eight | darcy/bucky, morning after
Eight minutes. Time to go.
She let herself bask in his warmth, lying heavy across her waist and curled up against her back, and waited another heartbeat just to be sure. The soft breaths fluttering along the curve of her ear were slow, steady and rhythmic, and her moment was up. Fighting the urge to sink into him, sink into… into this, for just a few seconds longer, she gently pulled herself out of his hold, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes.
Irrational, she told herself again. They weren’t lovers; they were barely even friends, and there was no reason to feel anything, really.
Somehow, repeating it to herself just made it sound more and more hollow.
Staring down at his sleeping form, she resisted the urge to touch him. Instead, she slipped out of his bed, padding around quietly to pick up her clothes from the floor. Dressing quickly – eight seconds; a new record, she thought to herself morosely – she glanced back at him one more time before slipping out of his bedroom, and out of his apartment.
When the front door closed, Bucky opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. He could still feel the soft weight of her, tucked against his body, the smell of her hair lingering in his nose – it was like she was still there, until he couldn’t fool himself any longer.
He exhaled slowly, biting back the ache that settled in his chest. It meant something when he could say that he was getting more and more used to the feeling – this feeling of wanting and hoping, only to watch as she pulled away every time he thought he was getting close to saying what he’d been keeping to himself for months.
He hated it.
Quietly, he turned to his side, shuffling across the mattress until his head rested on her pillow, the imprint of her body on his sheets still warm. He closed his eyes, knowing that he would wake up in the morning restless and tired. He always did, after she left – all eight times they had fallen into his bed together – and it was getting harder and harder to pretend like he didn’t care.
And for the eighth time, before he fell asleep, he wondered again what it would be like to wake up in the morning with her next to him, curled up against his side.
“You left.”
Darcy paused mid-stir, glancing up only for a moment before busying herself with pouring cream and sugar into her coffee with more focus than necessary. “I had some stuff I had to take care of,” she said slowly, and even to her, it sounded so, so fake.
He was quiet, and she could feel his eyes studying her, but when she offered nothing more he just said, slowly, quietly: “Okay.”
There was something in the way he said it; something just shy of resigned and defeated and mournful, that had her looking up as he turned away. And even though she knew she should’ve just let him go, she called out after him.
“Bucky?” He paused in the doorway, looking back at her questioningly, and she hesitated for a moment before speaking. “… Eat breakfast with me?”
There was a jolt of surprise that flickered across his face, but when she grabbed the plate of bacon next to her and held it out to him, his lips curled up into a shy, tentative smile.
She tightened her fingers around the edge of the plate as he smiled at her, her heartbeat quickening.
It doesn’t mean anything, she reminded herself. It doesn’t mean anything.