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star-archer · 2 years

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This was sooooo sweet. I love the concept of exposure therapy riding the train. What a sweetheart! Beautiful writing 💕

How’s Your Head? | Bucky Barnes x Reader

This has been in my WIP forever and I finally finished it. Once again, I am looking for a soft, kind, Bucky Barnes to take care of me and flirt with me. Is that so much to ask?🥲

This is slightly longer than my usual stuff, just FYI. The WC is 7280. And yes the title is a Drag Race reference. 😂

Warnings: reader injury (not severe), creepy men (jail), blood, vomit, flirting, fluff🫶

Bucky didn’t like the staring. The eyes that seemed to follow him everywhere he went. The old woman just a few seats down from him leered at him almost aggressively, like she hoped looks could kill. And though this was a common occurrence, it still rubbed him the wrong way.

“Another adoring fan…” Bucky thought.

He shifted side to side along with the rocking of the subway car and did his best to ignore her gaze- but couldn’t stand it any longer. He gave her a nod and a small, forced smile before heading for the adjoining subway car. Hopefully, he’d find an empty seat free from gawkers and onlookers.

But when he opened the door to the next car, he didn’t find the peace and quiet he’d hoped for.

“I’m not interested…” you said to the creepy guy sitting next to you.

“Oh, come on,” the man insisted. “Don’t be so uptight, sugar.” He rested a hand on your thigh and gave your leg a squeeze, his fingers digging into your flesh.

“Fuck off, dude. Seriously?” You banished his hand and stood from your seat, “eat glass, asshole.”

But as you tried to make your getaway, the man grabbed you by the wrist. He pulled you close as you struggled in his grip, his face only inches from yours. “Maybe you should learn some fuckin’ manners,” he threw you to the ground, your head striking the floor.

Bucky flew into a blind rage. He made quick work of your assailant, nearly removing the man’s head from his body. And with the entitled dickhead desperately escaping to another subway car, Bucky made his way to your side.

“Hey, are you alright?”

You sat on the floor, slightly dazed. A thick fog settled into every corner of your mind and your ears stung with a sharp ringing. “Yeah, I’m good. Didn’t hurt that bad,” you lied. Yet another interaction with an unknown man. Yes, he’d shooed away your creeper, but you wanted to be left alone. No more strange men, no more men pretending to be “one of the good guys” before showing their true self.

If you could convince this random guy that you were okay, maybe he wouldn’t bother you. Maybe you’d be able to make it home without being touched by another strange hand. “Thanks for asking, but I’m-”

“Oh- you’re bleeding”. Only then did you notice the rush of warmth running down the back of your neck. Bucky yanked the jacket from his body and reached for your bloodied skull before quickly recoiling. “Erm, can I?”

You nodded- the motion made you wince.

With cautious hands, he used his jacket to hold pressure to your wound. He stared down at you with genuine concern, his brow furrowed with worry.

After a few moments, most of the fog cleared and brought you screeching back to reality. The reality in which a man you’d never met held his jacket to your bleeding scalp as you sat on the floor of a subway car. Pain pulsed beneath his touch and shot through your head. Warm blood dripped down your neck. But you didn’t care- all you wanted was to move.

Bucky watched as you struggled to get up and instantly tried to stop you. “Hey, careful. I don’t think-”

“I don’t wanna be on this floor any longer than I have to,” you did your best to stand, but the dizziness sabotaged your efforts. “People do weird shit on the train. I’d probably sitting in someone’s pee.”

Bucky gave it a thought and instantly reconsidered his cautioning. “Ew. Yeah. You’re right,” the disgusted look on his face nearly made you laugh out loud. He thought back on all the questionable and downright nasty things he’d seen on the subway- he didn’t want you on that floor. “May I?” He offered you his free hand and got you safely into a seat.

“Which stop is yours?” He asked, settling into the chair next to you. And though he seemed like a perfect gentleman, you gave him a suspicious glance.

“Oh- I didn’t mean that in a ‘where do you live, I’m gonna follow you home’ type of way. More like, ‘how many stops do you have left before you can go get some rest?’ type of way”

You let out a laugh that sent pain pulsing behind your eyes. Maybe this stranger wasn’t so bad. “Um, I still have like five to go. I think. I’m coming all the way from Coney Island.”

“Coney Island, huh?” A rush of memories hit Bucky like a train. Riding the cyclone with Steve and watching him puke. Spending all his money to win a stuffed animal for some redhead he had a crush on.

“Yeah, I got to hang out with a girl I know from college. Haven’t seen her in a while and she’s never been out there. It was actually a pretty great day until that asshole cracked my head open…”

Bucky grimaced. He pulled his jacket from your scalp to give the wound another look, only to be greeted by a continuous flow of blood. “I think you should probably go to the ER. You might need stitches. And there’s a good chance you have a concussion.”

You shot him only a nonchalant shrug, “I’m not worried about it. Plus, I don’t feel like going into debt so they can give me two Tylenol and an ice pack”.

Bucky liked your sense of humor, your wit. How you could be cheeky and sarcastic after being accosted surprised him. But he clocked the tension in your shoulders, the worry in your eyes. You were uneasy. Your glance darted from one end of the subway car to the other every few seconds; he knew you had to be searching for your assailant. Or the next man who wanted to touch you without permission.

“Hey, would you rather take a cab home?” Bucky said, pulling you from your anxious spiral. “I don’t blame you if you don’t want to ride the train after what happened.”

“Oh, um…”

“I’m not inviting myself home with you-” Bucky shook his head. He was cute when he got flustered. “I just mean, I’ll pay for you to take a cab if you’re uncomfortable.”

How you seemed to meet both the bottom of the barrel and the crème de le crème of men back-to-back nearly gave you whiplash. But this handsome stranger had done enough; you couldn’t let him pay for your ride home. “That’s- wow, that’s really sweet. But you don’t have to. It’s okay.”

“What if I want to? You seem uneasy… like you’re waiting for him to come back.”

You nodded.

“Then let’s get you a cab, alright? Next stop, we’re outta here.” He shot you a wink before once again reassuring you that he was not going to follow you home. “Is there someone who can keep an eye on you, though? Like I said, you probably have a concussion. And if your roommate or, um, significant other can sit with you for the rest of the night, that would be a good idea. Head injuries are no joke.”

“Well, I don’t have a significant other,” you almost laughed. “And my roommate’s out of town. She was supposed to get back around sevenish, but her flight got crazy delayed because of weather- now she’s not getting home for a few hours.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. He checked his watch and saw that it was only 8:04pm. He needed someone to sit with you for the rest of the night. Just in case something happened, you’d need a friend or loved one by your side. And if you didn’t have someone there with you, Bucky knew he’d spend the remainder of his evening worrying about the cute stranger he met on the train.

Just then, the subway stopped. Bucky offered you his arm and guided you onto the platform and up the stairs- all while keeping his jacket in place against your wound. Getting away from the train eliminated your unease. No longer were you trapped in the tiny space, your blood staining the floor. You had an escort in the form of a good samaritan, and a ride that would get you home without any further abuse.

But when Bucky hailed you a cab, your anxiety resurfaced.

“Hey, um…” you eyed the car as it approached, “Would you- do you mind riding with me?”

Bucky cocked his head to the side.

“I don’t know- I’m just a little nervous and I don’t really wanna be in a cab alone with another random man,” you said. “I know it’s probably inconvenient for you- I’ll pay for your ride home from my place.” The taxi neared the curb and stopped in front of you, sending your unease into overdrive. “Do you mind?”

Bucky clocked your wide eyes and shaking hands. Sure, you made jokes and sarcastic quips about what happened. But deep down, you were shaken. And he wanted to help in any way he could. “Not at all- I get it,” he gave you a reassuring look, “and you don’t have to pay for my ride. Let’s just get you home, alright?”

He held the door open for you and helped you into the cab before sliding in behind you- his hand still attached to your bloody skull. The ride was quiet, save for the honking of horns and cursing drivers. But having Bucky with you for the duration eased your discomfort.

“So, is there anyone you can call to come look after you?” Bucky asked after a while, “A friend, a neighbor, a family member?”

“I don’t really have any friends,” you said. “But not in a ‘I’m a loser and can’t make friends’ kind of way, I promise.” Bucky laughed. You liked his laugh. “I’m just still kinda new here. And all my family lives in across the country. Plus, I only know two of my neighbors. One of them is an old man who always tell me my skin looks ‘so soft’-”

Bucky’s nose wrinkled, “Ew…"

“Yeah. And the other is this girl who told me to shut the fuck up because she thinks my footsteps are too loud? So yeah, I don’t have many connections here yet.”

He sensed a little embarrassment staining your words and aimed to make you feel better, “Well I’ve lived here for quite some time, and I don’t have any friends, either.”

That didn’t seem possible to you. He was so likable. Quiet, yet endearing. And certainly, a gentleman. He made you feel safe. You wondered how his girlfriend would react when she found out he took another woman home.

Bucky found himself wondering how you didn’t have swaths of friends. Even after your harrowing experience on the train, you were so charming. Funny. Sweet. It was even harder for him to believe you didn’t have a love interest to go home to. But after what he’d witnessed tonight, he didn’t blame you for keeping to yourself.

“What part of town do you live in?” You did your best to conceal the optimism in your voice, the hoped that he lived close by. It was embarrassing how smitten you were with this man.

“Brooklyn,” Bucky said. “I’ve lived there for a while- save for some years I spent, um, away.”

Brooklyn. Nothing a quick train ride couldn’t solve. Though you weren’t too keen on the subway after the night’s events. “Well, tell your girlfriend that I apologize for keeping you so long.”

“I don’t have one,” Bucky said. Things inside the cab fell quiet.

“Oh. Well, do you-” you second guessed yourself, but decided to push through. “Do you want to stay with me until my roommate gets home? You know, since you’re so worried about me and my possible concussion and my lack of friends.”

Bucky stopped breathing. “Oh, um. Sure. Yeah. If that’s- if that’s alright. You sure you’re okay inviting a stranger into your house?”

“Well, you’re not really a stranger, Sergeant Barnes”. You shot him a wink.

An immediate ringing filled Bucky’s ears. He didn’t know what to say, how to react.

The rest of the ride was quiet. Bucky’s mind echoed with the sound of your voice referring to him by name. He liked the way it sounded coming from you. But he hated that you knew who- and what- he was. And when the cab turned onto your street and stopped in front of your apartment, he nearly panicked. He reconsidered his agreement to stay with you. But you didn’t seem to mind having the ex-Winter Soldier so close. And he didn’t want you to be alone with a head injury.

Against his better judgement, he followed you to the front door of your building.

“My great aunt actually lived here back in the fifties,” you told Bucky as you fumbled for your keys. Bucky wondered how you could tell casual stories while dealing with a head injury and an ex-assassin. But as you continued to speak, he realized that he didn’t quite hear what you’d said. He was still reeling from your mention of his name.

And then he noticed you struggling. You were dizzy after cracking your head open, and a slight shaking rendered your hands almost useless. No matter how many times you tried, you couldn’t seem to finagle the key into the lock.

“Um, do you want some help?” He gestured to your keys and allowed you to drop them into his free hand. He pushed the old door open with a loud creak and escorted you inside the lobby- his hand still resting on the back of your head. It was quiet while the two of you waited for the ancient elevator to roar to life. And when the doors finally opened, he guided you inside and watched you press the ‘5’ button.

“So… how’d you know it was me?” He asked as the elevator slowly climbed to your floor.

“Well, when I first saw you, I thought you looked kinda familiar. But I couldn’t place you”. You laughed a quiet, bashful laugh, “Then you knelt down next to me, and I thought I was gonna pass out- but not from the head trauma. You just you have like, the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.” The head injury had you a bit loopy, a little too honest. Too confident. “I knew I’d seen those eyes before… and then it clicked. You were so chivalrous, you know? So old fashioned. I mean, who uses their own jacket to stop a stranger’s head wound from bleeding?”

Bucky shrugged. His cheeks flushed pink.

“I read a book a few years ago about Captain America and his efforts during World War II. And there was a huge portion about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes… And that’s where I’d seen those eyes.” You flashed him a dramatic wink, “Truth be told, it was my favorite part of the book.”

A shy laugh made its way out of Bucky’s mouth, “Is that so?”

The elevator lurched to a stop and nearly sent you tumbling to the floor. You’d gotten used to the clunky machine since moving into the building, but your sabotaged equilibrium didn’t stand a chance against it. Bucky caught you in a careful, protective grasp before you could tip over. He gently righted you and searched your face for any indicators of discomfort.

“You alright?”

“All good, Sergeant Barnes.” You gave him a salute.

He rolled his eyes and escorted you into the hall, “you can just call me Bucky, if you like.”

“Okay, Bucky-” you said with a smile, “follow me.” You lead him in the direction of your apartment- with his jacket still plastered to your scalp. The man was determined to help you. You’d give him that.

You once again needed his assistance when it came to unlocking your front door. But when Bucky got the door open, he just stood there. He didn’t go inside. He held the door for you and insisted you go ahead, finally peeling the jacket from your wound. He knew he didn’t belong here.

You noticed how tentative he was about entering your home and beckoned him inside. “You can come in…” you said. “Are super soldiers like vampires? Do y’all need an invitation?”

Bucky laughed, “No. I just… I don’t do this kind of thing very often.”

“Oh, you don’t accompany injured women home from the subway on a weekly basis? I’m shocked.”

You flipped on the light and let the warm glow reveal your apartment. Bucky admired the art covering your walls, the books lining your shelves, the smell of some kind of baked goods lingering in the air. This place was cozy, welcoming. Nothing like his apartment.

While he was distracted drinking in the details of your home, you gave his jacket a once over. Blood coated the leather and smeared the lining. It was enough to make you nauseous. “Sorry about this mess… here, let me clean it up for-”

“It’s leather- I’m not worried about it,” Bucky shrugged. “I’ll just wipe it off later.”

“Ew, I think that’s considered a biohazard, Sarge.”

Bucky’s laugh echoed through your home- you liked the sound of his voice bouncing around your space. “Well, lucky for me, I’m not susceptible to biohazards. So, really, it’s not a big deal.” He shot you a wink and hung his bloody jacket on the back of a chair. “Let me take a look at your head.”

He gently moved your hair out of the way enough to expose your wound. He was as careful as he possible not to hurt you or make things worse. And using the dish towel you offered him, he wiped away enough blood to get a good look.

“It’s big, but not deep enough to warrant stitches. And it looks like the bleeding has finally come to a stop.”

“Perfect. I’m gonna go take a shower” you said. “Make yourself at home. You’re welcome to anything in the fridge, except the kombucha. My roommate will murder you if you drink her kombucha.”

Bucky didn’t even know what kombucha was. “Are- are you sure you wanna go shower?”

“Um, yeah. Gotta get the subway-floor germs off me,” you gave a dramatic shudder. “Some of us are, indeed, susceptible to biohazards.”

“That’s fair,” he laughed, “I’m just a little worried about your balance… I think it’s probably seen better days.”

He wasn’t wrong. The floor did indeed seem to dip and shift under you unsuspecting feet. The room spun on occasion. The walls wiggled. But you needed to get cleaned up. “I’ll be extra careful. Promise.” You offered him your pinky and made him link his with yours. “But I have more blood in my hair than anyone should- I need a shower.” You left Bucky alone in your living room with a promise to be back soon.

It was strange for him, being in a stranger’s home like this. He didn’t get invited places or have friends to hang out with. He had Sam- and that was it. And while Sam was great, he never felt quite like this at Sam’s apartment. Something about your place warmed him, made him feel a little lighter. Or maybe it was you. Who was he kidding? Of course, it was you.

But Bucky knew this feeling couldn’t last. In a few hours, your roommate would return and send him home. And that would be the end of it. Of course, he’d be thrilled to see you again under better circumstances. But assuming he’d get that chance would only lead to disappointment. And so, as he waited for you to finish your shower, he did his best to remember this feeling just in case it was the last time.

“I said make yourself at home and you didn’t even sit down!” you said when you emerged from the bathroom. You found Bucky in the living room with his hands in his pockets, admiring your things as though he were in a museum. Looking, never touching. “Relax a little, sarge. The couch is really comfy, I promise.”

Bucky liked the way you looked with your skin still slightly damp form the shower, your hair wet and a little messy. “Oh, yeah- I just got distracted looking at all your…” he gestured to your bookcase, “your books and your tchotchkes. You have good taste- I like that you have two copies of Fellowship of the Ring.”

“Well, my sister dropped one of them in the lake at summer camp when we were kids…” you pointed to the faded cover and worn spine of the book in question. “She took a hairdryer to it and it’s mostly fine, but my mom made her get me a replacement. I just can’t seem to part with this one, though.” You plucked your water-damaged copy of Fellowship of the Ring from the shelf and flipped through the pages, “too much sentimental value. You know?

Bucky felt a small smile creeping upward- you didn’t mind damaged goods. Maybe you’d want to see him again after all.

“Can I get you a drink or something? I have water, tea, La Croix, wine…” you looked at him expectantly.

“Oh, no I’m okay-”

“Well, I’m going to the fridge for some water anyway, so you’re not saving me a trip…” you shot him a wink and began your trek to the kitchen. He followed in your footsteps, too much of a gentleman to let you fetch him a drink. And though he didn’t know what La Croix was, he took the one you offered him with a smile.

He followed you yet again, but to the couch this time. He sat a respectful distance away- as respectful as your small couch would allow- and taste tested the blackberry drink in his hand. It didn’t taste like blackberries. But he thanked you, anyway.

He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to check in on you after your shower- he was too entranced by the sight of you in your pajamas. “Hey, how’s your head?”

“Haven’t had any complaints.”

Maybe it was too forward of a joke. Maybe someone from his time wouldn’t appreciate crass humor. Bucky’s cheeks flushed red- and he burst into laughter. You joined him, ignoring the throbbing pain in your skull.

“It feels fine. I mean, it hurts, but it’s nothing I haven’t experienced before” you said. “Are you just gonna make sure I stay up all night?”

Bucky cocked his head to the side, “uh, I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Oh…” you grew a little embarrassed. “I thought you couldn’t go to sleep if you have a concussion.”

“You can go to sleep- it’s just good to have someone check in on you now and then,” he said. “And, hey, you don’t have to stay in here with me- don’t feel like you have to entertain me, or anything. If you wanna go to bed, I’ll be fine out here.”

“Well, I don’t know about entertaining, cause I think the concussion kinda fucked up my ability to tap dance,” you laughed. “But I wanna hang out here with you- if you don’t mind the company.”

He gave you a shy smile, “I don’t mind at all.”

Bucky wasn’t anything like the tabloids said. He wasn’t cold or scary or threatening. He sat on your couch, sipping a La Croix and admiring your throw blanket. He was the farthest thing from intimidating. He had a quiet calm about him that brought you peace. Never did you think you’d invite a man you met on the subway to accompany you home. But Bucky made you feel safe. He was sweet, he clearly cared for your well-being. He was, by all definitions, perfect.

“So, what do superheroes do in their downtime?” you asked. “Like when you’re not saving the world, what do you do for fun?”

Bucky shrugged. He didn’t do anything for fun. “Um, I have court mandated therapy appointments,” he gave an awkward laugh. “I read. I hang out with Sam when he’s not in Louisiana visiting his sister. And I have lunch with a neighbor of mine every Wednesday- this old man named Yori.”

“I’m sure he could say the same about you- that he has lunch with some old man named Bucky.”

Bucky’s head fell back in a laugh, “yeah, you’re right. He’s- he’s about twenty years younger than me.” Bucky didn’t bring up the fact that Yori didn’t know his real age or anything about his past. About how the Winter Soldier killed his son. “Um, what about you?” He quickly changed the subject, “what do you do for fun?”

You thought it over for a moment. You hadn’t expected him to ask; most guys never asked what you liked to do for fun. They didn’t ask you anything at all, really. “Well, I also go to therapy,” you said. “My therapist’s name is Angela and I love her. And when I’m not ‘hanging out’ with Angela, I like to read. I like to go on walks. Oh, and I do a lot of baking- there’s a Tupperware of chocolate chip cookies on the island if you want some.”

Bucky’s eyes grew wide. He was off the couch quicker than you could comprehend and returned with the entire Tupperware in hand. But before he could dive in, he offered one to you. He was a gentleman, after all.

“Oh, shit, these are so good”. Bucky wiped a stray crumb from his lip, “seriously, maybe the best I’ve ever had.”

His praise made your cheeks hot. Bucky Barnes called you ‘the best he ever had’- it was enough to make you sweat. “Oh, I’m flattered. The recipe’s been in my family for generations, though, so I can’t take full credit, but I-”

“I’m giving you full credit”, he said as he finished his second cookie. “These things are incredible.”

You smiled so hard it hurt. “Well, I make at least one batch a week, so…” This was it, your excuse to see Bucky again. You could simply say that you wanted to bake him some cookies as a way of saying thank you, and then you’d ask him out. It was a perfect plan, really. A flawless, surefire way to guarantee that you’d see him at least once more. But as you tried to suggest baking him a ‘thank you’ batch, your mouth flooded with saliva.

Bucky clocked the way you grew suddenly quiet. He dropped his third cookie and inched closer, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Hey, you okay? Do you need something?”

You did your best to push past the wave of nausea. Breathing in your nose and out through your mouth, you willed your body to cooperate. You made a valiant effort, but it was no match for the clear and present threat of vomit. This was happening- now. You scrambled to your feet and made a beeline for the bathroom, swearing to yourself you wouldn’t puke in front of the James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky rushed after you and found you kneeling in front of the toilet, emptying the contents of your stomach. “Oh, shit- here, let me,” he carefully moved your hair out of your face, holding it behind you in an imitation ponytail. His touch was gentle, cautious. He didn’t want to pull too hard and hurt you- you didn’t need any extra pain.

He watched your body lurch as you wretched over and over, voiding your system completely. It was harsh, almost violent. And when you finally sat back on your heels, black and white spots danced through your field of vision. You were empty. Spent. Exhausted.

“Hey, do me a favor and sit against this wall, okay?” Bucky guided you backward until you rested comfortably like he asked. “I’m gonna go get you some water, and I don’t want you tipping over while I’m gone.” Even in your despondent, miserable state, he still made you smile. And when he was certain that you wouldn’t injure yourself in his absence, he rushed to the kitchen for a glass of water.

He returned moments later with ice cold water in hand. “Thanks,” you croaked, your throat raw. Small sips of the cool water eased the burning. And a few more swigs rid your mouth of the unpleasant aftertaste. “I’m sure you weren’t planning on watching a stranger puke tonight,” you laughed. It made your head pound. “But I appreciate the water. And you holding my hair.”

Bucky plopped down next to you with a “sure thing” and a “don’t worry about it.” But you’d heard those phrases before. You’d heard them from people who were never a sure thing, people who made you worry about everything they did for you. They’d throw their rare acts of kindness in your face and use them as ammo in an attempt to disprove the pain they caused. It was condescending. Manipulative. Hurtful. But Bucky meant what he said. All he wanted to do was help. You could tell.

He watched you catch your breath. Watched you drink your water in small sips. But he kept an eye out for another wave of nausea. He wanted to be ready in case he needed to hold your hair again. And he found himself thanking the universe that you’d invited him in; imagining you going through this by yourself broke his heart.

“How do you feel?” he asked after a while.

“Not the best... but I’ll probably survive.”

Bucky’s laugh filled the room, “well, that’s very good news.”

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence. Bucky’s hand rested near yours. Your thigh bumped against his a few times. You swore electric currents passed between the two of you each time you touched.

“Hey, if you don’t mind, could you grab me some Tylenol?”

Bucky was up in an instant, ready to fetch you what you needed. But he found himself lost with no idea where he was going. He was so intent on helping, on making you feel better, that he was ready to run off without a map.

“In the cabinet to the left of the fridge,” you laughed.

He shot you a wink and sped off. And while he rummaged through your cabinet, you made an embarrassing effort to stand. You rose on wobbly legs, determined to brush your teeth. There was no way you were going to have vomit breath around Bucky- absolutely not. He was the handsome stranger of your dreams. And you couldn’t screw this up; not that you thought he’d kiss a random concussed woman he met on the subway. But you wanted to leave the very best impression possible.

Bucky came screeching own the hall, bottle of Tylenol in hand. “I didn’t know how many you wanted, so I brought the whole thing”, he shrugged. You shot him a smile in the mirror and gave him a muffled “thanks”.

He stood patiently in the doorway, waiting for you finish brushing your teeth. And when you banished the rank taste of bile, you accepted the Tylenol. You tossed back four pills, and before you could reach for your water, Bucky retrieved it for you. He was one step ahead of what you needed.

With the pills washed down your throat, you gave Bucky an expectant look. “Back to the couch?”

“Yeah, I mean, only if you’re feeling up to it,” he checked his watch. Noticed the yawn you tried to keep concealed. “If you wanna get some rest, please, don’t mind me. You can go to bed- I’ll be fine on my own.”

“No, I’m good. I’m fine,” you took him by the hand and led him back to the living room. “I’m having a good time.” Bucky didn’t say a word; he just let you guide him. He hadn’t held hands with someone in- he didn’t know how long. And holding hands with you- a stranger he’d grown rather smitten with- was enough to stop his heart.

The two of you sunk back into the couch- closer this time- and kept the conversation going. Your thigh rested against Bucky’s; his arm curved around the back of the couch. You could’ve sworn he was playing with a piece of your hair as he talked. But you didn’t want to ask and ruin the moment.

As the night continued, Bucky was shocked. He couldn’t believe you’d only heard of a few of his favorite movies. And he’d never heard of any of yours. “Make me a list,” you said, handing him a pen and a scrap of paper. “And I’ll make one for you. A person’s favorite movies say a lot about them.”

“Yeah?” he cocked an eyebrow at you. “And what do mine say about me? The ones you know of, that is.”

A sly smile pulled at your lips, “they say that you’re a hopeless romantic.” It almost sounded like an accusation, and Bucky couldn’t help but laugh.

“Is that so?”

“That is so!” you told him. “But I’m gonna tell you a secret…” You lowered your voice, beckoned him closer, scanned the room as though in search of any eavesdroppers. “I’m the same way.”

Just as you finished your list of movies for Bucky, you considered writing down your number. It would be so smooth, so perfectly timed- but what if he thought it was too forward? What if he didn’t want your phone number at all? You scratched out your area code and handed him the list with a smile.

The two of you continued teasing and joking and learning about each other. You found out that Bucky loved peach cobbler. He learned about your passion for animals. And eventually you asked the question you’d been curious about all night.

“So, where were you headed?”

“What?”

“Well, you were on the subway. I’m assuming you were going somewhere.” You thought he was probably going to some fellow hero’s house for Super Movie Night. Or maybe a meeting with Captain America and Company. He had something much cooler to do than anything you planned for the night, that was for sure.

“Oh, right…” he cringed. “Um, I wasn’t actually heading anywhere. I was just riding the train to, well, ride the train.” It was embarrassing. More embarrassing than anything he’d ever done or said in his hundred years of life.

You cocked your head to the side, “Hmm. Interesting. So, is that like a hobby of yours?”

He wished he could take his answer back. He wished he would’ve said he was going to dinner. Or Target. Or literally anywhere. But no, he just had to be honest. “No, it isn’t a hobby. It’s more like… exposure therapy.”

“Shit. Sorry,” you threw him an apologetic look. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s okay, no big deal. I just- I don’t really like confined spaces. Or spaces with a lot of people. It’s a- it’s a long story.”

You nodded.

“So, my therapist told me two combine the two and force myself to take the train- which isn’t great for my fear of trains,” he let out an awkward laugh. “Anyway, I was just trying it out. Seeing how it made me feel.”

Your heart broke for him. He had so many problems, so much trauma to deal with. And while you weren’t a psychiatrist, you didn’t think combining three of his fears into one nightmare was very sound medical advice. “And how did it make you feel?”

“It wasn’t great- this lady was staring daggers at me for ten solid minutes. But I did get to teach that creepy guy a lesson, so at least there’s a silver lining.”

You laughed. He loved the sound- wanted to hear it all the time.

“Thank you again, by the way, Sarge. You really rocked that guy’s shit.”

“I don’t like hurting people-” he shrugged, “It’s just something I’m good at. I try not to engage in violence unless absolutely necessary, you know? But that guy deserved it. Probably deserved a little more, but…” He gestured to you, “priorities.”

A warm rush flooded your cheeks. James Buchanan Barnes referred to you as a priority.

The evening continued as the two of you swapped stories. You couldn’t believe how funny he was, how many ridiculous things he did back when he was young. In the comfortable safety of your living room, he came alive. You asked for more tales of young James Barnes and his antics with Steve Rogers.

But as time passed, Bucky clocked the way you sank deeper into the couch. You nodded along with his stories and made comments here and there, but there was no mistaking your exhaustion. You leaned against his body more and more until your head rested on his shoulder.

And then, you were asleep. Completely out.

But Bucky didn’t mind. He sat still and quiet. He silenced his phone and yours. After the night you had, you needed the rest. And he was more than happy to help you get some sleep. He held in his laughter as you muttered nonsense under your breath- something about crepes and trench coats. It was perfect. Not the night Bucky expected, but the night he needed. And he’d stay in that exact position for hours if he had to.

But after only forty minutes, a loud crash scared you awake.

Two large pieces of luggage fell to the floor inside your front door. “Fuck Delta airlines and FUCK LAX!” your roommate, Emma, yelled. “I swear to god, there’s a curse on that fucking airport and Delta is the devil’s airline.”

She eyed the room for a moment, taking in the unexpected scene. “Ew, why is there a bloody jacket in the kitchen? And who the fuck are you?”

You stood, begrudgingly leaving your spot next to Bucky. “This is Bucky, that’s his jacket. Some asshole attacked me on the train. I split my head open. He brought me home and kept an eye on me till you got back.”

Maybe she was just in a shit mood because of the travel nightmare. Or maybe she recognized Bucky. But either way, Emma wasn’t having it. “Okay, well, thanks for bringing her home. But I’m back, so you can go.Now. And don’t forget your nasty jacket.”

Bucky gave an awkward laugh. He mumbled a “nice to meet you” and stood from the couch. The two of you locked eyes for a moment, and you wished telepathy came with the serum. If he could only read your mind, he’d know how sorry you were. How horrified you were by Emma’s behavior. You couldn’t believe how rude she was being, how utterly unkind.

But your mind and body weren’t quite working together. You were still groggy, lost in the haze of sleep. And your head injury only made things more difficult. You did your best to formulate a response to your Emma and an apology to Bucky. But before you could say anything, Emma was at it again.

“Seriously, dude. It’s time for you to go, get out of my house.”

Bucky was so flustered, so uncomfortable that he left without saying goodbye. Without getting your number. He shut down. He simply snagged his jacket from the kitchen and bailed. He heard you arguing with Emma as he walked down the hall. Heard you near-tears.

He wanted to turn around and say goodnight. To protect you from Emma’s wrath. Comfort you. More than anything, he wanted to get your number. Maybe ask you out. But he was too thrown off by the whole thing. He didn’t expect such a response- he didn’t even get to tell Emma that you needed looking after. He just ran. And it made him feel like a coward.

He pressed the button for the ancient elevator once. Twice. Five times. And when it finally arrived, he got in and slammed the button for the first floor. Ruining his chances of ever seeing you again. Sure, he knew where you lived. But he couldn’t just show up. You’d already dealt with enough creepy shit from weird men- he wasn’t going to stalk you.

Bucky spent the entire elevator ride heartbroken. He knew he’d have to go home to his empty apartment; knew he’d think about you for way too long. You’d probably forget about him after a day- maybe two at the most. And he’d spend months trying to get over the stranger from the subway.

But when he stepped out of the elevator, he found you waiting for him.

“Hi, um… what?” He was more than a little confused. “How did you- how’d you get down here so fast?”

“Stairs,” you breathed. “Faster.”

Bucky couldn’t believe you. It was romantic; it was something out of one of his favorite movies. But it was stupid. “That was… that was a terrible idea- you could’ve gotten hurt. You almost fell over earlier when you were just standing still. Why’d you run down the stairs?”

“Cause I didn’t get to say goodbye…” your voice was soft, heartbroken. “And I didn’t get to give you my number.”

Wordlessly, Bucky handed you his phone. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to chance ruining such a perfect opportunity. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him, of all people. That you actually wanted to see him again.

When you finished, you extended Bucky’s phone in his direction- but recoiled as he tried to reach for it. “Promise me you’ll call?”

“On my life,” he said. The answer brought a warm smile to your face- a smile he wanted to see again. As soon as possible. And when you gave his phone back, he took a moment to stare down at your number. This had to be a dream.

“Do me a favor and go get some rest, okay?” He extended his pinky and linked it with yours, “Drink a lot of water. And even though she seems like she’s in a bad mood, ask your roommate to check in on you every now and then.”

“Yeah, like she’s gonna go for that-”

“Tell her that if she doesn’t, I’m coming back to look after you myself. And I’ll drink her, her um…”

“Kombucha,” you whispered.

“Right, I’ll drink her Kombucha!” He laughed and shot you a wink, “That’ll do the trick.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek, wiggled your pinky with his, and stepped into the still-open elevator doors. “Thank you for everything. I’m really happy I met you.”

Bucky blushed. “So am I. Not under the best circumstances, but-”

“Worth it,” you shot him a wink. Just as the doors began to close, the two of you exchanged waves. And just before Bucky vanished from view, you threw a quick “call me” his way. And then he was gone.

You made it back to your apartment, nearly tripping over Emma’s luggage. She apologized as you grabbed a glass of water and nearly cried when you told her the story of your evening. And though you wanted to hear about her airport nightmare, you needed to sleep.

You got settled in bed and realized- you missed Bucky already.

And just as you decided to go to sleep for the night, your phone buzzed:

“Wanted to call but figured it might be too soon- seeing as it’s only been about four minutes. I’ll call you in the morning. And just so you know: even without the tap dancing, I found you very entertaining. I’m really glad I met you.

If you need anything at all, let me know. Feel better.

-JBB”

—————————————

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#Amanda’s fic recs #bucky x reader #bucky fic #james buchanan bucky barnes #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic

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star-archer · 2 years

Text

Awwww thanks so much for the reblog! I am very partial to these too. Maybe because I love a heart shattering romance. 🤭

Phone Tag

Summary: You keep playing phone tag with your hero-turned-fugitive lover. When you find yourself working the same mission in the same place, can your paths cross and bring you together once more?

Pairing: post-CA:CW!Steve x Agent!reader

Word Count: 3175

Warnings: brief cursing, brief mention of violence, some more melancholy (I can’t resist the angst, you guys)

A/N: This is my second submission for @pellucid-constellations love letter writing challenge. (Read my Bucky fic here.) I really hope you love it! Post Civil War, Steve’s on the run and hard to pin down. Thanks so much for reading!

⍟⍟⍟

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket, distracting you from the very exhausting briefing presented at the front of the conference table. Something about Hydra, always something about Hydra, and after the year you’ve had, you were ready for a bit of a break. You pulled your phone out to glance at the screen, and felt that warm, familiar kick of giddy excitement at the name on the Caller I.D. Him.

“Something important, Agent?” Your superior halted his presentation with a frustrated sigh, and you silenced the buzz of your phone and re-pocketed it.

“Not at all, sorry, sir.” You grinned.

You loved sending Him to voicemail. Him being Captain Steve Rogers, known hero-turned-fugitive, secret lover to yours truly. He hated being sent to voicemail, always rambled awkwardly until someone, usually Natasha, told him to hang up already, her voice a cackle from the background. But his ramblings were honest, more honest than his phone calls, even at the latest hours of the night when he had you to himself. He was softer then, almost more shy. He could be honest when he knew you’d react and respond at a later time.

So you often intentionally silenced his call, opting instead to play phone tag from across timezones. He was never in the same place twice, and neither were you anymore. Maybe if you’d bother to answer, the two of you could meet up, tag-team a Hydra mission and spend the night wrapped up in his arms like he’d always promised. But maybe that scared you more than you’d admit, so for now, phone tag was the name of the game.

You exited the conference room a half hour later with a stack of manila folders, a recon mission in the Balkans, and a lower level agent chattering your ear off. It seemed fairly self explanatory, in-and-out. Your agency was making a bigger deal of it than it probably was, and you were waltzing down winding corridors with a smug look on your face knowing what was waiting in your back pocket.

—

Your bags were already packed, and you were on a flight Eastward before you could stop for a breather, however, and it was a good few hours before you got time alone again. Throughout the flight, beyond the chatter of your teammates, you looked at the voicemail notification. And, as the you chased the sun to rise again, you unlocked a hotel door room with a keycard and collapsed onto zillion thread count sheets, finally a moment’s peace to sit and listen.

You tapped the notification with your thumb and pressed the phone to your ear, allowing your eyes to slip closed with exhaustion and jet lag as you listened to the dulcet tones of that man’s sweet voice.

“Hey, it’s me… Steve. Think I’ll ever actually talk to you on the damn phone?” He chuckled. “Anyway, I just wanted to call and let you know I’m alive, and I’m thinking about you. I miss you like crazy. How long has it been? Three months? Four? Jesus. War didn’t even feel this long.”

He let out a deep sigh, and you imagined him falling back onto the comfort of his own soft bed, somewhere safe, somewhere warm.

“Okay that’s dramatic. War sucked. But this sucks too. I just want to see you.”

Your stomach ached for him. It had been a while, five months actually, since you last lay your fingers upon that chest cut from marble, since you’d last snuck a kiss between headstones in a Cleveland cemetery. You’d found a few Russian operatives, and Natasha had made the set up. Only a handful of moments, lost like the fireflies between dancing tree limbs, but it had been worth it to feel his arms around you again, his fingertips through your hair and yours clenching the rigid kevlar of his suit.

“I’m in Greece, I think. Somewhere in the Balkans. Hydra mission. Sam said it’s worth looking into, so it’s worth looking into. Don’t worry, we’re being careful.”

You sat upright in your bed, nearly dropping your phone to the pillow below, and you scrambled. There were several seconds left of the call, several before someone eventually cut him off, but you’d listen later. Frantic, you grappled the buttons, punching in his contact to return the call.

Ring. Ring. Ring. You glanced at the bedside table. It was nearing 4AM. If he was there, now, he’d be asleep, or out on the mission.

“Hey, you’ve reached Steve. Leave a message.”

You sighed out a laugh, pushing off from the covers to pace, barbered carpet scratching your aching feet. “Hey, it’s me. I’m in the Balkans. I’m on that mission. I’m annoyed that your phone doesn’t have the option for texting, and I’m even more annoyed that you didn’t wake up to answer my call. It’s 4AM, you’re a hundred. Shouldn’t you be on your morning run? Anyway, call me back immediately. I want to see you. I’m at the…” You read off the stationery on the side table. “Room 704. I’ll be here until noon. Call me back.”

You clutched your phone into your hand and peered through the peep hole of the room, as if he’d listened and appeared like a magician outside your door. No such luck. You pushed off from the door and found the window. The curtain opened to a stunning cliffside view, the sea miles beyond, a vast stretch of nothingness. Just the heavy lids of your eyes, and the panic in your chest that this may just be another missed opportunity.

You rolled out of your travel clothes and brushed your teeth, staring at your phone on the countertop. And then you made your way back to the too-soft bedding for an expertly timed nap.

—

The hot sun fanned your cheeks, undeterred by the cabana umbrella and the ice melting in its glass atop your bistro table. You covered your eyes with a flattened hand, which provided some added shade, but your upper lip continued to bead with brine. Your targets talked a handful of feet away, at their own table, ritzy in linens and rings that clanked when they shook hands.

You’d poured over your book for hours, never reading a word, half-focused on the cell phone beside you, half on the tabletop beneath the Hydra-elite, under which you’d planted a listening device at the beginning of your dip into the pool. You maintained to face away from them, the clear in-ear bugged into your right hand side. They spoke in thick accents, in a language you’d wished you’d bothered to learn more of. You caught the occasion phrase, but knew the recording headed back to your own base in the States would be translated as necessary. You were only there to retrieve the information.

Kids played in the pool nearby, encouraged by their au pair while Mummy got a tan, and you found your focus zero in on them as the third child, a bit older, walked back outside from the restroom. He was lanky, in that awkward phase, and wet hair was beginning to dry in curls around his ears. He wore a white towel, emblazoned with the resorts’ logo, and he brought his hands to his chest to begin to sign.

You recognized it immediately as ASL, one of the few language that had stuck in your training. Your heart trilled with delight as the boy teased his siblings, and then sunk with panic as he turned to face you. He pointed to the device in your ear and you realized the men near you silenced.

“You speak ASL?” The boy signed, and you smiled and nodded, setting your book face-down on the table beside you. You could feel eyes on you from the nearby table.

The boy grinned and pointed at the doors. Then, he signed, roughly, “A big man inside paid me to tell you he’s here.”

Your heart rattled in your chest, and you tried to chuckle away the chill. “A big man?” You signed back, and the boy nodded. With a deep breath, you thanked him. The boy turned and went back to his family, and you made about gathering your things, though the adrenaline of an incoming encounter coursed through you.

Seemingly satisfied by the interaction, the men nearby started their conversation back up, softer than before, a low rumble in your ear, and you glanced their direction through your sunglasses as you stood from your table, flashing a polite smile as one of them caught your gaze and quickly looked away. You left your book, where the pages had already begun to soak in condensation from your glass, and the towel you’d been laying on.

The air conditioner instantly rocked your skin in gooseflesh, nearly freezing the bits of you pooling with sweat, and you let out an exhale the moment you rounded the corner and out of sight of the pool. The secondary lobby area was vast, high ceilings and guests moseying between pillars, and you ducked behind one and removed the throwing star that attached the bits of your sarong to each other. You tucked your knuckles around the two points and prepared for a punch.

At least, you were prepared until a dark hand came out of nowhere and wrapped itself around your wrist. You maneuvered around them, tried to headbutt, but your assailant ducked out of the way with a startled, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy, tiger!”

Sam Wilson grinned back at you, all white teeth and perfect warmth. He ducked his head, waiting for another attack, but instead you put your finger to your lips to silence him.

Then, you put your hand to your in-ear and mumbled, “For the record, I’m using the restroom.” And heard the soft beep of the system shutting off.

Sam waited expectantly, eyebrows raised, and arms outstretched, and you sunk into his embrace. He smelled of coconut and sweat and Sam, and you could have sobbed at the rumble of his chuckle against your cheek. ”How you been?”

You pulled away with a nod, and you couldn’t help but scan the crowd over his shoulder. With every strange face came the twinge of heartache, the twinge of almost-was, of hope. “Good,” you relaxed your shoulders. “You?”

Sam gave you a knowing smirk, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, you don’t care about me.”

“Shut up,” you laughed. “Of course I do.”

He nodded to his right, and you glanced to see the cracked door to a laundry room. The black plaque restricted access to anyone who wasn’t an employee, and your stomach flipped three or four times, imagining what could be just beyond.

“I’ve got eyes on the Hydra guys,” Sam smiled. “I’ll give you guys, what? 7 minutes?”

You shot Sam a look, but couldn’t help the smile that ached at the corners of your mouth. The wingman winked, and stepped aside to grant you access. The linoleum felt cold under your trembling fingers, and you raked them against the surface before pushing. The heavy door swung open just enough for you to slip inside, and you heard it latch behind you.

The room was white, sterile, full of the tumble of several washers and dryers doing their daily turn down services. Washing machines to the left, dryers to the right, and directly dead center, five machines down, leaning against a cart full of white sheets, was Captain America himself. Him.

He pushed off from the cart to stand, awkward, sheepish, hardly recognizable under a growing mop of hair and a full, dark beard.

“Have you always been that tall?” You cocked an eyebrow, the tone of your voice much braver than you felt.

He sucked in his cheeks and shook his head.

The two of you took slow steps toward one another, a scrape of rubber against tiled floors. You fought back the grin threatening to form, and he swung his arm until you were almost at arm’s length, and then he waited for you to take his grasp, and he pulled you in.

He was bigger than you’d remembered, a bear of a man that lumbered his frame around yours, all biceps and pectorals and hair. You raked at the length at his neck and the sides of his face, and he groaned into your neck, and you melted into him as though he were a sponge and you the popsicle in the hot Balkan sunlight.

“Did you get my voicemail?” He asked, knees bent to prop both of you against the only washing machine out of service.

You laughed at that, pressing your lips to his cheek, wherever you could find purchase without a mouthful of hair. The wrinkles at his eyes crinkled, and you kissed them before pulling away to look at him, really look at him, without all the pixels messing up the perfection of it all.

There were greens in his blue eyes, and you saw your admiration mirrored in his own gaze. Both of you laughed, realizing you were doing the same thing, observing one another, being present in the moment, soaking it in. His cheekbones remained high, unaging, and the fur around his lips sheltered the strength of his jaw and softened his fingers. You ran your fingers through it like the coat of a Labrador, and he pursed his lips into the affectionate gesture.

“You like it?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” you pursed your own.

He chuckled, but you watched his eyes darken as his gaze found your lips. He licked his own, leaning forward to nuzzle your nose. You smiled and let you eyes flutter closed, and you sighed as he closed the distance with a kiss.

God, you’d missed that, the way he just gave in. Like every kiss might be his last. It was the gentle intensity of it all, the way he held you around the middle, a large hand reaching to cup your neck and face, thumb circling your cheekbone. It was the rise and fall of his shoulders as he leaned into it, deepened it. It was the press of the small of your back until your abdomens found one another, his carved from marble against your own soft edges.

His beard was the only thing you hadn’t remembered, bristly and soft all at once. It tickled beneath your nose and in the crevice of your lip and chin, but you didn’t mind. It smelled of him, and you couldn’t get enough. When he pulled away to breathe, you dove back in for more, hitting beard when he ducked for a laugh.

“I missed you.” His eyes twinkled mischievously, and his large fingers tucked themselves under your sarong, a graze of skin against your own that sent your back arching.

“I missed you,” you spoke through gritted teeth, clawing at the collar of his civilian shirt. You hadn’t noticed the silky fabric until now, his best attempt at a disguise.

“I don’t have any time,” he said, and you looked up from the navy fabric to see his features fall.

You released his collar and flattened the creases against his collar bone. “If I got injured on this mission, they’d give me a vacation.” You offered it as a ridiculous solution, something both of you knew wouldn’t happen. They’d be suspicious if you got hurt. They’d go looking for him.

“Soon,” he bonked his forehead to yours. “Okay? I promise we can be together soon. I’ll have Nat plan something longer than happenstance.”

You nodded against him, feeling the emotion well. Voicemails were easier. Voicemails didn’t disappoint. The pain of feeling him under your fingertips, of breathing him in, was too much. It wasn’t fair. A soft knock from the doorway beat into your skull, your clenched jaw, your tightened fists. You pushed off from Steve, and his hold on you faltered.

His hand slipped into yours, fingers intertwined, and you led him past the dryers to the door.

“Hey,” he whispered with a gentle tug. You turned to face him, and he leant in for another Earth shattering, knee-weakening kiss. This man, this fugitive, the bane of your existence and the reason you breathe, a sponge to mop you heart that had spilled all over the tile floor.

—

He left you with several mumbled promises and a sad smile. Sam offered the same look of regret, a wave goodbye from across the lobby. You went one way as they went the other. Your mission wrapped up, bad guys on their merry way, information obtained. But the rest of the day, packing your things, the long flight home, it all took a backseat to the veil of heartbreak that lay overhead, the fear sinking into your bones that you’d never be able to be with him, never be able to touch him or kiss him for longer than a moment in time.

You deplaned to more chatter, congratulations on good work. You slipped between coworkers, ordered a ride share home. You unlocked your apartment, did a routine check for intruders, heated up a bag of rice on the stove top, pretended to eat it. Too aching to care.

You showered the sunscreen from exhausted limbs, scrubbed the makeup from your face, rinsing yourself of any essence of him, anything that could have seeped into your skin, and you tiptoed into pajamas and curled yourself under your covers. Relief didn’t find you until you heard the familiar ding of a notification. You scrambled for your phone, discarded on your nightstand the moment you’d gotten home.

1 Voicemail from Him.

You clicked play and laid back against your pillow to hear the low tenor of his voice.

“Hey, it’s me. We just landed in Wakanda. Snuck off to find Buck so I thought I’d call. I’d love to show you this place some day. It reminds me of you. Warm. Beautiful.” He took a pause, his voice low, like he’d been afraid of getting caught. “It was good seeing you today. You looked amazing. Did I mention that? You did. You looked incredible.”

You smiled at his rambling. You missed his rambling.

“I love you.”

You stopped breathing. Three words. You hadn’t said them, not to each other, not yet. You felt them, of course you felt them, but saying them aloud made them real, gave them weight, made the distance hurt more.

“I do. I love you. And I was too chicken shit to say it earlier, but I’ve been thinking it for ages. Probably since the day I met you. I love you.”

You sat upright in your bed. There were several seconds left of the call, several before someone eventually cut him off, but you’d listen later. Frantic, you grappled the buttons, punching in his contact to return the call.

Ring. Ring. Ring. You glanced at the bedside table. It was nearing 4AM.

“Hey,” he answered. There was a smile in his voice.

“I caught you,” you breathed a sigh of relief.

He laughed. “Yeah, you did.”

#lovely comment reblog #steve rogers x reader

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