality.

One Shots Masterlist

Please support the author by reblogging.

[sjsmith56]

Perfect

Summary: After being rescued by Bucky Barnes a woman wonders if her fantasy can ever become reality.

Length: 2.9 K

Characters: Named but undescribed OFC, Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Dangerous situation with fear of death, self-deprecation, lack of confidence, no smut.

Author notes: Set after Avengers: Doomsday when I assume ALL the Avengers will be one big happy family. Information about the phenomena of crowd panic from Science.org website article No Panic Please, September 28, 2000. https://www.science.org/content/article/no-panic-please. Information on statistics of the first name Violet was based on data from https://www.mynamestats.com/First-Names/V/VI/VIOLET/index.html

🔹 🔹 🔹

They meet

It wasn't a meet cute. In fact, it was one of the most frightening days of her life. A day at the crowded zoo with Violet's sister and her children was supposed to be fun, full of laughter and joy. While her sister pushed the baby in the stroller, Violet held hands with her four-year-old nephew Casey, swinging them back and forth as they recited nursery rhymes. They were walking towards the children's zoo when they heard a commotion ahead of them. Then they noticed people running in their direction; parents holding their children close to their chests, couples running with their hands clenched together, others doing their best to hurry their families away from whatever was happening.

Picking Casey up, Violet looked past the people that were streaming towards them to determine the reason for the problem. As several masked people with guns came into view, firing them into the air and roaring for everyone to move, it felt like the end of the world to her. There was only chaos and when she turned back, her sister was gone, swept away by the rush of people, leaving her with Casey. Jostled by the swarm of everyone trying to escape the shooters, Violet held him tight, running with the flow of humanity with only one thought in her mind ... to get away.

The scary thing about being in the middle of a panicked crowd is that there is no organization to it. If you are caught up in it, you don't know where to go or what to do, really. It's not like there are guides on how to handle being in a group of people that are running amok. Scientists who study the phenomenon certainly can't get to an event while it happens because it's over so fast. Even if they studied later footage of such occurrences taken from security cameras, there were still blind spots that removed valuable data leaving the experts to make assumptions that may or may not be correct. For a time, they did use computer simulations, where the crowds were programmed to behave like fluids but the big disadvantage to that was that fluids didn't feel pain, didn't stumble, causing a chain reaction of more people stumbling and creating a choke point that would have dire consequences. More importantly, fluids didn't make decisions on which way to go, because a panicked crowd doesn't always choose the path of least resistance. They choose the closest or the most prominent path or exit and in the case of people with guns herding them by firing them in the air, they would go in any direction away from that danger, even if that led them to a solid wall.

That was certainly true of the mass of people that Violet followed as they ran haphazardly away from the guns. Being so far back in the crowd, she couldn't even see where the exits were and had to trust that the people at the front could. Then the crowd suddenly slowed down, stopped, and backed up when they reached a single gate that let only a trickle of people out. As she turned to face the shooters, realizing that she couldn't get out before they reached her, she held Casey close to her chest, covering his eyes so that he couldn't see the people who were coming to kill them. In what she thought were her last moments she told the little boy that she loved him, that Mama loved him, as well as Dada, Nana, and Papa, and that she was with him. Then she began to cry.

Suddenly a man in black with a metal arm fell from the sky right in front of her, told her to get down, and faced the people with the guns, literally using his metal arm to deflect bullets away from her and Casey. While the guns kept firing, he stalked towards the shooters and beat the everliving shit out of those that got too close to him. Still sheltering Casey, she laughed and yelled as she witnessed the man in black and several others who had also dropped onto the scene battle the shooters back, to where an armed task force waited with guns drawn, forcing them onto their knees and surrender, ending what the media called the Zoo incident.

When the man in black turned around, and made eye contact with her, she knew that she had just met the love of her life. Standing up, she watched and waited as he walked towards her and Casey, his blue eyes focused just on her. She had never seen a man as magnificent as him, with a body that could have been on the cover of a romance novel and thick dark hair that was swept back just so. He was perfect.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, when he was just a few feet away from her. "Is your son alright?"

"He's not my son," she murmured. "We're good. Who are you?"

"Avengers," he said, looking to where several of his fellow Avengers were also inquiring about whether people were hurt before returning his gaze to her. "You're sure?"

"Um, I might have twisted my ankle."

She limped, bringing a smile to his face that almost made her swoon right there. Coming closer to her, she looked up at him, totally lost in the moment at the sight of the bearded man in front of her.

"May I?" She nodded then yelped a little when he easily picked her and Casey up in his arms. "Let's get you checked out."

Effortlessly, he carried her to where emergency personnel had already set up a treatment area. Directed to place her on a gurney, he gently laid her on it, ruffled Casey's hair, then turned to leave.

"Wait!" she cried. "What's your name?"

"Bucky," he answered, his body poised to return to evacuate more of the wounded. "What's yours?"

"Violet."

That smile appeared again. "Pretty name. I'll be seeing you, Violet."

Then he turned and headed back out to where others were waiting to be helped. She watched him carry more people into the treatment area, mostly kids or senior citizens, and each time Bucky returned he looked more and more heroic. Then her sister found her, and they had a tearful reunion that made it onto the evening news. When she looked again, straining to see her rescuer, the Avengers were gone. After being released with a taped-up ankle, Violet returned to her family and another tearful reunion. Over the following week she accepted that meeting the love of her life wasn't meant to lead to anything more and decided to move on. Still, whenever the Avengers showed up on the news for the next month, she looked to see if Bucky Barnes was featured.

They meet again – one month later

Checking her phone for the umpteenth time as she waited near a Midtown restaurant, Violet wondered what was keeping her girlfriend, Nina. It had been a few months since they last saw each other, and she had taken today off to have lunch with the woman who had been her best friend since junior high school. Her phone vibrated with the message that Nina couldn't make it. A four-year-old who had been the reason she was late due to having a tantrum had just thrown up all over her. With a sigh, Violet texted her back that it was alright and she looked around, wondering what she was going to do now that she had an empty afternoon ahead of her.

Somehow, she found herself a block away from the Watchtower, home of all the Avengers. She could grab a hot dog and sit across the street on the off chance that Bucky Barnes would come strolling out the door. Perhaps, he would recognize her and look at her, remembering the day he saved her and Casey at the zoo. Then he would smile and touch her cheek, ask her out and .... She sighed. Who was she kidding? That day was a brief moment in her boring life where she allowed herself to believe in a fantasy, nothing more. With a last look up at the tower, she turned around and walked right into a brick wall, built in the shape of a man. Falling backwards she landed on her backside, then looked up into the blue eyes of the object of her fantasy, Bucky Barnes himself.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, grinning a little. "It's Violet, isn't it? You were at the zoo."

She gulped. "You remember me?"

"Sure, I remember you. It's not everyday you meet a pretty lady with the name Violet." He offered her his hand, easily pulling her up, then gazed at her with those mesmerizing blue eyes. "Why are you here?"

"I was supposed to meet a friend for lunch, but she cancelled," replied Violet. "I started walking and ended up...." Her voice trailed off as her face heated up in embarrassment, and she looked away. "Sorry. I'll just go."

His face softened as he tilted his head a little. "Have lunch with me."

"Oh, no. You don't want that." She shook her head and stepped away, fidgeting with her purse. "I'm not ...."

Her voice trailed off again, and she stepped back once more, desperate to remove herself from his scrutiny. It was stupid to think that someone like him would ever see anything in someone like her.

"Are you afraid of me?"

She stopped in her tracks. "No! No, I'm just ... flustered." Her hands fluttered in front of her. "You're so ... perfect and I'm ... not."

Pressing her lips together, Violet turned around and walked away, lowering her head, speeding up in order to put as much distance as she could between herself and Bucky. All she could think of was how stupid she must be to ever believe that a fantasy could become reality. Life didn't work that way, at least it didn't for her. Aware of someone walking quickly behind her, then beside her, she glanced in that direction, startled to see it was Bucky. Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, she ignored the people who swore at her for blocking them. His hand touched her elbow, gently guiding her to the side. If it had been any other man, she would have pulled away, but she just let him move her.

"Hey," he said, in a soft voice, as he leaned against the building. "Look at me."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Sweetheart, you're not making sense," he chuckled. "Just look at me and explain why you think I'm perfect, because I assure you, I'm far from it." She remained mute, not trusting herself to say anything that didn't sound demented. "I've thought about you."

"What?" She looked at him.

"I've thought about you, of how you looked from above, just before I dropped down in front of you. You had no place to go but you protected that little boy you were holding, making sure that he didn't see the guys with the guns. I could hear what you were telling him." He tapped his ear. "Super hearing. You wanted him to know that he was loved. You were very brave."

"I was terrified."

"You can be both." He smoothed some loose hair over her ear. "Then you started to cry, and I wasn't going to wait for the quinjet to land. I jumped right then and there. Saving you and that little boy was the most important thing for me at that moment. Is he okay?"

"Casey? He's fine." She swallowed then it was like she couldn't stop talking. "He doesn't remember anything. He's my nephew. We got separated from my sister and her baby girl. It happened so fast, and I got swept up in that crowd and I couldn't see where to go. Then we stopped and I realized we weren't going to make it. So, I just decided that if that was where we died then I would make sure he wasn't alone. That he had me right to the end."

She wiped her face, startled to realize that she was crying when her hands came away wet. Suddenly she was wrapped in Bucky's muscular arms, as he murmured soft words to her, words that she really didn't hear but felt because they rumbled from where her head pressed against his chest, making her feel safe and warm. Placing her arms around his waist, she accepted the comfort that he freely gave to her. It felt so right in ways that she couldn't even articulate. Every part of her absorbed everything he gave her as they stood at the side of the busy sidewalk in Manhattan, being held by this man who had jumped from the sky to save her.

Time seemed to slow for them until Violet loosened her hold on him, and Bucky followed her lead. He already had a folded handkerchief in his hand and used it to dab away the remaining tears from her cheeks, his face close enough to hers that she could see freckles on his skin. A hiccup escaped from her throat, making that incredible smile creep across his face.

"Better?" She nodded. "Your makeup needs some fixing. Come to the Tower to get cleaned up. I can order some lunch in."

"You're sure I won't be intruding?"

"I'm sure."

Lifting his hand towards her, he took a few steps then looked back, waiting for her to take it or not. With a quick breath, she took his hand and walked into the Watchtower with him. As a visitor, she had to provide ID to prove she wasn't a reporter or a deranged fan, but Bucky stayed beside her through the process, that included having her picture taken. When the security desk issued her a temporary ID card for access, she grimaced at how her face looked.

"I should have cleaned up before they took my picture."

"Don't worry about it," said Bucky, as they approached the elevator. "You can get a new picture when you get your permanent card."

Violet stopped. "A permanent card?"

The elevator doors opened. Taking her hand, he stepped inside, then waited for the doors to close.

"I meant to come back to you at the zoo, but we were called to another incident and had to scramble. When I got back you were gone. Do you know how hard it is to find a single person in the city of New York, even when she has such a unique first name? At the last census there were almost 57,000 people named Violet in the United States, almost 3700 in New York State. I didn't know if you lived here or if you were a visitor. You weren't on any of the security videos, so I had no way to even do a facial recognition search. I gave up hope that I would ever find you."

"You were looking for me?"

He leaned across her and pressed the STOP button on the elevator. There was music playing at a volume that was just loud enough to hear, something familiar but Violet couldn't remember what it was. Bucky licked his lips then leaned sideways against the wall, casually crossing his arms over his chest. He was close enough that she was aware of the heat that radiated from him, but far enough away that she didn't feel crowded.

"Yeah, I was looking for you. Why wouldn't I? You're beautiful, brave, and from the moment I saw you I thought you were perfect."

In one of Violet's favourite movies, Sense and Sensibility, there's a moment when the heroine, Eleanor Dashwood, finds out that the man she loves with all of her heart isn't married and is free to marry her. At that rare moment of Eleanor losing her composure, she gasped out a sudden cry. It always affected Violet whenever she watched that scene but the rational part of her knew that it was something written into the script to emphasize the scene, since it wasn't really something written in the book, except to say she ran out of the room and gave into a crying fit once the door was closed, away from the view of Edward Ferrars, the man she loved.

The cry that came out of Violet's throat when Bucky called her perfect would always come back to her whenever the couple shared how they met. Its sudden eruption, and the fact that the man who caused it immediately engulfed her in his arms again, became the moment they both knew that they were perfect for each other. In a repeat of what happened on the street, Bucky held her, with the addition of placing a comforting kiss on top of her head. That led to their first actual kiss, gently bestowed on each other in the stationary glass elevator car that looked out over New York City. By the time they got to the residential floor so Violet could use Bucky's bathroom to "fix her face," the common area was full of the other Avengers who witnessed the kiss via the security camera. They all thought it was a unique way to begin a relationship. To her amusement several called dibs on being part of the wedding party. That was when she remembered the name of the song playing in the elevator.  It was Perfect by Ed Sheeran, and suddenly her fantasy became her reality.

One Shots Masterlist

Please support the author by reblogging.

[sjsmith56]

off the record masterpost

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

this is the one of all the cute fluffy slice of life things that do not quite fit into For the Record (or in other words, what else happens in the congressional universe)

Summary: Congress redacted the floor debate, the interns kept the rest.

Out-takes, one-shots, and other small things that did not make it to For the Record, my Congressman Bucky x Congresswoman Reader fic (can be read without reading FTR!)

Warnings/ tags: Original Characters galore, Companion Piece, side fic, Outtakes & Deleted Scenes, Non-Linear Narrative, Capitol Hill Greek Chorus, Interns with Too Much Time and Too Many Opinions, Government Staffers as Narrative Devices, Gossip as Archival Methodology, If It Was Cut It Was Probably Too Soft or Too Real, text-fic (tweets, headlines, slack messages), it's all fluffy here

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

Coffee Tap

Sick Day

The Suit Problem

Bench Pressing a Hummer (for Charity)

Appointments Kept

...wip...don't know how many there will be...

* starred stories require some background For the Record knowledge, but can be treated as a standalone

[sjsmith56]

Appointments Kept

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

Summary: what if the interns put 'kiss the congresswoman' on bucky's outlook calendar?

Warnings/ tags: fluff, surprise forehead kiss, ambiguous if relationship is established or not

Word count: 1k

A/N: this is based on a comment a dear friend made on my fic lol HAHA - you know who you are, and thank you for helping to name this one ♡

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

Bucky’s scrolling through yet another incomprehensible email chain when the notification pings.

Event Created:

Kiss the Congresswoman Created by: Jenna Kang Assigned to: James B. Barnes Time: 4:45 PM | Duration: 5 min

He blinks once. He stares at it and reads it again, like the English language might suddenly start working in his head again.

Nope, it still says what it did the first time.

Through the frosted glass of his office, he can see the interns clustered in the kitchenette across the corridor – Jenna typing furiously, Mills clutching her mug like it’s a lifeline, Devon perched on the counter with their latte, Micah with his arms crossed and leaning against the fridge.

They technically are from different offices – different chains of command, different bosses – but proximity breeds familiarity. And caffeine? Caffeine breeds conspiracy.

He can’t hear them, but he sees the way Jenna’s fingers fly across her phone, Mills gasping, Devon shrieking with delighted horror, Micah shaking his head with a devilish grin on his face.

He sighs, thumb hovering over delete. He really should. God knows this is unprofessional, bordering on humiliating for both of you.

_______

In the Kitchenette, a couple of minutes earlier…

The kitchenette hums with the clatter of mugs and the low hum of the fridges. Jenna stands by the coffee tap, arms folded, watching you through the glass as you stalk back to your office, shoulders taut, expression thunderous.

Everyone feels it; the oppressive hush radiating from your office, the clipped way you speak in whip strategy, the fact you skipped lunch entirely to take a meeting that ends with you being yelled at for something far out of your purview.

They watch you stomp past, eyes rimmed with fatigue, papers clutched like weapons. Mills sighs so dramatically it sounds like an aria. “If I had a day like that,” she whispers, “I’d want someone to kiss me on the forehead. Just… so I’d remember I’m not alone.”

Devon, sitting on the edge of the counter with their latte (oat milk, three sugars), arches an eyebrow. “Forehead kiss. That’s dangerously romantic for a Wednesday.”

Micah leans against the fridge, scrolling through his phone with one thumb. “Dangerous, yes. Romantic, debatable.”

Jenna’s eyes narrow. Chaos flickers behind them. She pulls out her phone and opens the calendar app.

You see, Jenna had managed to cultivate (very unintentionally) an air of quiet competence that had fooled Mike into believing that she is the sanest and most incorruptible intern. And therefore, she was the only one of the lot trusted with such editing power over Bucky’s calendar.

“Don’t,” Devon says automatically, not looking up.

“Do,” Mills whispers, clutching her teacup like it’s a prayer candle.

“It’s harmless,” Jenna mutters.

“Harmless is how Watergate started,” Micah says, but their grin betrays them.

She hits Send with finality.

Mills claps a hand over her mouth, eyes brimming. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”

Devon sighs. “We’re so going to get fired.”

Micah just starts pre-emptively drafting a Slack apology to Mike.

_______

4.44 PM - your office

At precisely 4:44 PM, Bucky knocks once, out of habit rather than courtesy, and steps inside.

You’re hunched over your desk, trying to make heads and tails of a dam structural engineering diagram, eyes glazed over from sheer confusion. You don’t hear the door open until he’s already inside.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Do you need something?” you murmur, not looking up, pen scraping another furious series of increasingly unhinged question marks into your notebook.

He clears his throat, gaze flicking to your laptop screen before returning to you.

“Do you remember,” he says quietly, “last week… you told me I shouldn’t be so flippant about my schedule. That if I committed to something, I should follow it?”

You stare at him, brain blank. “Yes…?”

His eyes flicker to his phone. He takes a slow breath, as if bracing himself, then crosses the carpet to your desk. He plants one hand on the desk beside your elbow, and bends down.

His lips press to your forehead – warm, impossibly gentle, like you’re something breakable he’s sworn to protect. The scent of his aftershave and leather curls around you, grounding and disorienting all at once. It’s not rushed, but it’s not lingering either. A scheduled softness. A quiet appointment kept.

Your entire body freezes. Heat floods your face so quickly it makes you dizzy – like every neuron in your body has misfired at once. You’re sure your face is glowing. Like stop-sign red. Fresh Italian tomato red.

When he pulls back, you finally look up at him, wide-eyed and mortified. “What… what was that?”

His face is impassive, but the tips of his ears are pink. His mouth twitches – almost a smile, almost an apology.

He lifts his phone slightly, thumb hovering over the event notification. His voice is almost sheepish when he murmurs, “it was on my calendar.”

_______

4.47 PM - bullpen

Caffeinated, sugared, and now officially huddling in your office to ‘discuss new policy developments’ the interns watch Bucky walk out, silent and unreadable as ever. They stare at the scene in silent horror.

“She’s… she’s so red,” Mills whispers, clutching Jenna’s arm.

Devon is frozen, eyes wide with realisation. “Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god – ”

Micah holds a hand over his mouth, eyes glittering with glee. “We’ve unleashed something unstoppable.”

Jenna bites her lip and files the even in her master observations spreadsheet:

4:45 PM – Forehead Kiss executed. Subject reaction: catastrophic blush. New data point: potential cardiac event if kissed properly.

Micah wipes away a tear. “We’re definitely getting fired.”

“Worth it,” Mills sighs dreamily.

_______

4.49 PM - Bucky’s office

Back at his desk, Bucky sits heavily in his chair, staring at his phone. He marks the event as Completed, but his hands are shaking slightly, and his chest feels… warm.

He almost adds it as a recurring event.

Instead, he sets his phone down, scrubs a hand over his face, and mutters under his breath, “just following my schedule.”

But he’s smiling, just a little.

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

[sjsmith56]

Sick Day

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

Summary: You catch a cold and Bucky takes care of you

Warnings/ tags: minor illness (flu/cough), it's all fluffy here

Word count: 2.4k

A/N: so was sick that week (hello flu bug) and i wondered innocently... how would bucky barnes take care of you while you're sick? it was supposed to be one small little indulgent thought and then it it kept on going !!

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

You’ve already sat through two subcommittee meetings and a particularly irritating oversight hearing by the time it happens. You're doing your best to pretend to breathe normally out of your one good nostril while your head is doing an interpretative drum show behind the eyes. But worse than that – worse than the ache in your spine or the heat building at your temples – is how slow you feel.

You don’t catch a procedural error before it hits the minutes. You let Rep. Whitmore interrupt you twice without retaliation. You don’t even push back when someone misrepresents one of your amendments – just offer a noncommittal hum and scribble a note to circle back (you know you don't have the energy to).

Across the room, Bucky watches.

He knows you well enough to spot it – not in what you do, but what you don’t. You usually move like a blade through these rooms and today, you’re a pair of kiddy scissors.

He pulls up your schedule the moment he returns to his office. There's only one thing on your calendar: a late-afternoon committee session where he is the acting chair.

Quietly, with no fuss at all, he picks up the phone and calls the clerk. “Cancel the Housing Subcommittee. Scheduling conflict. Inform everyone it’ll be rescheduled next week.”

Then, a note to your chief of staff:

Pulled her out of the rotation. She’s not at 100%. Send her home. No arguments.

It’s not even signed.

Derek looks at the note and visibly baulks, offended. Not at the instruction itself, but at the gall of it. Bucky doesn’t usually talk like that, throwing his weight around like he runs the place.

He frowns at the lack of introductory pleasantries, signature, and the harsher than usual phrasing – Send her home. No arguments. Who does he think he is to be ordering around people who aren’t even on his payroll?

But then again, Derek recalls how pale you looked that morning, how you were downing over the counter cough syrup and honey tea so you could croak your way through the three minutes of your speech.

And because of that – because, somehow, Bucky Barnes noticed and cares enough to act – Derek lets it slide. Just this once.

***

The apartment feels like a prison by midmorning.

You lie curled on the couch in an old campaign hoodie, blanket half-draped over one leg, glaring at the far wall like it has personally wronged you. You’re not built for stillness, your sick days have to be wrestled from you.

You didn’t want to leave the Hill. You’d argued with Derek in a haze, insisting you could at least make it through one more meeting. But then he showed you the note. Not from leadership. Not from some overzealous scheduler.

From Bucky.

You stared at it longer than you meant to. The handwriting is brisk, slanted, efficient. Just enough force behind the pen to know he means business.

Now, hours later, the note sits on your coffee table beside a packet of tissues and untouched porridge. You refuse to acknowledge it means anything, but your eyes drift toward it more than once.

You hate being seen like this. But you hate it more that he hasn’t said a word about it aloud. Just acts and moves things around you like it’s instinct.

It unnerves you more than kindness should.

***

By midweek, you’re climbing the walls.

You’ve already reorganized your spice rack, deleted 400 unread emails, and tried to rewrite a speech from memory. You even start paying attention to the midday reruns of Suits.

Desperation wins out. You ping Mills:

Can you sneak me the draft memo on the budget rider draft? Personal email. Please.

Mills, a romantic and a traitor, loops in Devon. And Devon, predictably, makes it a whole operation.

The interns have just finished printing the memo - all 37 pages of it - when Bucky walks into the printer room. He catches the tail end of Jenna whispering “…this is a civic duty, Micah,” and raises a brow.

Micah doesn’t flinch. “We’re smuggling work to her. She’s at home, her VPN’s active, and she said she’s ‘at 70%, maybe 60%,’ which is Congresswoman for ‘I’m dying but still capable of work.’”

Bucky folds his arms, and the sleeves pull tight across his biceps – enough of a reminder that he will pick a fight if he has to.

“She’s going insane,” Devon says dramatically. “She asked us nicely. What were we supposed to do?”

“She’s recovering,” Bucky replies evenly. “Let her.”

“We are. She likes working. It’s medicinal.”

“She’s not supposed to be checking email.”

“That’s why it’s a hard copy!”

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

Jenna doesn’t do well under pressure: “This is for morale. It’s... a care package. For her brain.”

Devon: “If you stop us, we will try to fight you.”

There’s a pause. Bucky doesn’t say anything – he just leans against the doorframe, and waits.

Micah, calculating: “Okay but like... he’s got the arm. And the training. We need at least four more interns.”

Devon mutters: “And those biceps. That’s gotta be, like, three interns per arm.”

Jenna whispers under her breath, "Holy shit,” and then adds hurriedly, “he’s reformed, right? Like… he wouldn’t throw an intern?”

There’s a long, weighted silence. Then: “Right?”

Mills, who is watching this all unfold while sipping a juice: “Technically? There’s no clause in our employment contract that says he can’t.”

No one moves. Bucky doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t issue any formal warning. He just crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe like he’s seen this exact brand of chaos before – and is only mildly unimpressed. The biceps definitely aren’t helping. Neither is the vibranium arm, which catches the light just enough to remind everyone this is not a man you want to test on a good day.

There’s no menace, exactly – just the exhausted authority of someone who’s done this song and dance across actual war zones and now has to convince a pack of caffeinated interns not to commit sedition via memo. He doesn’t even need to speak. The silence does all the work.

Eventually, Devon exhales and puts down the binder. “Alright. Alright. We get it. Message received.”

*

They don’t send the memo.

You notice the silence immediately. No texts, no updates, no secret Slack messages routed through your personal email. You frown, curl tighter into your blanket, and mutter to no one, “Cowards.”

You suspect Bucky.

And you are correct.

***

He knocks just before eight. A safe hour – late enough that it doesn’t look like he’s been fretting about you all day, early enough that you might still be awake.

You open the door wrapped in fleece and fatigue, eyes bleary, hoodie slouched off one shoulder. You can't remember if your fuzzy socks are matching. You blink at him, brow furrowing.

“Didn’t expect you.”

“Was in the area.”

You sneeze and give him a look. “You live twelve blocks away.”

He holds up the bag in his hand – noodle soup from that place ‘round the corner, orange Vitamin C gummies, and some impossibly ripe plums that he swears have magical restorative powers. “Thought you might need reinforcements.”

“You could’ve sent an intern.”

“They’re all scared of you.”

“And you’re not?”

He smiles, small and genuine. “Shitting my pants terrified.”

You step aside. You’re too tired to argue, and the soup does smell good. “Come on in. Sorry the place is a mess.”

He doesn’t hover. Just sets the bag down, unpacks in silence – one container at a time, like he's figured out what you'll need before you even ask. He moves through your space with a quiet confidence that throws you off more than it should. Like he’s done this before, or worse, that he’s thought about doing this before.

You watch him from the couch, your throat raw, your limbs heavy. Too tired to speak but too wary not to look. Too aware of how gently he sets the spoon beside the bowl, of how his eyes flick to you between motions – as if he’s checking you’re still breathing without making a thing of it.

It’s almost tender.

You’re too sick to unpack what that means.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says at last. “Just wanted to make sure you had everything.”

You nod, eyes glassy. If this is a fever dream, you don't ever want to wake up. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

***

At some point, you drift off. He doesn’t leave.

You wake to the quiet shuffle of fabric. A shift in the air. Something soft. Something cold.

A cool hand presses to your forehead. Not skin. Vibranium. Gentle, precise and terrified of hurting you.

Your eyes open and meet his icy blue ones.

He freezes like a man caught in the midst of confession.

“You’re freezing,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

“You’re burning up.”

He says it low, like it’s an observation he hadn’t meant to speak aloud. His thumb brushes just beneath your temple – barely a touch – and he flinches as though you might break.

You lean into it. Just slightly. Just enough.

He pulls back.

Neither of you speak.

But something shimmers under the silence, like breath fogging up a pane of glass. You always run warm – furnace-hearted, fire-eyed, mouth like a stricken match – while he’s built of cold metal and colder discipline. There’s an equilibrium to this – your burning heat meeting his quiet chill, an accidental balance struck between fire and frost. A kind of magnetic opposition that steadies itself in silence, pulling you closer before either of you realize you’ve moved.

***

It’s nearly 2:00AM.

You’ve been woken up by your own coughs and have just taken another round of cough syrup. Your joints are achy, and your brain feels pleasantly stuffed with cotton – but the silence of your apartment feels heavier than it should be. Like it’s missing something, like it’s missing him.

He left hours ago, but the absence hums in the quiet. Maybe it’s just the sickness. Or the late hour. Or the soft, embarrassing ache of wishing he’d stayed.

So you call him. (You’re absolutely blaming the meds later. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.)

You didn’t mean to. You don’t even remember hitting his contact. But when his voice answers on the second ring – rough, low, too awake for the late hour – you forget how to breathe.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you rasp back.

There’s a pause – a sharp inhale, then a shift in tone. His voice tightens.

“You okay? It’s two a.m. You never call. Are you – are you hurt?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You take something?”

“Yeah. It’s kicking in now.”

There’s a pause. You can hear the rustle of sheets as he shifts in bed. He doesn’t rush you, and he is rewarded with your quiet reflection.

“I kept pushing this week,” you sniff. “Even though I knew I shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

“And I didn’t want to tell you.”

There’s a pause on his end. Then, very softly, “why not?”

“Because you’d make me stop.”

“I would have tried,” he agrees.

You swallow. It hurts in more ways than one.

He exhales, then adds, “You don’t have to win every hour of every day. You’re allowed to just... be.”

You let the words settle. There’s no pity in his tone – just the steady certainty of someone who sees you clearly and still stays. It catches somewhere low in your chest, softens the ache behind your ribs.

Then, softer – almost like it’s something he’s been thinking for a while, “You never disappoint. Even when you try to go down with the ship.”

A beat.

“Especially then.”

*

You fall asleep still on the call.

*

When you wake up, the line’s gone quiet – but there’s a new text:

Hope you slept. Even when you’re running on empty, you’re still more capable than most. You don’t have to earn rest – you already do more than enough. Just let someone help next time. You’re still you, and that’s all I ever need. –B

***

He’s gone when you wake.

The leftover soup has been packed away, the dishwasher set to run. Your files are stacked neatly beside your laptop, untouched. A blanket is tucked more securely around your shoulders.

A Post-it is tacked onto the fridge door.

Don’t rush back. Everything’s handled. (Even the interns) –B

You stare at it for a long time.

Then, slowly, you peel it from the table. Fold it in half, and tuck it into the back pocket of your planner.

***

Bonus: Monday Debrief

You return to the office on Monday feeling (begrudgingly) well-rested. The congestion is gone, your voice is mostly back, and, annoyingly, you do feel better. The time off was probably good for you, not that you're going to say that out loud.

Derek follows you in with two folders, a protein smoothie (suspiciously green, suspiciously healthy looking), and the thinly veiled satisfaction of someone who told you so.

“I’m fine,” you say.

He raises a brow but doesn’t argue. "Shockingly, rest works. Who knew. Here’s everything you missed. You owe me hazard pay.”

You flip through the top file. “Did you really have to give Bucky my address?”

“I didn’t,” Derek says flatly.

You look up. “The interns?”

“They shouldn’t have access to that.”

You squint. “So how did he – ”

Derek waves a hand. “He’s a super soldier. He probably hacked it out of the system or smelled it on your scarf or something. I don’t know. Do you want the budget memo or not?”

You roll your eyes and reach for the smoothie.

He waits a beat, then adds, “The interns considered fighting a war veteran to deliver you rider memos.”

“Derek.”

“Devon did a push-up to prepare.”

From across the room: “Two push-ups!”

You sigh into your drink (it tastes better than it looks). “I leave for three days and this place becomes a circus.”

Derek doesn’t look up. “You say that like it has ever stopped being one.”

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[sjsmith56]

Bench Pressing a Hummer (for Charity)

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

Summary: He benches a Hummer for charity. You bench your dignity watching his thighs in compression leggings.

Warnings/ tags: HORNY BUT THATS ABOUT IT (nothing else happens), Original Characters galore, author is a whore for arms, backs, thighs, please do not spot anyone if you cant actually lift that weight pls and thank, y/n? no [redacted] instead

Word count: 2.3k

A/N: this is based on an off-hand remark made by Bucky in The Suit Problem™

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The Capitol Charity Event Proposal: “Bench for a Cause”

It starts – as always – as a joke.

You’re in the middle of prepping for a speech when Devon appears in your doorway holding a printed packet titled: BENCH FOR A CAUSE: Proposal Draft (v3.2)

You raise an eyebrow. “Three point two?”

“Jenna made me remove the mock up photos.”

You flip through it. There are event logistics, outreach templates, an attached sponsor pitch deck (featuring Muscle Milk and Smithsonian Affiliates), and a proposed venue: the Capitol West Lawn.

The hook? A Congressional weightlifting challenge to raise money for disaster recovery housing.

The tagline? How much can your Rep., rep?

“I want you to look me in the eye,” you say, slowly, “and tell me this wasn’t just an elaborate excuse to make Barnes lift something heavy in front of C-SPAN.”

Devon does not blink. “It’s for the people.”

POLITICO Newsletter 

“Capitol Gym Bros: Is Congress About to Go Full Strongman?”

Sources close to the [REDACTED] and Barnes offices confirm that a charity initiative tentatively titled Bench for a Cause is being explored as a bipartisan fundraising effort.

While no official statement has been released, one aide was overheard joking that Rep. Barnes could probably “press a decommissioned Hummer H1.”

When asked for comment, Rep. Barnes responded only, “No comment.”

_______

Bench for a Cause

The West Lawn has been converted into something between a CrossFit arena and a bipartisan circus. Weights clink, cameras roll, and several House members are wearing matching compression shirts with their district numbers stencilled on the back. Someone’s aide is holding a protein shake like it’s a sacred artifact.

Devon is sprinting between stations yelling “ENGAGEMENT METRICS, PEOPLE.”

You’re in the event tee – black cotton tight enough to pull across your chest, tucked into high-waisted black compression leggings that hug your thighs and calves like a second skin. Your hair is tied back for practicality, though a few strands stick to your temples in the rising spring heat.

Bucky, of course, looks like a war crime in human form. He’s wearing the same event tee, except on him it’s stretched taut across his shoulders and chest, sleeves desperately negotiating with biceps that were forged from god knows what. The shirt is tucked loosely into black athletic shorts, which sit low on his hips, revealing the top band of sleek black compression leggings clinging to his thighs like sin incarnate. His hair is somehow already damp at the edges, curling slightly where sweat darkens it. He looks less like a Congressman and more like a dangerously hot personal trainer who could bench you for fun and ruin your life with exactly zero guilt.

Your name is already on the bracket, against your will (Mills’ doing).

He approaches casually as you're warming up, clipboard in hand like he’s not the reason half the Hill staffers are fanning themselves with programs.

“Need a spot?” he asks, polite, professional.

You glance up. “You’re volunteering?”

He tilts his head. “If you’re lifting, I’m spotting.”

Your eyes narrow. “You sure? I’ve been hitting those stress reps.”

He smiles. Quiet, knowing. “Figures.”

You lie back on the bench, adjusting your grip on the bar.

Bucky steps into position behind you, looming overhead. The black event tee clings to his torso, sleeves straining against his biceps as he curls his hands under the bar to spot you. His thighs brush the edge of the bench. You catch the faint clink of his dog tags under his shirt as he leans in slightly, eyes locked on the bar just above your hands.

“Ready?” he asks, low and steady.

You nod, trying to ignore the way his voice rumbles right through your sternum. You inhale, engage your core, and lift.

His hands hover just under yours, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his palms. The bar dips once as you lower it to your chest, then press it back up with a quiet exhale. Your eyes flick upward –

Dog tags.

The faint outline pressed against his sternum under the black cotton, swinging slightly with each rep. Your breath catches for a split second before you force your focus back onto the bar.

“Breathe through the press. Elbows in,” he murmurs, voice edged with quiet approval.

You manage eight reps, arms trembling slightly on the last one. As you rack the bar, chest rising fast, you glance up at him again.

He’s smiling. Small. Proud. His hair falls forward slightly,

“Strong,” he says, voice softer now. Warm and heavy with meaning.

He makes a note on the clipboard, eight reps at 30kg total - not impressive by any gym bro standards, but for someone who doesn’t really lift? Solid. Controlled. No flailing. A great feat, given that his thighs were this close to your face.

You tell yourself to get it together, and you sit up, a little breathless, wiping your palms on your thighs. Your chest is still rising faster than normal, your face warm under the early spring sun.

“Not bad for a desk rat,” you say, half-defensively.

Bucky’s already offering you your water bottle, grinning like he’s trying not to. “You were steady. Good form.”

It lands somewhere between your ribs and your throat, burning in the best way. You try not to smile. You fail. Heat rises to your cheeks, and it’s not just from the reps you just did.

And then – very seriously – you turn to him.

“Your turn,” you say. “And I spot you.”

He blinks once. His eyes drag down your figure, taking in the way your chest is still rising and falling from the exertion, the flush blooming across your cheekbones, the determined little scowl pinching your brows. Something shifts in his gaze – darker, amused, dangerously fond.

You reach for your water bottle, making quick work with the cap. When you take a sip, a thin trickle escapes the corner of your mouth, sliding down the side of your throat and disappearing under the collar of your tee. His eyes follow it like he’s tracking a sniper’s red dot.

“You?” he asks, voice low.

“Mhm. Equal opportunity. I lift, you lift. You spot, I spot.” A pause. His mouth twitches into that smirk that has always made your pulse spike.

“Gender equality,” he murmurs.

Then it's his turn to lie back on the bench, that black event tee stretching to its limits across his chest, sleeves biting into his biceps. As he shifts into position, the hem rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of toned stomach – pale skin mapped with old scars and sculpted abs, the faint trail of hair disappearing below his compression waistband.

You step behind him, hands hovering just under the bar, fingers spread, braced like you can actually catch it if he dropped it. It’s very endearing, how seriously you take your role.

He inhales, ribcage expanding, dog tags sliding against his sternum under the fabric. When he exhales, the weight moves like air.

350kg. Easy. Way easier than keeping his heart rate steady with you standing over him and looking like that.

You make a show of focusing. “Breathe through the press. Elbows in.” You echo his earlier encouragement. 

He almost laughs. Almost. Instead, he glances up at you through dark lashes, through the bar, and everything else that separates you, and lets his mouth curl into something dangerously soft.

“I know how to bench,” he murmurs back, amused.

You lean in. “Just doing my job, Congressman.”

His grip tightens on the bar – your words slip straight under his skin like a blade. He looks up at you fully then, blue eyes locking onto yours. For a split second, he forgets how to breathe, because you’re smiling down at him, and he’s gone.

_______

Intern Slack, again

#bench-for-a-cause

[Micah]: [link: Capitol Charity Bench Press livestream clip] 1:43:07 He says it. "Strong." 1:43:08 She looks like she’s going to ascend 1:43:10 I ascended [Mills]: that was very soft of him like he’d watched her do 30kg and was ready to submit a marriage license [Jenna]: SORRY WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THE WAY HE SMILED WHEN SHE RACKED THE BAR like it was the most impressive thing he’d ever seen as if he has not personally fought entire armies ??? [Devon]: 🏋️ “he called her strong”: a 72-slide powerpoint on what it means when a man like that says something like that 🚨 EDIT DROP 🚨 “Can He Bench Her Heart?” feat. side-by-side: Bucky lifting 350kg Her lifting 30kg A heart emoji photoshopped onto each dumbbell caption: love is about spotting each other’s limits [Jenna]: NO. NO NO NO NO EVERYONE SHUT UP [Mills]: …what happened [Jenna]: THE WHITE HOUSE JUST SHARED THE VIDEO THE VIDEO ON THEIR MAIN ACCOUNT CAPTIONED IT “Mutual support in leadership. Strength, trust, and shared vision. #CapitolStrong” [Micah]: …they did not [Jenna]: [shared link] YES THEY DID. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS??? THIS IS ARCHIVED THIS IS NATIONAL RECORD OUR THIRST IS PART OF AMERICAN HISTORY [Devon]: if i end up in the Library of Congress because of the phrase “bench me like one of your French girls,” i have no regrets [Mills]: maybe they’re just… promoting teamwork? [Jenna]: HE CALLED HER STRONG MILLS AND NOW IT’S NATIONAL HISTORY

_______

The event is winding down. The medals (custom-printed kettlebells, credit: Micah) have been handed out. The press is packing up. Most Reps have drifted off to cocktail hour or policy huddles.

You’re mid-conversation with Derek – who is absolutely Not Amused that someone got your office to sponsor protein bars – when the crowd on the far side of the field starts making noise.

Not polite applause.

Cheering.

Chanting.

You turn just in time to see Devon sprinting across the grass like he’s achieved something historic. He skids to a stop next to you, panting.

“They brought the Hummer.”

You blink. “What.”

“The Smithsonian intern. She came through. It’s real. It’s parked on the service drive. We are so back.”

You fight your way through the crowd (of course there’s a crowd now) and sure enough, there it is - a decommissioned Hummer H1 in full matte paint, roped off by a pair of very confused Capitol Police officers.

And standing in front of it, Bucky. His hands are on his hips, and his expression is unreadable.

You reach him just as someone says, “Come on, Barnes. One rep for housing equity.”

He glances at you without saying anything. He raises an eyebrow – well?

You shake your head, arms crossed, trying to keep your face neutral. Your heart is thudding too loudly, and you know he can hear it. “If you tear your rotator cuff, I’m not covering your markup notes.”

His grin is slow and lazy. “Yes ma’am.”

Then he crouches.

Wide stance, knees bent. One hand braced along the axle as he tests the weight, the other curling beside it with measured precision. His thighs tense under those dark compression leggings, lines of muscle tightening like coiled steel. The fabric strains indecently along his shoulders and across his back. For a second, he just stays there – breathing evenly, testing the balance, veins stark against his forearms. His jaw sets.

The entire West Lawn goes silent.

He inhales.

With a low, controlled grunt, he drives upward through his legs, arms locking in place. The front end of the H1 lifts. The massive vehicle’s tires hang cleanly half a meter off the dirt, suspended in stunned, impossible silence.

Everyone stops breathing. Cameras click in rapid-fire panic. Somewhere behind you, Devon is screaming “holy shit”.

You stand there, arms crossed tighter, heat flooding your chest and pooling low in your stomach. Because there he is – lifting five tonnes like it’s an afternoon warmup set, hair falling into his eyes, expression focused and unbothered.

Then, as controlled as he lifted, he lets it drop.

The Hummer lands with a heavy thud, bouncing on its suspension before settling back into the earth like it never moved. Dust puffs around his feet.

He straightens, rolling his shoulders back with casual ease, chest rising and falling under that sweat-darkened tee.

The crowd erupts. Someone throws confetti. Devon blacks out and has to be carried out by Jenna and Mills. C-SPAN gets it from two angles.

And god help you, you can’t even pretend not to stare.

_______

Washington Post Headline – Monday Edition

“Congressman Lifts a Military Vehicle for Charity: Nation Briefly United”

Rep. Barnes (I-NY) hoisted a decommissioned Hummer H1 during the closing ceremony of Bench for a Cause, a bipartisan Capitol Hill fundraiser that raised over $60,000 for post-crisis housing efforts. Rep. [REDACTED] (D-NY), co-sponsor and event participant, was reportedly seen covering her face with her hand and muttering, ‘Absolutely not,’ as Barnes completed the lift.

Aides confirm the vehicle sustained no damage. The same cannot be said for social media.

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