A/N: Thank you again so much for the great feedback. I love you guys!
12
Bucky sits perked behind one of the many holographic billboards.
Below him, he watches two black parked cars in an empty ally off one of the towers. Before you had gotten off your shift this afternoon, he had done his own research on the cityscape. He tracked one of the similar vehicles from outside the sex club and quickly got insight into where the delivery would possibly be made. He knew he had a fifty-fifty chance. Luckily the chances were in his favor and he had been right.
As he waits, his minds slowly drifts to the thought of you waiting for him at home.
He had given you a promise tonight. After you had asked him to give you a chance to get to know you, he didn't object to the idea. He didn't let go of your hand either.
He had his doubts the moment he met you, but last night only furthered his suspicions.
It did not go unnoticed by him that you liked him.
He wasn't sure how to react when you held his hand. His jaw had gone rigid as he tried to look from your eyes. Open up to me they had said.
He knew, without a doubt, that conforming to being on your good side was the only way he could keep you from being in his way. He told you the truth when he said he wanted to make sure you knew what you were getting yourself into, and that he didn't want you to die, but he didn't want this mission ruined either. He would have to keep sharing a part of him if he were to gain your proper cooperation.
He just didn't like that you were developing something for him because of it. That was never his intention.
Bucky wasn't stupid. He knew when a girl liked him. Maybe it's been over sixty years for him, but he was asleep for most of it anyway.
Your eyes were pleading, and he knew you were thinking you weren't being obvious. But you were so obvious.
His heart felt heavy in his chest as he tore his hand out of yours. You were his co-worker and that's all you would ever be to him.
You were a kid who was still learning.
Without a second thought, he had pulled his hand away and changed into a separate outfit to prepare for his part of the mission.
You didn't ask him where he was going anymore, and he was glad. It's what he had wanted.
A car door slamming shut pulls him away from his thoughts, and Bucky perks himself lower behind one of the steel beams. He was just far up enough to where he couldn't be seen, but he could hear the talking down below with the help of his super hearing.
One of the men that he recognizes from earlier that day, steps out of the driver's seat. Another man, who Bucky doesn't recognize, comes out of the second car, but from the back seat.
"What's the cost for this next one, M?" The second man asks. He had an American accent, Bucky notes. He had short, light brown hair, and light eyes. He was lean and looked to be around Bucky's physical age, mid to late thirties.
"Around five hundred thousand. Delivery at the tower. We can keep going —trying to find it, but it is not looking good. We might have to look somewhere else." The first man with the heavy European accents says.
The American looks torn as he ruffles his hair. He sticks his hand into his light blue suit pocket and hands the European what Bucky assumes must be money. It was folded up too tightly for him to see.
"No need. We'll keep trying. Put it in the back seat." The American says.
Bucky squints as he tries to see what exactly is "it".
The American gets into his original seat in the back, closing the door behind him.
Two men, one from the passenger side and one from the driver's side, goes to trunk of M's car.
All three are seen pulling out a white and medium sized box from the back. The second car's trunk also opens, and they place it inside.
Not much of interest happens afterwards. Bucky watches as both parties go their separate ways.
Bucky follows the American's car.
When Bucky comes home that night, it's a quarter to ten o'clock. He finds you on the couch facing the door.
Your feet are up and your eyes are closed as you hum a song.
Bucky looks away and clears his throat. Your eyes snap open, watching as he makes his way towards the dining area. He removes his jacket and drapes it over one of the chairs, not even looking back over at you again.
"Hey, how'd it go?" You ask.
He pauses, teeth clenching together. He knows you're coming up behind him before he even has to turn around.
You watch as he pulls out some other documents from your work station. His eyes were straight ahead and focused on his task.
"Good." He tosses you a treat.
"That's great. What did you find out?" You take it promptly.
Bucky rummages through the papers before he pulls a blank one out. He reaches across the table again and grabs a lonely pen.
"I'm not sure yet. Looks like some kind of experiments they are doing, but so far they haven't been successful. I'm not sure what it is. They're working for one man in particular, but I have no idea who he is just yet." You watch as he writes a word and then underlines it three times before slamming the pen down, "I followed them here."
You look down as he turns the paper to you.
"22 Melbourne? Is that an address?" You ask.
"It's the tower right there." You follow his finger as he points out the window, but towards the right side. There's a large glass building towering a bit higher than yours. Brilliant, bright, and slightly intimidating, "Whatever Hydra is doing in there, I have a feeling it's serious, and it could lead us to our guy."
"That's great. What's the next step?" You ask, eagerly.
Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
"Now we wait until I can get a name on this guy. I'll stake out again tomorrow night, probably a lot longer than I stayed tonight."
"What about me?" You ask.
He pauses, then turns around to face you. His face is blank.
"You continue to do your job, which is be a bartender, Marina." He says matter of factly.
"Bucky—"
"Just," he cuts you off, his face quickly softens after he takes a deep breath, "Just until I get a better lead." He searches your eyes and begs that you will take his offer.
You search his eyes for any doubt in them, for any sign that he is lying and taking back everything you both shared in your conversation before he had left.
"You promise?" Your voice is small and hopeful.
There's a brief pause and a flicker of his eyes between your own and the space behind your head.
"Yes."
You had found out how to use the grocery delivery on the AI. While Bucky had been showering, you had gotten all the proper groceries needed for the week. You decided you would prepare some pasta tonight.
You were just putting away the last of the items in the obnoxiously large refrigerator when you heard Bucky stepping into the kitchen.
"What are you doing?" He asks.
You look over to see him look the most normal you've probably ever seen him. He wore a white t-shirt with black sweatpants. His hair was still damp from the shower and he was bare feet. You watched the fabric of his shirt stretch tightly across his pecks as he reached up to ruffle his hair in a boyish manner that left you blushing.
"I'm going to make us some dinner. Do you like pasta?" You bypass his question. You watch as his face comically scrunches up. He was confused.
"Uhm," he looks at the fridge and then at you, "sure." He answers suspiciously.
You give him a bright smile.
"Great."
You start putting things on the counter: tomatoes, knives, onions, cream, parsley, penne noodles…
You're about to start chopping onions when he finally comes up next to you.
You feel the heat of his belly up against your elbow and the smell from his body wash wafted up into your personal space. You watch in your peripheral as he grabs the cream.
He reads it for a moment.
"Did you buy this stuff?"
"Trust me, buying ingredients is way cheaper than us getting take out everyday. I'd hate to spend another five hundred dollars on spring rolls." You say lightly as you finish chopping the onions.
He doesn't say anything else, but he does take a seat behind you in the breakfast nook area.
About ten minutes pass by before you've finally had enough of the overbearing silence.
"So you had a sister?" You ask, putting the two tomatoes in a bowl of water on the stove.
You look over your shoulder when he doesn't respond. You expect him to look bored or angry, but instead he looks worried. He looks at you as if he's inspecting your brain and it makes you uncomfortable. You don't know what he's thinking and you didn't like it. You can feel your cheeks burn when he asks the next question.
"Why do you want to know about my family?" He asks softly.
Why did his question make you so uncomfortable?
"I want to get to know you." You answer, turning to the noodle pot to see if they were al dente yet.
He continued to stare at you, still hesitant to answer your question. But it wasn't because he didn't want to tell you, but it was because he knew what you were trying to do. You wanted to him to open his heart to you, and he knew exactly what that would do for you and your crush.
He didn't want to make this anymore complicated than it had to be.
"Come on, Bucky, it's just a question." You implore.
Bucky takes a deep breath.
He shuffles in his seat and then finally looks away from you.
"Yeah, I had a little sister. Her name was Rebecca." He says.
Your heart beats away in your chest, happy that he was telling you this. You cover the pasta and the sauce and sit down across from him. Bucky doesn't meet your eyes.
"That's a pretty name." You say.
"You didn't read all this about me in your history class?" He asks with a perk of a brow.
You smirk a bit before answering, "Sure. But I'd rather hear it all from the source himself." You say honestly.
Then, he looks at you. Your eyes meet and for the first time you see a piece of sincerity in his eyes.
"After my parents both died, she was taken to boarding school. I stayed behind and trained at the military camp." He spoke calmly, the sound of the boiling water the only thing louder than his rumble, "Last time I saw her she was a little girl. Never saw her again."
You couldn't stand to look him in the eye as he said the last part. You look away, sad.
"I'm very sorry."
You could see him shrug even from just looking straight at the table.
"I miss her. I miss them, but I can't keep thinking about that. It's not good for me."
"But you do think about it?"
"Of course I think about it. I think about everything, all the time."
You feel an immense sadness in his tone. You knew what he was referencing to, and for the first time you never thought of looking outside his asshole attitude to wonder why he was so angry with the world.
"Is that why you look at this like it's a kamikaze mission?" Your question is followed by another big silence.
You feel afraid to bring your gaze to meet his again, but you know this is something you desperately need the answer to. You find Bucky fidgeting with his fingers out on the table in front of you, his eyes on them instead of you.
You place your crossed arms on the table and lean forward.
"I know this is a tough thing to ask right now, and I'm probably asking in the worst way possible, but I need to know this, Bucky. I need to know what's going on with you, emotionally. I don't want you to die, and I don't want to die, either. I need you for this." You say, delicately.
It takes him a few minutes, but he eventually looks up at you and answers your question.
"This mission isn't for me to kill myself once it's over, but if I were to die at the end of this, Y/N —" the look he gives you is intense and makes you see the reality behind his gaze, "I wouldn't really mind." You feel your throat grow tight at his words. You can see the hurt in his eyes, the past that he suffered, and you don't know what to say.
You wish you knew what you could say to make him see that nothing that ever happened to him is his fault, that this isn't the end.
You want nothing more than to save him from himself.
He was an ass to you, and it was obvious he had limited amount of respect for you, but through the olive branches he kept offering you and through these small moments of relevance, you were catching a glimpse into the real him. You could see through his facade.
He was someone you had more in common with than he could ever know. You couldn't help but care about him.
Maybe it was empathy you felt, maybe it was something else entirely.
You both eat your pasta out in the dining area. Bucky doesn't tell you how it is, but he doesn't need to when you watch him finishing his third plate.
You're finishing your glass water when an idea enters your mind.
"You know your favorite song?"
Bucky's fork hovers over his lips for a moment before he responds.
"Yeah?"
"I never heard it before. What are the lyrics?" You ask quietly.
Bucky chews his noodle slowly. Swallowing it down with the help of a glass of water before answering you.
"It's a love song. It's slow. Made to be listened to on a record player." He adds.
The edge of your lips perk up.
"You had a record player?"
His eyes soften again. There was that twinge in your heart again.
"Yes."
You tried your best to picture nineteen forties Bucky listening to a record player and it wasn't hard to. Especially when he sat across from you looking modern and brand new.
He cleaned up his plate and then took yours and his to the kitchen.
You see him take a turn towards the bathroom to wash up. Quickly, you go to the television in the living room and pull up the music application. You had snooped around earlier and discovered that The Capitol kept all the songs up until the war. Nothing new had ever been released.
You hated yourself for not taking advantage of when he was gone to listen to the song, but you only remembered when he was around.
You wanted to listen to it though, you wanted to just figure out that part of him that you knew was still there.
It didn't take you long to find the song.
You were about twenty seconds in when you heard the foot steps behind you. You quickly turned around.
The look on Bucky's face was completely unreadable. He looked like he was in a trance, even a little lost. His eyes were completely glossed over.
The music was quiet, you hadn't wanted him to hear. But damn you for forgetting about his super hearing.
The beautiful and romantic song played quietly. Suddenly, you could picture him listening to this and you felt yourself feeling pity for him.
If you only knew, how in love with you…
You saw his Adam's apple bobble up and down, and his eyes finally moved from behind you to your eyes.
"God, Bucky. I'm sorry. I thought you would take longer. I didn't mean for you to hear." You scrambled for the control and quickly shut it off as fast as you humanly could.
When you looked back at him he was still staring at you, but this time his brows were pulled together. He looked confused and utterly distraught.
"Bucky?" You ask quietly, a bit afraid of what you had done.
You tentatively walk up to him, keeping your arms at your side as you do so. His gaze travels down to your hand as you place the control down gently onto the couch.
"What happened to your hand?" His voice is gravelly and filled with emotion.
You look down at ugly bandaid on your palm. You had forgotten all about it.
"Oh, I got hurt at work today. A glass broke and I was cleaning it up. Accidentally got cut." You said quickly. You shake your head to yourself, not knowing how any of this was relevant.
His eyes are still on your hand.
"Come here." He says.
You follow him down the hall and into your shared bathroom. You watch as he sits down the lid and asks you to sit on it. You do so, in a trance.
You watch as he opens the drawer under the sink. He pulls out a black box. When he opens it on the sink you see small medical supplies like bandaids, ointments, and gauze.
He returns to you with a cotton pad. You smell the rub on alcohol already on it.
"Give me your hand." His tone is authoritative. He pulls back your band aid with his human hand in disappointment, "I told you to be careful." He tosses the bandaid in the automatic disposable machine.
You stare up at his face as he looks at your cut, almost angry. You remember the romantic song and you try to picture him playing that song.
Playing that song for her.
"I'm sorry." You whisper.
His touch is warm and gentle when he rubs the cotton pad on your flesh around the cut. You hiss at the sting.
"You didn't clean it right. It could've gotten infected." He turns to grab the ointment. When he turns to you again, he grabs your hand in a way he hadn't before and it makes you look up at him shocked. Your faces were no more than a foot away, "I can't afford to lose my partner."
"I'm sorry." Is all you can say again.
You watch as he works on your injury. He finishes off by wrapping it with the gauze. He's about to pull his hand away when you grab it.
He feels his own breathing pick up, and it gets worst when he sees the way you are looking at him.
He watches as your eyes go down to his lips and he uses a little more strength to pull his hand out of yours. He turns his head away. He couldn't do this to you. He couldn't lead you on.
He knows he most likely hurt you, but it was for the best.
He couldn't complicate these next six months more than it already was.
