Stranger || Bucky Barnes x Reader

Chapter 1: The Meeting

You hesitantly stepped into the dimly lit bar, eyes darting around tensely. It was quiet; there was a gentle murmur of conversation in the air, but you weren't paying attention to that. The bartender was bustling at the counter, setting a whiskey tumbler down, his hands slightly shaking as he set two large ice cubes at the bottom of the glass. He poured two shots of single-malt whiskey over the ice, the golden booze swiftly rising halfway up the glass, then he slid the drink over the counter with trembling hands to a man sitting in the corner. The man's head was bowed, and he was wearing a dark, casual peak lapel suit, black-on-black with a t-shirt peeking out underneath. He wore gloves on his hands, and he had a cap pulled far down over his face. 

Maybe it was the fact that he was sitting alone that caught your attention. Whatever it was, you walked over, hesitating next to him. He rolled his head to the side and tilted his face up toward you, tired eyes settling on yours. 

"Can I help you?"

Then you caught sight of two dog tags, hanging from a ball chain around his neck, gleaming silver. You could only read one letter. 

B.

Pieces of the puzzle started to click together, but you refused to believe anything without further proof. 

"Do you mind if I join you?" you mumbled- you were never one to initiate a conversation, and yet, here you were.

"It's a free country," he responded, his eyes drifting back down toward his drink. He seemed exhausted. You sat down next to him, sliding on the bar stool, watching as he reluctantly reached for his drink, lifting the glass to his lips, taking a sip. You tore your eyes away, not wanting to be impolite. When you looked back, his eyes were on yours, intense. 

"Michael," he called without taking his eyes off you. "Could you get this dame a drink?"

When you started to protest, he shook his head, a perfunctory smile ghosting over his lips. 

"If you're going to sit here, you might as well have a drink. On me," he added. You glanced at the bartender- whose name, according to the man, was Michael- as he hurried to comply. 

"What would you like, miss?" he asked, his eyes constantly flicking back to the man sitting next to you, as if he was afraid. You ordered the same as the man had. As Michael turned away to make the drink, you focused your attention back on the mystery next to you.

"What's your name?" you asked curiously. He allowed a smile to grace his lips, but it looked tense, uncomfortable, unsure. His eyes flicked down back to his whiskey as his grin fell just as quickly as it came. In silence, he softly pulled the glove back on his left hand, revealing a glint of metal.

All the pieces fell in place. It was easy, suddenly, to tell exactly who this stranger was, and why he was sitting in the corner of the bar with his face shadowed. Why he had taken so many precautions to stay purely concealed. The cap pulled down on his face. Why the bartender seemed so afraid of him. 

"You're James," you whispered. "James Buchanan Barnes."

He watched you, perhaps looking for a hint of fear, the same terror he got from everybody he met. But you didn't allow your expression to change. Finally, he spoke. 

"Not many call me by that name anymore."

You raised an eyebrow at him. 

"I read about you in the newspapers."

Bucky's shoulders slumped a bit, as if he was waiting for a reprimand or harsh words from you. It was obvious he was used to it. 

Michael set a tumbler down in front of you just as you were about to hastily reassure the metal-armed man. Grateful for the distraction, you turned your attention to the counter. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky throw back the rest of his drink, setting the glass down in silence, his expression sad. Michael automatically slid another over to him, and you couldn't help but notice the glint of fear in the bartender's eyes. It was obvious that Bucky noticed as well. He ducked his head lower, tugging the cap down on his face, reaching for the drink in silence. You noticed how he kept his left hand in his lap, out of sight below the bar counter, concealing his trademark. 

"How long have you been here?" you finally asked. Bucky stared down at his whiskey, as if he was trying to drown himself in the amber liquid.

"He's been here almost three hours," Michael spoke up. When Bucky glanced over at him, the bartender quickly ducked away, looking terrified. The soul-crushing look of despair on Bucky's face caught you off guard; he seemed nothing like the killer you had read about in the press. Instead, he just seemed . . . like a man who was a shadow. A shadow of the Winter Soldier. 

"You can drink a lot then," you said, before realizing just how stupid that was. He was a super-soldier- of course he could drink more. His metabolism was at least three times' a normal person's. Bucky just shrugged modestly, keeping his eyes downcast, obviously attempting to avoid attracting any attention. 

How could this man be a killer? That was the question. He didn't seem harmful to you at all. More like a man with regrets. Many of them. You sighed, taking a sip of your drink. It wasn't half bad. It went down smoothly. 

"I just don't know if I'm cut out for this anymore." 

Bucky's words almost startled you. 

"I'm still an international murderer." He laughed under his breath, although the situation wasn't at all hilarious. "Even if Steve cleared my name."

Steve. Steve Rogers. Captain America. You had read about Bucky in a museum- he was the best friend of the famous hero. Dating back to 1940. With a shock, you realized the man in front of you was over a century old, and yet, here he was- looking like he was still twenty-seven. 

"You're hiding, aren't you?" you realized. "Still."

"Yeah, there are . . . " Bucky shrugged helplessly. "I know the Wakandians aren't particularly fond of me at the moment. And don't get me started on Stark. He . . . Steve hid me away, because Stark's still mad, so . . . "

He looked down, and in that moment, he wasn't the infamous Winter Soldier. He was just James Barnes. A slumped, tired POW. He reached for his drink, and you reached for his at the same time. A chill went down your spine as your hands brushed, but Bucky barely seemed to notice. Quickly, you pushed aside his drink. 

"That's enough for you, soldier."

He scoffed. 

"It's not like I can get drunk, doll."

You almost smiled. He seemed so familiar. As if you had seen him somewhere before, outside the newspapers. As if . . .

Something was tickling at the edges of your memory, but you brushed it off. You couldn't remember. It should've bothered you, but instead, you just ignored it, focusing on the situation at hand. 

"It's still not a good idea. How many drinks have you had?"

Bucky half-smiled, his eyes tired. 

"I don't know. Lost count."

That didn't bode well.