Bucky couldn't hear a single thing.
After years and years of being a star baseball player, he was used to the crowd. He was used to the screaming and the announcers and the music. Normally, he could tune it all out—focus in on the warmup and his teammates. It didn't take much effort; he'd had lots of practice after all.
But tonight, Bucky couldn't hear a single thing, and it was because you weren't there.
You'd missed games before. Had a paper due that you waited too long to start, or gotten sick and couldn't stand being outside for too long. But Bucky wasn't in love with you back then. He was now.
He had begged you not to go. After Beck left the bookstore with a haughty skip in his step, Bucky had turned to you, voice low and eyes pleading.
I know you're pissed at me, he said. But please don't do this. Those guys are bad news, doll, and I can't come with you to make sure you're safe.
You rolled your eyes. I'm not sure if you know this, Barnes, but I got by just fine before you. I can take care of myself. If he was such bad news, then maybe you should've said something when I asked.
Your stubbornness was one of the reasons he fell for you, but he wished you would listen to him—just this once.
I know, I know. He was trailing you out of the bookstore. But don't go just to make me mad. It won't end well and I won't be able to live with myself if something happens to you.
I don't make any of my decisions based on you, so you can go ahead and clear your conscience right now, you lied. Your stomach was rolling.
Okay, you don't, he placated. Hey, c'mon just look at me. Please.
It went back and forth like that for a while, the two of you arguing on the sidewalk outside of the bookstore with the door creaking each time someone walked out. Well, you were arguing. Bucky was begging.
It ended with you going back to your dorm, alone, and Bucky feeling even more hopeless than before. This wasn't just a matter of you forgiving him anymore, he didn't feel like you were safe. He had been to those parties before. They were loud and sweaty and filled with too many people taking too many things to get them going.
It was no place for you; no place for his best girl.
And the worst part was that it was his fault. He was almost positive that you were only invited because of his slip up in front of Zemo, when he had chased you down the beach a few weeks ago in his drunken stupor. Just like he suspected, Zemo got interested and you were going to have to pay for it.
So Bucky didn't hear when Steve called to him from first base, and he couldn't hear the loud speaker when the national anthem began. All his ears could handle was the constant ringing that started the second he saw Natasha sitting by herself in the stands. He thought there had been a chance you listened to him, a chance he wasn't going to spend this entire game worried out of his mind.
Well, he was wrong.
"Barnes! You ready to get your head outta your ass and play some baseball?" Fury whacked the back of Bucky's head, his hat resting low on his forehead.
He fixed the bill, pulling his eyes from Natasha's seat. "Uh, yeah. Can I just have one second?" He was running up the stadium steps before his coach could reply.
Natasha looked unamused by his sudden appearance. "Yes?"
"Y/n. Where is she?" Bucky pressed.
"Bucky, I thought I told you to leave her alone? If she doesn't want to—"
"No. Nat, where is she?"
The urgency in his voice made her sit straighter. "She told me she was going to the library for her lit paper, but I figured she was mainly trying to avoid you. Why, what's going on?"
"Are you sure she's at the library? Like completely certain?"
"Steve and I dropped her off ourselves—Bucky what's going on?"
He blew out a long breath. "Nothing, she just got invited to one of Zemo's parties and I was worried that she went."
"Oh, you mean Quentin Beck's thing?" she asked, relaxing then. "She told me she'd 'rather die than go to that party'. Exact words."
"Shit," Bucky breathed out. "Shit, okay. Good."
"Why'd you say it was Zemo's party? Y/n never mentioned him."
"Beck and Zemo are friends. They throw those frat parties together and charge at the door so they can gamble after. Zemo uses one of his parents' old houses in the middle of nowhere so they won't get noise complaints, and he fills it to the brim with girls and alcohol. She shouldn't be anywhere near that."
Natasha raised her brows. "Jeez, Bucky. You're friends with those guys?"
"Tryin' not to be." He let out a humorless laugh. "I gotta run back, but check-in with her, yeah? Make sure she didn't change her mind."
"Yeah, yeah. Now go! Fury looks ready to blow a gasket," she shooed him off, resettling in her seat.
Bucky took his position on the dirt mound in the middle of the field, his leather glove more comfortable than it was a few minutes ago.
You were at the library. You weren't at some house barely held up by the support beams in the middle of a dirt field. You weren't surrounded by guys with the wrong intentions without him there to keep his hand over your cup. You weren't left stranded without any friends, in a place you had no address for.
Bucky couldn't think of a worse place for you to be, but his mind reminded him that you weren't there. You were safe, probably wearing that sweater that made it look like you were prepping for a Russian winter instead of a mild New York Fall. You were probably angrily typing away at your computer, cursing Bucky while you finished the paper you procrastinated. He could picture the steaming cup from the library's cafe that you hadn't even touched, too flustered to drink it.
And it made his chest warm to imagine you there—to imagine you bundled up and studying. He longed to be with you; he longed to hear you ramble on about how much you disliked your literature professor and laugh when Bucky offered to beat him up. He wished he could be there for the little things, like when you'd offer him a headphone to share a song, or when you'd pretend to like his coffee even though it was clear you hated it. He'd lost that with you, but he was going to get it back.
He'd win this game, and then he'd win you over.
~~
The heat in the library was stifling; the librarian was an old woman and always complained it was too cold, no matter the season. She was constantly cranking the thermostat to an uncomfortable temperature; it left you feeling pressure from all sides, but it didn't make you sweat. An artificial heat.
The heat in the library was stifling, but it was nothing compared to the inferno Quentin Beck had created inside that rickety old house.
You were pretty sure if he tried to shove any more people inside, the place would collapse. When Quentin told you it was a frat party, you thought it was going to be at an actual frat house—maybe even one of the rooftop parties the alumni threw.
When he picked you up from the library and drove you to some dilapidated farmhouse in upstate New York, you regretted doing this out of spite,
The worst part was that Bucky didn't even know you were here—no one did. Not a great move on your part, but you were so frustrated at the time. You wanted Bucky to sit in that stupid dugout and miss you and realize that he was an idiot. You wanted him to understand that you weren't going to put up with his secrets and his situational flippancy.
But instead, he was with your friends, imagining you nice and cozy at the library when you were actually in the pits of hell.
"Oop! Excuse me!" Cool liquid spilled down your legs. It wasn't a lot, but this also wasn't the first time it had happened.
"It's alright," you grumbled, but the incoherent girl was already bounding off in the other direction. You weren't sober either, but her unsteady walk proved to you that she was too far gone to really understand your words.
You tapped at your phone screen for the thousandth time that night, but still found no reception. You understood wanting to get away from neighborhoods and noise complaints, but did no one at this party want to use their phone?
Your shirt was beginning to stick to your skin and the pounding music had an ache creeping up your neck. To make matters worse, it seemed the 'punch' you had earlier was much stronger than Quentin led on, the sudden lightness in your head spelling trouble.
There was no way to happily admit this, but Bucky was right.
"What's a little bird like you doing here?" You almost jumped out of your skin when the whisper met your ear. Jerking your head around, you came face to face with Zemo. Great.
Bucky was probably laughing at you from the field right now.
"Zemo," you greeted, false happiness dripping from your tone. "I didn't know you were here."
He chuckled darkly. "Well, it is my party after all. I wouldn't want to miss it."
"I thought this was a frat party. You aren't in a frat." Now your stomach hurt along with your head.
"Ah well, more people come when you slap that word in the front. 'Frat party' just has such a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
"I suppose. Look, I'm just gonna—"
"Tell me about you and Barnes."
You were taken aback by his shift in demeanor. "I'm sorry, tell you about what?"
"My friend, Barnes. He's been awfully boring lately and won't return any of my calls. I thought maybe that ghastly baseball coach had him on probation or something, but then he had a mental breakdown in the parking lot when you left and I found it all very fascinating."
"I don't know what you're talking about. There's nothing going on between us." The room was starting to spin—not a lot, but it definitely wasn't stable.
Zemo let out a disapproving hum. "See, I think you're lying to me. All three years I've known that guy, he hasn't shown a single interest in anything except my parties. Well, maybe baseball, but what he does during the week doesn't really concern me." He brushed a strand of your hair back. You felt a cringe roll through your body. "And then you come in and suddenly I'm cut off. I have a lot of friends, but Bucky is... integral to my college experience. Where he goes, everyone follows."
"What, so you need him or else your parties flop? This one seems full enough."
"Do you recognize anyone in this room right now?"
You took a glance around. "No, but NYU's a big school, Zemo. You don't need Bucky to throw a party."
"Maybe not," he tsked. "But I need Bucky to throw a good party, and you are getting in my way."
"I'm not. Bucky's not interested in me—he made that very clear the other night." You knew you were lying, but Zemo didn't show any signs of letting up.
"God, you're getting annoying. Just tell me what I want to know and then you can go pass out on a couch somewhere."
Bile rose in your throat at his forceful tone. You stumbled as someone bumped into you, and Zemo's hands went out to steady your arms. They sent prickles up your spine and had you yanking yourself away before you could fully stand. The queasiness in your stomach was worse. His stare was unsettling.
"I need to go home." You spun on your heel and set out to find Quentin, the never ending sea of bodies hindering your search.
You found him after a few minutes, strewn out on the floor with old cushions surrounding him. "Y/n!" he exclaimed, sitting up. "And you brought Zemo!"
You didn't need to turn around for confirmation; his presence had been looming on your back since you went on your search.
"Will you take me home?" You fought hard to keep your voice steady.
"Now why would I do that? Aren't you having fun?"
Zemo placed a taunting hand on your shoulder. "I think she would be having a lot more fun if she just answered my questions, wouldn't you agree, Beck?"
You yanked him off of you. "Just leave me alone."
"Aw, c'mon, y/n. That's the whole reason I brought you here—to answer Zemo's questions. Get you all drunk and uncomfortable and reveal all your greatest weaknesses," Quentin goaded, a permanent smirk etched onto his face.
C'mon, doll. Don't do this here. I'll explain everything later, I swear.
God, you were stupid. You were stupid and you ached for the comfort of Bucky's low gaze and sweet voice, desperately trying to steer you away from the situation you currently found yourself in. You missed the way his hands had brushed across your face, attempting to convey the delicate ease he could provide you if you would just listen to him.
But you didn't, and now you were uncomfortable in your own skin and stuck between two pillars that wanted answers—answers you wouldn't give.
"If that's the only reason you brought me here," you began, yet again brushing off Zemo's attempt to touch you, "you can go ahead and just take me home. I'm not telling you anything, and if Bucky doesn't want to talk to you, then leave him alone."
They were laughing at you then, full bodied laughing at you. Quentin was the first to tame his shaking shoulders. "You think you're intimidating, don't you? I can see why Bucky likes you. You get all cute when you're mad, like a little baby."
Flustered and dizzy, you repeated yourself. "I want to go home."
"Aw, I'm sure you do, but party's not over yet, doll." Quentin flung out. You wanted to cry.
"How about this," Zemo added. "You promise you'll tell Bucky that you never want to see him again, and we'll take you home. Tell him you hate him and think he's a scumbag or whatever. Some heartbreak ought to pull his old habits out of the woodwork."
"No," you choked out, the thought of lying lost on you in your drunken state. "No, I would never do that. I love him."
Your hand shot out to cover your mouth, the confession not fully registered in your brain. You had never said that out loud and here you were, spouting off the words to cruel strangers. You didn't have time to process it anymore; they were laughing at you again.
"You—you love Barnes? That's a good one," Zemo wheezed out between chuckles.
You felt anger bubble up into your chest, your defensiveness shining through. "I do love him. I love him and if you were actually his friends, you wouldn't think it was funny." Your words were slurring together.
"We're not friends with Barnes, sweet cheeks. No one's really friends with a guy like that," Quentin said.
"You're wrong." You were getting worked up, tears burning at the back of your eyes. "Bucky has lots of friends because he is sweet and kind and you are none of those things. You're none of those things and you don't know anything about him."
"Again, annoying," Zemo drawled. "Just take her home, Beck. The girl's about to cry and I do not do crying chicks."
"Ugh, I gotta do it? I don't wanna drive."
"Fine, make someone else take her, I don't care. Just get her out. This was stupid anyway. Barnes'll probably be over her the second she opens her legs."
You opened your mouth to argue again but quickly stopped yourself. These people didn't care about Bucky. They didn't care that sometimes he laughed so hard he had to bend over to catch his breath, or that he took his coffee with way too much sugar.
They didn't care about the way he looked at you when it was dark out. How he would squint his eyes to catch the features of your face and let his fingers trace your cheeks to ground the image.
They didn't care that he liked to go to bed early or that he sometimes got headaches when too many people were talking. They didn't notice when he would hold his wrist to his chest after practice, the ache from pitching still lingering in his tendons. You weren't even sure if these people knew his birthday.
But you did. You cared about every aspect of Bucky and noticed every little thing. And you loved him.
"Yo, David! You brought your car, right? Wanna take this girl to campus and pick up some more beer?"
A man across the room replied to Quentin's shout, and you were being ushered into a car faster than your mind could keep up. You were sat in the back with Quentin, while 'David' and a girl occupied the front. You think she introduced herself as his girlfriend. You couldn't remember.
You must have fallen asleep for a few minutes, because when you opened your eyes again the surrounding area resembled more civilization; it was less dirt roads and more gas stations and pavement. What really stood out to you, however, was the swerving of the car. David had both hands on the wheel, but his movements were jerky, unsure.
You leaned back and bit your tongue, the rapid movements upsetting your already unbalanced system. It wasn't until he drove in the wrong lane for a full 30 seconds that you spoke up. "Should you really be driving?"
He whipped his head around, pupils blown with beads of sweat clear on his forehead. "What'd you mean by that?" His speech was slurred too.
"You're going to kill us if you keep driving like that. Maybe you should let someone else drive," you clarified, motioning around the car.
Quentin spoke up from beside you. "He's fine to drive, killjoy. Just be glad we're taking you to the dorms and didn't make you walk."
"He's clearly drunk. Once we get to the city, he's going to cause an accident."
"You wanna drive then?" Quentin taunted.
"No, I'm drunk too. I just think we should let someone else drive. To be safer." The car jerked again, knocking your head against the window.
"No one in this car is sober, genius. We just came from a party."
"He could hurt someone!"
Quentin groaned, throwing his hands in the air. "You are more trouble than you're worth, you know that? Zemo went on and on about how easy it'd be to get you to do what we want, but you're just a huge pain in my ass right now."
"He's going to hurt someone," you reiterated.
"Oh my god—David, stop the car." It lurched to a stop, sending you flying into the seat in front of you. "You don't like it? Get out then, princess."
"What?"
He clicked your seatbelt out of place. "Get. Out."
"I'm not getting out," you panicked. You had no idea how far you were from campus, and there weren't any discernible features to the road in front of you. Plus, you were drunk. "I'll have no way to get home."
"Shoulda thought of that before you started complaining, huh?" He reached over to open the car door and you knew he wasn't just trying to scare you into shutting up.
You went to argue with him again, but then he was shoving you out of the car.
When Bucky told you these guys were bad news, you thought he meant they partied too much, maybe even got arrested a few times. You didn't think they left girls on the side of the road for asking too many questions about drunk driving.
You snatched your phone from the seat on your way down, the dirt from the side of the road swirling around you as you made your unceremonious exit. Your knees were aching and you couldn't find your bearings, but you heard the loud thud of the car door clear as a bell. And then they were speeding off.
Maybe it was the shock, but you sat still for a few minutes, watching their car disappear down the road. Once the silence surrounding you was too much to bear, you looked down at your phone with dusty, shaky hands as your stomach plummeted into the depths of despair.
This wasn't your phone.
This wasn't your phone and it had a passcode. But the icon at the top displayed a few, merciful bars of service, so you clicked the lock button a few times until the emergency call screen popped up.
Natasha's phone number, you could remember that. She had practically ingrained it into your mind when you first met, telling you that a good spy doesn't need a contact list. Plus, it's good for emergencies. You missed her so much right now.
It went straight to voicemail; her phone was dead. The tears started when the call ended.
You went over the rest of the team in your mind, trying to pull phone numbers out of thin air. It was useless. You were moments away from breaking down and calling an emergency line—the bill for the ambulance they would inevitably send already hurting your too empty pockets—when you remembered something you thought you repressed.
Bucky's number.
You had spent countless nights freshman year staring at his contact, contemplating calling him and pretending it was an accident, just to see what he would say. You knew now that he probably wouldn't have answered—not back then. You hoped, knew really, that it would be different now, that he wouldn't be drunk out of his mind all weekend and be available to pick up the phone.
It rang twice. "Hello?" He sounded groggy, which didn't make much sense to you; he should've been at the bar with the team.
"Bucky?" you choked out.
"Doll? 'S that you?"
"Yeah, it is. I uh—" your voice broke, you felt like such a fool— "I need some help."
You heard a clatter on the other end of the line, and then he sounded more awake. "What's wrong? You okay?"
"Not really. I... I went to that party and I need someone to come get me."
"Fuck, I thought you were at the library." More shuffling. "I'm coming right now. You at the house?"
"No, I'm—well I don't know where I am." Your tears were beginning to turn hysterical.
"Hey, hey, you're okay. Just gimme a sec, I'll find you." A brief pause. "You're calling me from Beck's phone?"
A sob fell from your lips. "I don't know, I just grabbed one before he pushed me out."
"Who pushed you?"
"Bucky," you stressed. He could be mad later.
"Okay, okay, just let me... oh thank god, he's still sharing his location." Keys jingling. "What the fuck. Doll, are you by yourself out there?"
You replied with some mangled confirmation. It was getting harder to breathe.
"God, baby, I'm coming, okay? It's not too far away—I'll be there as fast as I can. You take some deep breaths for me, and don't talk to anyone if they stop for you."
He went on for a little while longer, sending you comforting words as you hyperventilated through his speaker. If you were more coherent you would probably feel embarrassed, but Bucky's soothing tone was all you could focus on; it blocked out the chill of the night and numbed the stinging in your palms and knees.
It was a few minutes before headlights started making their way down the otherwise unoccupied road.
"Y/n?" Bucky called, the car door slamming before he jogged around. You flinched at the sound, body violently jerking back. "Hey whoa, doll, it's Bucky." He timidly approached you, crouching down to your place on the ground.
"Where did you get a car?" You choked out, as if that was a pressing matter at the moment. "You don't have a car, you're from Brooklyn."
"I stole Sam's. Let me take a look at ya." His voice was so gentle, all you could do was continue to cry. "Shit, baby, what happened to your knees? What're you doin' all the way out here by yourself?"
His hand came up to fruitlessly wipe tears from your face, your first comfort of the night. It took a few shaky breaths before you could answer. "I'm so stupid, Bucky. You told me not to go and I did it anyway and I'm so drunk. I only had two drinks and I'm so drunk," you sobbed.
"Oh, you're not stupid, doll," he comforted. His face held a hopeless look, his hands continuously brushing your hair back as you sat on the asphalt. "If anything, this is my fault. Now, you hurt anywhere else? And why're your knees all torn up?"
He began pulling at the torn material of your pants, eliciting a silent hiss from your lips. "I wanted to leave," you began, voice still wavering. "Zemo was there and he wouldn't stop bothering me. He kept asking about you and I...I kept feeling more drunk, I couldn't answer. I went to find Quentin to ask him to take me home and he started in on me too."
You took a break to calm yourself and Bucky pulled you to him. He gathered you into his arms and carried you to the backseat of the car where you sat atop his legs and leaned into his touch. You felt his lips press to your ear when a few more tears fell, but you continued on.
"They kept saying all these...these awful things about you, Buck. I tried to tell them they were wrong but they kept laughing at me." A shuddering breath consumed your chest. Bucky shushed you gently, prompting you to go on with soft caresses to your head.
"Then they said they would take me home since I was being annoying. I didn't even care anymore, I just wanted to sleep. I got in the car and some guy I'd never met was driving and he kept swerving around and I asked if he was drunk—if someone else could drive." Bucky's arms tightened around you as your body began to shake, both from the cold and from the shock. "They kicked me out of the car, literally pushed me out when I wouldn't leave. I still have no idea where I am."
You could feel Bucky's breath grow erratic as you recounted the night. He couldn't believe that you—his best girl who held his heart and made his world worth something—were thrown out of a car onto some abandoned street. He was moments away from participating in a high speed car chase to track them down, when another silent sob fell from your body.
"Hey, baby, you're okay," he soothed. "I got you, okay? Always got you."
"You must think I'm so dumb."
"No, all I'm thinkin' is that my girl is safe. Nothing else matters to me."
You pressed yourself further into his welcoming chest, his chin going to rest atop your head. "Thank you, Bucky."
"Anything for you, doll. Always anything."
A sob still lodged in your throat, you attempted to change the subject—to find some normalcy in the night. "Why weren't you at the bar with the team?"
"It's not the same without you there," he hummed, fingers tracing delicate shapes on your arm. "You never answered me earlier. Does anything else hurt?"
"I don't think so. But I'm also drunk so I guess we'll see in the morning."
"You want me to take you back to your dorm?" he whispered, words meeting your temple where he moved to press his lips.
"I... I don't really want to be alone." The alcohol and adrenaline pulsing through you forgot why you were mad at him. You'd remember later.
"You aren't, doll. We'll go back to my apartment if you want. It's just me there for the night, just me and you."
Another round of tears threatening to spill at his kindness, you pulled away and nodded up at him. The small smile he gave you was followed by a soft kiss to your forehead, and somehow, it felt like a small victory could be found in this awful night.
After a few more comforting touches and guiding hands, Bucky had you secured in the passenger's seat. He had a bottle of water pressed into your palm and the heat blasting through the vents before he jogged to the other side of the car; it was a complete change from your last car ride. He was a complete change.
He tried to take your mind off of everything, talking about the game you missed and your friends' antics. You could tell he wanted to ask more about what happened, to ask about Zemo's prying and just who exactly had pushed you out of the car, but he didn't—not right now. Not when your face was still all puffy and you had dirt and blood on your knees.
"I know I'm not your first choice for this, 'specially not right now," Bucky began, eyeing you from his side of the car. He had just handed you a second water. "But I'm glad you called me. I'd never hang you out to dry, doll. Even if we aren't on great terms."
And even though he was being so sweet, you still let out a scoff. "You'd 'never hang me out to dry', huh?" You were much more calm, your words clear in the air of the car.
"I'm bein' serious, doll. I know you aren't too happy with me right now, but I'd never leave you somewhere stranded. You gotta believe that."
"Not like you have the best track record for that kinda thing," you mumbled, the car window cool on your forehead as you leaned against it.
"What's that supposed to mean? All I've done these past few weeks is follow your every move. I don't even think I had the opportunity to ditch you." He sounded offended by the insinuation.
You turned to look at him. "You really don't remember, do you?"
"Remember what, doll?" he asked, a slight shake in his head.
Well, no time like the present. It wasn't as if the night could get any worse. "Freshman year," you started, fiddling with the label on the water bottle. "We were lab partners. In biology."
"Right, I remember that. You made me go to the library all the time for the reports."
"Yeah. Well uh, one of those times—in the library... I asked if you'd maybe want to get dinner sometime. Like a date."
Bucky whipped his head toward you, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. "What? But I don't..."
You pulled your lip between your teeth. This conversation was much more embarrassing than you thought it'd be. You thought you'd be screaming and angry, chest heaving as you recounted his wrongdoings. Instead, you were covered in dirt and dried up tears, your hair out of place and your mind still fuzzy from drinking.
"You said yes."
His shock increased. "But we never... I mean we never went on a date. I woulda remembered that."
"No, you never went on a date. I did. I waited for over an hour."
"You what?"
"I drove to Manhattan, sent you the address, and then waited an hour for you to come. They made me give up the table after 30 minutes, so I just stood outside for a little. I called you, too—a few times. You never picked up."
"Y/n—" "It's fine, Bucky," you brushed him off. "Been a while since then. I've had time to come to terms with your 'great heartbreak of freshman year'." You giggled to yourself, the alcohol and adrenaline slowly wearing down. Your eyelids were beginning to feel heavy.
"It's not fine. Is that why you've hated me all this time? Why you haven't given me a chance?" He kept moving his eyes off the road to look at you, panicked over something he had no power to change.
"Hmm, I guess so. Didn't really feel like getting hurt again." You leaned your chin onto your palm, the scrapes there stinging with the contact.
"And then I did it again. At the beach."
"Yeah, at the beach," you agreed. He was talking so fast.
He took a hand off the wheel to run down his face. "No one ever... I mean I asked everyone why you wouldn't talk to me and no one ever said anything."
"'S embarrassing," you murmured. "You didn't even care. Forgot about it even."
"I do care," he stressed. His elevated state made up for your depleting one. "I care now, baby, and I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. All this time I just thought you didn't like me, but of course it's my fault—I'm always screwin' things up."
"You're not, Bucky. You're sweet, just like I told Zemo."
He ignored that part, pushing it aside for a later conversation. "I'm gonna make it up to you, okay? You'll let me?"
"Mhm," you hummed, sleep overtaking your senses.
Bucky glanced over at you, incredibly stressed and still a little distraught from your state earlier. It wasn't enough to find you abandoned and roughed up in the middle of the night. No, he also had to learn that he screwed up his chance with the girl of his dreams, and he couldn't even remember it.
No wonder Natasha called him a fucking douchebag last week. He was a fucking douchebag.
With one last deep, anguished breath, Bucky gripped the steering wheel with both hands and pressed his foot on the gas. He thought you were playing hard to get—thought you were trying to make him prove himself. But instead you were plagued by his previous rejection that, again, he didn't even remember.
How could he have rejected you? You were... you. You were intelligent and beautiful and funny and kind. You prioritized your friends and didn't take shit from anyone, him included. He knew he was stupid the first few years of college, but he didn't think he was that stupid.
God, and he could just imagine you, sitting alone at that table until you were forced to leave. He could throw up at the thought; it made him feel sick knowing he made you so sad.
You let out a small groan in your sleep, adjusting your head to better lean against the window instead of your hand. Bucky placed a gentle touch to your thigh for comfort, just in case you could feel in your sleep—in case you needed it. You looked so wrecked, it tugged at his heart even more.
He would get you home and cleaned up first, and then worry about how deep the hole was that he dug himself into.