Work Text
It had been this way for as long as you could remember.
For years, you crushed
hard
on Bucky — the man that had been your rock,
your partner in crime
since childhood. So rare it was to have a connection from so long ago, let alone be as formidable as the two of you were. Interwoven and weaved together stronger than steel.
Time had wound you both so close together that wherever one went, the other followed; always joined at the hip.
It was only natural that in the end, you found an apartment together, becoming roommates
and
best friends — facing the challenges of life together.
Through the time that you spent with Bucky, day in and day out for all of those years and up to now, your affections and attempts at flirting with the man that held your heart were brushed off or they flew over his head completely.
Bucky was oblivious like that. For all of his charm, his wit and intelligence, the man could be
thick.
And that was how, after psyching yourself up for weeks, you landed in the dating scene. It was a long shot, but you figured if Bucky wouldn’t (or couldn’t) pick up what you were putting down, you were at least going and getting out there — even if your heart and soul was already taken by the man that lay haphazardly sprawled over your bed, staring at you with a disapproving scowl.
“Nope, no, you– Why don’t you wear those jeans?” Bucky huffed, exasperated after you threw the umpteenth pair of dress pants over your shoulder, only for them to land directly on his handsome face. “Boo, c’
mon,
” he groaned as he pulled the fabric off of his face. “You’re gonna look amazing no matter what.”
At the use of your nickname reserved only for him, you looked over your shoulder and frowned. “I have to look
good.
I
have
to.”
Bucky sighed and rolled off the bed, his stature broad and muscled as ever. The tattoos that covered his arms and hands distracted your train of worry, and you stared as he neared; more artistry visible from the collar of his shirt to spread up one side of his neck.
“C’mere,” he said, and you felt his hands grab ahold of yours. The touch he provided you ground you back on earth; the proximity reassuring, more than any words would be able to replicate.
You could feel his eyes as he searched your body, the subtle way he picked up your cues or anxiety and dread, and you felt that there was no way you could meet his gaze — the intensity of it burned your skin while you stared determinedly down at his hands, observing with a keen eye how his deft fingers felt running over the skin of your palms, and how his rough, callused thumbs ran over your knuckles.
“Honey.” His deep voice was softer than silk. “Can you look at me?”
You took a deep breath to steel yourself. From his hands, you looked up into his eyes — they swam with untold emotion, raw and unbridled in his adoration, and if you didn’t know any better, you would have
sworn
that was how he would look at a
lover.
That thought did
nothing
to quell the roiling nausea in the pit of your stomach.
“There y’are, my pretty girl,” he cooed, smiling. “What’s got you all upset, huh?”
That it’s not you I’m going on a date with,
you answered in your mind. Before that thought could be spoken aloud, you replied, “I’m just nervous.”
The nervous waver in your voice made you grimace, and you cursed.
Bucky sighed. “That’s normal, Boo—you’re gonna knock ‘em dead. They’re not gonna know what’s hit ‘em.”
An ache, intense and painful, bloomed within your chest, and it consumed your heart whole. From the safety of your mind, you screamed out for him to just
see;
to
know
what you were thinking.
The courage to speak up had long ago waned and worn thin, vanishing with the days that passed.
“Okay,” you whispered, and you took your hands from his to turn your back on him. The litany of cries that built up in your throat only blocked by the tears that threatened to beat them — Bucky was looking at you with the adoration of a
best friend
watching their partner in crime strike out and try something new, you reminded yourself.
A heavy, poignant silence filled the room while you shuffled around your closet for that perfect outfit, but you did your best to ignore it — the internal war to determinedly keep your shoulders straight and your breathing even was close to impossible, but you put every last ounce of effort into it.
You weren’t to see the way Bucky’s eyes clouded over, or how low his shoulders slumped in defeat; the way his heart cracked just a little bit more behind you.
His heart knew, and so did yours. It was only a matter of time, they whispered
—
unseen, but oh so wise.
The next day, you awoke with the sun — golden rays peaked through the blinds of your window. You yawned and sat up to look around your bedroom and the state it was left in from the night before. It had been rough, the date far less than ideal or any semblance of fun, but the sanctuary of your space healed what sadness you felt.
Your bed was strewn with soft, comfortable pillows and blankets. The bookshelves along one wall were full to the brim with books and knick knacks you’d accumulated over the years.
One of which in particular stood out. The smooth, clear glass of the statue shone in the morning light, but the structure was unaffected by the golden glow in its beauty — a pair of jellyfish, intertwined while they danced, stood proud at the front of one of the larger shelves.
Right next to it sat a framed photograph of Bucky and you. It was taken when you first moved into the apartment.
Bucky stood behind you, his head next to yours while his arms wrapped around your middle to hug you tight — the grin that pulled at his lips was priceless with its show of joy. Brown hair covered his forehead in stray strands that stuck to his forehead, and the rest flowed down his neck.
You could see the unpacked boxes behind the two of you in the background — it had been a scorching day and Bucky insisted on being the one to bring them all in, much to your annoyance. You remembered making him the biggest drink to help him feel better once he collapsed onto the couch in what was now your living room.
The memory was one of your favourites; it never failed to make you smile. And if you could still feel the ghost of his lips on your cheek after he said,
“We did it, honey, we fuckin’ did it,”
you weren’t going to share that with
anyone
.
Your gaze shifted to yourself in the photo — exhaustion was evident in the bags under your eyes, after so many late nights from stress and packing, Bucky never failed in his mission to cheer you up. Then, you looked at your mouth, and you found yourself imitating the blinding smile you flashed at the camera.
Longing pulled at your heart, the ache of it far too real and material to ignore.
The sudden sound of pans moving in the kitchen caught your attention, followed by the low hum of the fridge while it was opened and closed, then the sizzle of a frying pan over the cooker. You looked at the clock on your bedside drawers and saw it was still early — the reminiscent memories felt like they had taken hours from your day.
“Breakfast,” you mumbled sleepily. The covers shifted as you sat up and rubbed your eyes from the sleep that formed overnight.
“And if the sun starts setting,” a deep voice sang from the kitchen, “The sky goes cold, then if the clouds get heavy and start to fall.”
You
froze
— the world continued on its axis as though it hadn’t left you behind, reeling to comprehend what you were hearing. “Bucky?” you mouthed confusedly, and you strained your ears to hear the rest of what he was singing.
“I really need somebody to call my own, I wanna be somebody to someone,” he continued quietly. “And if you feel like night is falling, I wanna be the one you're calling; 'cause I believe that you could lead the way.”
Did Bucky really just–?
The song died away just as you heard footsteps approaching your door from the hallway. “Shit.” You schooled your expression into something you hoped was neutral after the disorientating disbelief of what you heard.
The door handle rattled gently as Bucky gripped it on the other side, then he knocked softly. “Boo? You awake?” It creaked open. “I’m makin’ breakfast–”
“Hey,” you rasped, still sleep-addled. “I’ll be out in a bit—thanks, Buck.”
Bucky peered around the now open door, and his expression lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. “Hey, you,” he greeted, and he stepped into your room to lean on the door frame. “How was last night, honey? You got back pretty late.”
“You waited up for me?”
He nodded. “‘Course I did—I didn’t wanna step in on the
happy glow
after a date, so I just made sure you got to bed alright, that’s all. You’re not exactly a quiet one,” he teased with a wink.
Heat crept up your neck at his thoughtfulness and playful comment, but you powered on. “Oh– Oh, well, it was alright, I guess,” you offered.
Bucky raised a brow and inclined his head, willing you to go on.
“Actually, I ended up–” You hesitated, clearing your throat. There was no way of knowing how he would react to what happened, and it made you nervous for what he would say — always
so
protective, he was.
“There was a reason for that,” they whispered while they watched from above.
“I ended up, uh– Walking off, you know, away from them.”
The billowing silence that filled the room after your admission faltered your explanation and you fell quiet, unable to explain anymore of what happened.
Bucky stood frozen in the doorway. “I’m sorry—I, uh– I can’t have heard you right, Boo. Say that again?”
In one breath, you said, “I walked off—away from them—because they wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise and I got sick of it.”
He advanced slowly, footsteps muffled and quiet over the floor.
“What?”
“I know and I’m sorry–”
“Why the hell didn’t you call me!” Bucky exclaimed, his bright eyes wide. He gestured at himself and said, “I would have come and got you—you know that I would do anything for you!” The panic in his voice truly didn’t fit the situation and you stared at him, dumbstruck by the fear in his voice. “I– I can’t believe you didn’t call–”
He seemed lost for words as he ran his hands through his hair. “I would have
run
–”
“Bucky, please,” you rushed, holding a hand out towards his heaving chest to soothe him. “
Please,
it’s okay. I’m alright. Besides, I have a date tonight with someone better—well, I hope they are.”
The sharp stare that he gave you at the reveal of your plans shocked you to your core. It was full of hurt; a sadness that you would give
anything
to
never
see again. “What–?”
He shook his head, the soft strands of his hair covering his face for a brief moment. “Nothin’, honey. I’m just glad you’re home.” There was a pause as he turned back towards the hallway; a flash of
something
in his eyes, but what, you could not fathom. “C’mon you, breakfast.”
There was another heavy, sombre silence as you watched Bucky retreat towards the kitchen.
The change in Bucky’s attitude made you frown with worry. He was the stronger one of the two of you, that you knew for certain — always steadfast and strong, unwavering in his determination, and this outburst made no sense. He never,
ever
reacted this way before to
any
news of a potential date or night out, and the fact that he started now was far too confusing and overwhelming to comprehend.
“To hell with this,” you muttered, and you threw off the covers to get up and get dressed for the battle that awaited you — to get to the bottom of this, you realised, you’d need a warm drink, and some of the breakfast he was preparing.
Rather than dressing in your own clothes, you threw one of Bucky’s shirts over your undergarments and smiled softly as the worn, soft fabric brushed against your skin — a calculated move.
The strong smell of your favourite warm drink wafted down the hallway, enticing you onwards towards the kitchen, where the clang of pots and pans sounded. You slowly padded towards the counter to fetch it, but when Bucky saw you approach from around the corner, he briefly hesitated. “What time do you go–? To your date tonight, I mean,” he asked before he quickly turned away from you.
You narrowed your eyes at the back of his head, where his hair fell loose and long down his neck. “Uh– It’s at six, I think.” The warmth of the drink made you feel a little better while you sipped at it. “I can check in a bit, if you want.”
Bucky hummed and flipped a pancake. “And what are you two doin’?”
The mug made a quiet
thump
when you placed it down on the counter next to you. “They’re taking me to a Christmas fair—the market in the park?”
“I know the one,” he mumbled, and he didn’t elaborate or continue.
You stared at his broad back, watching as his shoulders flexed and relaxed beneath his shirt while he worked resolutely on preparing breakfast. Suspicion lurked in the corners of your mind —
why was he suddenly so interested?
An infinitesimal flicker of hope from his driven curiosity sparked itself to life in your stomach, and you tried your hardest to stomp it out, though it proved difficult. Quietly, you asked, “Are you asking me all this because you’re curious, or–?”
There was no reply — only the sound of the pan in his hand shuffling over the burner and the simmer of pancake batter.
You cleared your throat and stepped closer to him. “Buck–?”
“Nothing.”
“What–?” you stammered, and you placed a hand on the back of his shoulder. Your heart seized like a vice had fastened around it when he stiffened under the soft touch. “Bucky, what’s wrong? You’re acting strange—has something happened?”
“No,” Bucky said tightly, and he shrugged off your hand. That alone had you close to tears. “It’s almost ready, go get–”
“Bucky.”
Stormy blue eyes met yours, and you were shocked to see such a mix of fierce emotions swimming in the depths of his normally stoic gaze. “What?” he snapped.
“Talk to me,” you urged, “What’s wrong?”
Bucky turned back to the stove top, determinedly continuing on with his cooking. “It– It’s nothin’, I promise. Can you pick a movie to watch while we eat?”
The walls he built to protect himself from outsiders were rapidly falling into place against
you
, blocking you from all of what you knew and loved. The pain of such a realisation made you back off; tears in your eyes as you stepped back from his presence to lean against the counter.
There were no triggers that would make him act so brash, not from what you could parse or define from the past day or night; not any that you witnessed or heard.
“Okay,” you said shortly, and you frowned at him while you walked away.
The two mugs, one of them yours and the other Bucky’s, were warm against your palms while you carried them into the living room. Steam curled in the air under your nose, and you breathed in the spiced scent of Bucky’s drink. From the corner of your eyes, you saw the Christmas tree in the corner of the room as it twinkled, the lights winking and dancing in ignorance of the pain that filled your heart.
Now out of Bucky’s eyeline, you turned and stared at where he would be standing at the stove top. The heat of your stare was weak against the walls he built; unable to pierce through the foundations of his anxieties, nor barrel through them like a wrecking ball to expose the cause.
To see Bucky in such a state of distress plucked at the strings of your heart, and you couldn’t help but feel as though
you
were to blame — the thought was absurd, but it did not stop the burning broil of shame and anger in your stomach. “Nope, no,” you murmured, squaring your shoulders and balling your hands into fists. “I won’t let this go.”
Your feet carried you towards the kitchen, blissfully ignorant of the way your heart pounded in your chest; a rhythm you were sure that couldn’t last.
Bucky was leaning on the counter, his tattooed hands either side of the stove top, and his fingers, a few adorned with shining, silver rings, were still on the counter. His head hung low between his shoulders that shook minutely from aborted breaths.
“Bugs?” He didn’t move; the nickname did not even stir a reaction.
“I know you’re hurting,” you continued cautiously, and you stepped closer, replacing your hand on his shoulder to rub up and down his back. “Talk to me—let me help.”
“You can’t,” Bucky croaked, his voice strained and oh so pained — like glass was lodged in his throat. “Just– Just go into the living room. I’ll bring the food in a minute.”
“No. No, Buck.” You stepped closer, plastering your front to his side. “Don’t push me out, honey, please.”
Something shattered in his expression, and his bottom lip trembled — a sight you never wanted to see again. And he broke. “Oh, sweetheart,” you whispered, and you pulled him closer to place your forehead against his temple, so your breath fanned over his stubbled cheek. “What’s happened?”
The urge to protect and soothe well in practice now, and you felt the muscles in his face move, as though he was saying something. You couldn’t hear it over the blood roaring in your ears from adrenaline. “I didn’t catch that, honey,” you said softly, stepping impossibly closer. “What was that?”
The next words that fell from Bucky’s mouth tore your still beating heart from your chest. “Please get off me.”
You flinched and stepped back. A vicious, all-consuming ache in your chest took hold, and you stared, wide-eyed and tearful, at the side of Bucky’s head. “Why are you acting like this?” you pressed, still staring hard at him — the way he was breaking apart before you was as tragic as a car accident but you could
not
look away. “What’s
happened
to you? Did you have a nightmare–? Did someone say something?”
Bucky’s tattooed, callused hand moved to wipe his eyes, and he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just–
Please,
” he implored, glancing at you then back down at the pan on the stove. “Go get a movie or a show goin’—I don’t care which.”
The frustration boiled over. “Like hell I will,” you snapped. “Not when my best friend is pushing me out—I won’t leave you to wallow, Bucky.”
He groaned and hung his head. “You and your fuckin’ stubbornness, I swear–”
“You swear
what,
James?”
The look he shot you was full of a bitterness that did not belong on his handsome face. “Don’t do that–”
“Let me help you,” you interrupted, and you felt the claws of desperation sinking deep, gauging marks on your frail heart; the strength of it obvious in your shaky voice. “
Please.
I just want you to be–”
For a single second, you swore you saw Bucky’s body shift and turn inwards, protecting himself, but when you blinked a budding trail of tears back and it was gone — replaced by his posturing and an expression you could not decipher in your franticness.
It was inevitable that as best friends that the two of you would fight, argue, even disagree heatedly. There had been many times in the past you both had made up and returned to being like you always were, joined at the hip and inseparable, but something broke.
The damage felt well beyond what you thought you could repair, the finality of his hurt the final nail in the coffin, and hell…
There was, not for a moment, where you would
not
go down without a fight. You held his stare fiercely and started to demand, “What–”
And to your absolute surprise, he held up his hand to stop you and your tirade. The audible
click
of your jaw as it shut against the words that threatened to spill over echoed around the kitchen.
Bucky stared into your face, his stormy eyes flickering between your own. “You wanna know what I want?” The anger in his tone was something you had never heard from him; always so softly spoken with you, he had never raised his voice when he addressed you. “Do you?”
“Yes,” you replied. “I’m worried about you. You never, ever act like this and it’s scaring me, Bucky—it’s
scaring
me,
you’re scaring me
!”
The silence that followed your words and admittance of fear reverberated off of the kitchen walls, figuratively gauging the paint and cupboards and tearing it all to pieces.
Bucky opened his mouth, his lips parting in a grimace. “Boo–
Fuck
.” His hands combed through his hair, the tattoos on his fingers peeking through the strands; the rings glinted from the downlights above him. “Fuck.”
Raw, pure emotion pounded through your veins, unfiltered and unwanted — he was
hurting,
and here you were, selfishly digging to find the cause.
The blue of his eyes turned grey while tears built along his own lashes.
Your heart was in your throat, forcing its way up to land in your hands, an offering to him.
Take it, it’s yours.
“Please,
please
tell me how to help– I can’t let you hurt anymore,” you begged quietly, looking into his face. You stretched out a hand, and Bucky took it. “Talk to me.”
“I can’t tell you,” he rasped, wincing at the sound of his own voice. “Not now—I can’t do it.”
You frowned at him. “It’s okay, Buck—tell me what’s wrong so I can
help
–”
“Because–” Bucky hissed, cutting you off abruptly. Even louder, he continued, “Because all I have ever fuckin’ wanted was
you
!”
The claxon-loud silence rang so sharply in your ears that you flinched.
Never before had you heard Bucky shout — never before had you seen the tears stream down his cheeks to collect at his collarbones, staining the collar of his shirt.
Never before did you think that you would hear the words you
dreamed
of; not now, not ever.
Your lips moved before your mind could catch up. “You– You want
me
?”
Bucky looked at you, really
looked
at you, and you realised that he was staring at you with something akin to wonder, a deep fondness like you were the stars in the sky; the lights on a tree at Christmas time — the very same one in the living room.
“I’ve wanted you for so fuckin’ long,” he answered finally. “I’ve just been too much of a fuckin’ coward to say it.”
Blinking back tears, you screwed up your face with a self-loathing that burned hotter than a wildfire. “So, every time I went on a date with someone
else
–”
“You didn’t know,” Bucky whispered. “How could you have known if I didn’t say shit? How could you have known that I thought you were the one for me if I kept my mouth fuckin’ shut ‘cause
I
was scared?”
Tears tracked down your cheeks freely, the restraint vanishing as fast as your composure, and you swallowed thickly. “I didn’t know–” You coughed from the sudden parchedness in your throat. “Why–? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He didn’t answer; you rambled on. “I– I wish I knew, I have kept it hidden– Oh, god, Bucky, I’m so–”
Your words — an apology you felt was desperately needed — were cut off by Bucky’s lips on yours. His hands cupped your face, the pads of his thumbs brushing your cheeks to wipe away your tears.
It was a chaste press of his lips on yours, but it was enough to steal your breath from your lungs.
He pulled back from your lips but rested his forehead against yours. Blue eyes bore into yours, once so filled with an unknown agony; now elated,
weightless
at the confession. The pads of his thumbs continued to brush over your cheekbones, and in the silence, your thoughts reeled.
“I’ve had a crush on you for so long,” you whispered brokenly, barely holding in a sob. “Bucky, I– I wish you told me—I tried to tell you–”
“I’m sorry, Boo—I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” Bucky said softly, and he sniffed. “I didn’t– I should have said somethin’.”
You stared at him, then nodded gently. “Yeah,” you breathed, a half hysterical sound. “You fucking should have, you big, dumb idiot.”
“Well yeah, okay.” Bucky shrugged. “I earned that one.”
The two of you surged forward, kissing with a fervour unseen and you couldn’t stop the way your heart and spirits lifted. How what felt like a helium balloon had been tied around your middle to sweep you off your feet, when, in reality, it was truly just your best friend, the very same one that you had harboured a crush on for a lifetime.
Bucky was the first to pull away, his breath heavy and hot on your lips. “Why don’t I take you out?” he asked, smirking. “There’s a Christmas fair, and I wanna see the way my girl’s eyes light up, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said, grinning widely at him. “But first? Pancakes.”
“The time had finally come,” they whispered, victorious and proud of the endgame
—
their smiles remaining unseen, but they were shared, nonetheless.