Your hands fiddle with the top button of your coat, twisting it back and forth. Was it too much?
You turn side to side, staring into your too-small mirror. The white blouse and black dress pants caressed your figure perfectly, and those black heels didn't pinch your toes. A well-chosen, respectable, elegant outfit for a job interview. You just couldn't make up your mind on that damn blue coat.
"Buck?" You call out, and a moment later he's opened the door of your bedroom. "Do you like the coat?"
He hummed, eyes darting from the coat to the mirror, and back again. "That depends. You going for a Paddington bear look?"
"Buck," you hiss, turning around to swat his arm. His laugh is loud as he steps aside, dodging your attack. Even with your stress, you can't help the smile that spreads across your face at his laugh.
"Sorry, sorry! What about Rick Blaine?" Bucky arches his eyebrows with a grin, and you laugh at the reference.
"Interesting references. Do I have Sam to thank?"
"Hey, someone had to show me the classics."
Your laugh fades as you stare down at the coat again. "So, no coat?"
"No coat," Bucky takes your hands in his, flesh hand warm, metal fingers cool. "You look stunning."
. . .
The hour of midnight is quiet, the road almost completely deserted, headlights lighting up the dark. Your head rests against your propped arm, staring at Bucky's hand as it shifts the gears. Adele's cover of 'Make You Feel My Love' plays from your Bluetooth, as he drives you home.
"I'm happy for them," you murmur in the dark. Steve and Nat's housewarming was a small affair, but the excitement left you drained. Their apartment was slightly larger than yours, with space in the living room for Steve's drawings and close proximity to a gym.
Bucky turns his gaze from the road to your exhausted figure, nodding in agreement. "Me too."
The comfortable silence is broken a few minutes later, when he murmurs, "Look up."
Your hand brushes his grip on the gear stick as you shift, eyes focused on the road.
Instead of turning right into one of the many streets leading to your apartment, Bucky continues down the freeway. You open your mouth in confusion, with understanding taking its place as the golden arches of McDonald's come into view.
"Figured you might want some hash browns, maybe a coffee?" His voice is tentative, and you wonder why he remembered such an insignificant detail about your midnight cravings.
If you weren't careful, you just might fall in love with this man. Your reply is soft, almost lost to the night as Little Mix's 'Change Your Life' starts. "I'd like that."
. . .
The knock to your bedroom door is soft, but it reverberates through your already-throbbing head.
You groan, "Go away, Buck," and turn onto your other side in the hope of falling back to sleep. But your thin curtains don't keep out the morning light, the lump in the mattress presses into your ribs, and the door opens anyway.
"Made you breakfast." Bucky's voice is rough, indicating he himself didn't wake up too long ago.
The harsh smell of burnt toast offset by sweet coffee floods your senses, forcing you to sit up and acknowledge his presence. "You call burnt toast breakfast?"
"That toaster is going to be the death of me... that is, not if you kill me first."
Your glare softens as you reconsider — he made you breakfast. In bed. Unprompted. The least you can do is try to choke down the meal. Bucky wrote a smiley face with the butter, and the coffee's in your favourite mug. Being sick had its perks.
"My ma would make us a special breakfast when we were sick, and I just thought it would be nice." Bucky's eyes won't meet yours, and your heart softens with the mention of his family.
"It is nice." You push up the sleeves of his shirt you'd been using as pyjamas, and take a sip of the coffee. "Thank you."
. . .
"Doll, what are you doing?"
You look up from hanging the bed sheet over a stack of chairs, accidentally loosening your grip on the corner and dropping the damn thing on the floor. "Trying to build a pillow fort, which would be a lot easier if you hadn't just made me drop that sheet."
"Ah. What movie?" Bucky nods in understanding, mind already trying to calculate what memory resurfaced for you to have deemed tonight a pillow fort night. He drinks in the sight of you, desperate for details in more ways than one — hair tied back, pyjamas, with the fluffiest socks you own pulled over your feet.
It's this you, right here, the you that's reserved just for him. The you who sings in the shower and writes reports at 3 am and steals the last cup of coffee. This was the first side of you he fell in love with, the rest falling into place like dominos. His unfiltered, bright-eyed, messy-haired best friend who builds pillow forts when she misses her family.
The sheet falls into place, and you step down to admire your handiwork. "Do you need to ask?"
Bucky unravels the fairy lights from their place on the kitchen table, giving you a soft smile. "Tangled it is."
"I think you're my best friend," Bucky blurts out in the third run of Tangled, lips loose from exhaustion and brain slightly fuzzy from the Asgardian wine.
Your giggles end with an abrupt, "What?"
"Well, yeah, I mean... Steve and I... he's my brother. And Sam is Sam, and Becca was Becca, and... I don't know. Every time I turn around, you're there, watching my six." He sighs, turning onto his side to face you. "And besides, isn't the job description of a best friend forcing the other to watch their favourite movie on repeat?"
You flick his nose, but he catches your fingers with his own, pressing a kiss to your fingertips. His mouth is soft, barely brushing your skin, but your body betrays you, shivering despite the warm air.
With fairy lights twinkling above you, stomach full from one too many glasses of wine and Bucky's hand in yours, you fall asleep to 'I See the Light'.
. . .
The kitchen light is low, but you don't need a spotlight to dance. You're exhausted and a little tipsy, and frankly not exactly sure how you got here. All you know is Bucky's arms feel like home, and you're so damn grateful you answered his ad for a roommate.
He's humming a simple melody, so faint your ears can barely catch it and your brain can comprehend it, but you don't need music to dance. His voice is low, deep, smoothing the rough edges of his monotone, rising and falling as his tune builds. With a lift of his hand, Bucky guides you in a gentle twirl, before you fall back into his arms.
You tuck your head beneath his chin, against his chest, and feel the huff of his breath against your hair. Softly swaying back and forth, back and forth. You could stay in his embrace forever. Bucky presses a kiss to the top of your head as his humming fades, until the two of you are silently swaying in the dark.
. . .
The fluorescent lights in the grocery store are harsh against his eyes, yellow sale labels too bright, and he can hear your teasing voice. "This is why I do the shopping, Barnes. Can't trust you to find the plums from the pears."
He finds the plums easily enough, thank you very much, and places them into the plastic bag with care. Two cartons of milk, a packet of spaghetti and a carton of your favourite cookie dough ice cream later, Bucky's order is being checked out by a worker.
Bucky pulls out his wallet with his flesh hand, grabbing out a 20-dollar bill to pay for his items. Before he closes the leather, his eyes catch on the picture of you he'd kept. Your eyes are closed, head thrown back in a laugh, his metal arm holding you up.
"Got yourself a girl there, hey?" The worker jokes, and Bucky smiles as he slides the wallet back into his pocket.
"My best friend, actually."
"Guess she's lucky to have you." Barry, the name tag reads, hands him his items and receipt.
The smile doesn't leave his lips as Bucky answers, "I'm lucky to have found her."
. . .
You can hear it in the silence
You can feel it on the way home
You can see it with the lights out
You are in love, true love
You are in love