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need-a-fugue · 5 years ago

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Why Not? - Chapter Nine

Summary: With a garage to run and a young daughter to, well… run after, Bucky Barnes doesn’t exactly have time for dating. And with his relationship track record – and the constant meddling of a certain overbearing best friend – he’s not so sure that’s a bad thing. But then he meets Annie – a rather insistent, pretty damn cute fellow car enthusiast – and it’s got him asking himself, despite all his hesitations, why not?

Author’s Note: Written for Little Darlin’s Mystery AU Challenge. Thanks to @sourpatchkidsandacokecan for triggering this… sprawling thing simply by supplying me with the prompt of Mechanic!AU for Bucky. It’s taken on a life of its own already… look at what you’ve done!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings: SUPER fluffy. Always some language.

The beginning of the week – and all of Wednesday thus far – passes slower than molasses in January. Slower than a herd of turtles in a marathon. Slower than rush-hour traffic in downtown Boston. Slower than…

“Hello?” rips into her periphery, tearing her focus away from the melancholy countdown percolating in her head. “Angela,” Tony intones thickly as he glides into her small office. There’s a sly, knowing smirk brewing on his lips, his voice full of innuendo when he goes on to ask, “What has you so… deep in thought?”

“Sorry,” she mutters, straightening upright and beginning to shuffle papers back and forth erratically in an attempt to make herself look busy. “Nothing.”

A long, haughty laugh, a lingering pose by her desk, a deliberate quirk of his brows followed by a clever wink… and Annie’s done. She rolls her eyes, pushes back in the oversized office chair, and rises to leave. “What? No chitchat? No coffee klatch?” Tony almost whines as she grabs her cell and prepares to head out. “Where’s the gossip, huh? C’mon, kid, spill the tea!”

She tries – tries damn hard – to keep from laughing as he sputters next to her. But the corners of her mouth tick up nevertheless, even as she works to keep her lips pinched firmly shut.

He steps slowly over to her, looming in front of her. “Is tonight the night?” he asks with a wiggle of his brows. Then, eyes tracing down along her frame, expression setting in something akin to disappointment, “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Tony!” she gushes, her shoulders drooping. All at once, a wave a trepidation rolls over her, pushing all of the impatience and excitement to the far back corner of her mind. She glances down at her black cropped trousers, eyes catching the hem of her flowy red, silk tank. “Wh-what’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

He shrugs. “Guess it really depends on what’s underneath.”

Wide eyes fly up to meet his smug, grinning face. “Tony!” she exclaims – for probably the twentieth time today. “How many times do I have to tell you? You cannot talk to employees about… what lives under their clothes.”

His nose twitches, lip pulling into a disgusted snarl. “I hope to God there’s nothing living under there,” he states with a snort. Annie lets out a huff and rolls her eyes yet again. “I’m just saying that there better be some lace and silk between you and those really unsexy pants if you want to get laid tonight.” He cocks his head assessingly, his posture and expression – and attention on her body – eliciting a thick, hot blush along her cheeks. “Or maybe something… edible?”

Her jaw drops, an short gasp popping loose from her chest and bringing a swift howl of laughter from her terribly inappropriate boss. “I can’t… I don’t… Why would I…”

Tony waves a dismissive hand through the air – “Relax, kid. I’m just messing with you.” – and turns on a sincere, if still jovial, expression. “You look great. He’d be crazy not to want to – ”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” she murmurs – almost begs – as a look of humiliation washes over her face.

“Alright, alright,” he laughs out, dropping a hand to her shoulder and giving her a small shove towards the door. “You’re the one who said you had to be gone by five today. No matter what. Now look,” he intones, flashing his hundred-thousand-dollar watch in her face. “It’s 5:04.”

She huffs out a reluctant goodbye and spins to leave, doubts about her clothes – and her less than exciting underwear – clouding her mind as she meanders to the garage. But the minute she makes it to her Bronco, the minute her fingers turn the key in the ignition, one wonderful, beautiful thought spills out into her consciousness and overtakes all of the trivial worries and pesky nerves. It’s Wednesday. Finally, it’s Wednesday.

Annie spends the entire – too damn long – drive over to his place thinking about Bucky’s face and the way his stubble felt beneath her fingertips. About his lips, plump and just slightly chapped, and the way they pressed so urgently into hers. About the soft tenor of his voice – Got to spend the day with my two favorite girls – low and husky and just for her.

It is all that she can focus on. Throughout the drive out to Brooklyn. And the brief stop at the Indian place down the street, where she looms for ten minutes waiting on her order, looking every part the dreamy, doe-eyed – possibly creepy – love-struck teenager. For the several minutes it takes to gather all the food – and the bottle of wine that Tony had gifted her this morning – precariously in her arms. And for the too long trudge down the block – because parking is miserable out here – and up to his door. She is positively fixated on all things Bucky Barnes.

But the spell is swiftly broken – and the silly, goofy smile she’d been wearing all day long vanishes in an instant – the moment Bucky sharply swings open the door to his apartment.

“Shit,” he groans, the single word barely audible over the piercing cries of the little girl in his arms. He spins away from the door – away from a rather stunned Annie – and gently sways Lana in his arms, soft shhhs continuously falling from his lips despite getting thoroughly drown out by her pitiful sobs.

Annie’s jaw drops, eyes blinking rapidly as she takes in the scene. The cluttered room, not yet tidied, though she’s certain he planned on cleaning up before she came. The echoing misery of a sobbing child reverberating off the walls. The shirtless specimen in front of her, his perfectly toned back rippling distractedly, each and every painfully defined muscle shifting as he cradles his baby closer.

She shakes her head vaguely – sloughing off those desirous thoughts – and steps through the door, casually bumping it shut with her foot behind her. Bucky turns back to her when he hears the click of it closing, looks at her with what can only be described as utter desperation in his eyes. Now she sees that Lana is shirtless too, wearing only a pair of pink pajama bottoms. And she smells – mixed in with the heady scent of the Tikka Masala still in her hand – the sickly tang of vomit in the air.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters over the top of Svetlana’s head, his right hand creeping up to gently weave into her curls and tug her screaming face back down to his shoulder. “Nat’s running late. And…” A long, languid, completely depleted sigh falls from his lips before the rather obvious declaration of, “Lana came home sick.” He steps back, moving toward the hall where he carefully kicks away a small pile of discarded clothing, soft utterances of shhh and It’s okay, baby repeatedly tumbling from his mouth and into the inconsolable creature in his arms.

Annie sets down the food and wine on the breakfast bar and follows on his heels, still silent, still unsure of quite what to say.

“She just threw up again,” he breathes out, his voice a mix of frustration and sadness, a put-on gentle tone overlaying it all for his daughter’s sake. He stops at her bedroom door and turns to face Annie, sees her reaching down to collect the felled – vomit-covered – shirts from the floor. “No,” he snaps, a single, stilling hand dropping from Lana’s back and shooting out towards her. “Don’t. Just… I’ll take care of it.”

“It’s okay,” she issues out, face contorting into a closed-lip grin that doesn’t quite manage to convey the reassurance she’d been aiming for. “You’ve got your hands full.”

Lana’s cries begin to wane – if only the slightest bit – but Bucky can still feel her hot tears steadily cascading down his shoulder and chest as he offers Annie a quick nod and steps into the dimly lit room.

It hadn’t been like this all day… thank God. She had seemed fine this morning, bouncing around as usual, making it nearly impossible for him to comb out her hair and secure it into the requested pigtails. She ate her breakfast – or as much of it as she typically might – and scurried off into her pre-K classroom the moment he dropped her off, very nearly forgetting to give him a kiss goodbye. So it was a surprise to say the least, when the daycare called around noon and told him that his little girl wasn’t feeling well.

Truthfully, he didn’t think too much of it. Just asked Steve to cover for him and took off to go gather his baby up.

Now, Svetlana Barnes is no stranger to the fine art of temper tantrums and manipulative weeping. She is a four year old after all. She can cry and scream and wail with the best of them. But it’s honestly pretty rare – especially with a you know that wobbling lip won’t work on me mother like Natasha. And what’s rarer still is their tough little cookie crying in discomfort. She’s more the type to get angry when she’s tired or under the weather. And silently broody – though utterly clingy – when hurt.

So Bucky knew something was wrong when she started softly crying just as he began to buckle her into the car seat. In a breath of a moment, instinct kicked in and he frantically tugged at the buckle to release her, to pull her back out of the car and… aim her somewhere else. But by the time he realized what was about to happen, it was already too late. As soon as his fingers bent around the seatbelt, she upchucked into her own lap. He had managed to flip his hands up in time to catch most of it – and not-so-sneakily dump it off to the side of the daycare parking lot – but the very act of getting sick had turned the poor little girl into a wailing heap of flushed cheeks and trembling limbs. He wiped his hands on his pants with a disgusted grimace, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all, and jumped into the front seat, driving as fast as he felt safe doing to get his baby back home.

One bath and a too-long battle over children’s Tylenol later, and Lana had finally fallen asleep, giving Bucky just enough time to shower, change, and finish a load of laundry. But not five minutes after Natasha called to say she was stuck in a meeting and would be late picking her up – I’m so, sorry, James. I know you have plans and… Just tell her I’ll be there soon. – he heard the short, pathetic cries resume.

He tried to get her to the bathroom in time, but no such luck. Less than an hour before Annie was set to arrive – and she was always early for everything – and he and Lana both were covered in vomit in yet again. Not that any of that really mattered when he had his despondent little baby cradled so tightly in his arms, her steady weeping ripping through to his very soul.

“Shhh,” he tries again, patting her warm, sticky back before reaching down to open a drawer, grabbing a clean T-shirt and tossing it out onto her bed. The only light in the room is from the early evening sun filtering in through the edges of the closed blinds, and from her pale yellow monkey night lamp off in the corner. He slowly lowers himself into the old rocking chair near the door – the one that used to be his mom’s… used to be for her to soothe him and his little sister all those years ago – and hikes Lana a little further up his chest, guiding her head down to his shoulder once again. “I know, baby,” he utters absently, one hand slowly swiping along her back, the other softly petting at her sweaty hair as he begins a methodical rock. “I know. It’s okay.”

From the hall, Annie can hear his tender whispers only vaguely. But that almost makes it worse… harder to take in. The softness in his voice, the subtle desperation, not only breaks her heart, but makes her feel terribly out of place. Like an interloper in this sad, sweet moment. She finishes gathering the soiled clothes and pops them into the washing machine next to the bathroom, next to Bucky’s bedroom. The door is wide open and she chances a glance in, sees the neatly made bed, smiles softly to herself, and then realizes all at once that this may well be as close as she’ll get to that bed tonight.

She slowly saunters back to Lana’s bedroom, looming listlessly in the doorway for a moment, watching as Bucky’s hulking shoulders lean back into the small wooden spindles of the rocking chair, tiny fingers grasping at his flesh. He rocks with a slow, practiced rhythm, like he’s done this dance a hundred times before. Of course he has, she thinks to herself, rolling her eyes. He’s a father.

Tony’s words from the other day come back to her, urging her to consider whether or not getting involved with a dad might be too much. You’ll never come first, you know. The utter truth to those words, and the frightening simplicity of the all-too-obvious statement, cause her gut to clench.

He didn’t call to cancel, she reminds herself. He didn’t text to say not to come. He didn’t turn her away when she arrived either. She may be on the outside looking in at this moment in time, but at least she’s here. Can’t that be enough?

A knock at the door rips her from her reverie, her eyes shooting down the hall for a beat before veering questioningly over to Bucky. Through the dimness of the room, he locks onto her curious gaze and gives a gentle nod, a silent command – a plea – to help him out by seeing who it is.

She hurries down the hall and pulls open the door to find Steve, a sweet, almost nervous smile splitting his face when he sees her. “Hey, Annie,” he intones, stepping blithely into the apartment. He’s several paces in before he spins back to face her. “I am so sorry about this. Nat got caught up at the office… she should’ve been here an hour ago. I know you and Buck have plans.” He ducks his head meekly in apology. “He was really… excited about it.”

A fleeting trill of elation shoots up her spine – he was really excited – before swiftly flickering away. “No, no, it’s nothing,” she mutters, winding her arms tightly around her middle. “I just feel bad for Lana.” She ticks her chin towards the hall – “They’re in her bedroom.” – and heads over to the living room to start picking up, absently tidying to both pass the time and quell her nerves.

He gives a nod of thanks and disappears down the hall, breathing out a soft, “Hey there,” as he steps through the doorway to the little girl’s room.

Bucky looks up at him with weary eyes, never stopping the slow, steady rocking nor his gentle stroke up and down his daughter’s back. “Hey,” he says simply, his voice rumbling though his chest and into Lana, causing her to stir.

She rubs her face sleepily into his him, warm tears and saliva causing a slick beneath her cheek as she turns to see Steve lingering in the doorway. He ducks his head to make eye contact, offering a small, crooked smile before stepping into the room and dropping to one knee by the rocking chair. “Hey, bud,” he says, reaching out and swiping at the sweat-laden hair sticking to her forehead. He tenderly nudges it from her face, letting his thumb drift down to wipe away a thick, salty tear track. “Heard you don’t feel so good.”

The sobs had all but stopped, leaving only small moans and shuddery hiccups in their wake. But still, it seems it’s too difficult for her to speak, nothing more than a short nod and sniffle being offered to her uncle as he flattens his palm on her cheek to test her temperature.

“She puked in the car when I picked her up,” Bucky mutters, the hand atop her back now moving in a rhythmic pat to help quell her hiccups. “Got her cleaned up and into bed… then she blew again about twenty minutes ago.”

Steve cringes in a sort of awful solidarity. Then he raises a brow, teasing glint in his eye as he leans back and looks assessingly at the pair before him. “And judging from the lack of clothes, I’m guessing she nailed you?”

He releases a dejected huff. “Both times.”

A small laugh spills from his lips and he leans in close, locking onto Svetlana’s dull blue eyes. “Well, buddy, what do you say? You want me take you back to mommy’s? She should be home real soon…”

“She was supposed to be here a fucking hour ago,” Bucky seethes as he presses Lana’s head back down to the crook of his neck. He feels her hot skin slide along his and lets out a small hiss. “Probably time for more Tylenol.”

That gets a bit of a rise out of her, tiny limbs pulling together to push back on her father, form writhing as she struggles and whines out, “Nooooo,” in a hoarse, pathetic tone that very nearly breaks his heart.

He looks down at her as she pulls away, raises his brows in a listen to your father way, and says simply, “Yes.”

The tears start up again, her face twisting and reddening. And she leans further away, tilting over the arm of the chair as she reaches pitifully out for Steve. “Oh, poor baby,” he intones thickly, reaching for her as well. He easily scoops her up and out of her father’s lap, giving Bucky a shit-eating grin over the top of her head as he rises with the sweaty, crying, clingy girl in his arms.

Bucky merely gives a tired – and thoroughly annoyed – eyeroll in response. “You’re really gonna make me be the bad guy?” he asks, letting out a small, exhausted groan as he hauls himself up from the rocking chair.

He swipes the little blue T-shirt off the bed and turns to tug it on over the top of Svetlana’s head – quite a feat as she hangs onto her uncle for dear life, desperate to stay as far away from her father as possible now that he’s promised more medicine. He finally works both of her arms in and pulls the shirt down her clammy back.

“C’mon,” he sighs, side stepping Steve and heading into the kitchen, assuming he’ll follow.

Lana doesn’t see him grab the bottle of liquid Tylenol from the counter, but the moment Steve pivots to pluck her coiled form from around his chest, she senses what’s coming. And she blows a gasket, the soft, stifled cries rising quickly into vicious, ear-splitting screams.

“Baby, you’re gonna make yourself sick again,” Bucky laments loudly as he tries to speak over the shrill, deafening sobs. More than a hint of impatience spills out of him as he takes hold of her arm to keep her from turning back into Steve, tugging a bit harsher than he wants to as she continues to struggle against him. “There’s no reason to get so damn worked up.”

Steve gives her a little bounce and tries to look down at her, tries to make eye contact with the wild, thrashing creature. “C’mon, bud. You choke down some medicine now and we can have cookies back at home.”

Bucky drops her tiny arm and gives his friend an incredulous glare over the top of the little girl’s head. “You’ll regret doing that, I promise,” he tells him with a raised, warning brow.

Steve offers little more than a dismissive shrug before giving Lana a quick, tight squeeze and saying to her, “You know how mad mommy’ll be at me if I bring you home without any medicine in you?” She wildly tosses her head back and forth, a no and an I don’t care in one frantic gesture. “What if she yells at me?” he asks in an almost desperate tone. He gives her another light bounce and ducks his head to capture her gaze, offers a teasing sort of smile as he asks, “What if she hits me? You don’t want that, do you?”

Bucky snorts loudly from his side, but holds back his own sarcastic response, noting that Lana’s cries are diminishing as Steve continues to beg for her help.

“You could be saving my life, pumpkin,” he says with a thick – faux – sincerity. “Just take a teeny, tiny bit of medicine so mommy doesn’t hurt me.” A full, pouty lip juts from his face, the sides of his mouth tugging down into an overdone frown. “Please?”

She shakes her head again, a mighty pout of her own pulling across her countenance. But it’s obvious that she’s too tired to keep fighting. Finally placated by her uncle’s ridiculous pleas – and maybe a bit by a very real desire to keep him from getting in trouble – she drops her temple to his chest and looks up at her father with weary, red-rimmed eyes.

He gives her the liquid Tylenol, glides a thumb over her disgustedly pursing lips to wipe away the remnants, and bends over to drop a lingering kiss on her warm forehead… even as she whines and tries to pull away.

Steve catches the worried, sad look washing over his friend’s face as he straightens upright, his voice dropping into a low, tender tone as he tells him, “She’ll be alright.”

He nods – “Yeah, I know.” – never removing his desolate gaze from the flushed little face in front of him. “I know,” he repeats with a sigh.

“We’ll call you later to let you know how she’s doing.”

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters again, finally looking up at Steve and breathing out a long, pained sigh.

“Don’t worry,” he tries again, adding on a carefree smile for good measure. He glances over at Annie, her arms laden with the toys that she’s picked up from all over the apartment, and his grin grows wider. “You two just have fun. Really. We’ve got this.” He ducks his head, dropping his nose to Lana’s sweaty curls. “Right, buddy?”

She doesn’t respond, opting instead to tightly pinch shut her eyes and crumple her face in that way that both men recognize as near sleep. Bucky grabs the small, already packed backpack from the sofa as they head for the door, handing it over to Steve and leaning down to kiss Lana goodbye a final time. “I love you, baby,” he whispers to her, surprised when she mutters a love you back at him before twisting further into Steve’s hold and being whisked out the door.

Annie finishes depositing the toys in their rightful cubbies before turning to look at the forlorn man across the room. “I…” she stutters for a moment, eager to break the sudden, heady silence. She clears her throat and steps out from behind the couch, moving slowly towards him. “Is there anything else to throw in the wash? Her sheets, maybe?”

He turns to her – just as she sidles up next to him, her considerate words heavy on the air between them – with the most pitiful expression she’s ever seen grace that handsome face. His deep blue eyes look shadowed and hazy, dark bags already forming beneath. And his lips part just slightly, ready to talk, yet painfully silent.

She’s about to speak again, to ask if he’s alright or if he needs anything. Or – the awful words bubbling in her throat like thick bile – if he’d rather she just left.

But the moment her mouth bobs open, he lunges forward, grabbing hold of her and spinning her round, thrusting her back so that she’s pressed against the closed door. His hands grip at her biceps for just a fraction of a moment before shifting up to grab and tug and simply lose themselves in her long, thick hair. A short, strangled breath catches in her throat as their teeth slam almost violently together, lips twisting and pulling and nipping as she lets herself get lost in the desperate kiss.

Then, all at once, just as she’s about to wrap herself so completely around him – run her fingers through his hair, grip tight to his still-naked shoulders, trail her nails down his perfectly chiseled back – he pulls swiftly away. “Sorry,” spills from his lush, swollen lips as he slowly backs away, gaze averted, hand now tugging at his own hair before sliding down in his face in utter frustration. “Shit,” he groans languidly. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

She wants to say, no. To refuse his apology and tell him that there’s no reason to be sorry, no reason at all. She wants to laugh at him for thinking that something like that could ever require an apology. Hell, in this precise moment, she wants to leap forward and climb him like a fucking tree. But all she does is remain – cemented to the spot, legs now wobbly beneath her – stiffly silent as her back gathers sweat, even while firmly pressed against the cool wood of the door.

“What…” he sputters out amid a crazed sort of laugh. He tugs at his hair again, looks up at her with wild, almost startled eyes. “What the fuck are we doing?”

A loud click reverberates between them as Annie finally slams her gaping mouth shut, teeth clanging together. His expression shifts, just a bit, changing from manic and alarmed to… amused. “I think we were… kissing,” she utters, almost a question.

And he can’t help but laugh. “Yeah,” he breathes out languidly, shaking his head as he does so. “Yeah.”

She steps forward, finally finding her legs – though, admittedly, they’re still more than a bit shaky – and blurts out, “Do you need help?” a little more enthusiastically than intended. “I mean… cleaning up… or…”

He waves an absent hand through the air, avoiding her gaze once again. “No, doll,” he intones gently. “No, I got it.”

“I really don’t mind,” she says, sidestepping him and moving into the kitchen, her entire body buzzing as she flits around, putting things away – Tylenol, cereal, a container of Pedialyte – not even registering the fact that she somehow seems to know just where everything goes. There are a handful of dishes in the sink, soaking in now-cold, sudsy water, and she flips on the faucet to begin finishing them up, reaching out for a sponge on the side of the sink before having her hand stilled by his. A small gasp escapes her as he moves closer, presses his chest into her back, leaning forward enough to pin her hips between the sink and his warm, muscular frame.

“Don’t,” he whispers into her hair as his wide-open palm stretches over the back of her hand. His fingers wind with hers, knocking the sponge loose as he reaches around from the other side to turn off the water. He pulls her hand to her side, wrapping both of their arms across her middle, his left dropping to almost violently grip the edge of the sink. She stills before him – beneath him – feels his hips press her further into the counter, a dull pressure building in her abdomen. His forehead drops to the base of her skull, his breath hot on her neck and back, seeping through her hair, as he utters again, “Don’t.”

“Bucky,” she chokes out, his name catching in her chest.

He holds her close for just a moment more, tightening his arm around her middle, stepping close enough that she can feel him growing hard as he continues to press firmly into her. He nuzzles at her hair, breaks through the thick, dark curtain with his nose and lazily trails several soft kisses along the ridge of her spine… up and down the center of her neck. Then he lets out a long, deep breath and simply steps away.

The moment he moves, she’s left feeling cold, the sudden absence of warmth at her back sending a swift shiver throughout her body. She spins to look at him, sees him once again run a nervous hand through his hair, a sheepish flush blooming on his cheeks. “You’re not going to apologize again, are you?” she asks, somehow managing to level her voice and raise a teasing brow despite the lightheaded thrill that still pulsates through her.

“No,” he chuckles. Then with a shrug. “Maybe.” He looks up at her, locks his bright blue eyes onto hers and shakes his head slowly… regretfully. “This isn’t how I wanted tonight to go.”

She steps forward – just a bit, nervous hesitation stunting her movements – and she asks, “Isn’t tonight just starting?”

“Annie,” rumbles out of him, equal parts longing and chiding. “You’re probably gonna get sick just being here.” He too takes a halting step forward, just close enough that he’s able to reach out and tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “I don’t want you to get sick, doll.”

“I don’t really want that either, but…” She gives a casual shrug. “I’ve already been exposed, so…”

A crooked smile splits his face, head ducking almost bashfully for a moment. “This kind of thing,” he mutters, shaking his head once more, “it happens, you know? It happens a lot. Kids get sick. Or hurt. Or they… throw tantrums. And they… ruin plans.” He sighs, lets out the smallest chuckle, and steps back to lean into the refrigerator… to lean away from her.

“Are you saying our plans are… ruined?” she asks, more of a bite to her words than intended.

He raises his brows and lets out a long sigh. “You gonna tell me all of this gets you in the mood?”

“Not this,” she blurts out fervently. “But…” She waves a hand out in front of her, gesturing vaguely at him… at his shirtless, beautiful body. And at the hardened length still swelling in his jeans.

He lets out a small laugh before letting his gaze simply linger on her face, on the bright blush still coating her cheeks, washing over those beautiful dimples. But he doesn’t step closer, nor does he reach out.

The longer he lingers – still and silent – the easier it becomes for her to see that, as much as he seems to be struggling to tear his eyes away from her, he’s not planning on approaching her again. Bitter frustration roils in her gut and a low groan slips from her lips as her eyes roll dramatically back, an irritated expression designed to mask her absolute disappointment.

He blows a tired breath out of his nose, nostrils flaring as he finally forces himself to pull his gaze away from her, directing it to the floor, back to the other room, to his hands as they nervously fist and knot in front in of him. Anywhere but her. “This is so… stupid,” he mutters, annoyance leaking from the words. “I mean… we shouldn’t have to have this conversation now. Not now… when we’ve only been on a handful of dates… fuck,” he chokes out. “We haven’t even fucked.”

Her lips split open, ready to speak, but it takes a moment for her to form the words, mouth bobbing aimlessly as she shoves down the response of, we could just take care of that last part now. Instead her brows twist curiously together, head cocking confusedly to the side as she asks simply, “What conversation?”

He finally looks back at her, but his expression is so dramatically changed, eyes no longer hooded with lust, but darkened with a sort of profound sobriety. “Kids,” he bleats out with a shrug, unfolding his hands and shoving them into his pockets as he goes on to ask, “Do you want kids?”

“Well, yeah,” she breathes out easily, puzzlement still painting her face.

“Now?” he asks, raising a brow to drive home his point.

She doesn’t respond, not immediately anyway, because truthfully the answer is no. Of course she doesn’t want kids right now. She’s just getting started in her career. She only just met him. It would be crazy. But isn’t it also a little bit crazy to be asking her that right now? To be asking… like this?

Her face slowly hardens, eyes narrowing a bit as a wave of involuntary anger rolls over her. “Are you asking me if I want to be Lana’s mother?” she asks, tone drenched in sarcasm. “Because I thought Natasha already had that covered.”

“I’m being serious,” he tells her in a deep-set tone to match his words.

Her hands drop to her hips, a brutally defiant stance – which, admittedly, she rarely wears – popping out full force. “So am I.” He rolls his eyes in annoyance, and the flippant gesture sets her blood to boil. “What? I can’t be with you if I’m not willing to be a mother right away?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Did you ask Steve if he was willing to be a father?” She shoots back, the words spilling out of her before she gets a chance to think them through. “Because I was under the impression that you were pissed as hell with him for just trying to be!”

“I’m not…” he sputters before pinching his lips firmly shut, a look of pure annoyance settling over his now stern face. “He’s being a parent right now, whether he wants to be or not. Because he has no choice. If you live with a kid…”

“I didn’t realize we were that serious,” she snipes. “Are you asking me to move in?”

“Damn it, Annie, I’m trying to… I just want to…”

“Have that conversation,” she finishes for him, no question to her voice.

“Yes!” he exclaims, pushing off the fridge and pulling up to his full height – shoulders stiffly set – as he stares down at her. “Is that so wrong?!”

“Okay, fine. Let’s do it,” she nearly snarls at him. “How ‘bout you?” A single, questioning brow rises high, her voice shifting into a mocking tone. “Do you want more kids?”

A startled silence fills the room, Bucky’s face taking on a lost quality for a long moment before pinching tight, his posture slumping as he breathes out, “I… I don’t know.”

“Oh,” she intones with a self-satisfied smirk. “You don’t know? Or maybe you just haven’t thought about it, and now you’re being put on the spot in the middle of a… heated discussion? Are you finding that these sorts of questions are difficult to answer?” Her head cocks to the side, faux-sincere frown pulling as she goes on to ask, “Maybe a little unfair?”

“Yeah. I get it,” he spits out. “I’m just trying to explain…”

“Bucky,” she sighs in frustration. “I’m not an idiot. I know that getting involved with someone who has a kid means a whole… plethora of other things. Other responsibilities. And… annoyances. And the truth is, this conversation… these questions… they’re important. I know that. But…” Her shoulders bounce up and down in a sort of desperate shrug. “I don’t know what you want from me here. I… I like you. And I like Lana. And I am… willing…”

His own shoulders drop, the righteous air being swiftly taken from his sails. “I just don’t want…” He looks up at her and smiles… a sad, distressed smile. “I really like you,” he admits, the words tumbling out in a single, low breath. “But if this isn’t gonna work… if you can’t…” His head once again begins that slow, deliberate pivot to-and-fro.

She steps closer, hands finally falling from their stiff posture at her hips. “Have I made it seem like I can’t?” she asks, taking another small step towards him. “Or like I don’t want to try?”

“No,” he mutters softly. “But… it’s a lot.”

She shrugs, “Maybe,” she admits, pulling up closer and issuing out, voice breathy and low, “But maybe I think you’re worth the trouble.”

He glances up to find her mere inches from him, “Annie,” falling from his lips in a coy sort of warning.

She leans closer, her breath hot on his skin, nose grazing his stubbled cheek. “I know you had a really rough day, Buck,” she intones, barely a whisper. “But Lana’s okay with Steve and her mom. And you… you’re okay here with me.”

He pulls back a bit, looks down at her with questioning – imploring – eyes. The way she gazes back up at him – full of reassurance and comfort and… certainty – sets his heart to stutter, causes his breath to catch in his chest.

“Fuck,” he mutters vaguely, the single, heady word echoing thickly in his own ears, voicing his trepidation, covering his excitement. He reaches up to take hold of her face, both palms pressing into her still-burning cheeks, thumbs dipping briefly into those perfect dimples as her growing smile presses into him. “Fuck,” he repeats with a chuckle before dropping his lips to hers and letting himself simply… fall.

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #dad!bucky #LDAMC #bucky x oc #marvel fanfic #marvelau #bucky imagine #avengers fanfiction #avengersau #Bucky Barnes

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onthesandsofdreams · 5 years ago

Text

A Love that bloomed from hope

Fandom: ASoIaF Pairing: Rickard x Rhaella Rating: T Summary: Rhaella wishes nothing more than to escape her prison.

Aerys, Duke of Dragonstone, her older brother and head of her house has her in almost complete isolation. She wishes she had someone who could help her. Someone who could take her away, but Aerys has refused several noble men her hand, without any consideration of her wants.

Aerys is cruel, lives in bitterness since the woman he loved married someone else, and as such, he feels the need to make her own life miserable. And she is running out of hope. There’s no one to champion her.

That is, until King Edwyle throws a party in welcome for some foreign Princess. Words: 2030 Notes: For @asoiafrarepairs‘s ‘A Dream of Spring’ event. Day 3 hope | sun. Alternative Universe - Royalty/Nobility, Role reversal.

Read @ AO3

Rhaella wishes nothing more than to escape her prison.

Aerys, Duke of Dragonstone and head of her house has her in almost complete isolation. She wishes she had someone who could help her. Someone who could take her away, but Aerys has refused several noble men her hand, without any consideration of her wants.

That is, until King Edwyle throws a party in welcome for some foreign Princess.

Aerys and Rhaella attend as it’s their duty. Aery’s grip is firm on her arm, firm enough that she knows that she will find bruises later on. But she’s wearing her best dress and jewels that match her eyes, and even if it’s for a night, she can have a dance or two.

She dances with other noble lords, some men of the army and lastly - much to her surprise - Prince Rickard. The King’s only child is kind, there is a portly elegance to him, his eyes are clear and empty of the anger she’s used to seeing in the eyes of her brother. Also free of the desire that some of the men who have tried to court her, some, she knows only did so because she’s Aerys’ heir.

“You look sad, Lady Targaryen,” The Prince says while they dance. “Is the dance not to your liking?”

She blushes fiercely. “No my Prince, I promise. I am not sad.” She gives him the best smile that she can, one that she hopes it’s reassuring.

But the Prince’s look is one of doubt. “Forgive me for speaking boldly my Lady, but your eyes speak louder than your words. I must ask, is everything alright?”

Her eyes widened in surprise, she had not expected for Prince Rickard to be this perceptive. ‘Wolf’s eyes’, she thinks. “I - I am well my Prince. There is no need for you to worry.”

“Mmmh,” Prince Rickard replies. “I only have one question, if I may be so bold?”

“Yes, my Prince?”

“Why is it that one of our most exalted Ladies remains unwed? I have known of men who asked for your hand, and yet, here you are, unwed, much like Lord Targaryen.”

She’s unsure of what to say. Tries to think of a convincing lie, but nothing comes to mind. Fortunately, the dance comes to an end, saving her from having to answer the question. Prince Rickard nods at her, she bows in turn and hurries back to a sitting area.

She doesn’t dance nor speak to the Prince after that. That night, she dreams of herself leading a pack of wolves through the snow. It’s strange and wonderful, and above all else, it’s freeing.

A week later, she receives the shock of her life. For she finds that King Edwyle has written to Aerys, for he declares that Prince Rickard wishes to court her. Aerys is wroth, yells and curses and she feels a knot in her throat. But she also feels the little flame of hope shine a bit brighter. For she knows that Aerys will not have a good excuse to deny the King. She takes to avoiding Aerys as much as she can in their manor.

****

Her courtship with Rickard starts slowly. She finds that the Prince is very sharp eyed, very wolfish in nature, and she can’t help but to think that beneath the veneer of diplomatic politeness, hides a predator. She shivers at the thought, but she finds herself drawn in.

Prince Rickard is clever, has ambitions for the Kingdom that, if they pay off, they could propel it forward. He is kind, surprisingly gentle and very tender. Writes her the loveliest poems that she hides in a secret compartment in her doll cradle. Takes her to the theater, gives her books - both fictional of nature and relevant affairs. Talks to her, listens to what she has to say, in turn, he talks to her and he allows her to know him a little. She has dinner with the King and the Queen, who welcome her like a beloved daughter. And the flame of her hope burns brighter.

Prince Rickard makes her feel safe and protected.

“Never lose hope, Rhaella,” Rickard - as he insists she call him in private - says. “Monsters may seem impossible to escape, but then, one day, they are defeated.”

“Of course,” she answers, ponders just how much Rickard suspects Aerys' poor treatment of her. She never speaks of his cruelty, it would be terrible to do so when simply courting. One day she might tell him everything, but not yet. At least not while she must still return to Dragonstone. And Prince or not, it would not do to have Rickard have a go at Aerys. Aerys would lose that match rather quickly and easily, for Rickard’s broader and stronger than Aerys is.

“Have faith, Rhaella, have faith.” Rickard says and gently kisses her hand. His eyes are full of love.

And her heart leaps in her chest, full of hope and full of dreams.

In the end, when the Prince asks for her hand in marriage, Aerys can only grit his teeth and agree. Rickard’s smile is sharp and his eyes are hard as he stares at Aerys without an ounce of fear. The smile of a man who knows he’s won. She can’t help but to relish in Aerys’ ill concealed fury.

*****

Their wedding is a grand affair, as befits for the heir to the throne. She has the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting attending to her, making sure that everything is perfect. She is dressed in a diaphanous gown of pale lavender, it’s something of a dream; it brings out a rosy color to her skin and cheeks. Her hair is placed in an elegant bun, with diamond and amethyst pins woven into it. She wears rose oil as perfume, and places her late mother’s jewels on her, a diamond and amethyst parure that goes well with her gown.

Queen Marna comes, gives her a look of approval. “You look absolutely heavenly, dear Rhaella. Rickard will hardly take his eyes off you.”

She blushes. “Thank you, my Queen.”

Marna smiles gently, caresses her cheek with tenderness. “There is no need to thank me, you will be my daughter in an hour or so. So it would please me greatly if you were to call me mother.”

She smiles, her mind set at ease by Queen Marna’s words. “I will, mother.”

Queen Marna beams at her. “I will leave you now, I will see you in the Godswood my dear.”

*****

Aerys doesn’t speak to her when he escorts her to her wedding. She can feel his arm being tense, the veins in his neck stand out, his eyes are hard and unforgiving. She resists the urge to flinch away from him. She will soon be free of him.

She walks to the Heart Tree with her head held high, a smile on her face as she looks at Rickard. He looks so handsome in a deep charcoal and white uniform. She never takes her eyes off him, nor he of hers.

They recite their vows, they kiss. And she finds that she likes Rickard’s - her husband’s, her mind supplies - lips. They are firm and demanding, yet there is a softness to them. People cheer them on, they cheer her name as Rickard places the traditional crown on her head, declaring her his Princess and future Queen.

They feast and she finds herself beaming with joy. Until she looks at Aerys. His face is frozen with fury, instinct makes her move closer to Rickard. He notices.

“Are you scared?” He asks, whispering in her ear. “Don’t be. From today onwards, I’ll always protect you.”

She believes him. She’s finally free of Aerys.

*****

She feels like she is fit to burst with joy when she finds that she is expecting. Marna cries when told, Rickard holds her and swears that she will lack for nothing. Edwyle is pleased, wishes her an easy pregnancy.

It is. And during her childbirth, Rickard remains with her, sitting behind her as she lays against his chest, pushing their child into the world. It’s a boy, one who screams loudly and squirms in her arms; he’s red and angry and she is madly in love with her boy.

Brandon they name him.

And she is absolutely delighted in her little family. Rickard is an excellent husband and father, he shares in the childrearing with ease and little complaint.

Five months after Brandon’s birth, Aerys dies by poison. An inquest is made, but no one has answers and there is little to do. She dons black, but she is not sad to see her brother go, he is quite surprised that he lived that long. She’s now Duchess of Dragonstone of her own right. And life simply moves on.

*****

She gives birth to another boy, Eddard two years later after Brandon. Edwyle passes, sudden sickness takes him away during his sleep. People mourn their King, Marna is inconsolable, but finds solace in her grandchildren. Rickard holds her closer than ever.

They are crowned in a grand ceremony. She takes her duties as Queen seriously, much like Rickard takes his. Years pass and Rickard’s plans move forward, pushing the country into a new era. Then she births a daughter, whom they call Serena and lastly a son, Benjen.

Marna dies when Benjen is four and she weeps. She mourns for the woman who loved her like a mother, consoles Rickard and their children, mourns the fact that neither Serena or Benjen will remember much of her.

But time keeps going.

She watches as their children begin to grow into adults. Sees Brandon marry Catelyn, firstborn daughter of Duke Tully, Ned follows by marrying Lady Ashara Dayne, daughter of Earl Dayne.

Serena marries Jaime Lannister, and she is glad to see her wild daughter settle down. Only Benjen remains unwed.

Grandchildren begin to arrive and she delights in them. Rickard takes the role of grandfather with the same ease he did of father, they love their grandchildren and the love they have for one another never dwindles.

In fact, she’s sure that she loves Rickard more than what she had first thought possible. He became her life, a solid foundation to the castle of her dreams. She loves everything about him, that secret smile he saves only for her. Those poems he recites in her ear late at night, that passion that never really went away, that care and tenderness he always has in him for her.

But they grow old and Rickard’s older than her. She knows when his time is drawing near, sickness has fallen on him and she doesn’t move from his bedside.

“Was I a good husband, Rhae?” He asks, voice hoarse and tired. His eyes are glazed over. “Did I make you happy?”

“You were the best husband I could have ever hoped for,” she says, tears in her eyes and her voice cracks. “You made me the happiest woman ever.”

Rickard gives her a tired smile. “Good, at least I did you right.”

She kisses his forehead. “You did more than right, you saved me. When I had almost no hope left, you swept like a knight from a fairy tale. You saved me from the monster and allowed me to discover my own dragon. You gave me a family, I am the happiest woman that ever lived.”

“Good. I love my Queen, my beautiful silver Queen. My She-dragon. Always remember that.”

“And I love you, my Wolf-knight. Know that, I love you with every ounce of everything that I am.”

Rickard passes away in his sleep. She mourns. And even when grief clings to her like an old lover, she lives for her children and grandchildren. The life she led was full, loving and beyond anything that she could hope or dream for.

When her time comes, she leaves the world with no regrets and a smile on her face.

#asoiafrarepairweek #asoiafrare #rhaella x rickard #rickard x rhaella #rhaella targaryen #Rickard Stark #pre asoiaf #au: royalty #au: nobility #au: role reversal

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carmellian · 8 years ago

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"Stay with me until it’s over, big sis... And don't you weep if the worst happens, you hear me?" ( I changed it a little but don't say you weren't expecting me to send this one in! HA )

@gravityruled

Send “Stay with me until it’s over.” for my muse reacting to yours dying in their arms.

The breath that leaves her is loud as if she were the one lying in a pool of her own blood - bruised, battered, and waiting for death.

Not him.

The cacophony of noises (screams of pain, cries of battle, names) seems so distant, as was the rest of the world. Encased in a little world of their own in the saturated sunset that mock her in its beauty when all beauty in the world is all but fading in the cradle of her arms with each passing second.

Not him.

Yet, he is beautiful. Painted in red-orange hues, sunset highlighting his locks and accentuating the blue of his eyes. (Bright blue, remain bright blue. Stop, stop dulling, stop falling into the abyss.)

She rocks them both gently as if simply lulling him into an afternoon siesta, like she did all those years ago when he only reached up to her waist, when she could’ve wrapped him in the cage of her arms and defended him from the world. From death. But now, deluded notions and fervent hopes all fade in contrast to harsh reality and bloodied sunsets.

Not him.

One of her hands take in one of his (gods, why was it cold, his hands never were). She carefully lifts it to her lips so she may kiss the back of it in reverence and when she turns it, she kisses his palm in prayer.

She has stopped praying to the gods for she knew none would listen. But now, she prays.

Not him. Please. Not him.

❝ Hush sweetheart, do not waste your breath. ❞

She does not know what she sounds like but the dread and desperation that has settled in her chest takes all her breath away, so she knows her voice could only be a shaky whisper. But what does it matter? Her words fall on deaf ears.

No. Not him. Not her precious Chuuya.

The pain that courses through her entire being is familiar. Unwelcomed. Harrowing. A wail of great distress escapes her throat. Her tears come unbidden, torrential and inconsolable as she holds his unmoving body closer to hers.

The world burns around her and yet nothing else matters but the fading warmth she holds within her arms.

#{ ic }#well. i killed him. bye. gravityruled #{ thank you for the ask }#nothing else can be said. i feel empty.#{ ic; the song of autumn }#gravityruled

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changingbirdpoems · 8 years ago

Text

poems not about any particular person: 2008

a poem for Lincoln’s birthday (Feb. 12)

there is entropy growing in alwaysgardens needing only soil and water and air. Sunlight’s irrelevant to photosynthesis breaking out of haiku, loosening all form, casting aspersions on carbon dioxide, our favorite exhale

down

the soil needs Sunlight too (ultraviolet cravings and a tendency to ask for solidthings). we are moving towards chaos, leaving glucose as our only trail of rebellion

prosetry

There was nothing in her eyes to feed his heart. He looked at her. He always looked at her. She was always standing next to him, looking away, mouth hanging slightly open. Every light fixture in the room strained to illuminate them.

Inconsolable, his heart was made of plants that grow only when spoken to. He blinked as her silence withered his body. He was a man who was tired of feeling worthless. He began all his sentences the same way. He wrote so slowly that his typewriter had begun writing ahead of him. He. All of her sentences varied, and she never blinked. Blue eyes never need to be moistened, as they are already water. Fruit trees grew in her apartment; their branches and vines were cruel and wonderful, growing out of her occasional words. When she would laugh, all the lights would flicker, straining to hear the soft sound. He wanted to be her light, but she was a woman who promised nothing but erasure.

Summer Rebellion

Looking at love that is stranger than mine, memories of sweat dripping down to a place Really, the reminiscence is soft, like the light we would bathe in, feeling nights on northern streets, flying out of cars out of breath into stores for liquor or for old, used things we never needed But God did we want Lying on cement, tar beneath our backs, hands close, we were Awake like owls in a lightning storm There was a river that June night you whispered away the fog; we tore off our clothes and swam until it was morning and we couldn’t ever go home again. That afternoon the guitar strings broke. You wore thinner clothes and asked me to hold you less Rolling stolen cars into lakes, practicing escaping, practicing holding our breath and looking in each other’s eyes through water and moonlight, as though we were made of universe. As though we were in love. When really we were just musicians. Real artists kiss with their eyes open, you’d say quietly firmly transcendentally touching the red tired space beneath my eyes opening your mouth for a last breath.

June 20

so there’s this fear

swallowing the strands of our color but we never

ask it to calm down

to slow the trickle, no we only

breathe in and feel the burn,

and say thank you like good children

as if we have no right, no birthright to honesty

But hey, this is how the world turns

and those who grow cacti shouldn’t complain

about prickles,

you know?

June 22

there’s a cold storm rising on the mississippi river pulling out its tendrils to the mist it washes up the ocean whales and seaweed vanished letting us drown in our own piss there’s a sad way you look when you smile at your mother as though you know she never wanted this there’s a sweet little flavor dusting o’er the hilltops as though it could find the way to my mouth or some other orchard dust on, old mother dust on you have found your own boundaries but they do not exist

July 7

the ocean that reaches out its hand to feel out the features of my face as though a blind man lingers in its waves will find itself also my bed, my home, my landlord fingernail shells and seaweed tongues promises against my ankles in and out, a tide of words and purpose.

July 13

In a storm, the car can be the safest place, they say - All that rubber underneath you. I disagree

no lonely place can ever be a safe place. Purgatory’s the word.

Purgatory.

July 14

once I found a weeping willow asleep by the side of the road it was weary yet nascent, drooping into its beginnings cradling each branch, I picked it up and gently silently set it down in the back of my truck I took it home with me, fed it some sunlight (which was really all that I had to give) and asked it, please, to wake

if it must weep, understandable, but to lie so listlessly? no, it must open its eyes

I told it, Oh you are just becoming you have so much existence to look forward to, I promise the next day it awoke and humored existence for an hour, before . . I would have cried, but salt water wouldn’t save a weeping willow

July 15

so I hear that you’ve been raining in santa monica,

little cloud? the sahara will be so disappointed in you

July 28 (Rollercoaster)

I find this innate bursting forth from every living thing.

Even the trudging existences seem to inevitably flow from a center of energy beneath it all.

It’s not so much the thrill of the risk as it is the appreciation that you are hurtling through space unscathed. One doesn’t enjoy happiness just because the alternative is death. There’s a moment for existence and you don’t refuse. That is the thrill of such a giant machine.

July 30

little lies turn into pavement on my tongue, furnishing this purgatory highway, rain-strewn and sullen, like a teenager doesn’t have to be. let me taste morning dew, let things run their course. each person to their own mistakes. fly. I’ll hold you.

July 31

Each knuckle of my spine clenches with the road, ears quiet as horses underwater. The most comfortable the world has ever been. For once, on this hope-strewn highway, there is no need to be anyone else.

At peace.

August 2

It’s like the difference between jam and jelly– one with pieces of its origin–one smoothed–purified–cleansed of its form– broken in a jar by the porch–green, ephemeral rain lifting each leaf–above the mountains, mist warns (it will not always be so gentle)– there once was a time when spiders spoke and mountains disappeared.

August 3

Like seahorses, an incredible delicacy– Wings of tinderdust–they make love like pendulums. Rewarding our silence with gentle alighting, these neon fish of the air.

August 4

Each quiet is its own. Opening my eyes underwater, a different sort of clarity brushes in ripples across my vision. For every silence that we hum into being, a loon rises like a phoenix from the ashes of the lake.

August 5 (a haiku)

the mountain has left but in the moss you can find other ways to breathe

August 6

fields of corn off the side of the highway condemn any person who says that there isn’t beauty in the every day

August 7

Who would have thought that I could find New Hampshire in the middle of Virginia? A hidden portal pocket takes me back to my peaceland, but now I am with two gems, curled up in my hair like phosphorus. I have always found the semiprecious stones to be more beautiful.

August 12

Work. Try to complete. Try to succeed for this new bursting forth? Try.

August 13

This old shaking. Listing the people I have loved

I come to face with this sadness I have mostly

expelled. I remember the ancient need to reach

out. A rainforest mist of good intentions

keeps a constant dew of uncaring hands at my waist.

Songless prophecies.

That first saffron love pirouettes between your

legs. Many people set up butterfly nets for love,

but I have begun to just fly with it.

August 29

sliding through the sky cracks of the school summit I am faced with an absence of familiarity, and my ankles feel naked without grass licking at their skin- i am weighed down I am weighed down before I even sat upon the heights of new adventure.

September 3

I saw you brushing your lonely hair today,

outside the locker room. There isn’t much

a person can hide. Hold on to it. Let

everything else roam.

a haiku for you

it’s been a long time since I sat down and spelled out one of these flowers

lost and disconnected

This is not your year, the turquoise water informs through the rusted iron fence, luring into a sinking sort of dance, each forlorn creature floating with a lassitude unfortunate and inescapable. It is mine.

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