The equipment Bucky ordered comes in a shiny metal box that reminds him of the time the Wakandans offered him a new arm, a new war. But this time, Bucky isn’t fighting a war. He’s not even fighting. He’s observing. He’s setting up the binoculars near the window. He’s fine-tuning the microphones to an earpiece and a recording device. He’s making sure the motion sensors properly record movement and register in his computer.
It’s oddly reminiscent of some jobs he used to do for HYDRA. Although he wishes he could erase that part of his life, the time he spent observing and collecting data prove useful to him now.
The day outside is gloomy. The clouds seem to mock him, closing him into a space he’s been forced into anyway.
Bucky clucks his tongue.
“Has there been any dreams again?”
He turns to face his psychologist. She sits with a frown nettling her face, leg bent over the other, the tip of her shiny black boot white and apotropaic for Bucky.
“No,” he answers. Not since her. Not since Meatball.
“Are you having any sort of dream?” she asks, eyes briefly falling to her notepad duteously spread on her knee.
Bucky bites the inside of his cheek. Yes, he wants to say. So many. Of her and her big eyes and the way her smell seems to linger in the hall even after she’s left. Dreams of following her down a long, empty hallway, of pining her against a wall and watching the way her skin flushes, glows, under his stare.
“Not really,” he opts for, determining that confessing dreams of stalking a neighbor would not earn him points with both his psychologist and the government.
“Sam told me you ordered surveillance equipment?” she continues, chin in her palm.
Of course, Sam would not completely believe Bucky.
“There’s this neighbor,” Bucky starts, hands on his knees. “I don’t know who lives there. Honestly, all I’ve seen is their animals. And they’re being neglected. Left for days unattended. I sometimes see through the living room door that there’s no food.”
The doctor nods, writes, hums.
“Do you feel like that’s a good hobby to have, Mr. Barnes?” God, he hates when she calls him that.
“Animal rescue?” he tries, tone faking innocence.
She snorts. She sees right through his ruse. “Stalking.”
Bucky jerks ever the slightest. “It’s not that,” he groans. “It’s mostly… I feel useful, and I feel like I’m partaking in something good for once,” he sighs.
“Rescuing animals,” she says, writing something down in that little stupid fucking notepad.
“Yes,” he grits between his teeth. “I’m not waiting to kill someone,” he retorts, and immediately regrets it.
“Is that what you think I think of you?”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Sometimes.”
She smiles slowly. “I am only here to help you.” She readjusts in her seat. “And if you are constantly thinking that I’m here to undermine you, then this relationship won’t work. We won’t be able to move forward.”
He nods, biting back some remarks he should really keep to himself.
She stares at him for a few moments, then down at her watch. “Our hour is over, Mr. Barnes.” She settles back in her seat, scribbling some notes down. “Until next week.”
Bucky all but storms out of her office, past the receptionist who wishes him well, and out into the gloomy New York air. The office is a few blocks away from his condo, and he uses the time walking to keep his mind from conjuring images of strangling that woman to death.
When he gets to the back door of the complex, he notices a familiar figure coming his way. He schools his features into something more homely, warm, and magnetic. He tries to conjure the womanizer he was in the forties, but something about this girl, Elora, doesn’t make him want to be that: a jerk. He wants to be good to her. He knows he can be good to her.
“Hey,” he says.
She squints as she approaches him, and when she recognizes him, her face lights up. “Oh, hey!” She smiles and Bucky swears she’s the most beautiful creature on Earth. “James! Or Bucky.” She has a backpack on, the color of rust.
“It’s just Bucky,” he says, smiling, leaning a shoulder against the wall. She watches his nonchalance, and Bucky thinks he spies a moment of attraction flitting across her face. “Where you headed? Lost Meatball again?”
She chuckles, pushing hair behind her ears. Adorable. “No,” she says with a shy smile, crossing her arms across her chest. “Sorry about that. Or, I guess, thank you.”
Bucky nods with a faint smile.
“I’m just headed to that… apartment I told you about?” She’s acting cold, restrained now, as if she’s either afraid of him or afraid of what he’s going to say about her little jaunts next door.
“Still on that animal rescue mission?” he asks humorously.
That seems to dispel the tension in her shoulders, and she laughs. “Yeah, I’m going to feed them actually.”
Bucky nods, pushing from the wall. He can see the sparkle in her eyes as she assesses him. He knows she finds him attractive. He’s seen himself in the mirror a few times.
“Mind if I join?”
Her mouth parts and it’s the most adorable view Bucky has ever had.
“Really?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he answers, lifting a shoulder. “Always wanted to be the good guy.”
She laughs, unaware of the way Bucky stares at her with both hunger and longing.
“Alright, cowboy, let’s go!”
They walk across the street, and Bucky notices how Elora walks with her head high, not cowering and nervous. She’s done this before. She walks up to the basement sliding door of the aforementioned apartment and waits for Bucky to step beside her. From under the canopy of the upstairs balcony, her face is shadowed, cool, and she lifts a daring eyebrow to Bucky.
“So, what, do you know where the key is?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at the busy boulevard. “Or a barrette?”
She scoffs. Then she puts a finger to the knob and pushes, the door sliding open. Bucky smiles, holding laughter, and gives her an impressed raise of his brows.
“A woman with many talents,” Elora mumbles as she climbs in.
Once inside, Bucky closes the sliding door, and puts a hand to his mouth. It smells like excretion and rotting food. Or corpses. He wishes beyond anything that there are no dead animals here.
Elora behaves as if she lives here, bending down and retrieving food from her backpack. When she opens the bag, a few little kittens come stumbling into the messy, dirty living room. Bucky stands there, watching Elora crouched on the stained yellow carpet as she takes out cans of wet cat food.
“The dogs are in cages in the back room,” she says, jerking her chin towards the back of the apartment, and Bucky understands that as his cue to move. She hands him a bag of dog food, and when he takes it out of her hand, his finger brushes hers and fire licks up his palm. He tries not to fidget, or flinch away, but he’s wearing gloves, as always, to keep others from ogling his metal arm, and now he wishes more than anything that his flesh could have touched hers.
She doesn’t say anything about the touch. The gloves. She just shoves the bag into his hands and motions him to action.
He takes the dog food bag across the apartment, noticing the dirt stains on the kitchen floor, the mountain of rotting, dirty dishes in the sink, and that the walls are decaying.
The dogs, three pitbulls, are indeed in cages in what should have been the guestroom. Bucky holds back a gag. Some of the dogs have been left in their filth, and it stinks up the room. His heart squeezes at the sight of the animals laying down in tiny cages, their big bodies constrained to such a small enclosure. The dogs are looking at him, but none move. It as if they’re used to this: someone, anyone, not a master or friend, coming in and just feeding them.
“Heartless, right?”
Bucky turns and Elora stands in the doorway with a grey cat nestled in her arms.
“We should call someone,” Bucky says, opening the dog food bag, the dogs’ heads snapping up to attention.
“I’ve called animal health, rescue centers, even the police,” she adds. Then she shrugs. “They’ve all claimed insubstantial evidence. If I send pictures, they’re going to arrest me for B&E.”
Bucky nods, carefully opening the cage of the first dog.
“They don’t bite,” Elora says. “So, yeah, I come here sometimes and rescue some and send them to centers for neglected animals. Every time I come back, though, there’s more.”
Bucky groans, his heart burning, his head imagining scenarios of beating whoever puts these animals into such dire situations. Heartless fucker.
Bucky fills the first bowl and leaves the cage open. “We should take this one,” he says. “At least today. And tomorrow, we can come get the other one.”
Elora walks out and comes back in as Bucky is feeding the second dog. She hands Bucky a leash. “Feel free. She’s a female, by the way. I named her Claudia.”
Bucky snorts, closing the second cage on the other dog, heart wrenching as he sees the way the animal gobbles down food. How long have they been without food?
They feed the third dog, noticing burn marks on its haunches, and then leash up Claudia. She has difficulty walking, limping, her front paw badly injured from God knows what. Bucky follows Elora through the apartment, where she shows him the entire, disgusting situation. Bunnies in a cage with barely anything to do but sleep in their defecation. Birds in a cage left covered by a black, heavy cloak. More and more and endless kittens and adult cats. Bucky lets a few of the adult ones out of the back door, maybe to freedom or better homes, who knows.
As they walk across the street, Bucky helping Claudia along, the man can’t help but feel proud of Elora. His Elora. This incredible girl that risks her neck every time she walks into that apartment.
“Don’t ever go in there alone, ever again,” Bucky says as they near the parking of their complex.
She turns and frowns up at this man that she barely knows but appreciates. “Why?”
Bucky shakes his head, shakes the feeling from his bones, this feeling that wants to protect her from the world. He needs to bide his time. “Who knows when the owner can come back,” he answers. “They could be dangerous.”
She smiles, rolls her eyes, a behavior he will have to correct. “I can handle myself.”
Bucky’s shoulders tense. “I mean it,” he says, forcing himself not to grit his teeth. “You have me now. Use that.”
She smiles again, all teeth and cheeks and giddy innocence. “Sure,” she pipes up. “Now let’s get to my car and get these babies to a rescue.”
A/N: This was a lot of fun to write. I hope you enjoy it!!! I’m also getting used to writing this way so the tenses may get a bit murky sometimes!
Summary: Bucky x Reader. Reader has been Tony lab assistant for years. However, She’s never really had the chance to speak to Bucky Barnes until Tony suggests she take a look at his arm… Suggestions of an enhanced reader, fluffy, Tony being a Dad™ and Steve and Sam bein wingmen. Also Peter Pan.
Words: 5030
Fun fact: some of this dialogue is based off real things soldiers have said to me under anesthetic. Take a guess as to what haha.
“Hey! Tinker Bell!” Tony’s voice jolts you from your technology-induced reverie and you turn from the motherboard in front of you, having finished it at least 10 minutes ago anyway.
“If I’m Tinker Bell, does that make you Peter Pan?” You cock your head from your perch on the work stool and watch as Tony scrunches his nose tightly. “Ew. No.” “Really? I think you’d look great with a little bycocket hat!” You tease and Tony pulls out the stool your legs had been resting on, dusting it off before sitting down. He’d been out of the lab all day and had clearly only just taken his jacket coat off. You knew this because not even 15 minutes prior you’d seen him giving a live press conference on the tv perched in the corner of the room that was now playing some news report. “I need you to do me a favour.” He began and you immediately rolled your eyes. “I’m your assistant. I’ve been doing your favours since I was 18.” Tony reached out and gently poked your nose as one would do with a small child. “Are they really favours if I’m paying you ridiculously well? Anyway, I need you to look at Barnes’ arm.” He said the last part as if he were ripping a bandaid off and you paused, mouth in an ‘o’ shape and you just blinked as your mind turned blank. “What?” “You heard me, Ironette, I know you don’t like him-” “Uh no, you don’t like him, I have no problem with him… or at least I assume I don’t. Never spoken to him.” You cut Tony off. Truly, whatever problem Tony and Bucky Barnes had shared several years ago, you honestly didn’t see it as involving you now. Tony had somewhat forgiven the issue at this point and so there wasn’t any reason for you to bring it up
Summary: You’re making an elaborate breakfast for you and your boyfriend, Bucky. Over the course of the conversation you realise you had no clue how old he is.
A/N: I was hungry when I wrote this if you can tell. Let me know what you think! ❤️
You hummed along to the cheerful, upbeat melody streaming from the radio. The bacon in the pan was spitting dramatically at you while you bumped your hips along to the beat. The coffee pot dinged it’s readiness and, abuzz with excitement at the prospect of caffeine, you turned in an exaggerated twirl to grab a mug.
The sight of a figure leaning against your bedroom door startled the mug straight out of your hands. The radio couldn’t overcome the sound of smashing ceramic but you ignored the mess in favour of pressing a hand to your pounding heart. “Holy shit, Bucky,” he had the audacity to laugh at you as you bent to collect the largest pieces, “don’t do that!”
Stooping to help you collect a particularly sharp piece of pointed ceramic, he asked with a voice full of innocence, “what? I can’t enter the kitchen now?”
Standing up, a pile of jagged ceramic in your palm, you huffed and moved over to the bin. “You don’t have to sneak in! And sidle up behind me like a - a -“ you words devolved into stumbling as he put an arm around your waist, lazy kisses laid on your neck. “Don’t think you can distract me,” you sighed out, already leaning back into him. “I’m very angry with you.”
Cockily, he gave you nothing but a chuckle in response. Hands clutching your waist greedily as you melted into his attention.
A sudden ding jolted you from his arms, the grumble of your stomach more enticed by the idea of breakfast than his advances, and you rushed to the toaster. Licking your lips you plucked the two slices of toast from the toaster and plonked one piece indelicately on each plate. “Hope you’re hungry?”
Wryly, he smirked at you. “Sure,” he sidled up beside you, leaning forward to twist the dial of the radio, “what we having?”
As the music clicked off, you raised a brow at him - butter knife brandished as you paused in your action. “Well, I was having fun but you turned the music off.”
Delicately, he extracted the knife from you, taking over the important job of buttering the toast while you moved back to the frying pan.
“You call that music, doll?” You shook your head with a giggle, this familiar rant of his almost funny to you now. “That’s just… noise.”
Flicking the controls to turn off the hob, you deposited two slices of bacon on each plate and dumped the pan in the sink. “You’re so old.” You told him sardonically, listening to the hiss of cool tap water hitting the still heated pan.
Dismissively, he muttered “yeah, yeah,” as he leaned around you to send the butter knife clattering into the sink. “You know in my day, they made music you could actually dance to.”
You paused in your action, aggressively scrubbing the frying pan, and looked at him with a snorting laugh. “‘Back in my day’,” you mocked in good humour. A light laugh preceded your next sarcastic question; “what are you, a hundred years old?”
With a dramatic roll of his eyes he plucked the sponge from your hand and took over. “A hundred and five, next month.” He said that so matter-of-factly you couldn’t be sure if he were just continuing along with your poor excuse for a joke.
Frowning, eyebrows pushing together, you waited for him to clarify what that had even meant. When he said nothing, you pushed; “wait, wait, what?”
Carefully, stacking the pan on the drying rack, he shrugged. “My birthday’s next month.”
Grabbing a fresh tea-towel, grimacing at the sight of water pooling on the draining board, you shook your head. “Yeah, I got that part.” You told him, catching his eyes briefly before smoothing the towel over the pan, “you’re a hundred and five?” You asked, confused by whatever joke he was telling.
Plainly, he looked at you. “Yes,” he confirmed, “you know that.”
Flabbergasted, you shook your head. “I think I’d remember something like that, Bucky?” An element of fear infected his expression at the suddenly high pitch of your voice. “It’s not like a dealbreaker,” you assured, “but… you didn’t tell me that?!”
Seeming a little more settled, he squinted at you. “I didn’t outright say it, no,” he agreed, “but it’s pretty common knowledge.”
Lips twisting you pulled your phone from your pocket, tapping furiously into the search bar. The answer shone up at you, the fact feeling more real now that it was cemented in pixels. “Huh,” you gave, clicking the phone screen off, “you’re… right.“
A laugh pealed from him as he came to lean against the counter beside you, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah - I think I know how old I am.”
You nodded, brain still almost short circuiting with this information. “I thought when you said you were older than you looked you meant you were like… fifty or something not… a centenarian.”
Eyes narrowed, he leaned forward as though to hear you better. “A what?”
“Centenarian,” you repeated, “yknow, over a hundred.” Feeling a spark of tension rolling from him, something about this subject pulling him taut, you smirked and attempted to push him back into the quiet ease of the morning. “You’re pretty spry for an old guy.”
One brow raising at you, arms uncrossing as his shoulders dropped slightly, he asked; “oh yeah?”
Nodding, springing lightly closer to him, you sent delicate fingertips over his neck. “Yeah,” you affirmed. Then, with fingers now skimming past his hairline, you added in a husky whisper; ”full of youthful stamina too.”
He ducked his head as he laughed, one hand slung lazily over your hips as the other pushed him away from the counter and closer to you. His tone dropped and became lazy in that seductive way of his, eyes bright and dark all at once as they all but smouldered over you: “You want another demonstration of that stamina?”
The loud buzz of the egg timer you had placed atop the fridge cut off any response you could make. With a new excitement infecting every movement, making you almost clumsy with bouncy haste, you moved from him to open the oven. You heard a disappointed huff from the man behind you before the egg timer was silenced, but you ignored it in favour of opening the oven and basking in the smell of hash browns.
Oven gloves quickly secured, you pulled the tray free and felt your mouth watering at the sight of golden potato.
As you dished out the rest of the breakfast items, giving him a little extra as always, you couldn’t help a last jab. “Do you want me to cut it up for you, or maybe blend it so you don’t have to chew?”
“Very funny,” he grumbled, leaning over to turn the radio back on at almost full volume; an innocent smile shot your way.
Chuckling at his attempt to drown out the sound of your laughing words, you handed him the plate.
