Chapter 8: Distractions

Since Steve's determined to get mad at Bucky every time they talk, Bucky does his damndest to make sure they never exchange a word. Gone are the coffee deliveries, the pre-shift chats, the all-day text chains. Instead, it's brief eye contact from across a room and frosty silence.

Good.

He can grit his teeth through a shift. Long enough, and he can even forget Steve's there, can lose himself in orders and directionless flirting and the satisfaction of a cash tip pressed into his hand. That's all he's gotta do: his job. Even if he keeps glancing at Steve's table. Even if those glances sometimes mean a messed-up drink or a drink going to the wrong person.

"Get it together," Natalia mutters the next time they pass each other. He doesn't bother responding; he's fine. Steve's the problem. He's just lucky enough that his whole job is sitting in one spot so no one can tell if he's fucking up.

He gets through that shift. Gets through the next one, too. And the third, and so on, but with each passing day it feels like his balance on the tightrope is getting shakier. Every night he dreams of that fucking crash. That recurring nightmare hasn't haunted him in months, but of course it chooses the worst time to rear up again. So he's five days in without five nights' worth of sleep and it's starting to show.

It gets bad enough that, in the middle of the busiest time of the shift, Natalia tells him to get out.

"Just stop," she says, taking the glass from his hand. "I will handle this. You will sit over there and wait for the song to end, and then you'll go home and sort out whatever's got you so twisted up. You're better than this, James."

Embarrassed and ashamed and angry above all, Bucky abandons his post behind the bar, dumps his ass on one of the only open stools at the end of the bar by the server station, and glares at the whorls in the wooden counter hard enough to set them on fire.

"Excuse me, I hope you don't mind. I, um, I wanted to say hello."

He turns to find an attractive woman about his age with platinum blonde hair and rich brown eyes standing next to him, clearly asking for his attention since no one else is sitting nearby. Something about her face tickles his memory, but his brain doesn't offer anything more useful than that feeling.

Still, he might be having a shitty night, but that's no reason to be rude to a stranger.

"Do I know you?" he asks, softening the question with a smile. "You look a little familiar, is all, but I can't place you."

"Oh, I don't expect you to," she says, and gestures at the spot next to him. He nods and she slides onto the stool. "My name is Claire."

"James."

"I was here a few weeks ago with my ex, um. Okay, this is going to make me sound a little crazy, but—look, we were probably the nicest-dressed people here that night, it was a whole thing of his to have one fancy night a month but the place we were going to go to canceled our reservation and we—well, that's not important."

"Doesn't ring a bell," he says apologetically.

"No, that's fine. We ended up here and he ended up having some very different views on kids and marriage responsibilities than I did. We broke up a few days later."

"I'm sorry," he offers, still trying to figure out how he slots into this. He can't recall Claire specifically but he can't deny that he does recognize her in some capacity. "How long were you together?"

"Two years." She gestures to Natalia behind the bar only to find a shot of vodka placed in front of her. "Um, I didn't—"

"On the house," Natalia says, because of course she was listening. "What can I get you for the follow-up?"

Claire blinks in surprise and then orders a martini. When Natasha leaves to make it, Claire looks at James and laughs nervously. "I didn't know they did pity vodka here."

"Don't think of it as pity," he advises. "Try…fortifying."

She smiles and downs the shot with practiced ease that falters when it burns more than she expects on the way down.

"So," he says when she's set the glass down on the bar, "I don't want to make assumptions about why you're over here with me, but…"

"Oh, whatever you're assuming, it's absolutely right." She takes a deep breath. "It's been two weeks and it's time I put myself back out there. Here I am, putting myself out in front of the hot guy I saw here that one time who did an amazing job covering for a band's missing drummer. I mean, us being here at the same time again feels like a sign."

Natalia returns with the martini. When she sets it down by Claire, though, her eyes are only on Bucky. There's a warning in them, and he frowns.

Natalia cuts her gaze to Claire. "Do you speak Russian?" she asks, posing the question in Russian. Claire pauses with her glass halfway to her glossy lips, confusion furrowing her brow.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak…was that Russian?"

"Never mind," Natalia tells her in English. Flipping back to Russian, she looks at Bucky. "Don't do this. You know Steve is here tonight."

Bucky feels his hackles rise and doesn't bother pretending he doesn't understand. "I'm not hanging around here right now to see him and I'm just holding a conversation. How he takes that is his problem."

Claire, who'd been watching them with growing incomprehension and worry, shifts awkwardly on her stool. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you two—"

"We're not," Natalia tells her. "James is my coworker. I'm reminding him not to forget the important work he has to do around here."

She leaves without another word. Bucky shakes his head and dispels the tension with an easy smile. "Hey, don't worry about it. Natalia really is just a coworker of mine. We both spent time in Russia and she was reminding me I've got a shift tomorrow, that's all. I forgot once because of a date and she hasn't let me forget it since."

"O-oh. Okay."

"Really, I'm sorry about that. Let me make it up to you—I'll buy your next drink. Why don't you tell me about yourself? 'Claire' and 'recently broke up' can't be everything."

She blushes. "Definitely not. And definitely not my best opener."

"Nah, it's fine. I've heard worse. You're two years out of practice, after all. How about this? Fresh start." He sticks out his hand. "James Barnes, recently moved here from Russia and still finding my footing."

She takes his hand and gives it a firm shake. "Claire Stultz, lived here for four years and never been to Russia. What's it like?"

"Not as cold as everyone seems to think, at least where I was. Turns out there are four seasons there just like here. The winter can be pretty brutal, though."

"Just like here."

"Exactly."

"Is there any part of it you miss?"

"It's hard not to miss something about a place you lived for years," he admits. "I've been trying to find a place here that makes borscht the way I like it, but no luck so far. What about you? Where did you come from?"

"California—nowhere you've heard of, I promise. Small town near the coast."

"Must've been quite the shock, coming here from that."

"Not too bad, minus the winters. God, can you believe I didn't even own a heavy coat before I came here? Layering only does so much. And my poor boots—I never knew road salt could do so much damage." She does a performative shiver. "Anyway, I visited LA a lot, I had family there, so it's not like I'd never been to a big city before. New York's definitely a different kind of big, though."

"Good big or bad big?"

"You know, my opinion keeps changing." She smiles coyly at him. "It depends on the company."

He grins. "I feel the same way."

Their conversation flows easily until Claire finishes her second drink, at which point Bucky pays for both. Rather, he tries to; she slaps down enough cash to cover the martini before he can stop her and Natalia's swept it up before he can grab it. Admitting defeat, he pays for just the one as promised and she invites him to her place.

Bucky does think twice—until he catches Steve sketching away, eyes on the band, not paying Bucky any mind at all. Then, he's done thinking.

Claire's two-bedroom apartment is nice, albeit cramped, with a rustic style to it offset by the IKEA furniture and general mess.

"Sorry," Claire says when he steps around an empty Amazon box. "I haven't really been up to cleaning lately. Honestly, I didn't expect I'd have company over again so soon."

He sees a couple empty Ben & Jerry's ice cream containers sitting on the counter. Between the mess and the noticeable empty picture frames, he'd have guessed recent breakup or other personal tragedy even if she hadn't already shared the story. "Hey, no worries. My own place is still a mess from the move, so I can't judge." Which is a lie, but a white lie, and it helps ease the awkwardness. He gestures to a closed door he guesses leads to the second bedroom. "Do you have a roommate?"

"She's out right now, won't be back until much later. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, completely fine by me."

She deposits her bag on the kitchen table, kicks off her shoes, and sinks onto the couch, fishing under a couple takeout containers for the TV remote. "So, I remember you saying you've never seen John Wick. I happen to already have it bought."

He lowers himself onto the couch next to her. "Oh? Gonna educate me on this classic?"

She laughs. "Classic, maybe not, but absolutely I'll educate you. C'mon, settle in. Or, wait, do you want a drink? I have some box wine I've been working through and I don't think I can finish it alone."

"I'm happy to help. Hey, if we're gonna watch a movie—don't suppose you've got popcorn around here somewhere?"

"You're full of great ideas, aren't you? Guess I was too quick to get comfortable." She stands. Within a few minutes they've got drinks and a big bowl of buttery popcorn between them on the couch. Claire gets the movie playing and he pretends he's not smiling because of her frequent glances over to him to gauge his reaction.

He bristles when they kill the dog while Claire's eyes get shiny. She seeks out his hand by the popcorn and he lets her take it even though that means no more popcorn. He's not about to get butter on his glove or, god forbid, play the prosthetic card this early.

"That gets me every time," she whispers. He squeezes her fingers and watches Wick take a sledgehammer to his basement floor.

"Something tells me he gets them back for it."

She laughs. As the movie keeps going, he finds himself enjoying it even more than he thought he would. Claire is nice, perfectly willing to laugh at his jokes and make some of her own even during tense scenes, and she's not being pushy at all.

"You know," she says when Wick is taking down a series of bad guys in a club, "I practiced that takedown he does right there. It just looked so cool I couldn't help myself."

If that isn't an invitation, he doesn't know what is. "Care to demonstrate?"

She goes for more popcorn and realizes they're down to the unpopped kernels. "Well," she taps a nail against the plastic bowl, "I don't think I want to try it on a hard floor."

He grins and toys with her fingers, tugging meaningfully while he can't take his eyes off where a combination of butter and gloss have left her lips invitingly shiny. "Would a bed work better?"

"Yet another great idea."

The movie keeps playing without them. He lets her pull him to her bedroom, which—although messy—is tastefully decorated with a wide array of posters and even a couple woven blankets hung up on the walls.

"Stand here," she says, guiding him to the side of the bed, which has a couple plush animals scattered by the pillow. "Have you ever done martial arts before?"

"A little. I know to just roll with whatever you're doing, don't worry about me."

"Right." She takes a couple steps back. "Okay, ready?"

His heart beats an answer in his chest. "Hit me."

She does, in a whirl of platinum blonde. He lets himself get taken down without a fight and they end up sprawled on the bed, her arms around his neck in a blood choke—but she's not applying any pressure, and as soon as they're finished falling, she lets go.

"Wow," she breathes, "I wasn't sure that would work."

He laughs and rolls off her, but stays on his side to stare at her. "It's a good thing you were all confidence before or I might've been worried."

"I just haven't actually done it outside the dojo before, except on my roommate, and she's a lot smaller than you."

"Well, I think you did great. John Wick would be jealous."

Her eyes gleam. Her lips twist into that coy smile that has his heart flip. There's still butter making them shine, or maybe that's just gloss. "Flatterer."

"You're welcome to shut me up."

"That so?" She rolls so she's on top of him, her hair cascading down to tickle his cheeks. She presses a kiss to his lips but pulls back when he starts to reciprocate. "How was that?"

He licks his lips. Butter. "Tease."

"You're welcome to try for more."

"That so?" He reaches up and rests a hand on the back of her neck. He pulls her down—not so hard she couldn't resist if she wanted—and she goes willingly until they're locking lips once more. This time, there's no pulling back.

They explore each other, lips and teeth and tongues, hands washing up and down their heads, backs, and teasing lower still.

"Yes," she moans into his lips when his fingers start toying with the buttons of her shirt. "God, yes."

So caught up in the moment, Bucky's confused when she stops. His brain skips over what they've been doing, trying to find the moment the song came apart, but nothing jumps out. Getting her shirt off, her bra off, her easing him out of his coat and then his—

Oh.

"Sorry," she stammers when the silence goes on for too long. "I, I just wasn't expecting that." Before he can speak, she adds: "So…you like Hydra?"

His words die on his tongue and their corpses meld into a flabbergasted, "What?"

She tucks her hair behind her ear, sits back on the twisted-up sheets, and gestures to his shoulder. "The star. Um, that's what the drummer has, right? Is it, like, inspiration?"

For a second, his mouth moves but nothing comes out. Stuck with the phantom sensations of her lips on his and her teeth nipping at his skin, he's really struggling to get his thoughts in line. "It's—yeah. Yeah, I had a phase. A while ago. After I—just someone to look up to. I got the star mostly so people would ask that instead of how I lost the arm. Is it—is this okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, totally! Sorry, I just didn't expect it." She looks him up and down, some renewed fire flaring in her eyes. "Metal arm or not, I can definitely still take you down."

Welcome heat stirs in his veins. "Try me."

There's something warm on his face. Frowning, Bucky tries to close his eyes tighter and block out the red light blooming over his eyelids, but that doesn't work. Giving in to the inevitable, he still has enough presence of mind to roll away from the blinding light before opening his eyes.

He sees blond hair and his first thought isn't Claire. All the warmth he feels curdles into something sour and cold, and he rolls onto his other side so, if she wakes, she won't see his scowl. The flare of sunlight slipping through the blinds that scorches his retinas is deserved.

For a few minutes, he tries to fall back asleep. This is the first night in a week he's been able to sleep uninterrupted. If he dreamed at all, he doesn't remember it. Really, the only downside is that his chest aches like hell.

That's what ibuprofen's for.

He's not about to go digging through Claire's cabinets looking for some, nor is he going to wake her up for it like some needy kid. While he waits, he can at least sit up and do some stretches to try to ease some of the pain.

Halfway through a routine adapted for both silence and lack of a lacrosse ball to dig into the knots in his muscles, Bucky hears Claire stirring.

"Rise and shine," he offers from where he's sitting with his back to her on his side of the bed. "Hope you weren't expecting to wake up to an empty bed."

She blinks at him through a jaw-cracking yawn and then rubs the sleep from her eyes. "I appreciate not getting ghosted. What time is it?"

"Uh," he glances at the nightstand, where he vaguely remembers there being an alarm clock, but there's no sign of a clock now. "Hold on, my phone's around here somewhere."

Claire follows his gaze and freezes. "Oh, god, did we knock that over?" She reaches down and drags the clock out from where it had fallen between the nightstand and the bed. "The plug came out. I hate loose outlets."

"Ten to nine," Bucky declares, having discovered his phone buried under his discarded coat. He starts scrolling through his notifications—there aren't many—but he abandons that when Claire jumps to her feet.

"Eight-fifty? Seriously?"

"Yeah." He shows her his phone. "Why?"

"Oh, shit. Shit, shit—I'm so stupid, Juno's out seeing family, of course she wouldn't be back to wake me up. I gotta get ready for work."

"I'll clean up," Bucky offers. "Mind if I use your shower?"

"Mind if I go first?"

"Not at all."

She yanks a change of clothes from her closet and hurries into the bathroom. Bucky hears the muffled sound of the shower from behind the closed door. While she's taking care of herself, he gathers up his discarded clothes and—with his pants on for decency—pads into the kitchen. A half-empty bag of bagels catches his eye. He pops one into the toaster and digs out some strawberry cream cheese from the refrigerator.

When Claire rushes into the kitchen with her hair up in a towel and her blouse buttons misaligned, Bucky holds out the plated bagel.

"Here. Hope you don't mind me going through your stuff a little."

"For me?"

"Yeah. Gotta eat the most important meal of the day, right?"

"That's," she takes the plate, "wow. Thank you, really."

"I'll make my shower quick, I promise. Don't want to keep you here."

"I left a spare towel on the rack. Feel free to use my shampoo and things."

"Roger that."

As promised, he makes it quick. Really just a rinse, and he's toweled off, dressed, and heading into the kitchen right as Claire is setting her empty plate next to the sink. In the space of a few words, they're out the door, on the street, and then Bucky's still digesting her apology-filled goodbye while she's all but running for the subway.

When that settles, a realization takes its place: he never even got her number.

Because Bucky's life has a way of balancing its karma that can only be equated to getting brained by the pendulum as it swings, his sleep goes right back to getting interrupted just a couple nights later. He's fucking up a little less on shift, though. And he and Steve still aren't on speaking terms, but that's not gonna change without a seismic event. Steve's stubborn like that.

All these facts make Steve showing up with a steaming cup of coffee in a cup Bucky recognizes all the more aggravating. Slapping his rag down and leaving the minor spill he's been cleaning up for later, Bucky spins on his heel and marches into the kitchen. Ignoring Gabe's curious look, he heads straight for Scott.

"You told him where I got the coffee?" He can't hide the accusatory edge to his words, an edge that's sharp enough to make Scott's smile falter.

"Uh, Steve? Yeah, I mean, he asked. I saw you weren't bringing it anymore so I figured it was done being a secret…?"

"It wasn't your secret to tell," Bucky bites out. Scott's smile falls fully into a frown.

"Hey man, you don't own Louis's business. If you're not sharing the miracle that is his coffee anymore, you can't blame me for making sure one friend makes money and another friend gets good coffee."

Scott has a point and that just pisses off Bucky even more. "Fuck you. Some friend you are, going behind my back like that."

"Whatever's going on with you today, don't take it out on me." When Bucky scowls, Scott reaches for the sink. "I'm two seconds from hitting you with the hose to cool you off, man. Give me some space, maybe go outside for a minute."

"Something wrong?"

Bucky glances over his shoulder to see Tony, presumably on his way to one of the storage rooms connected to the kitchen, stopped and eyeing them. He shakes his head and backs away from Scott. "No. Nothing."

He's got enough shame to avoid doing what his stupid brain wants—which is bumping into Tony on his way back to the bar—and that same shame keeps him from meeting Tony's eye or anyone else's for that matter, even though all of the Howlies are staring at him. Judging him. Probably queuing up some lectures for the next time he has to wander into the kitchen.

Well, fuck that. Bucky's not coming to this job to get lectured. He's—

"Bucky?"

A familiar face framed by platinum blonde stares at him from across the bar. He wipes the scowl from his face and replaces it with a smile he hopes isn't coming out strained. "Claire, good to see you again."

"I'm so sorry about running out on you like that. It was an awful way to end what I promise was a really nice night."

"Hey, no worries. Can't always get that movie-perfect breakfast."

"I, um, also realized I never even gave you my number." There's a distinct scarlet tinge to her cheeks. "If you want it, I mean."

It's about time something went right. "I'd really like that."

Her relief is palpable while they exchange information and, as Bucky pulls her into casual conversation, the blush gradually fades from her face. It's not long before she's looking like she's got something important to say, though.

"Listen," she says, "before this—not to say there's a, a this, yet—before it gets anywhere, I want to make sure you know I'm not—I'm not looking for a relationship, or anything serious."

Pure force of will keeps Bucky's eyes on her face instead of letting them slide to the table visible over her shoulder. "It's only been a couple weeks, right?"

"Yeah. That's it exactly. I…I'm really sorry, if you wanted more. That night was great, for what it's worth. It's not every first meeting a guy lets me tackle him."

"It's not every first meeting a girl offers to tackle me." He leans on the bar. "If you want a fun fling to get yourself back out there, then I've got some great news: that's exactly what I'm looking for too. Some fun with no strings attached."

"No strings attached," Claire confirms. "I should—"

"James!" Natalia's icy yell from across the bar promises retribution for abandoning his post. He winces.

"I should get back to work," he says apologetically. "See you around, okay?"

"I'll text you."

They part with mutual smiles. Bucky's lasts right up until he sees the look in Natalia's eyes. "What?"

"You are shameless," she says coldly, shoving a shaker into his hands. "We've got a backup. Get mixing. And don't screw up this time."