Too much has changed in the years that Bucky Barnes has been asleep.
Well, he says asleep, but he had been awake every second – every painful, bloody second. He remembered every death, every corpse, every speck of blood that dotted his cheeks after a particularly close encounter. But in all those years, Bucky hadn’t stopped to look at the world around him.
So, rather, too much has changed in the years that Bucky Barnes had been imprisoned.
Smart TVs, smart fridges, smartphones – everything was getting more and more complicated for the sake of making things easier. He had tried to not let it overwhelm him, at first – he hadn’t minded the Wakandan technology, all smooth and sleek and so ingrained that you hardly noticed it was there – but it seemed that he couldn’t function properly without running into some computer that he really didn’t need.
(Do you want ice in your water? No. No, smart fridge, he does not. And if he did, he’d walk his ass over to the freezer and get some.)
In the time that Steve was making sure Bucky was mentally fit to be on missions, he suggested that Bucky explore New York. Get to know it again, after… everything, and so Bucky took it upon himself to find the simplest, quietest places in New York.
Easier said than done, but the fact that it was so strenuous a task only served to take his mind off of the dirt the media was so obviously spouting about him. The team made an effort to change the channel when the hosts of Fox News began their daily idiocy. The spider-kid even made a joke about them sharing one singular brain cell, which made him smile. (He still looks at the ground while he’s passing newsstands, though.)
It began with parking lots at 4am when he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes he took the train late and thought back on the days when Stevie was still under 6 feet and couldn’t open a jar of pickles. Slowly yet surely, he began to venture out during the day; parks and nature reserves and libraries and bookshops. He still remembers the day he stumbled upon The Melted Spoon.
It was one of those places that you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it, nestled between a dingy laundromat and an equally as dingy alleyway. Three stories tall, with a dark exterior and an ancient opening sign, but the windows were clean and the inside looked decently empty for a Tuesday afternoon.
Nobody had looked up as he entered, and that’s what made him relax. He still took note of all points of entry and did a scan of all the patrons, but that was a habit that would most likely stick with him no matter how much he improved.
On the first floor there was a reading area and a café with real coffee – not that pumpkin spice unicorn stuff that Peter drinks in lieu of actual caffeine – and on the second floor, a library that was nearing peak capacity from the looks of it.
He remembers browsing the books, cap pulled down low on his head, and he figured that he’d sit and maybe have a coffee while he read. He remembers meandering towards the till and thumbing his wallet, book in hand – and whatever higher entity that was looking over him must truly, entirely despise him, because when he looks up to order his espresso he isn’t expecting to be enchanted by the girl behind the counter.
His words had died in his throat. He blinked, swallowing, eyes darting all over her as she bustled around behind the counter, doing whatever it is that baristas do. The curve of her lips, the downturn of her brows, the swing of her lashes. She had the type of beauty that never went out of style.
Bucky had always been a sucker for pretty girls. He didn’t know how to act on it anymore – years of cryo and emotional turmoil and torture will do that to you – but he could still appreciate them.
(Was he being creepy? It had been at least a full minute of watching her. She hadn’t noticed yet.)
He was snapped back to reality by the whistling of some machine that sounded far too noisy to have some part in making coffee. He shuffled on his feet, cleared his throat, and cursed internally when his stomach flipped as she started and turned towards him.
“Sorry!” You had exclaimed, hand on your heart, “Didn’t notice you. What can I getcha?”
So he ordered his boring espresso and paid for it and you took the money and gestured towards the tables spread out.
“Sit anywhere,” you had said, smiling a smile much too soft for a Tuesday afternoon in New York. “I’ll get it to you when it’s done.”
It was a miracle that he was able to focus on the book he had picked up. Something old and dusty (like him, he supposed), with the words almost fading and dog-eared corners. Despite it, the book looks well loved.
When you came by with his coffee in a cute little cup you commented on it.
“Under the Hawthorn Tree, huh?” You said, setting down his coffee. “I read it when I was a girl. One of my favourites.”
He didn’t know what to say, but you took the smile he offered you with no complaints. And Bucky, for the thousandth time, damned everything that had made him into the mess that he was today. The old Bucky would have swept you off your feet with a drawl of his Brooklyn accented voice and a lazy grin.
Bucky drank his espresso and read his book. When it was time to leave, he did so with his eyes trained on the ground and fists shoved into his pockets.
It took him another week to return, but when he did your eyes brightened and back straightened and you remembered him. Asked him what he thought about the book, and he was proud to say that he spoke clearly and above a decibel of -200.
He ordered an espresso again and you brought it to his table again, and you gave him some recommendations of what to read. He made some stupid joke about you being his book dealer and he almost beat himself up for it but then you giggled and he felt like he was the most suave man in the world.
He went back the next day, and the day after that, and soon he had grown confident enough to make small talk (small talk! Him!). He asked if you owned the store and you asked what he worked as (he said security, which is true, he guesses), and you talked about your favourite food and he told you about the potato pancakes his ma used to make even though he hasn’t thought about them in 70 plus years. He didn’t want to think about them, but here he was, and it didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would feel.
He ordered an espresso, and you raised an eyebrow at him challengingly.
“Don’t you drink anything other than espressos?” You asked, hand on one hip. He laughed and shook his head.
“Call me old-fashioned.”
“I’m sure they had cappuccinos back in your day,” you said, obviously teasing because you thought he was born in 1980-something and not 1917. “Lattes, too.”
And you had paused, narrowed your eyes, and Bucky was terrified for a split second because you were seeing him as he was. Not James Barnes and certainly not the Winter Soldier, but just the Bucky he chose to be when he was most relaxed. It scared the shit out of him.
“You know what I think, Bucky?” You said. “You don’t like trying new things. You like being comfortable – which is fine! But you can’t discover what you like if you don’t try ‘em first.”
Bucky knew what he liked. He liked late night train rides and abandoned parking lots and espresso, and he liked you more than all those things combined. He liked the fuzzy hairs near your hairline that never stayed flat, and how the bridge of your nose was red when you took off your glasses because they’d been sitting on it all day. Maybe that was why he decided to try a cappuccino that day.
×
“Where you off to, tin-man?” Sam calls, slapping his sweaty towel over his shoulder. He holds a bright green smoothie in his hands, much too much for one man to drink, but Bucky doesn’t say anything because Sam will take that as a challenge and he’s not in the mood to bicker right now.
“None o’ your business,” Bucky answers, tightening his shoe laces.
“Nice to know my friendship is appreciated 'round here,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows. Natasha enters the kitchen seconds after and tells him to stop pouting with a roll of her eyes and a begrudgingly fond smile.
“Where you heading?” Natasha asks.
Bucky shrugs. “Nowhere.”
“Getting dressed up pretty well for nowhere,” she observes, leaning on the counter beside Sam. “Hot date that we don’t know about?”
He wishes.
“Just goin’ for a walk,” Bucky says, shrugging. He stands and straightens, brushing imaginary dirt from his jeans. “Back in a while.”
He shoots them a wave over his shoulder, and is on his way.
(“He’s going back to that bookshop, ain’t he?” Sam says, sipping his smoothie.
“Oh yeah,” Natasha replies. “Most definitely.”
Silence ensues.
“…We’re going to follow him, right?”
“Without question.”)
Bucky enters the bookshop at 10:07 exactly. It seems he just missed the morning rush, because there’s no more than four people lounging around. Good, he thinks. That means you can sit and talk for a few.
(He doesn’t actively mention how his heart lurches when he realises how much he was looking forward to seeing you, because that would mean that he’d have to admit that he had somehow allowed himself to feel something more than anger and anxiety and he wasn’t quite sure he was ready for that.)
“Bucky!” You exclaim upon seeing him. You’re slipping a tray of freshly baked brownies into the display and your smile is as sweet (if not sweeter) than the baked goods. “How’s your day?”
“Better,” he says, smiling when he hears your heart speed up the tiniest bit.
“Smooth,” you say, rolling your eyes teasingly as if it would stop him from seeing the flustered way in which you fiddled with the cash register. “And what can I get you today, oh favourite regular of mine?”
“A mocha,” he says, and he grins as you reacted just as he thought you would; gasping, a hand to your heart. You were always so dramatic in the most endearing of ways.
“A mocha?” You echo, turning momentarily to begin brewing the coffee. “You really are a changed man, Bucky. I thought I’d have to force you to try something new today.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging. The mocha was good, but it was even better because it was your favourite, too. You had made him try it the last time he was here a few days ago. “When you have the best barista in New York at your disposal…”
It was a badly veiled flirt but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Giggling, you picked up a chocolate bar on the counter and put it back down immediately. One hand went to tuck a non-existent piece of hair behind your ears. It made Bucky smile to see that you were as far gone as he was.
“Well, go sit down, flirty pants,” you tease. “I’ll make your coffee and be right over.”
Bucky is positively beaming as he sits in his window seat and pulls out the book he’d started yesterday. He reads a few lines (tries to), but his attention is very quickly brought back to you. How your hair falls out of its bun, how you pout your lips when you concentrate, how that woman in the corner looks awfully like Natasha…
Wait, what?
Bucky’s face darkens. Although she’s wearing a pair of sunglasses and baseball cap, face lowered towards some large, dusty tome – but he can clearly tell that it’s her. The same nose, lips, cheekbones. His eyes flickered to the next table over. He didn’t even need to see the face of the man sitting there to know it was Sam’s big ol’ head.
“For God’s sake,” he mutters, sparing a hesitant glance towards you. You’re still working away, so Bucky puts down his book and paces towards Sam. He grabs the man’s ear and tugs hard. “You better have a good reason for being here, bird brain.”
Sam is hissing in pain but the only reason Bucky stops is because he doesn’t want to draw your attention. You don’t know who he is (used to be) – but one look at Sam (or Natasha, with her iconic fiery red hair) and his cover would be blown. You would know that he was the Winter Soldier. Bucky didn’t want to know what would happen if you found out.
(She’ll find out sooner or later, some irritating voice in the back of his head says. Rip off the bandaid, Buck. Go for it.)
(Screw you, Bucky replies.)
“Calm down,” Natasha says, smoothly moving from her own table to sit opposite Sam. “We just wanted to see where our resident hermit was spending all of his time.”
She peels off her sunglasses and peeks around, eyes drifting over the bookshelves and the café area and the chalkboard that you had scribbled all over. (You’d even drawn a tiny little Bucky, complete with the long hair and dark circles.)
“Nice place,” she notes. “Cute barista, too.”
Bucky sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Please, don’t.”
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to–”
“Well, cute barista is on her way over,” Sam says, butting his shoulder against Bucky’s. “Look alive, Buckaroo.”
It’s embarrassing how Bucky perks up as you near. Natasha stifles a smile and Sam doesn’t bother hiding his as the gloomy assassin’s face breaks out in a grin.
“Hey,” you greet, eyes drifting over Sam and Natasha curiously. “One mocha as requested.”
“Mocha?” Sam repeats, looking between you and Bucky incredulously. “I thought you were sworn on espressos.”
You set down his coffee with a sweet smile in his direction that he returns with equal fervour. “I’ve been trying to get him out of his comfort zone.”
Natasha and Sam hum in unison, and there’s no mistaking the mischievous glint in their eyes.
“Hey, do I know you?” You suddenly ask Natasha, and Bucky’s blood runs cold. “You look familiar…”
“I’ve been told I have that kinda face,” Natasha answers smoothly. “What’s your name again?”
“Oh, I’m _____,” you say, grinning brightly. The shift in subject isn’t lost on Bucky, and he thanks the stars that you weren’t a highly trained international spy who would’ve been able to pick it up instantly (obviously, among other reasons were that you weren’t tortured for years and years and… whatever.). “And yours?”
“Nat.”
“Sam, nice to meet you.”
You beam and Bucky swears his heart isn’t supposed to skip so many beats but it does anyway and it doesn’t listen to him when he tells it to stop. You tuck the tray that had been carrying his drink under your arm and begin to turn away. “Well, any friend of Bucky’s a friend of mine. Do you want something to eat? Just took croissants out of the oven.”
(When you’re out of earshot Sam elbows Bucky so hard he buckles over.
“You best marry this girl,” he whispers, eyes set on the golden pastries layed out just metres away. Bucky doesn’t protest.)
×
“So,” Steve begins, leaning nonchalantly on the kitchen table beside Bucky. “Natasha tells me you’ve been seeing a girl.”
Bucky’s spoon freezes halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“Was wondering why you didn’t tell me, Buck,” Steve says with that tone in his voice that means that he’s trying to pretend he’s less bothered than he actually is. “I thought I’d be the first person to know…”
“Steve, it isn’t like that.”
“Which part?”
“All of it?” Bucky sighs. “I’m not going out with __– with anyone. She’s just this barista at this place I go to… and Sam and Natasha only know because they can’t mind their own business.”
Steve’s eyebrows furrow and his arms fold.
“I wanted to tell you in my own time,” Bucky rushes. “That I had found somewhere special, I mean. I know you told me to find somewhere I’d be comfortable – and, well, I’ve found it.”
Steve finally smiles (and Bucky sees 70 years worth of happiness in that smile). “I’m happy for ya, Buck.”
…
“So you’re not in love with her?”
“Steve–”
×
Bucky hasn’t visited the bookshop in a month and 12 days. Not that you’ve been counting, but… Oh, who’s judging? Yes, you’ve been counting, because the tall, buff, brunette puppy-dog eyed cutie had managed to worm himself into your daily routine and in turn, your heart.
God, how could he not? With his charming smile and little jokes and how he always tried to make you laugh and took all your coffee suggestions in stride without so much as a complaint. With his analysis of even the smallest details in books and his little huff of a laugh he’d let out when you said something particularly preposterous.
It was hard to believe that he had walked into your quaint little shop just under 6 months ago. He hadn’t changed one bit; maybe a tad more smiley, more easygoing, but there was always that silent sadness that lingered behind it. He wouldn’t let on anything, though, so you minded your business. If he wanted to tell you he’d do it in his own time – or so you had thought, before he disappeared for over a month.
He works security, right? You had tried to tell yourself after 2 weeks of no book discussions or drink suggestions. Maybe he’s busy with work?
You didn’t know what was normal for a security guard. You didn’t know what was abnormal for a security guard either, you suppose, so it could be either or.
But then two more weeks passed, and three more after that. You were beginning to think that Bucky was one of those people who would just enter your life randomly and leave in the same way, with no warning or excuse. That hurt more than you’d like to admit.
(Maybe you were teetering on love.)
In those five weeks that Bucky was gone you had thrown yourself into your work in a, baking up such a storm that you had multiple buy one get two (or three… or four) days. You created a new scone recipe, three new pastry recipes, and even made a triple tiered cake just for the fun of it.
You felt like a silly schoolgirl, getting so flustered and out of routine for a man you had only talked to during work. But he was so kind, and sweet, and sometimes you swore he was going to make a move but he always managed to talk himself out of it.
You began to go out when possible, meeting up with friends that you hadn’t talked to in weeks. You would always regret it the next day when you had to wake up at the ass crack of dawn but in the moment it felt nice to forget the one who got away, as dramatic as it sounded.
On one Tuesday morning after one such chaotic night, you wake at 5am to begin baking. You have dough made the night previous that needs to bake and icing that needs to be made. A new delivery of books comes at 9am (though Bucky would probably argue that you didn’t need anymore) and you push them to the side instead of packing them away just yet.
Your eyes are close to fluttering shut at the cash register but the steady flow of customers prevents you from dropping dead and sleeping with your forehead against the counter.
I can still disassociate, you murmur, staring into space tiredly. Take that, brain.
It is probably because of this that you don’t notice the shaggy-haired brunette strolling up to the counter, complete with a bust lip and bruised cheek, until he’s right in front of you.
“Bucky!” You exclaim, shooting up with far more energy than you actually had. You start when you take a closer look at him and notice the purple painted into his flesh and the red that clouds his lips. “Oh, Bucky, what happened?”
“Should see the other guy,” he says, grinning stupidly. The way he says it tells you that he’s not going to divulge on how he got it, but you’ve already moved on from its origin.
“Well, do you need some ice?” You ask, moving around the counter to fuss over him some more. “Plasters? I’m sure I might have an ointment or something upstairs…”
He doesn’t even wince when you prod gently at his cheek, but he does give you quite possibly the softest look you’ve ever seen and that’s enough.
You clear your throat and take a step back. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.
“You were gone for so long,” you say, an involuntary pout forming on your lips. “I thought you moved or something… Forgot to say goodbye.”
Bucky doesn’t know where the affection he speaks with comes from or the courage it takes to use it – but, hardly sparing a second thought, his lips pull back in a soft, emotion filled smile. “Would never forget to say goodbye to you.”
Your heartbeat responds immediately and for once Bucky is glad for the serum pumping through his veins. If it means he can physically hear you getting flustered he’s more than glad to be a super soldier-experiment-assassin.
“Well – I – um–” You laugh, wringing your hands together, and his smile only grows wider. “T-that’s sweet of you, Bucky.”
The air turns silent and the silence, in turn, swells and builds and builds. You both stare shyly at each other, smiles tugging at the corner of your mouths, and Bucky’s brain is working overtime.
Do it, Barnes, he urges, just kiss her! You won’t get a moment like this again. Don’t let something like this pass you by–
“Oh, shoot,” you say suddenly, peering over your shoulder at the till. You look irritated and annoyed and disappointed and Bucky feels those emotions reflected in himself. “I have to get to making that woman’s drink…”
No! The voice in his head groans, clenching its metaphorical fists and making panic filter through his lungs. No, no, no, Bucky–!
“C-can I get you anything?” You ask, an afterthought.
His eyes flicker between your eyes and your lips–
Bucky doesn’t think in that moment. If he does he’ll cower out and he’s had too much pass him by because of it.
Do it, Barnes.
He reaches forward and tugs you gently towards him by the wrist – and, other hand placed on the small of your back, he cradles you against him and presses his lips against yours–
You stiffen for a few seconds and Bucky thinks he’s made the wrong decision; but then you give a little sigh of relief and melt against him and he knows he’s made the right decision and it feels good, better, best.
You taste like coffee and sweets and baked goods and you’re close enough that he can smell the perfume you’re always ranting about. You’re so warm and soft and it’s such a contrast to everything he’s known in the past few years that his heart feels as if it will give out – and when your hands come up to rest on his shoulders he can almost feel the tension seeping from his muscles, dissipating into the coffee-scented air.
It’s only when his lungs are screaming for oxygen that he pulls his lips away from yours. You’re dazed, a dopey smile on your face and eyes half lidded, and he only can imagine that he looks the same because you both break out in simultaneous chuckles, bashful even after essentially snogging in the middle of your café.
Bucky presses his forehead against yours and smiles sweetly. “Get me a mocha, doll?”
You can only nod happily and scurry off, and Bucky is all too suddenly aware that he’s more comfortable and happy right now than he’s been in years.