The cool wind of Autumn brushed past your face as you swung open the library doors. It had only been a month since the start of the semester, but the librarian greeted you with a warm smile and a familiar wave. Being on the pre-med track would do that to a person.
You made your way to the reserved study rooms, fixing the strap of your bag as it dug into your shoulder. It almost seemed silly to have reserved a room at this time—the library was desolate this late on a Friday—but Nat had been very adamant about you being out of the dorm for the evening, and you weren't about to take any chances with your chem exam coming up.
You mouthed the numbers of the small rooms as you passed them, some filled with groups of students, others completely barren. When you reached room nine, you paused and double-checked the reservation sheet, pushing open the door as you read.
When you glanced up, the flimsy plastic clipboard went crashing to the floor, disrupting the careful silence of the library. "What the hell?"
There, in all his glory and occupying your reserved study room, was James Buchanan Barnes. He was wrapped around some girl you had never seen before, pressing her up against the wall with his baseball uniform bunching up at the sides. He tore away from her at the sound of your voice, a sly smile forming at your incredulous expression.
"Oh hey, doll. You studyin' in here tonight?" He was out of breath.
"Am I—James, you knew I was going to be in here. Steve's in my dorm tonight and my name was literally on the door," you whisper shouted, arm jutting out towards the abandoned clipboard. "You can't pretend like you just so happened to stumble into the room I've had reserved since Monday."
"Jeez, doll, take it easy. Stephanie—" he turned to the girl in the corner "—see you around, yeah?"
She gave him a surprised look, but straightened out her hair and made a quick exit, bumping your shoulder on the way out. You blinked and shook your head in disbelief before letting your bag slide onto the table in the center of the room. "Okay, what's your deal, James?"
"What do ya mean, doll?" he asked, leaning his shoulder against the wall.
"You know exactly what I mean. And how many times have I asked you to stop calling me that?"
"About as many times as I've asked you to stop callin' me James."
"It's your name."
"Yeah, but my friends call me Bucky."
You huffed out a dry laugh. "We're not friends, James."
"How do you figure that? I see you just about every day. Know how your classes are goin' and what you eat for breakfast."
"All of that is against my will. I'm almost positive that if Nat wasn't my best friend, you and I would have been lab partners freshman year, and then parted ways as complete strangers."
He narrowed his eyes at you and smirked. "Come on, doll, you don't mean that. Bet you had the biggest crush on me back then. If Stevie weren't datin' Nat, you would have found a way to follow me around campus all on your own."
"Follow you around campus? This coming from the guy who picked my study room to make out with his girlfriend when there are literally twenty others to choose from," you scoffed.
"She's not my girlfriend."
"Oh sorry, didn't mean to offend you." Sarcasm dripped from your voice. Bucky shrugged and pulled a chair out from the table, sitting with his chest to the backrest. "What the hell are you doing?"
He furrowed his brows. "I'm studying for our chem test next week. Come on, get your book out."
"Are you even in chem? I haven't seen you at any of the lectures."
"'Course I am. The baseball team just got all the work early since we've been travelin' for games."
You took a beat to stare at him, a deep sigh escaping your lips. "What do you want, James? And I know it's not flashcards, or else you wouldn't have brought your girlfriend in and put on a show."
"I told you, she's not my girlfriend. But really, I didn't know you'd be in here. She had the room before you. I just met her after the team got off the bus. Go on, check your little clipboard." He slid the plastic across the table.
Sure enough, one "Stephanie Ayers" was scribbled into the reservation slot above yours. "Okay, so why are you staying then? I'm sure she's missing you... wherever she went."
"Haven't you heard? I've got a really big quiz comin' up. Can't fail it."
"It's a midterm, James." You rolled your eyes as he sent his head back and let out an enlightened gasp. "Okay look, I really need to study and I can't go back to my room, so can you please leave."
He stood and raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Alright, alright. I can tell when I've overstayed my welcome." He flipped the chair back into place, grabbing his bag from underneath. "We got a home game tomorrow, you know. Nat takin' you with her?"
"Guess you'll see tomorrow," you quipped, back turned to him as you took your books out.
He let out a laugh and pushed the door open. "Yeah, guess I will. See you tomorrow, doll."
You waved him off without a second glance, missing the extra few seconds that his eyes lingered on the back of your head before the door clicked shut.
When you heard that final sound, you felt like you could finally breathe again. You leaned back in your chair and rubbed your palms against your eyes to ground your thoughts, but it was clear you weren't going to get much studying done that night. Stupid Bucky with his smooth words and pretty eyes and that unfair uniform.
And the worst part was that he was right, and he absolutely knew it. Freshman year was a year of many firsts for you, but among the worst was the heartbreak caused by Bucky Barnes—an event you were sure he didn't even remember.
You met Bucky before Nat had even met Steve, the randomized lab pairing in your biology class pushing the two of you together. You had been a bright-eyed, nervous wreck the first time you talked to him, and he absolutely loved it.
He was at NYU on a full-ride scholarship for pitching—he had the best arm in the nation—and quickly learned that the girls loved that. During orientation week alone, he had hooked up with three different girls and added about a dozen new numbers into his phone. He was making dates left and right and getting drunk at frat parties just about every weekend; it was every college kid's dream.
So when you looked up at him like he hung the moon, he was in his element. He talked you into doing all the lab work and brushed your hair behind your ear and gave you that smile that had all the girls falling at his feet. And it worked.
In a matter of weeks, you had become hopelessly enamored with Bucky Barnes. So much so that you took a chance and asked him to dinner one night in the library. He had glanced up from his phone, giving you a small smile and muttering something along the lines of sounds great, baby. Send me the details.
You had. He never showed up.
You were humiliated in class the next day, shuffling around the lab table and mumbling out apologies when you bumped into him. If he noticed, he didn't say anything. He figured you must have had a long night and brushed it off, but when you acted that way for the rest of the semester, he chalked it up to you getting a boyfriend. Boyfriends didn't like Bucky Barnes.
When final grades were passed out—a thick packet with an 'A' stamped on the front landing on your lab station—you couldn't get out of the room fast enough. Bucky had glanced over at you with a bright smile and twinkling eyes, only to find you half out the door already. He blew out a quick breath and tucked the packet in his bag before whipping out his phone to confirm his weekend plans; you were already just a fleeting thought in his mind.
You didn't see him again, not until Natasha first brought the 6'2 first baseman into your tiny dorm room. Steve Rogers had bumped his head on the top of the door frame and invited you to Kelly's, the sports bar the team frequented after home games. You had no idea that accepting his invitation would henceforth indoctrinate you into their friend group, nor did you realize that Bucky would be there, some girl sat on his lap as he gripped the neck of a beer bottle.
He hardly recognized you, sending you a quick nod when Steve introduced you to the group. Oh hey, biology girl! he had shouted across the table. Your face burned in embarrassment when Nat's eyebrows shot up in recognition. She sent you a sidelong glance that had you gripping her hand in a plea to keep quiet. She let it go. For the moment.
The rest of the night went pretty much the same. Steve and Nat were in their own world in the corner of the room, Bucky kept his hands on the sorority girl perched in his lap, and you did your best to pretend you no longer had the fattest crush on the man sitting in front of you. It wasn't too hard since he wasn't paying you any attention, but the nachos that Nat ordered for you had grown soggy when your nausea increased with each passing minute.
So, what about you? the girl sitting beside you, Wanda you had learned, nudged your shoulder with hers. You got a boyfriend?
You had completely missed the conversation, the screen above Bucky's head playing college football keeping you busy for the majority of the night. Uh, no. No boyfriend.
What! That's crazy, you're a total dime. Maybe one of these guys will sweep you off your feet. My brother's single, you know.
You humored her with a laugh and talked with the team for the rest of the night, strategically skipping over Bucky's form as you spoke. Not that it mattered; he was busy making out with the girl he brought with him. You never caught her name.
While you were uncomfortable, you had gained a strong group of friends that night. You, Wanda, and Natasha quickly banded together and were rarely seen apart these days, and the guys all treated you like family. Somehow, the NYU baseball team became an integral part of your life—which unfortunately included Bucky.
To his credit, he did manage to learn your name after the third time you hung out with the team. He might have pronounced it wrong, but the effort was still there—sort of.
He had been walking off the field after practice, the flood lights illuminating his cheeks and leaving a gentle shine on his hair. You were on the bleachers, having a very strong debate with Sam over whether or not sunflower seeds constituted a snack.
Sam! We headin' out or what? he called from the dugout. He noticed you then, sending you a smirk and a quick greeting that involved some incorrect variation of your name.
That's not her name, man. It's Y/N, Sam called out, throwing his arm over your shoulder. You're such an ass sometimes, you know that?
What? I can't remember everyone's name, Wilson, he quipped, shoving his bat into his bag.
It's fine, Sam. Your voice was low and your eyes were glued to your shoes.
There he went again, humiliating you and acting like it didn't matter.
Things began to change over the course of a few semesters. Bucky slowly began recognizing you at every game and would ask where you were if you missed one. He would meet up with Steve in the dining hall, always expecting you and Nat to be sitting on the other side of the table. Your number made a regular appearance in the group chat, prompting him to add it to his contacts after a few weeks.
And over the years, Bucky began to change too—not that you paid that any mind. The novelty of being the hottest bachelor on campus became old after his fourth hangover caused him to almost fail yet another class. He never actually failed them though; the sports committee always had his back.
The girls got old. Sometimes they would be too clingy, begging him to take them out for the night when all he wanted was a quick release. Other times they weren't attached enough. They would use him for his status, asking to wear his jersey at games and hopping past the fence when the news cameras closed in.
He remembered a time when hadn't cared about that so much; he would wrap the girls in his arms and smile for the newspapers, hardly remembering their names as they made quick exits off the field. But then he met you—and you kept coming around.
He would see you running up to his teammates after the games, smothering them in hugs and swatting off their hands as they ruffled your hair. You would smile at them and it took his breath away; the kind of breathlessness that was so unexpected, it was disorienting. You would cheer for them when they were up to bat and steal their fries at the sports bar and joke around with them over text.
But with Bucky—nothing. And it ate away at him.
At first he thought you were just shy; Bucky was a really popular guy, and that could be intimidating. But after months of you ignoring him and refusing to sit beside him at gatherings, he knew it had to be something else. He never asked you about it. You never told him.
It was going on three years at this point, and he had decided it was time to figure out why. Because as you ignored him and argued with him and smiled up at his friends, Bucky Barnes was falling in love with you.
He was saving you seats in lecture halls and looking out for you at games. He was smelling your perfume on another girl on the campus shuttles and whipping around to find you, only for his chest to fill with disappointment when you weren't there. God, the guy was even saving you the last bottle of juice in the dining hall when you came to breakfast late, nonchalantly passing it off to Steve so that you wouldn't get suspicious.
He had it bad, and you were none the wiser; the sting of his previous indifference had you keeping up a wall to protect yourself, but Bucky didn't know that. Bucky didn't even remember the offense that kept you at such a distance. But you certainly remembered.
You let out a strangled sigh, checking the time on your phone and packing your things back into your bag. You had made zero progress on your homework and your two hour reservation was almost up. Feeling defeated, you made your way to the exit, intent on grabbing ice cream to kill some time, but were stopped in your tracks when your foot caught on something soft.
Of course it would be one of Bucky's batting gloves. The universe loved mocking you, and it seemed like putting you in situations where you were forced to speak to him was its greatest running gag. You stuffed the offending material into the pocket of your hoodie, and trudged out of the room.
Midnight on NYU's campus wasn't something you often got to see alone. Ever since freshman year, it seemed like you always had someone to accompany you. Wanda had the same major as you so your schedules usually coincided, Nat was always looking to spend time with you when Steve was unavailable, and if any of the team spotted you walking alone, you had an instant companion.
And it was nice to have some silence, but jeez it was cold.
You ditched your plan for ice cream and prayed that Steve had found his way to his own dorm for the night. Natasha told you not to come home until ten, but past experiences told you she really meant midnight.
In the warmth of the hallway outside your room, you rapped your knuckles against the door and waited as several thuds sounded off on the other side.
"Just a sec!" Nat called out. You were glad you waited those extra two hours.
Steve came tumbling out the door a few minutes later, socks bunched up in his hands and an apologetic look on his face. "Sorry it's so late, Y/N. You should've called someone to walk you home."
"I think I can walk across campus on my own, Steve. And I have that pepper spray Nat bought me." You jingled your keyring by your head.
"Still, I'm sure Buck wouldn't have minded walking you back."
"Yeah, I saw James tonight. He seemed a bit preoccupied. Oh, that reminds me," you exclaimed, rifling through your pocket, "Here, he dropped this." You pressed the batting glove to Steve's chest.
He glanced down at it and sidestepped your arm, refusing to take it from your grasp. "I'm not gonna see him till the game tomorrow, Y/N. You might as well bring it to him when you come."
"How does that even make sense? You're going to see him way before I am and—hey! Steve, what the hell?" He was lightly jogging down the hallway before you could finish your rant.
"Bye! See ya tomorrow!"
Your eyes followed him in disbelief as he pushed through the double doors of the resident hall. "What's wrong with your boyfriend, Nat?"
She pulled you in from the hall by your arm. "Don't ask me. I never know what's going on inside that guy's head," she scoffed, grabbing a sweater from your desk chair to cover her shoulders, "Should be fine though. You're coming with me to the game tomorrow, right? Wanda already bailed."
"Well yeah, but he definitely could have given this to James. They warm up together and we don't get there until the game starts." You dropped your things to the floor and laid flat on your bed.
"You said you saw Bucky tonight? Thought you were going to the library."
You shot up, finger pointing in your roommate's direction. "I did! You wanna know where he was? Making out with some girl in my study room. I swear that guy just lives to piss me off."
"Maybe he's got a crush on you."
You scoffed. "Do I need to remind you that he was in there making out with someone? If he likes me, that's the wrong way to get my attention." You moved to the door connecting to the bathroom. "Besides, last time I tried romance with the guy, I was left outside that stupid restaurant for an hour. No call, no apology."
"Y/N, that was like, three years ago. Bucky's changed since then, you just haven't noticed since you've been so dead set on acting like he doesn't exist."
"Don't really see how he's changed, Nat. Every time I run into him he's got a girl attached to his hip. Why are you defending him anyway? He blackmailing you or something?"
She came up beside you in the bathroom, grabbing her toothbrush. "No, I've just... noticed some things lately. Maybe it's time to bury the hatchet."
"There is no 'hatchet', Nat, we just aren't friends."
"And that's not weird to you? I mean you've known the guy for years and still avoid him like the plague."
You groaned, setting your face wash back in the cabinet with a clang. "If you like him so much, why don't you hang out with him?"
"Whoa, chill with the hostility! I'm just saying, he might not be as bad as you think; not anymore."
"I'll believe it when I see it." You made your way out of the bathroom and changed your clothes before flopping into bed.
Natasha's notion was a nice one; Bucky would make a great friend if you didn't find him so awful. He was loyal and protective of those that were close to him—and he was definitely easy on the eyes—but you just couldn't shake the fact that he was a grade-A asshole. Maybe not to you anymore, but the sentiment was still there.
As your roommate meandered back into the room, going on about your plans to get to the game tomorrow, you let your gaze hold steady on the batting glove on your nightstand. Memories of blurry parties and dusty bleachers flashed through your mind, Bucky always there—always in the background.
Maybe giving him a shot wouldn't be so bad. You had no doubt in your mind that the relationship would be strictly platonic, but if Natasha really thought he was worth it, you'd trust her judgment. She hadn't led you astray yet, and she'd been the one to pick you up all those years ago, embarrassed and alone in downtown Manhattan. She knew what he was like—now and then—and she loved you like a sister; she would never want you hurting.
You went to bed that night with a strong agenda and high hopes. Maybe it was time to bury the hatchet, even if only one person knew that hatchet existed.