The rest of the week went by, and you kept hoping Bucky would come back. You hadn't seen him since he'd left 300 dollars under his napkin after visiting you at work. You had tucked the bills into your bra, knowing they would be safe there, and walked home at the end of your shift.
Now it was Thursday afternoon and you were craving a day off.
Natasha's apartment was spacious and the oversized glass window bathed the living room in natural sunlight. The apartment was a gift from Sam. Obviously.
You dropped your purse on the sofa –your bed- and laid out the bills on the coffee table. It was made of marble and brass, another gift from Sam.
You didn't know what to do with the money, so you took it wherever you went, to keep it safe. You wanted to return it to Bucky. It was too much and you weren't used to random acts of kindness.
You sunk into the cushion and blew out a sigh as you stared at the money. The persistent vibration of your phone against your thigh pulled you out of your thoughts. Half expecting it to be Natasha, you answered without looking at the caller ID.
The operator told you that Scott Lang was calling from Saint Quentin State Prison, and asked if you would accept the charges. You agreed. You always agreed.
"Splotchy, I need your help."
Closing your eyes, you let your head fall back against the cushion. "I told you to stop calling me that, Scott."
It was a silly nickname.
As a child, your mother dubbed you splotchy because of the colourful doodles you painted on the living room walls, and your siblings, who were roughly a few years older than you, had loved using that nickname. Especially since they knew you disliked it.
Their support and endless enthusiasm played a big part in your artistic journey, nurturing that spark into a flame. What started out as a childlike fascination with colours and shapes became your whole life. No one was surprised when you decided to pursue a degree in fine arts.
After the death of her husband, Peggy Carter adopted five children; a little boy from San Francisco, a little girl from Wakanda, twins from Sokovia and a little girl whose birth parents were still in high school. You were the last one, the only one she adopted as a baby.
"Is it offensive to call an artist splotchy?"
"It's irrelevant. I haven't painted in months," you replied. "And we're not kids anymore, you can use my name."
"I've been calling you Splotchy for so long, I forgot your actual name."
"You're so funny," you deadpanned. "What do you need, Scott?"
Scott's tone changed suddenly, his voice grew agitated. "I need you to call Maggie. She isn't picking up when I call her."
"Scott," you sighed.
"I haven't talked to Cassie since her birthday," he cut you off, pleading. "Please, I just want to talk to my little girl."
Maggie was Scott's ex-wife. Six months after his incarceration, she had filed for divorce. Natasha thought it was a real dick move but you didn't blame Maggie. She was alone, her husband was in jail –for basically being a dumbass although the official charge was embezzlement and destruction of property- and she had a kid to raise.
Maggie wasn't a saint but she was a good mother, and Cassie was a smart and healthy kid. Now you knew what to do with Bucky's money.
"I'll call her," you said. "Listen, I'm going to put 50 bucks on your book. Buy yourself a bar of soap, I can smell you from here." Scott interrupted you with a monotone 'har har'. You chuckled. "I'll buy Cassie a Christmas gift on your behalf, all right? I think she wanted a bike."
"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you," he chanted over the phone, his voice muffled as if he was holding the receiver too close to his mouth. "Are you sure you can afford it? I know it isn't easy for you. Between living in New York and paying for mom's nursing home, you don't have to-"
"It's fine," you said, cutting off the conversation. "I'm not alone, Okoye helps."
"And Wanda?"
"She sends postcards from time to time."
The line went quiet for a moment. "I want to get out of here so bad," Scott groaned. "Everything's gone to shit since I went to jail."
"Everything's gone to shit since Pietro died, Scott." You both remained silent, remembering your late brother. Just thinking about him made your eyes start to prickle with tears, so you cleared your throat and ended the call. "I'll talk to Maggie. You'll be out soon, just... stay out of trouble. Love you."
You left your phone on the table and kicked off your shoes before you lay down on the sofa for a well-deserved nap. In your dreams your brothers weren't either dead or in prison, your mother hadn't been diagnosed with Alzheimer, and you weren't a burden to your friend.
If you were lucky enough, you wouldn't even dream at all.
The next day, Bucky arrived at the hotel at six thirty and you playfully glared at him from across the lounge. He wasn't stupid, he knew why you were glaring at him. At least he had the decency to look a little sheepish.
"Just so you know, you bought yourself about 30 breakfasts," you told him, referring to the far-too-generous tip he had left the other day.
"A man's gotta eat," he replied with a boyish cockiness that made him look stupidly attractive. You were too flustered to find a good comeback.
You brought him his cup of coffee and let him enjoy his breakfast while you attended to your other clients. It was an unusually busy day, the room was packed with families who were getting ready to explore Manhattan. You didn't have time to chat with Bucky and he didn't stay long. You saw him flinch a couple of times; the muscles in his shoulders pulled tight and his eyes darting left and right.
He left another ridiculously generous tip, along with a handwritten note. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day x.
Bucky came back the following week, and even though it was a quiet morning, you made sure to find him a table in a secluded spot. He didn't notice when you slipped the 300 dollars into the pocket of his coat. You could be pretty sneaky, too.
"Mmmh," he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, "I looked at your Instagram."
"Oh," you glanced at your shoes, embarrassed. "Wait, you're on Instagram? I have a hard time imagining you scrolling through your feed."
He laughed a little. "I'll admit I'm not as tech savvy as you youngsters, but I'm not a fossil. I use it to look at the pictures my sister post of my niblings."
"Cute," you grinned.
"Anyway," he said, pushing a hand through his hair. "I love your work. It's very unique; a cross between Impressionism and Post-impressionism. It's realistic, and yet there's something different..." his face scrunched up as he tried to look for the right word. "There's something in your paintings, something that isn't here in real life but perhaps should be. It's hard to explain. It's a feeling, a color, a pattern; it's indiscernible but it's there." He looked up at you, his cheeks red with embarrassment. "I'm not making much sense, am I?"
You blinked, suddenly stunned that someone had such strong opinions about your work. There was nothing but sincerity in his ocean-blue eyes, and for a moment, you were at a loss for words.
"I, um-" you cleared your throat, "Thank you, I didn't know that. I look up to Monet, obviously. His work is phenomenal, and I also have a soft spot for Van Gogh." You ran a hand across your face. "Sorry, I'm a little emotional. The people who compliment my art are usually my siblings, and Nat."
"And now me," he said with a warm smile. "And soon a lot more people."
Flustered, you bit your bottom lip. "That would be nice."
Bucky nodded. He gathered his silverware and set them on his plate, trying to buy time. You watched him hesitate before he turned to you. "I noticed that your last post was from almost a year ago."
"Yeah," you said with a casual shrug. "I don't really paint anymore. I'm too tired when I get home and supplies are expensive."
"Of course," he pursed his lips in thought. "Are you free this afternoon? I was wondering if we could meet for coffee."
You tried not to show your surprise but his words made the sleeping butterflies in your stomach crack an eye open, their interest piqued.
Was he asking you out? He'd come to your workplace every week since your brief 'date'. He always gave you more-than-generous tips, and he listened to you with a combination of close attention and warmth that made you weak at the knees.
He'd made it clear he wasn't looking for anyone but maybe he had changed his mind. Agh, down girl! He just wanted a friend.
You looked into his beautiful eyes, seeing a myriad of expressions cross his face before he smiled at you.
"I ain't gonna hurt you, angel."
It was an honest lie, just hearing him call you angel felt like a punch to the stomach. The butterflies were dancing around, reborn, and chanting the word 'date'.
"If you don't like coffee, we can have tea, or ice cream," he said, "anything as long as you can sit down with me."
You snorted. "Okay."
"Okay," he repeated, smiling. "This is my number. Pick a place and I'll meet you there."
After breakfast, you closed the restaurant and started cleaning the Lounge. You brought everything back to the kitchen, stacked the dishes in the dishwasher and turned it on. Then you put away the unopened miniature jams, butter and whatnot, and gathered the remaining patisseries and fresh fruits in a basket that you would later bring to the reception.
You worked mechanically. It wasn't exactly the most exciting job you'd ever had.
You couldn't stop thinking about Bucky. It was easy to let your mind wander into the cosy and dangerous territory of this being a real date.
You decided to go to the Australian coffee shop near Natasha's apartment. It was popular but not as crowded as Starbucks, which suited you fine.
After your shift, you removed your uniform and changed into the spare set of clothes you kept in your locker for emergencies. Emergencies being an impromptu date or a night out with Nat. You dug around in your purse for your lipstick; the nice one, the Carter Red as your mother called it.
You dabbed the lipstick on your lips, staining them. You only wore it on special occasions, and you weren't sure Bucky deserved your full red pout.
You walked to the café with a little pep in your step and a confident smile on your face. The freezing temperature didn't matter, you were too giddy to care. It was a date, it had to be, why else would he ask you to meet for coffee?
You smiled when you saw him through the coffee shop window. He was chatting with the waiter as the latter set two mugs on the table.
"Hi again!" You shrugged out of your jacket and took a seat.
"I hope you like hot chocolate. Carl, here, says it's their best seller," Bucky said, smiling kindly at the waiter.
"Enjoy, and if you need anything else don't hesitate to call me."
You carefully wrapped your cold hands around your mug while you watched Carl walk away. A moment of silence rose between you. Bucky watched you with an unreadable expression, making you fidget in your seat.
"I'm glad you came," he finally said.
"Me too. I'm a little surprised you asked."
He looked down at his mug and smiled; it didn't reach his eyes. "I have something to ask you." He paused. "The night we met, you said you agreed to see me because being in a... financial relationship felt like the only solution to your problems."
Your smile faltered but he didn't seem to notice. Oh. The butterflies in your stomach fell so suddenly that it felt like carrying a ball of lead. They went back into hibernation.
"If I had been a decent person and, I don't know, bought you a drink, talked to you," he paused, meeting your eyes. "Would you have been interested in this type of relationship? With me, I mean."
You swallowed hard. "You want to be my sugar daddy."
It wasn't a question but a statement. You were slowly realizing that you had been wrong about his intentions. This wasn't a date, it was a business afternoon tea.
He winced. "Do we really have to call it that? I was thinking mentorship. I can provide financial help, and in exchange you could be my friend."
"I can be your friend for free," you said, your throat tightening.
He shrugged, a small smile on his lips. "This way we'll both get something out of it."
You looked down at your hands, still wrapped around the mug, and pursed your lips in thought. You felt a sharp tingling sensation in your nose, a sign that you were about to cry. You closed your eyes and clenched your jaw, fighting against the flood that was coming.
You pushed all the emotion down and forced a smile to your face. "Do you mind if I use the restroom? I just took the subway, I'd like to wash my hands."
Bucky watched you, momentarily stunned by your request. "Of course, take your time," he quickly recovered.
"Thanks," you croaked, pushing your chair back.
You picked up your bag and walked to the restroom, your legs feeling like cotton wool. You didn't need to use the restroom, you had walked to the café, but you needed a moment alone to collect yourself.
A woman came out of the restroom, holding the door open for you. You picked up the pace and thanked her before closing the door behind you. You looked pretty sickly under the artificial light of the restroom. Your eyes were glassy with tears and your red lips were taunting you.
"Got your hopes up, uh?" You watched your lips move. A little humourless chuckle escaped you and you shook your head at your own idiocy.
You aggressively wiped the lipstick off your mouth with the back of your hand and sighed deeply as you looked at your reflection in the mirror. Now you felt like an idiot.
It wasn't Bucky's fault. He had been nothing but nice and kind, and perhaps you had mistaken his kindness for flirting. A naïve mistake. You had always been a little clueless when it came to men.
You ran your index fingers under your eyes to get rid of the makeup that had gathered there. It wasn't the end of the world, you barely knew him anyway. It didn't hurt any less, though.
Maybe it was time for you to do something out of character, to experience life no matter how crazy it seemed. You were dreading this conversation with Bucky, but you couldn't hide in the restroom forever. With another sigh, you pushed yourself away from the sink and walked out of the restroom.