To me you are like gravity. Whenever I‘m flying too high, you‘re pulling me back onto the ground. And whenever I‘m away for too long you pull me back in.
Out of focus - eye to eye - until the gravity‘s too much.
wow wow wow i know that treacherous is always on the list of taylor’s gayest songs but i’m listening to it today like ???
the line that really got me going today was “i can’t decide if it’s a choice, getting swept away” which is just so. it’s so. someone coming to terms with their sexuality and working through the Born This Way conundrum
the whole first verse, though:
“put your lips close to mine, as long as they don’t touch
out of focus out of eye, til the gravity’s too much
i’ll do anything you say, if you say it with your hands
i’d be smart to walk away, but you’re quicksand”
i think my favorite line is - “forever going with the flow, but you’re friction” add that to the list of lyrics about a life and love that go against the grain
summary:you’re asking yourself why he keeps coming back, he’s asking himself why you keep letting him in. it’s a treacherous slope but neither of you can turn back now.
pairing: outlaw!bucky barnes x female reader.
warnings: SMUT (18+, minors dni!), swearing, fluff, angst, mention of alcohol, blood, injury, guns, death, and non-con (it’s alluded to in regards to an unnamed character).
length:16.5k
a/n: written for my 3k celebration, the prompt is bolded. i know nothing of the old west but this is fiction so. title inspired by this song and one part of this fic is inspired by a scene in butch cassidy & the sundance kid (if u can tell which part ur cool). also my second time writing smut ✌.
You never could quite handle the sight of blood, nor could you ever hide your instinctual response to it. Your father used to terrorise you with the cuts he’d sometimes earn from a hard day’s work, always finding your reactions humorous.
Each time he would smile and say “You’ll get used to it one day kid.”
That day didn’t come while he was alive and it hadn’t come now.
Opening your front door to the man you’d spied knocking on it through your kitchen window, you almost shut it again.
The stranger towers above you, taking up the whole doorway, but your focus is drawn down to where his hands, covered in dirt and blood, press above his left hip.
this… this is it. my favourite comment reblog of all time.
WOW i’m seriously blown away, i think i’ve been smiling at this for a while now, i’ve never had someone take the time to write so much!! (tho i suppose it was a 16k fic )
it was definitely new territory for me to do an outlaw au (i always seem to do au’s i know little about sksk), i’m so glad you thought it blended and built steadily, i struggled a lot trying to make it not feel rushed while also making sure it didn’t seem too slow .
!!! i’m so happy you loved bucky’s characterization, because again it’s so hard to know if i’m portraying him correctly and that he’s coming across the way i want him to! yes, him bringing her the flowers is one of my favourite parts! (i tried to drop a little hint there about how lavender makes bucky think of her cos he made sure to buy her a bouquet with lavender in it )
ok… i’m not going to lie, when the idea came to me to do an outlaw au with this prompt i wanted to do angst, so it was gonna end with bucky dying. BUT i started writing and the length/characters/plot ran away from me and i just COULDN’T DO IT. i couldn’t not have the angst of the original hanging scene tho so i wanted to make y'all sweat a little, maybe even tear up a bit all for that build up of seeing Steve wink. sorry not sorry hehe.
ipromise bucky got out safely (i may or may not have written some extra scenes that i decided to cut for the cliffhanger effect that take place after …)
summary:you’re asking yourself why he keeps coming back, he’s asking himself why you keep letting him in. it’s a treacherous slope but neither of you can turn back now.
pairing: outlaw!bucky barnes x female reader.
warnings:SMUT (18+, minors dni!), swearing, fluff, angst, mention of: alcohol, blood, injury, guns, death, and non-con (it’s alluded to in regards to an unnamed character).
length:16.5k
a/n: written for my 3k celebration, the prompt is bolded. i know nothing of the old west but this is fiction so. title inspired by this song and one part of this fic is inspired by a scene in butch cassidy & the sundance kid (if u know which part ur cool). my second time writing smut ✌.
You never could quite handle the sight of blood, nor could you ever hide your instinctual response to it. Your father used to terrorise you with the cuts he’d sometimes earn from a hard day’s work, always finding your reactions humorous.
Each time he would smile and say “You’ll get used to it one day kid.”
That day didn’t come while he was alive and it hadn’t come now.
Opening your front door to the man you’d spied knocking on it through your kitchen window, you almost shut it again.
The stranger towers above you, taking up the whole doorway, but your focus is drawn down to where his hands, covered in dirt and blood, press above his left hip.
“Ma'am,” He greets in a gruff tone. “I hate to bother you, but I find myself in need of some assistance…” The man nods to his injury, as if it had gone unnoticed by you.
It takes a moment for you to respond and when you do it’s with a jerky nod as you step out of the way.
One blood stained hand raises to tip his hat at you as he enters.
Your eyes follow him as he walks into the kitchen to his left, a slight sway in his steps.
How long has he been bleeding out?
Shutting the front door, you finally find your voice. “What do you need?”
Grunting as he lowers himself into a chair at your small, rectangular table, he answers “Rag, needle, thread, and alcohol - whiskey preferably.”
Removing his hat, he places it beside him on the table.
Okay, he’s done this before.
Focusing on the task he’s provided, you move around the kitchen and sitting room opposite it, gathering the items.
The stranger is in luck. Your father had loved whiskey and there’s still plenty of bottles stashed away.
When you come to stand in front of him with everything in hand, you find that he’s lifted his shirt, providing an unobstructed view of his wound.
There’s so much…
“Bullet just grazed me,” The man observes quietly to himself. “Still made one hell of a mess though.” He grumbles, finally looking up.
Blood. There’s so much blood and the skin has -
His deep, rough laugh pulls you from your trance and you swallow thickly.
“It’s alright darlin’.” There’s a lighter edge to his tone. “Just put the stuff on the table, I’ve got the rest.”
You do as he says but remain where you are.
He opens the whiskey bottle first and takes three healthy swigs before pouring the liquid over his wound, hissing.
Quickly averting your gaze with a wince, you focus on his face instead.
What skin you can see is dirty, like his clothes - it’s clearly been some time since he’s bathed or even tidied his appearance.
His hair is long and tangled, you think it’s naturally a dark brown but it’s hard to be certain. A thick, wild beard hides most of his mouth and face, while a sharp nose -
Oh god.
You’ve seen the wanted posters hanging around town, heard the stories that accompanied them.
Bucky Barnes.
The famed outlaw, responsible for some of the decade’s biggest robberies and revered as the fastest gun in the west, is sitting in your kitchen.
Tending a gunshot wound.
For the briefest moment you wonder who it was that shot him and what their fate had been.
Then you realise that’s something you really don’t want to know.
“Ma always said I could never be a tailor.” He - Bucky mutters, eyeing his truthfully pitiful stitching. “But it’ll do.”
Placing the blood soaked rag on the table, along with the needle and leftover thread, Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he takes another mouthful of whiskey.
You feel the shift in the air as he sets the bottle back down.
Somehow he knows.
“I’m not lookin’ for any trouble ma'am.”
“Says the man famous for trouble.” You can’t help but retort.
Am I seriously smart mouthing him?
To your shock Bucky merely grins, teeth surprisingly white against his dirty face. “That’s fair, but a pretty girl’s house isn’t exactly where I make my trouble.” Morphing his grin into a smirk, he amends “Unless I’m asked.”
Your skin heats at the insinuation.
“I won’t be asking.” You state in a no-nonsense tone.
“Then you’ve nothin’ to fear.” He assures, mouth returning to its serious line underneath his beard.
Bucky’s eyes watch you carefully and it’s only then that you realise they’re the most electrifyingblue.
“I best be on my way.”
The sudden declaration should fill you with relief, but as you watch him rise from the chair with an unsteady step, you hear yourself say “You can stay.”
Something tells you the last time he bathed was also the last time he had a decent meal or sleep. He wouldn’t find any of those things close by, especially in his condition.
It’s a wonder he even found you.
The downward tilt of Bucky’s eyebrows is the only indication of his bewilderment as he looks up from the hat in his hands. “Are you -”
“Just for the night, and nofunny business.”
Bucky’s eyes study you again and you swear no one has ever looked at you with such intensity.
Then he blinks, his gaze shifting to the front door. “I left my guns with my horse. You can keep ‘em with you if it’ll make you feel better.” Meeting your eyes once more, his deep voice rumbles “But I promise you won’t need 'em.”
How much was an outlaw’s promise worth?
Watching him in the same observing manner, you begin to understand what Bucky had been searching for.
Slowly shaking your head, you tell him “It’s alright.”
You had your father’s shotgun should it come to that, and you were familiar with the weapon.
“I’ll show you the bathroom.” You declare, striding out of the kitchen. “If you’re gonna stay, you’re gonna be clean.”
Behind you, Bucky responds with a - dare you say, amused“Yes ma'am.”
Your eyes fall shut as you close the front door behind you and lean against it, sucking in a deep breath of the fresh afternoon air.
When your eyes open again you find you’re not alone.
Bucky’s horse watches you curiously from where she stands in front of the porch steps, her gorgeous white coat shining under the sun.
Descending the steps cautiously, you extend a hand to the mare, letting her sniff at it. When she makes a soft nicker and nudges at your hand, you move it to stroke her neck.
Her calm temperament surprises you as she gladly lets you lead her over to the barn not far from the house, where you settle her in a stall opposite your own horse - Chester.
A gelding you’d aptly named after his chestnut complexion.
You spot Bucky’s guns amongst his belongings when you relieve his horse of her saddle - just like he said, and you leave them there in the barn.
Back in the kitchen you clear off the table, leaving only the quarter filled whiskey bottle.
He might as well finish it off.
Wiping down the wooden surface to erase any trace of blood, you lift the bottle to wipe under it and get a large whiff of the alcohol, making you pause.
It’s been years since you smelt the once common scent and it has memories flickering behind your eyes as you realise you’ve missed it.
Shaking your head, you put the bottle back down.
An hour passes, Bucky yet to emerge from the bathroom.
You stir dinner distractedly, staring out the window in front of you that shows the barn and the great nothingness beyond it as the sky slowly darkens.
“Smells good.”
Christ.
Heart thumping sturdily at the small fright, you let the wooden spoon rest against the side of the pot and turn to face Bucky.
Oh.
It’s no wonder he took so long. Bucky had found good use in a pair of scissors and your father’s razor.
His wild, untamed beard has been reduced to stubble, highlighting a handsome jawline. Bucky’s hair - which is a dark brown and currently damp, curls under his ears instead of brushing against his shoulders.
Definitely trouble.
However, dressed in your father’s old clothes it’s hard to find him as intimidating.
Your father had been a stout man, so you knew the clothes wouldn’t be a perfect fit.
The pants are a little baggy and come up short, ending above the ankles of his bare feet, and the shirt tucked into them is an even looser fit. Bucky has rolled up the long sleeves to keep them out of his way, revealing just how thick and muscular his arms are.
“I can wash your clothes if you like.” You offer, realising you’ve been staring.
“No need darlin’,” Bucky responds smoothly. “Washed them with me and hung 'em over the porch.”
You hadn’t even heard the front door open orclose.
“Kid, that wanderin’ mind a'yours is gonna get you in trouble one day.”
Nodding, you gesture to the table. “Well take a seat, dinner’s ready.”
Dishing out two bowls of stew, you place one in front of him, along with a basket of bread rolls.
“Can’t remember the last time I had a home cooked meal.” Bucky divulges.
Sitting in the chair across from him, you say “There’s plenty more if you want it.”
The two of you eat in silence, Bucky at a much faster pace. You’re only finishing your first serving when he begins his third.
Guess it has been a while since he last ate.
However, something tells you this is just his usual appetite.
“Is it just you here?” Bucky asks after polishing off another bread roll, ending the quiet stretch.
In any other circumstance you’d think twice before giving an honest answer, but it’s pointless to lie to him now.
“Yes, it used to be my father and I, but he died two years ago.”
Losing him was the hardest thing you’d ever gone through.
Your mother passed when you were four, taken by sickness. If it weren’t for the two photographs your father had of her, you wouldn’t even know what she looked like.
After she died it was just you and him.
When his health began failing him some years ago you both knew it was only a matter of time. You had just hoped for more.
Adjusting to life without your father had been challenging, but you were fortunate. You’d been left with a home - no one else to come claim it, and the money that came from loaning out land to cattle ranchers. It kept you fed, warm, and content.
Bucky lifts his eyes to look at you. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
You nod, throat tightening with a wave of emotion.
Standing from the table, you take your empty bowl to the sink while Bucky continues eating.
The subject of your father’s passing stopped affecting you heavily some time ago, but it seems the turmoil of today’s events has brought it all back up.
“I’ll get your bed ready.” You announce, leaving the kitchen.
He’ll stay in the spare room - your father’s old room. It’s bigger than yours, but you could never find the will to claim it as your own. You were happy in your childhood room.
Pulling out the sheets from the bedroom’s wardrobe, you set about making the bed.
The room is sparse, containing only the bed with a small table either side of it, the wardrobe, and a chair. On one bedside table sits the two photographs of your mother.
As you slip a cover over the pillow, Bucky’s figure appears in the doorway.
“Have enough to eat?”
You doubt there’s any leftovers.
“More than, your cookin’s somethin’ else.” He states.
A smile escapes before you can stop it.
You’ve always loved cooking and it’s been years since you’ve had someone else to feed, or receive compliments from.
Dropping the pillow, you look over at Bucky and find his gaze fixated on the bed.
“I’ll leave you be.” You say, moving towards the door.
Still staring at the bed, Bucky steps further into the room and out of your way.
Glancing at him one last time, you utter out a small “Goodnight Bucky.”
You’re startled by how quickly his dark blue eyes jump to you. Then you realise it’s the first time you’ve spoken his name.
“What’s your name darlin’?”
A pause.
“Y/N.”
“Y/N,” Bucky repeats. “Thank you, for everything.”
His tone is lighter again, like it had been earlier after he laughed, letting you hear the emotion in it - sincerity in this instance.
When you wake, you’re not as well rested as you’d like, eyelids heavy and unwilling to open.
You spent most of the night tossing and turning, all too aware of the outlaw just two doors down.
Forcing your eyes open, you sluggishly get out of bed before taking your time getting dressed and fixing your hair.
Opening your bedroom door, you take a step out and look to your right, peering down the hall. The bathroom resides next to your room, the spare room next to it. Both have their doors wide open, unoccupied.
Taking a few steps down the hall until you reach the opening on your left that leads into the sitting room, you walk in and find Bucky to your right, in the kitchen… making breakfast?
“Mornin’,” Bucky greets as you approach. Cracking two eggs into a pan, he answers your unspoken question. “Figured I at least owed ya breakfast.”
You weren’t going to argue that.
Taking a seat at the table, you ask “How did you sleep?”
Peering at you over his shoulder, Bucky replies “Like a rock.”
“And your wound?”
“Healin’ just fine.”
Bucky’s still wearing the clothes you gave him, but judging by the heat you can already feel in the air, you know his will be dry before you even finish breakfast.
You walk back to the house with Bucky on your right, his horse - Alpine as he’d introduced, on his other side.
He doesn’t mount the mare until you reach the steps leading up to your porch, and when he does you’re stunned by the ease and swiftness his large body executes the movement with.
“Thanks again darlin’.” Bucky nods, touching the brim of his weathered black hat. “For your cookin’ especially.”
Back in his own clothes with his gun belt around his hips, he looks every bit like the outlaw he is.
For the secondtime since you’ve met, you find your mouth opening on its own accord before you hear the sound of your own voice saying “Well, if you ever find yourself this way again maybe I’ll cook you something else.”
The edges of his lips turn up in a smirk at your offer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
With a light press of his leg into Alpine’s side, the white beauty starts walking away. You watch as she builds her momentum until she’s galloping, her and her rider becoming nothing more than a dot on the horizon.
///////////////////////// 7 WEEKS LATER \\\\\\\\\\\\\
Truthfully, you never expected to see Bucky Barnes again.
The memory of his visit had been stored away at the back of your mind and some days you wondered if it ever even happened - if it had simply been a daydream you’d gotten toolost in.
However, the knocking you hear on your front door one afternoon weekslater is very much real. As real as the man you see standing on your porch through the window above your kitchen sink.
“Hi darlin’.” Bucky smiles in a way you can only describe as mischievousonce you’ve opened the door.
You’re relieved to find not one speck of blood on him, only dirt.
His hair seems around the same length, but his beard has thickened - though not to the wild state it’d been when you first met.
You realise your memory had failed to capture the precise blue of his eyes, or the deepness of his voice.
Quirking an eyebrow, but giving a small smile nonetheless, your only response is “Bathroom.”
Chuckling, Bucky tips his hat at you, stepping out of his muddy boots before entering the house. You assume the bag in his hand contains clothes since he doesn’t ask for any as he passes.
As Bucky disappears into the hall, you walk out onto the porch and down the three steps to greet Alpine.
Leading her to the barn, you remove her saddle - spying Bucky’s guns once again, before settling her in the same stall as last time.
After giving Chester some loving attention you head back to the house and start dinner while Bucky’s still in the bathroom.
It’s not too long later when you hear heavy footsteps in the sitting room followed by the front door opening.
Glancing to your left at the window above the sink that looks over the porch, you watch as Bucky hangs his wet clothes over the railing before coming back inside.
You hear the front door close as he asks “How ya been darlin’?”
Shrugging your shoulders, you answer with a simple “Good.”
You’re caught off guard when Bucky appears to your right, the smell of the soap he just used invading your senses.
Standing side by side, it’s impossible to ignore his imposing height. The top of your head barely reaches his broad shoulders, and you feel like you have to look up and upto see his face.
You lower your gaze as your heartbeat accelerates, unnerved by Bucky’s sudden closeness. However, it calms as you see him inhale the contents of the pot simmering on the stove in front of you before quietly groaning out “’M starvin’.”
Smiling, you roll your eyes and tell him “It’ll be done soon.” Gesturing to a cupboard at the end of the kitchen you add “There’s whiskey in there, if you want some.”
When Bucky doesn’t move or say anything in response you look up at him again, startled to find him staring intently at you.
“You a saint or somethin’ darlin’?” He asks gruffly, but you can hear a trace of humour.
Scoffing, your gaze darts away as you take a step towards him - to stand in front of the counter, Bucky taking a step backwards to accommodate you.
“What’s saintlike about offering someone whiskey? And to an outlaw no less.”
As the last part slips from your mouth, you tense.
“You’re always talkin’ first and thinkin’ later kid.”
Bucky merely hums in response, turning around to lean his back against the counter as his arms cross. The action pulls his shirt tight across his chest.
Not that you’re paying attention to that sort of thing.
“Isn’t that what saints do? Help lost souls?” He drawls.
“You’re lost?” You retort sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at him.
That earns a chuckle from him as he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m always right where I wanna be.”
Bucky’s midnight blue gaze hasn’t left you once, while yours constantly shifts away, like it does now. “And that’s hereinstead of somewhere nice?”
“Nice costs money.”
Your eyes dart up to his for no less than a second before flitting away.
This time you’re smart enough to notsay the first thing that comes to mind.
Concentrating instead on shucking the corn in your hands, you jump when you feel the rough pad of Bucky’s index finger under your chin, forcing your head up until you meet his eyes.
“Don’t start holdin’ your tongue now darlin’.” Bucky states in a low tone, dropping his hand.
Your heart is racing again, but you’re not sure if it’s from fear or… something else.
Swallowing thickly, you manage to voice “I thought you’d have plenty of money.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“Sometimes?”
Really can’t help myself, can I?
The left side of his mouth twitches. “It’s not always about the money,” Bucky responds vaguely.
You frown, “Then what’s it about?”
At last, Bucky smirks. “Curious thing, ain’t ya?”
The comment flusters you.
“Why do you wanna know?” Bucky deflects, leaning in until his face is only inches from yours. “Thinkin’ about joinin’ the life darlin’?”
“No thank you.” The bite of your words is lost in your breathless tone, the result of his close proximity.
Bucky just huffs out a laugh, his breath tickling your face and then he’s gone, strolling across the kitchen for the whiskey you offered hours ago - or so it feels like, and that’s the end of that.
Waking with a deep inhale, your eyes blink repeatedly against the bright sunlight your curtains do little to block.
You stretch with a satisfied hum, having found sleep much easier than the last time Bucky stayed the night.
It’s well into the morning so you dress quickly, curious to see if Bucky’s still here and making breakfast again, or if he’s already left.
When you venture down the hall and into the sitting room, you find the answer to your question lounging in an armchair, one of your favourite books in his big hands.
“Not an early riser, are you darlin’?” Bucky drawls, not looking up from the page he’s reading.
You frown, crossing your arms. “It’s morning, isn’t it?”
He’s right, you’re not much for mornings - never have been. In fact, his last visit was the earliest you’d risen in a longtime. Regardless, it’s not that observation that has you feeling defensive.
“Ten o'clock is hardly mornin’, you’ve missed half the day.” There’s nothing in his tone to suggest it but you knowhe’s teasing.
Even if it does go straight over your head because you’re too focused on what’s in his hands.
“Enjoying the book?” You snark at him.
Bucky smirks.
Oh yeah, he’s tormenting me on purpose.
“Tell me, are all your books so -” Bucky cuts off with a chuckle as you pluck the worn book from him, closing it and holding it to your chest. “So… romantic?”
You grasp the book a little tighter, having half a mind to hit him over the head with it for the gleam in his eyes.
An urge you think he senses.
“I like their humour.” Is your only answer.
Bucky hums lazily, clearly not believing you as he stands up, towering over you. “I’ll go warm up breakfast.”
///////////////////////// 5 WEEKS LATER \\\\\\\\\\\\\
You’re not sure what shocks you more when you open the front door. The fact that Bucky is clean, or the fact that he’s holding flowers.
Flowers.
It’s definitely the flowers.
You recognise the handiwork too. Clara, an elderly woman who was as kind as they come, grew all sorts of flowers and sold them from a stall in town.
They’re a little wilted from the long ride here, but just as vibrant and pretty.
Resting a shoulder against the doorframe and bringing him closer, Bucky’s deep voice teases “What’s the matter darlin’? No man ever bring you flowers before?”
Dragging your gaze up from the bouquet and narrowing it, you jab “I’m just wondering if they’re stolen.”
Bucky only chuckles at your bite, like you expect him to.
You’re not sure what to make of that realisation - that you expectthings from him.
Holding the flowers out to you, he states “They’re paid for darlin’, I promise.”
There he goes, making another promise.
Kept his last one, didn’t he?
Your act doesn’t last long either way, the ends of your mouth turning upwards as you accept the flowers, your fingers brushing against Bucky’s hand in the process.
Raising the flowers to your nose - and ignoring the tingle in your fingertips, you breathe in their scent, the stems of lavender standing out the most.
Before you can thank him, Bucky’s bending forward, ducking his head until his dark blue eyes are level with yours. “Was the money technically mine…”
Your mouth drops open in scandal as he trails off, his implication hanging clear in the air.
Bucky gives a genuine laugh at your reaction, the warm sound almost eliciting one from you as he pushes back from the door.
You watch as he saunters down the porch steps to take Alpine to the barn, completely and utterly bewildered by this outlaw.
Helookeddangerous with his towering height, broad shoulders, and wide chest that peeked through the unbuttoned top of his long sleeve shirts. The same shirts that his muscled arms bulged beneath.
Not to mention his dark, roguish features - the long hair, thick beard, and piercing blue eyes.
Hesoundeddangerous, his voice deep and coarse in a way you’d never heard before, every word he spoke seeming to rumble out of him.
He just didn’t actdangerous.
Outlaws weren’t giving, they didn’t tease, or smile, or laugh, and they certainlydidn’t let some girl smart mouth them.
However, you weren’t a complete fool.
You knew there was another, more prominent side of him that you were yet to truly witness. You saw glimpses of it sometimes - of the outlaw.
A man who was used to being respected or feared, or both. A man who had the strength and skill to take whatever he wanted, when he wanted it, and without asking.
But then Bucky would blink or turn away, and that small glimpse would be taken from you.
Itshouldn’tdrive you mad, it shouldn’tmake you wantto see that side of him, yet… it did.
If you thought about it too long - the image of him being rough and commanding like his lifestyle demands, well…
You jump when Bucky’s hand waves in front of your face.
Looking up from the spot on the porch you’d been staring at but not actually seeing as you lost yourself in your thoughts, you meet Bucky’s blue eyes, his brow furrowed.
“You really get lost in there, don’t ya darlin’?”
Thoughts still scattered, you absentmindedly respond “I don’t mean to.”
Bucky just hums.
Shaking your head to finally clear it, you walk back into the house, listening as Bucky shuts the front door behind him.
You grab the old, empty vase that sits on the small glass table in the sitting room and take it to the kitchen sink to fill it with water before arranging the flowers in it.
Bucky takes his usual seat at the dining table. You can feel his gaze, but it doesn’t unsettle you.
Returning the vase back to its spot in the sitting room, you smile softly as you admire the flowers once more before treading back to the kitchen.
As you step past Bucky you let out a small, confused sound when you come to an abrupt stop.
Turning around, you feel the skirt of your light green prairie dress tighten slightly around your legs, and you discover the reason why when you spot Bucky’s hand holding onto the bottom of it.
“What are you -” You start, flabbergasted until you actually focus on the section Bucky had grabbed.
“What happened?” He asks, not even having to look upfrom where he sits to see your face.
The fabric is ripped, splitting the skirt upwards about four inches. There’s a scratch to match it along the back of your right leg, which you assume Bucky must have seen.
You can’t read any emotion on his face, but you sense that he’s not pleased.
Strange.
“I was trying to fix the curtain rod in your - the spare room, but the wooden crate I was using broke and I fell.”
Fellseems like an exaggeration.
There wasn’t much distance between you and the ground, but you had landed awkwardly, the wood catching on your dress and scratching your leg - not enough to draw blood thankfully.
Currently you’re more concerned about how you went to call the spare room Bucky’s. When did it become hisroom?
Bucky frowns at you, so you frown back, but he doesn’t speak.
A moment passes and he finally releases your dress, standing up. Without a word he strides off and by the time you catch up to him he’s already in the room, assessing.
You’d been replacing the curtains when the rod holder came off the wall on one side. It just needed to be screwed back into place, but it was out of your reach.
The screwdriver sits where you left it on the windowsill while you tossed the broken wood outside with some unfriendlywords as your leg throbbed.
Grabbing the tool, Bucky picks up where you left off, the reach not even a stretch for him.
Picking the curtain rod off the bed, you sit down in the same spot and bunch the curtains in your lap, keeping them off the floor as Bucky quickly completes the task.
Turning around, he grabs the curtain rod from you and hangs it up.
“What else?”
You stare at him for a second before pointing to the wardrobe behind you. “The right door’s a little loose.”
Diligently, he rounds the bed to fix it.
Opening the door, he starts tightening the screws of the top hinge.
“I thought it was you the first time I saw it,” Bucky announces abruptly, nodding to the bedside table closest to him where two photographs sit.
Both are of your mother.
In one she holds you as a child - no more than two years old, on her lap. In the other she’s by herself and younger, about the age you are now.
“I told my dad once that I wished I could remember what she looked like, he told me to look in the mirror.”
He was right, it was clear to see the resemblance between you and her. You always wondered if that made it hard for him sometimes, being constantly reminded of her when he looked at you.
You might not have been old enough to remember it, but the love your father had for your mother shone brightly, never once fading over the years that followed her death.
“He said that was the only thing we had in common,” Grinning, you drop your voice to a faux whisper as you repeat your father’s loving words “She was a horrid cook and complete trouble maker.”
Bucky grins at that, giving a slight shake of his head as he swings the mended wardrobe door shut. “I dunno darlin’, I think you’re plenty of trouble.”
After dinner you move to the sitting room, as does Bucky. A first since he usually goes straight to bed.
Sitting across from each other, he nurses a glass of whiskey while you stitch the ripped fabric of your dress back together.
You use the light of the oil lamp and candles on the table between you and Bucky, placed around your vase.
As you glance over at the flowers you realise you never actually thanked him for them.
Drawing your gaze higher, you’re not alarmed when you meet Bucky’s gaze.
He’s always watching you.
“Thank you for the flowers.”
Bucky was right of course, no man has ever brought you flowers before.
“My pleasure darlin’.” His deep voice rumbles.
You’re not sure why you suddenly feel so warm.
“And for fixing those things for me.”
It’s not like you don’t do anything for himin return, but you still want him to know you appreciate the help.
“I’ll fix anythin’ you need,” Bucky states a little rougher, “Just don’t go hurtin’ yourself again.”
I didn’t do it on purpose, you almost huff out.
You think Bucky anticipates the retort - or something similar to it, because he stands, finishing the rest of his whiskey in one mouthful.
He takes the glass to the sink before walking past you, towards his room.
“See you in the morning.” You say as he passes.
“You mean afternoon?” Bucky calls back, tone lighter.
This time you do huff, letting out a quiet “Shut up.”
His chuckle echoing down the hall lets you know you were heard.
///////////////////////// 4 WEEKS LATER \\\\\\\\\\\\\
The fourth time you open your front door to Bucky Barnes is… different from the others.
Nothing’swrongper se, but it’s not righteither.
Bucky’s the dirtiest you’ve ever seen him. In fact, you’re struggling to find a visible patch of skin on him.
His large hands rest on either side of the doorframe and his blue eyes boreinto you the moment the door is opened.
“Darlin’.” The word is spoken bluntly and you instantly know he’s not in the mood to talk.
You have a short-lived thought of turning him away.
Instead, you step to your left, silently inviting him inside.
For the first time since you’ve met, Bucky feelsdangerous.
Especially when you eye the guns still on his hips.
Ifthishad been the side of Bucky you first met, you’re certain you never would have let him stay the night - let alone return.
Bucky trudges off to the bathroom, your eyes trailing after him. When you hear the door shut you release a breath, looking outside to spot another difference.
Your feet carry you out onto the porch and down the steps without a thought, drawn to where Alpine patiently waits.
She greets you cheerfully, nuzzling into your hands and covering them with dirt. She’s filthy.
Every other visit her white coat has gleamed, leaving you no doubt that Bucky cared deeply for her. Yet, like her owner, it’s hard to find a clean patch on her.
Alpine makes a noise and seems to nodtowards the barn, as if to tell you that she needs food, water, rest, a bath.
The irritation you felt at Bucky’s stiff demeanour is replaced with concern.
You were in town only yesterday and you hadn’t heard of any new incidentsinvolving Bucky.
Not that you were keeping an ear out.
“What happened, huh?” You ask Alpine, leading her to the barn.
You’ve just started drying Alpine when you hear heavy footsteps enter the barn.
Her white coat shines once more, the familiar sight easing you, unlike the man approaching.
Bucky’s body radiates warmth as he comes to stand behind you, the scent of soap filling the air.
Daring to glance at him over your shoulder, you find him clean but clearly worn out - if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by.
Wordlessly, you let him take over your task.
You prepare Alpine’s stall, stocking it with fresh food and water while Bucky dries her, quietly murmuring to the animal, his words lost under the sound of Alpine chewing hay.
When Bucky’s finished he leads Alpine into the stall, closing and locking the gate behind her.
It’s almost humorous. Alpine and Bucky are now clean and you’rethe one who’s not. Your dress is soaked and covered in bits of mud.
The walk back to the house is taken in silence.
“I’ll start dinner after I clean up.” You tell Bucky once you’re inside.
He gives no response.
After your bath you change into a simple white dress, the fabric light and less likely to make you sweat until you switch into your nightgown later on.
Stepping into the kitchen, you find Bucky leaning back in his usual seat, a bottle of whiskey opened on the table in front of him and almost finished.
You decide to make one of your specialties for dinner, hoping it will… well, you’re not really sure what you’re hoping it will do.
As you move around the kitchen you feel his eyes on you, tracking your every movement as you keep your back to him more often than not. That is until you have nothing left to do but let dinner simmer on the stove.
Turning around, you rest your back against the kitchen counter and meet Bucky’s stare.
He doesn’t shift his gaze and neither do you.
“What happened?” You ask quietly.
You don’t expect an answer and Bucky’s continued silence tells you there won’t be one.
Probably for the best.
Instead Bucky lifts the whiskey bottle and swallows a mouthful, finishing it off.
Pushing off the counter, you tread over to him.
“You should have some water.” You state, reaching out to take the empty bottle.
Before your hand can wrap around the object it’s grabbed by one of Bucky’s, the quick action drawing your gaze.
He doesn’t look at you as he turns your hand over in his, instead he focuses on your palm as he runs his thumb over the lines of your smoother skin.
You watch in a dazed state, letting him do as he pleases.
Bucky slowly brings your hand towards him, closer and closer until he can drop his forehead into your open palm.
The action stuns you, and for a moment you don’t know whatto do.
So, you do what feels right.
Pushing your fingers back and forth timidly, you weave them between the strands of his damp hair.
The droop of Bucky’s shoulders boosts your confidence and you take a step forward, raising your right hand to join your left.
Bucky’s head remains bowed, his face hidden from you.
Taking another step forward to stand more comfortably, you release a small noise of surprise when Bucky’s hands unexpectedly grab at your waist, tugging you even closer until his forehead presses into your stomach instead.
Your heart stutters in your throat and your hands falter, but with a shaky breath you recollect yourself and continue stroking Bucky’s hair as his strong arms wind around your waist, holding you tight against him.
The longer you stand there the more relaxed Bucky grows - you along with him.
Growing bolder, your fingertips start drawing shapes along the back of his neck as you play with the ends of his hair.
Eventually however, it’s the sound of dinner bubbling concerningly that cuts through the peace.
You look over worriedly, not wanting the meal to ruin.
Bucky seems to realise and his arms tighten around you briefly before dropping, freeing you.
Without looking at him, you dart over to the stove and turn it off.
Dinner is eaten in silence.
“’M going to bed.” Bucky states once he’s finished.
You hadn’t expected to find Bucky making breakfast.
Walking into the kitchen, you had been prepared to find out that he’d taken off well before you woke.
You’re glad he hasn’t.
Bucky doesn’t seem as worn down, and the slightestupwards tug of his mouth when he turns to see you is more than enough to have you smiling back.
While he’s still clearly dealing with whatever, his mood has at least improved.
Predictably, you eat in silence.
Bucky goes to retrieve Alpine from the barn and you wait at the bottom of the porch steps, watching as he walks the white beauty up to you before coming to a stop.
“You gonna be okay?” You’re not sure why you ask, but you do.
Bucky looks over his shoulder at you, his hands on the saddle that he was about to mount.
He studies you, eyes dark under his hat, before doing something that muddles your brain.
In a blink-and-you’d-miss-itmoment, Bucky turns from Alpine, dropping his hands as he covers the distance between you in a short step and presses his mouth to your forehead, his beard scratching at your skin.
“Just fine darlin’.” His deep voice answers as he pulls back, looking at you once more before spinning to Alpine and mounting her in one fluid movement.
Then they’re gone.
You can still feel the press of his lips as you watch their figures fade.
///////////////////////// 2 WEEKS LATER \\\\\\\\\\\\\
Town was a good hour’s ride from your home, and it was for that reason that you only ever made the journey once a week, every Thursday.
Your main stop was the general store where you bought food and other necessities. Billy, the store’s owner, would talk to you from his spot behind the counter, giving you the weekly rundown of events. Most of the time it was just mundane gossip that you didn’t really care for.
Today was a different story.
According to Billy, there was a new gang causing havoc around the plains, trying to make a name for themselves.
“They been robbin’ properties all over, startin’ fires and roughin’ up any fella in their way, they even -”
Billy never did finish his sentence, but the way his gaze darted away from you said everything.
“Dunno why I’m worrin’ ya with this girl, God himself couldn’t find ya all the way out there.”
The declaration wasn’t that farfetched. Unless someone knew where you lived they needed to be lost to find it.
However, if someone was intentionally on the prowl…
You check over your father’s shotgun the minute you return home.
Some days it was hard to forget that you were a woman living on her own. Tonight that fact loomed over you like a dark cloud.
In fact, it keeps you wide awake, sitting at the dining table with the shotgun in reach until the sun rises again.
You’re sluggish the whole day, tired and on edge.
When afternoon rolls around you’ve cleaned the entire house in an attempt to distract yourself and for the most part, it’s worked.
That is, until you hear the unmistakable sound of horse hooves in the distance.
Fear strikes your heart in a way you’ve never experienced and you instantly wish to neverexperience it again.
Racing to the window above the kitchen sink with the shotgun in hand, you almost cry in relief at what you see.
A white horse and her dark rider.
Sucking in deep breaths, you close your eyes for a minute, focusing on your heartbeat until it returns to a calmer rhythm.
You’re putting the shotgun back in its place under your bed when you hear his heavy footsteps on the porch, followed by three loud knocks.
You can’t deny the way you immediately feel… safe.
“Bucky,” You greet a little breathlessly as you open the front door.
“Hi darlin’,” He grins, eyes softening just the slightest.
It’s hard to remember the sombre man you’d encountered only two weeks ago.
“Back so soon?” You attempt to tease, but you feel like it falls flat in your exhausted state.
You wonder if he can tell.
Ducking his head and pinning you under his stare that’s regained its usual intensity, he responds “You don’t mind, do ya?”
No.
Never.
Smiling, you answer “Luckily for you, I’m in a gracious mood.” The tease lands better this time.
After dinner is eaten and the dishes are cleaned, it isn’t Bucky who retires to bed first, but you.
The moment your head hits the pillow you’re out cold.
Maybe it should worry you how easily you let your guard down just because Bucky is two rooms over, but you don’t think about it long enough to let it.
It’s late morning, maybe even afternoon when you eventually wake. The heat in your room makes that much obvious.
You feel invigorated.
Bucky doesn’t say a word once you walk out into the sitting room, where you find him reading one of your books again. However, the smirk he occupies as he gets up and goes into the kitchen does more than enough teasing.
As you eat the breakfast - lunch, Bucky has made, you feel fear start to leach back in.
You don’t want him to leave you.
Prolonging the inevitable, you take your time eating before reluctantly standing up and taking your plate to the sink.
Though, when you don’t hear the usual sounds of Bucky collecting his things, you peek over your shoulder and see him still seated at the table.
Your gaze meets his blue one.
Without prompt Bucky says “I’m supposed to meet my - some friends east of here in a couple of days.” You don’t miss his slip of tongue. “If I wouldn’t be overstayin’ -”
“No.” You interject much too quickly. “No, you wouldn’t be.”
He nods, “Alright.” Standing up from the table, he gestures to the front of the house. “Your porch needs fixin’.”
While you kept the inside of the house to a spotless standard, the exterior was starting to show its age. The porch in particular, the boards old and beginning to rot.
“I know, I’ve got new wood to replace it with.”
You had it delivered out a couple of weeks ago, you just hadn’t gotten around to actually starting the task yet.
Bucky walks beside you to the barn, down past the horse stalls where you give Chester’s outstretched neck a fond pat, to the back where the tools and wood are stored.
He picks up a bundle of wooden planks, hauling them over his shoulder while you carry a crateful of tools behind him.
That’s all he lets you do, refusing your help when you go to walk back with him to collect the rest of the planks.
Standing on the bottom porch step, you watch him go back and forth until he’s brought out the last plank, creating a large pile.
“I can help.” You insist, feeling guilty about having him do all the work, even though hewas the one who offered.
Bucky just shakes his head with a huff.
“Darlin’, go inside and relax.” He instructs, bending down to pick up a hammer from the crate. “Or,” He adds, straightening and strolling over to you until you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. “Sit out here and give me somethin’ pretty to look at.”
Your stomach drops, skin catching on fire.
Managing a weak scoff, you avert your eyes and spin around, quickly retreating into the house.
Taking Bucky up on his firstsuggestion, you spend the rest of the day in the sitting room, reading.
When late afternoon creeps around and Bucky’s been outside for around three hours, you mark the page you’re on and get up to make him a snack.
Using the door at the end of the hall closest to your room that leads outside to where you do the laundry, you balance a sandwich and glass of lemonade on a tray as you walk down the side of the house.
The sight that greets you when you round the corner almost has the tray slipping from your grasp.
Bucky’s shirtless.
His tanned skin glistens with sweat, the muscles in his back and arms prominent as he saws a wooden plank in half.
The longer you stare the more you start to see the scars - most little, some not - that mark his body.
You want to know the story behind each one.
Blinking out of your stupor, you step closer to where Bucky stands in front of the porch steps, cutting through the last few planks.
Swallowing thickly, you call out his name.
His head lifts, looking over his shoulder at you before the rest of his body turns.
For the second time, you fight to keep the tray steady in your hands.
You’ve only seen peeks of the hair that covers his chest, but now it’s on display and you can’t help but sweep your gaze over his firm stomach to another patch of hair that leads down to -
“Made you something to eat.” You declare, lifting the tray.
It only shakes a little.
Striding over to you, Bucky grins “Thank you darlin’.”
His warm, rough hands brush over yours as he takes the tray and warmth pools in your stomach.
“You’ve done a lot.” You observe, desperate to look at anything except him.
All the old boards have been ripped up and Bucky’s laid down new ones over the entire left side of the porch, as well as on the steps, where he takes a seat.
“Should be done by sundown.”
It’s…nice, you realise. So utterly nice to have a man around to help you, to help look after you.
Not just any man.
Bucky.
You’ll admit that. To yourself at least.
The sound of Bucky’s glass hitting the tray draws your attention. It shouldn’t surprise you that he’s already finished.
“You keep eating that fast and your stomach will end you before anyone else gets the chance.” You comment with a raised eyebrow as you walk over to him.
Bucky smirks as he stands, handing you the tray. “Darlin’, if your cookin’ is what takes me out I’ll die a happy man.”
As the sun begins to dip behind the horizon, the front door opens.
You look up from where you’re curled into one of the arm chairs, a book in your hands.
Bucky’s dark blue eyes roam over you before he husks out “Come take a look darlin’.”
He disappears back outside as you stand and make your way over.
Opening the door fully, you take in the redone porch with a wide smile as you step out onto it.
“It looks amazing,” You gush “Thank you Bucky.”
You look over to where he stands at the bottom step and meet his gaze for only a moment before he breaks it, pointing to the pile of old wood some distance from the house.
“The wood’s no good for your fireplace so I’ll burn it tonight, that way it’s not takin’ up any space.” He explains, picking up some stray tools and dropping them in the crate.
Strolling up to the railing, you lean against it and watch him quietly.
His shirt is draped over the railing further down from you, along with his gun belt. It hadn’t escaped your notice that he was wearing it when he arrived yesterday, like on his last visit.
You hadn’t thought about it much at the time and you didn’t do so now, too mesmerised by him.
There’s a sense of delight in watching him while his attention is focused elsewhere.
Suddenly you think you understand why hewatchesyou.
It startles you when Bucky turns abruptly, capturing your gaze.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that darlin’.” He states vaguely, voice rumbling.
Like what?
You can’t find the courage to ask him.
Shifting your eyes, you act as if he hadn’t said a word. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what kind of name is Bucky?”
His chuckle makes you brave enough to meet his gaze once more.
“It’s a nickname,” Bucky answers.
Watching as he slowly wanders towards you, you press “What’s your real name then?”
Bucky comes to a stop in front of you and for the first time you’re looking downat him - if only just.
He runs a hand through his sweat dampened hair, pushing it back from his face as he stares at you before confessing “James Buchannan Barnes.”
“James,” You repeat softly, giving a small smile “Now that’sa name.”
Vivid blue eyes, dark and electric, look upon you with something you can’t name as you feel his knuckles brush gently over your cheek.
“Say it again,” He murmurs.
Your breathing grows heavier as your heart starts a wild beat in your chest, his skin so… addictive against your own.
As you open your mouth to speak, his thumb catches on your bottom lip and it’s a miracle you remain upright, clutching at the railing.
Before you can utter his name again, you hear it.
It’s faint but still manages to draw your attention.
There’s horses in the distance, kicking up a large dust cloud behind them as they race towards you. You can’t tell how many yet.
“Y/N.” The sound of your actual name returns your focus to Bucky as he marches up the porch steps.
Turning, you keep him in your sight as he breezes past you to his shirt and gun belt.
“Get inside and stay there.” He orders sharply.
Just like that, the side of him he’d just been presenting disappears, replaced with -
“Now.” He grunts out, eyes shifting to yours when you don’t move.
Thatfinally sends you rushing inside, leaving him as he buttons up his shirt.
Darting into the kitchen, you draw the curtains over the window above the sink.
Bending across the counter, you hold one corner of the curtain and lift it until you can justpeek out, easily hidden to anyone outside and wait.
Redressed, Bucky takes a seat on one of the two porch chairs and places his hat on his head, tilting it down until his features are obscured and leans back, like he’s about to fall asleep.
You hear a faint noise and realise that Bucky’s whistling, seeming completely unbothered.
A man like him would be.
Somewhere between a minute and an eternity passes before the horses - fourof them, come galloping up to the house with their male riders.
Bucky keeps whistling.
They come to a stop beside each other in front of the porch, forming a line. The one on the far right urges his horse forward a step. He eyes Bucky before glancing back at his comrades, pulling a shotgun from behind him and placing it across his lap.
“Oi!”
Bucky’s whistling fades out, the sudden silence unsettling as he straightens in the chair, hat still tilted.
“Can I help you?” Bucky drawls.
His reaction has clearly thrown the men into confusion as they all look to one another before three of them focus on the man who yelled - their leader you assume, who then calls out “You’re not too bright, are ya fella?”
The comment makes you wince.
Bucky laughs.
It’s a sound you should find familiar for all the times you’ve managed to raise one out of him, but there’s nothing familiar about it. This laugh is dark and holds no humour.
Maybe it should scare you. It doesn’t.
The men dumbly laugh with him, the one on the far left announcing “We’re here to rob you fool!”
Laughter rings out louder from them, the gang appearing to relax in this odd situation they’ve found themselves in.
“Yeah,” Another one echoes “Everythin’ ya got.”
Not to be left out, the only one yet to speak adds “That means any ladies too.”
Bucky’s laughter ceases and the leader notices immediately, unlike his three cackling morons.
“Ya gonna give us trouble fella?” He asks warily, the others falling silent at the sound of his voice.
There’s a pause before Bucky answers. “Depends.”
“On what?” A moron sneers, clearly unimpressed.
“On whether or not you leave.” Bucky states, voice low and menacing. “'Cos you make one move towards this house and the last thing any of you will see is the bullet I put between your eyes.”
He draws attention to the guns on either side of his hips and the leader hovers his hand above the shotgun on his lap.
Another moron lets out a guffaw, “They’re not even out!”
God they’re dumb.
“No,” Bucky agrees, his tone clearly revealing his dwindling patience. “But I’ve been told I got pretty fast hands.”
He knocks his hat back from his face, hands dropping to rest on the handles of his guns.
“Bucky Barnes.” A moron gapes, looking like he just wet himself.
The atmosphere completely shifts amongst the gang, their leader’s eyes widening as he moves his hand away from his shotgun, raising it in the air instead.
“Mister Barnes, we ain’t mean no disrespect sir.” He quickly appeases.
Heads nod as the rest hurriedly agree, watching Bucky fearfully.
You can’t stop the smile that pulls at your lips.
“Well boys, I’m not too bright,”
Oh, he’s good.
“So remind me what it was I just told y'all to do.”
Instead of actually doingit, one of the morons stutters out “Uh, well, you told us to leave sir.”
There’s a pause, Bucky’s frustration palpable, and honestly, a part of you thinks he’s going to shoot them. In fact, you almost turn from the window to avoid the sight.
However, before you can Bucky speaks up again, voice harsh. “So?”
Finally they gain an ounce of sense, urging their horses to move.
“Thank you sir.” The leader states as he turns his horse around, smart enough to know he’s escaped a quick end, but not smart enough to see how the words irk Bucky further.
It doesn’t matter however, he and his morons are already racing away like the devil himself is behind them.
Bucky doesn’t move from his seat, watching as they disappear into the horizon.
When the sky grows dark, sun all but gone, you open the curtains and leave the window to go light the candles and lamps.
As you light the last few candles on the sitting room table, the front door opens and Bucky steps inside.
Looking over at him, you straighten and say “That was…”
You frown, realising you don’t really know how to describe whatthat was.
The way Bucky handled the situation, making them seem silly and harmless even though…
Even though they weren’t.
It hits you then.
Those men, those fourmen… if you had been alone, like you should’vebeen, they would have -
“Hey,” Bucky’s deep voice cuts through the terror building in your chest - that he must see reflected on your face. “You’re alright darlin’.”
But…
You’re vaguely aware of Bucky striding over to you.
“If you weren’t here -”
“I was.” Bucky cuts off, voice leaving no room for argument as he raises a hand to tilt your head up until you meet his gaze. “I was and that’s all that matters.”
The declaration is spoken gruffly, but the gentle stroke of his thumb over chin, comforting you - that action belongs to yourBucky.
Your?
“Okay,” You say quietly, once a few minutes have passed and his words have sunk in.
