A/N: Here is where I'll post all of my AU one-shots or ficlets! They'll involve characters from all my current, and future (when they get posted!), stories and can involve pairings of any type (i.e. Victoria and Steve!). Some of the AUs will involve my characters separate from the story they come from (i.e. Victoria and Bucky are just normal people and strangers). Other AUs may be fitted into the scheme of my stories. You'll be able to figure out which is which pretty easily, I'm guessing. The whole point of this is to just let loose and get creative and imagine all sorts of fun scenarios and pairings. I'm still debating on whether to add AUs for canon MCU characters in this story (such as Buckynat, Romangers, etc) or whether to post those as separate AU one-shot stories (the way I did with my Buckynat AU one-shot Candy Coatings). We'll see!

As for this one-shot… Victoria and Bucky AU! Idea from jonahryan on tumblr: "You drive a massive SUV and steal my parking spot all the time and I was just heading out to leave a strongly worded note under your windshield wiper but oh no you're hot." [Characters from my story The Original Three.]

Stay In Your Lane

Every. Single. Monday.

The SUV is there every single Monday.

I have no idea why. It's my parking spot. I mean, okay, it's not technically mine. I don't own it. It doesn't have VICTORIA stamped on it (though…actually…that's not such a bad idea… I need to go to the Home Depot for some paint now). Most other days of the week, it's parked way down the row at the end, by the dumpster.

How fitting. BECAUSE THEY ARE TRASH.

Okay, Victoria, calm down.

The first few times it happened, I didn't even notice. I don't know any of the tenants who live in my apartment building and once a week isn't actually that often, so it took me a good two months to catch onto the pattern. But now that I've caught on, I can't stop noticing and it drives me insane! Every other day of the week they park their massive (and glossy—yeah, it's a pretty nice SUV, so what? Don't blame a girl for looking) SUV at the end of the row. Why do they always have to park on my spot on Mondays?! Aside from being the worst day of the week, what's so special about Mondays?

Do they hate me? Do they have a vendetta against me? Let's make Victoria's Mondays just a wee bit worse or something like that? Because it's definitely working.

The worst part is, I can never stop them from parking there. I can hear what you're saying: "But Victoria, why don't you just get there first and stop them in their tracks?"

Ha. I wish. But I work late on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays. I know, it's probably illegal to make me work that late on a Sunday but I'm making good money so who really cares?

I'm a nanny, by the way. Part-time for a super-rich couple that lives on the Upper East Side. Don't even ask me how I got the job but hey, it helps me pay the bills. Being a preschool teacher who only teaches a.m. classes four days a week surprisingly does not pay well!

So yeah. I arrive home pretty late on Sunday nights. I'm already tired, I need to make sure I have everything ready for my class of cute goobers tomorrow morning, and lo and behold, their huge freakin' SUV is in my spot. The spot that's almost directly in front of my front-facing apartment.

So I guess…technically it's every Sunday night—but it stays parked in my spot all through Monday night so I have to park somewhere else on Mondays as well, which makes me annoyed for Tuesday mornings too. But when I get home on Tuesday afternoons…it's gone. And when it comes back for the night…it parks somewhere else in the lot!

What. The. Heck.

I've just gotten home from work. There was traffic on the roads, I didn't get time to eat lunch today, and one of my kids spilled orange juice down the front of my white pants.

I mean, that one is definitely my fault. What kind of person wears white pants to a preschool? Someone who's in the mood to lose their white pants, that's who.

But all the same—I'm in a horrible mood. So when I pull into the small parking lot in front of apartment complex, I pass the shiny, huge SUV parked in my spot and glare at it. My fingers twitch on my steering wheel and I consider nudging their car just a bit—just a teeny, tiny bit to leave a small scratch—I mean, I have a Toyota Camry so who really cares about my car, right? All I'd have to do is "accidentally" lose control of my car for a second…

No. No. I can't let myself get too crazy.

I call the SUV a few choice swear words and then I sigh and start circling around the parking lot looking for an empty spot. Technically there should always be at least one spot available for each tenant, since we're only allowed to have one car per apartment—but I know for a fact that there are a bunch of families that break the rule and have two cars. I think one enormous family even has three cars, amazingly. Not sure how they get away with it but okay. As a result, we're always a few parking spots short. You'd think that the spots up front in front of the building always get taken but surprisingly, no. I think people realize that those are choice spots which have been in use by people for a very long time—I've lived here for years now—and taking one of those spots is only going to cause trouble.

This is clearly something Mr. or Mrs. SUV does not understand.

I can't find parking in the lot so I have to leave, circle around the block, and park at a free lot up the street. I live on the outskirts of New York City so it's kind of like a weird mix of suburbia and city—lots of apartments but also lots of parking lots and trees and supermarkets. I like it, though. It's easy to get to the city if you know the inside routes (which I do, ha) and it's still secluded enough to be peaceful.

I kick off my driving flats and pull my kitten heels back on. Then I slam my car door shut and storm down the street toward my apartment building. It's a beautiful spring day, bordering on a warm summer, but I am so not in the mood. My beautiful new white pants have sticky orange stains all over them, my feet ache in my kitten heels, and my golden-auburn hair has come out of its nice bun. I look, and feel like, a total mess.

I march up to the SUV in the lot and survey it with my hands on my hips. It's gleaming black and is simply enormous. It looks very expensive. I don't live in a low-income area but the area also isn't wealthy. It's basically…middle-class. I don't understand why someone who can afford this kind of obnoxious Range Rover (or whatever it is; I don't understand anything about cars. What's the one with the horse called? Stallions? See, I have no idea) would want to live here.

I consider aiming a kick at the SUV in my pointy heels but no, that would damage my heels. I got these 50% off at Payless last week. I ain't about to ruin them over this jerk. Then I think about the switchblade I always tuck into my purse when I go somewhere (except school of course because I'm not really into the whole getting arrested and sent to jail thing, you know?). What if I—

Could I just slash their—

No. How could I even think of such an awful thing…

But maybe if I just—sort of very carefully—

NO. NO. What am I thinking? That would be bad and mean and…illegal, probably.

No, that's definitely illegal.

I decide to go inside and write a strongly worded letter of complaint to: 1) The asshole who owns this SUV, and 2) The landlord of our complex who seriously needs to get off his lazy butt and arrange to have this parking situation fixed.

I realize I sound like I'm being a bit of a baby and…you're right. I am being a baby. And that is totally okay because hey, I teach babies four days a week. I have to get into their mindset somehow, right?

I head inside and I don't waste any time changing out of my stained clothes, oh no. I sit down and immediately start writing my letters while I'm still in a heated passion and have the blazing mindset for this. Otherwise I'll calm down and cool down and start thinking rationally like an adult and we can't have that, can we?

The letter to the landlord is pretty easy to write. He's an idiot and he never gets anything done so I feel justified in abusing him thoroughly. He's so lazy that he can't even be bothered to get angry at the people who write him angry letters. I know my letter will go to waste but he still needs to hear from the people, so I write it anyway.

Then I write the letter to the SUV owner.

In my defense…I do get a bit heated when I write it. Okay, I get very heated. And…I do make some stupid assumptions when I write it. Such as the fact that the owner is probably some sort of overbearing soccer mom. I've been thinking about the owner as a woman.

Would you like to hear my letter? Of course you would. Here it is.

Dear Madam Owner of this Huge and Stupid SUV,

If you would PLEASE refrain from parking in this space from here on out, it would be greatly appreciated. I have used this parking space in peace for years and I feel justified in saying that it basically belongs to me. I don't appreciate you horning your huge, obnoxious vehicle into the spot every Sunday evening and all through Monday (which happen to be two of the most inconvenient days to do this to me as well; do you have this in mind when you do this, or…?). I am sure that you have a posse of sweaty, stained children you need to be lugging around to soccer practice or ballet or whatever and I assure you, I understand. I teach young children myself. But there's really no need to park in this spot on Mondays, especially when you seem to be able to SO easily find different parking every other day of the week! You have just created an unnecessary hassle for me and for what reason? No one even knows. So PLEASE STOP PARKING THERE.

Sincerely,

An Irritated Neighbor.

I slam my pencil down, fold the paper, and then march down to the parking lot. I walk over to the SUV, gleaming in the afternoon sun, and before I have time to chicken out or think about the awful stupidity (and immaturity) of what I'm doing, I stick the note under their windshield, dust my hands off, and say, "Ha!" Then I start backing away before I chicken out.

Except I back right into a body.

I jump in alarm and let out a cry, whirling around and taking a huge step back. A guy is standing there and—

Oh, wow. He's…he's pretty good-looking.

In fact, he's really good-looking. He's wearing a deep blue men's utility jacket that really brings out the blue in his eyes over a loose white v-neck—my absolute favorite style of men's t-shirts—over clearly-designer dark-wash denim jeans and gray Sperry's. He has dark brown, slightly wavy hair that's pulled back from his face into a pony, a five o'clock shadow on his face, and a dark eyebrows that are currently furrowed. He's very cute. And very confused.

I quickly check for a wedding ring and find there is none. Not that I'm a psycho who thinks this man is going to marry me but you know, it can never hurt to check.

Although, of course, there are plenty of scumbags who take off their wedding rings to cheat on their wives.

And guys who have girlfriends obviously don't wear rings either.

But still. His fingers are free of any rings.

"What did you just put on my car?" he asks.

For a second, his words don't make sense in my mind. Over the past few weeks I've built up the image of the owner being an overbearing, obnoxious middle-aged mom type, so his words don't compute at first. His…car? What is he talking about?

Then it clicks: his car. The SUV. Is his car. The very same SUV upon which I've just put a very angry (and very incorrect) letter.

Wait, is this cute guy really the one who's been making my Mondays miserable for the past two months? Just my luck. Meet a cute guy and he's already messed up majorly.

"I—uh—" I seem to have lost the ability to speak normal English. Sometimes this happens to me because I'm so used to speaking in preschooler-speak but now is really not the time! "Nothing," I blurt. "I was just—um—"

"What did you put on my windshield?" he asks, going for it.

"Nothing!" I shriek, darting for it. He lunges forward and since he's taller and has longer arm reach, he grabs the paper before I do and takes a step back, a triumphant expression in his eyes. "Please give that back," I beg. "I was—this was—I wrote a note but it was for someone else, I think I put it on the wrong car—"

"Oh really?" he says. "Let's read it then, shall we?" He opens it, clears his throat, and reads the first line out loud: "Dear Madam Owner of this Huge and Stupid SUV." He raises his eyebrows at me and pointedly looks around the parking lot. There are no other SUVs in sight. I grab for the letter again but he just holds it out of my reach and keeps reading. Ugh! Tall people! They're so annoying!

He reads the letter in the most dramatic way possible, horrible man. Prolonging my embarrassment by raising his eyebrows and taking dramatic pauses in between sentences and interjecting his own little "Well, well," and "Interesting, I didn't realize I had a posse of kids," comments in between.

My face gets hotter and hotter with every line he reads and I can feel myself blushing from head to toe. With the auburn in my hair and the few freckles on my face, it's not really a good look. And now I've just realized that horror of horrors, I am still wearing juice-stained white pants.

Let me die now.

Why did he have to be so good-looking though?! I am fully prepared to admit that I am shallow! Had he been some ugly middle-aged man or even some random woman, I might not have been as embarrassed. Normally I'm not into long hair on guys but he makes it look so casual and…well, good.

When he's done, he clears his throat and peers at me, a slight smirk on his face. "My god. I didn't realize I was creating such an—what was the wording?" He looks back at the letter. "Such an 'unnecessary hassle' for one of the tenants, especially when parking is free and spaces aren't rented out to specific individuals!"

Okay, when he puts it that way, I sound really immature.

Fighting my blush, I furiously say, "Well—I've lived here for years and I've been the only person to park here since I moved in! No, I don't own the spot but it's not polite to just start taking it on specific days all of a sudden! And I don't even understand why. Why do you need this spot every Monday, huh?"

He stares at me for a long moment and then he suddenly smiles. "You're right. I don't actually have a real reason for parking here every Monday."

"Wh-what?" I splutter. "So why—why the hell do you do it?! You've been driving me crazy!"

He grins wickedly. "That's what I was hoping I'd do—but you didn't really react the way I thought you would, if I'm going to be honest. Do you always have this much of a temper? That can't be good for you."

What. Is. He. Talking. About?

"What. Are. You. Talking. About?" I demand, clenching my fists. I smell like orange juice, the sun feels too hot on my head, I'm utterly lost, and I'm going to totally lose it if he says any more weird things that don't make any sense.

"You're cute," he says. "I noticed you when I first moved in here. I said hi to you and you said hi back but you didn't even look in my direction! And you were always rushing around all busy."

"I…what?" I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember. "You did?" Perhaps he's right—I do always seem to be rushing around—but I really don't remember saying hi to him. Then again…I suppose that's his point: that I didn't notice him.

"I wanted to talk to you again but I—I guess I felt sort of lame approaching you again," he said sheepishly. "So I decided to start parking in your space—and yes, I noticed it's your space—on Mondays, which is the day I have off from work. I work at a gym, by the way," he adds. "I'm a physical trainer."

"I don't care," I snap. That's a lie. Yes, I do care. Of course he's a physical trainer. He's extremely well-built and I can tell he spends a lot of time working out—

Focus, Victoria! Not the time!

"Anyway, I was hoping that you'd react like a normal person and just come find me and politely ask me to stop parking in your spot," he said. "Preferably on a Monday because I'm usually home all day, so I had the best chance of being there if you dropped by. And then I was going to ask you out." He grins at me. "But you never came!"

"Two months is a long time to keep doing this with no result," I say.

"You're underestimating your cuteness," he says smoothly.

Oh, honestly. It's such a stupid, smooth, calculated line. It's designed to make me feel flattered. As a modern woman, I should be seeing right through it. So why do my knees feel a bit weak?

"You know, someone could call this harassment," I say skeptically, putting my hands on my hips. "What you were doing."

He shrugs. "Why? The spaces are technically open to any tenant. And I was letting you come to me."

Damn it, he's right. Aside from getting the best of my own temper, he hasn't actually harassed me in any way. Actually, he's been pretty low-key, compared to some of the psychotic things guys have done to get my attention. (One guy thought it would be cute to show up at my primary school in a white windowless van marked with "CANDY" as a joke. The police were called on him.)

I cross my arms, unsure on what to do next. Yes, he's annoyed me, but…okay, it's sort of funny, what he did. And sort of cute. Even if I was cursing the owner of the SUV to an eternity burning in hell every Monday for the past two months.

"And instead," he says, beginning to laugh and waving the paper around, "you wrote this insane letter! I'm going to keep this forever. This is going to make a great story."

"No, don't!" I squeak. "It's so—oh my god," I moan, covering my face with my hands. "I don't even know your name! I don't know anything about you!"

"Well, let's see." He crossed his arms and looks thoughtfully up at the brilliant blue sky. "My name is Bucky Barnes. I'm twenty-nine years old. I work as a physical trainer, as you already know. I just moved here about two-and-a-half months ago from Brooklyn. I have a best friend named Steve who's on his way to becoming the next big thing in the art world. He'd love your eyes."

"My—" I stare at him, surprised.

Bucky smiles. "Yeah. They're this really pretty gray color, have you noticed? They go really well with your hair. Steve is kind of weird about interesting color schemes."

"Maybe I should be going out with this Steve," I say slyly, gauging his reaction.

He grins at me. "Except he's already taken by this other redhead so I think she'd probably have a problem with that."

"Well, I wouldn't want to get in the way of another woman…" I murmur.

"So what about you?" he asks. "What's your story? What's your name? And more importantly than either of those things, what the hell happened to your poor pants?"

I can't help it; I burst out laughing. Yes, I know. I should be mad at him but he's cute and he's being funny and I'm kind of amazed at the patience he's had in trying to get my attention, even risking provoking my wrath in the attempt (and yes, wrath hast been provoked).

"One of my preschoolers spilled orange juice on them," I giggle. "It's not really funny, but…" I sigh. I'm not in the habit of giving my name out to random men but he doesn't seem like a psycho—

Okay, he seems sort of insane but not in a violent killer way, you know?

"My name is Victoria Marsden," I say. "I'm twenty-five years old. I'm a preschool teacher, as you know, and I also work as a nanny a few days a week—one of those being late Sunday nights, which is why I could never catch you in the act of parking near my car," I add grouchily. He winks. How infuriating! And cute. But mostly infuriating! "Weirdly enough, I also grew up in Brooklyn—"

"Really," he says, sounding interested. "Did you ever eat at Pete's Place?"

"I used to go there every Saturday with my parents as a kid!" I squeal. Whoa. Enthusiasm, much? I clear my throat and continue in a normal voice but my cheeks turn pink because he has a mischievous look in his eyes, as if he's noticed me checking my voice. "Too bad they closed down," I add a bit sadly. Pete's Place had the best malt milkshake I'd ever tasted in my life.

"They recently re-opened, did you know?" he asked. "The owner's son decided to bring it back."

"Really?!"

"Yeah. And I've heard good things, that it tastes about the same." He takes a step toward me and raises an eyebrow, thoughtfully saying, "You know…we could go together."

"What?" I say, shocked.

"In fact, I want to take you there," he says. "I've waited two torturous months for you to approach me and fine, you did it in an unexpectedly weird way, but you still did it! Don't you think you at least owe me for insulting my baby so badly?" He pats his SUV lovingly and fake-frowns at me. "For an obnoxious and huge baby, she's a pretty sweet ride."

My face feels hot and I desperately want to turn him down but I bite my lip and say, "Oh, alright," while holding back a small smile.

"Then Victoria Marsden," Bucky Barnes says, starting to walk backwards away from me, grinning wickedly. "Saturday evening. It's a date. And," he calls, jogging backwards and throwing his arms wide out, "I'll be picking you up in my huge, obnoxious SUV, if that's okay with you." He winks.

And it is. I can't hold back my stupid smile. It is totally okay with me.