Words: 3.4K
Warnings: Language and cat-call style heckling
Every day of life is composed a hundred thousand little, teeny-tiny decisions. Each has their very own pleasantries or consequences attached. Most choices we make without reason—such as my mundane pronouncement to board the subway from my Brooklyn apartment to where I work in Manhattan each morning. The choice seems clear, but in retrospect I could've easily chosen to stay in bed all day (or more likely, splurge on an Uber since the weather this week has been particularly rotten). But I am a creature of habit. So, just like every other morning since I moved back to New York three months ago, I board the early morning ride into the city: having absolutely no idea the intentions the three fates have aligned for me today.
No one speaks, nor looks, my way the entirety of my ride. I used to be bothered by New Yorker's lack of hospitality, but I've grown to accept it. I'd much rather be greeted with the Minnesotan way of a friendly smile and wave, but I suppose a glare and lip snarl will have to suffice.
Anyway, I prance off of the subway at my usual stop—thankful for my yellow rain-boots as there looks to have been a real bad rainstorm late last night. Puddles dot the divots in the roads like the unpolished pores of a zit-freckled teenaged boy.
I've always been an early riser, but since moving to New York I've grown to love mornings even more. At the ungodly hours the bakery requires me to be up, the city is hardly awake (which is quite peculiar, as this metropolis has long since been coined "the city that never sleeps"). At this hour, New York is most certainly asleep. It's just barely four a.m., the street lights still flicker, and the sun is pressing the snooze button. The moon's long gone, of course, but he retires to his own liking this time of year.
My legs, long but slow, amble down the damp streets block-by-block. My wide eyes made up with the little bit of peachy makeup and mascara take in the sights I should be accustomed to by now. But each and every day on this trek, I find myself noticing things I've never seen before: whether it's a flower box outside a café window, an overflowing trash can, or a stray cat napping in the gutter.
One of the new sights I see is the electric orange construction signs posted down the block I always walk down. It's a shortcut, really, as the long way around adds thirty extra minutes to my commute. And on foot those thirty minutes really make a difference.
Shrugging, I hardly give the construction team a second thought. I'll just walk right past, I think. They can't possibly keep me from going by.
So I keep on walking. My yellow booted feet take me straight down the sidewalk, checking both ways before crossing the road, then hop back onto the curb. The slight breeze flutters my locks—reminding me I haven't yet pulled it into a ponytail. I scramble for a ribbon or tie somewhere in my bag, finding a blue scrunch. My hands work to lazily bring the hair to the top of my head as I notice the first of many construction workers off to the side of the road. He's behind a road block. Perched up on a crate he's taking a small break—snuffing the smog from a rolled cigarette. The yellow hard hat atop his bald head reminds me of the one's in my roommates "Hot Fireman of the Month" calendar.
The thought makes me giggle.
The construction worker, who has been staring emptily at the sky, notices my presence. He tilts his head to the side with a twitch of his upper lip. Before I can think to look away, he's turned around to call out for someone.
Hardly giving the stranger a second thought, I make the decision to keep on my path.
"Hey, excuse me?"
Of course, being naïve, my head quickly snaps to attention at the sound of a call. I pause to look back at the man who's calling for me. Still perched on his crate he taps the side of his cigarette to let loose some of the ash.
"Umm... yes?" I raise an eyebrow, beckoning an explanation as to why I've been called for.
After taking another hefty draw of the cig, the man smirks. It's as his face erupts into a leer that I realize I've made a mistake to respond. "Do the carpets match the drapes, sexy?"
Locking my jaw, I let out a short huff. "Wouldn't you like to know?" I combat back with a sharp tongue.
His head tilts back with a laugh—good natured sounding, but his prior questioning dampens any and all reliability. Two friends of his, both coworkers, show up—one with a hammer in hand and the other with a bag of cement propped on his shoulder.
"You're right, I would!"
Rolling my eyes, I make to turn and leave. I start back on my path before any of them can bother me further.
"Oh she's got an attitude!" he cackles to his buddies. "Makes me wanna toss her over my knee and whack the living shit out of that perky ass of hers."
I cringe, hoping to god that his words are nothing more than empty threats.
"Aww, you hurt her feelings! Poor doll," the cement holding one laughs. He drops the sack onto the sidewalk with a loud-thud. "Don't leave, baby!"
"Yeah—come on back now, sweet tits!"
Their laughter is nearly enough to make me lose my breakfast. But what's worse, I realize, is that their cackles are growing louder instead of quieter as try to make my escape.
They're following me.
My heart begins to patter loudly. It sounds like gunfire.
"Where you going, Princess? Stay and keep us company for a while."
I cross my arms at my chest and force my legs to pick up their speed. I don't run exactly but nearly break into a jog. My breath hangs in front of my face as a thick fog.
At the end of the sidewalk stands another worker. He's just finishing with dumping a barrel of wet cement into the ground when he sees me. Any hopes that this one is less barbaric than the others dwindle as he sees me and lets out a loud, derogative wolf-whistle. He wipes the back of his tanned hand against his sweaty forehead.
"Damn, that's what I'm talking about. Work it, baby."
I come to a staggering halt when I find that my path is blocked by the wet cement sign. I curse, shaky hands moving to push the thing out of my way before the men behind me can catch up.
The sickening kissing noises some of them begin to coo make my stomach weak. When an arm appears out from around me, almost as if going for a hug from behind, my whole body stiffens.
"Is the sign too heavy, Princess? Let daddy help you," the first man coos directly into my ear. I can smell the nicotine on his breath. His sweat reeks like dirty gym socks.
He makes as if he's going to move the obstacle for me, aiding in my escape, but the only place his hands go are either sides of my waist.
I've never felt more violated in my entire life.
I turn and shove my palms against the sweaty brute's broad chest. He staggers back, laughing idiotically as if my noncompliance is nothing but foreplay.
"Leave me alone," I snarl—trying real hard to mask my true fear.
The man shakes his head but doesn't look away from my body. His friends linger in the distance, watching curiously with no intentions on stopping any of this. "Oh don't look so upset, sweetheart. You should be used to this sort of attention. And walking out in the city with this outfit," he pauses to tug on the belt loop of my ripped skinny jeans. I let out an inaudible gasp. "You're just begging to be tied up and fucked hard."
My eyes widen and the air is squeezed from my lungs.
I'm so preoccupied with my fear and my lame attempts to unlatch the man's fingers from my jeans I don't even notice the figure appear behind me—just near the sign. I hear his voice before anything else, and it startles me enough to let out a girly yelp.
"Get your fucking hands off of her before I break your neck," someone growls real low and mean.
The construction worker doesn't seem too scared, but he lets go of me nonetheless. I don't even have an instant to question what's happening as the newest man, the threatening one, easily shoves the heavy sign to one side and brings himself to stand in front of me. All I can see now is the broadness of his back—sweaty through the tight, clingy fabric of his grey Under-Armor shirt. His chin length chestnut hair is pulled back in a low bun, only some damp wisps having fallen loose and sticking to the plump veins of his thick neck. Thick—that's the proper word to describe this strange fellow. He's tall and broad with the damn biggest muscles I've ever seen.
"Mind your own fucking business, man," the first construction worker snaps. He gestures to me with a hand. "Unless she's yours, get the hell out of—"
Before the man can finish his threat, the brunet's made a move. His reaction is hardly visible to the naked eye. He's so fast that no one's known what he's done until it's happened—one hand clutching onto the bundled fabric of the man's reflective vest with the other loosely closed around his windpipe. The worker's eyes, now blown wide, nervously glance downwards to the arm that sprouts out from the first that holds his neck.
It's metal.
He has a metal arm.
Suddenly, I know just who my savior is. This man is the Winter Solider.
"She's not mine," the solider growls. He's pulled the man's face parallel to his. All the other men seem to know who he is, as well, because now they all begin to retreat or act uninvolved. "She doesn't belong to anyone, and she sure as hell doesn't belong to you. She's a goddamn human, and she deserves an apology."
My former threat, who hardly appears a threat any longer with the addition of the Winter Solider, glances back to where I stand guarded behind the soldier's back.
"I—I'm sorry."
I blink, slightly startled, as the Winter Solider throws my verbal attacker onto the cement. His body thuds and his mouth lets out a strained whimper. The standing man with the sweaty running gear and whirring mechanical arm clenches both fists in what seems to be an attempt to rein in his anger. His whole body is rigid. I see his shoulders shift with a heavy breath.
"Get the fuck out of here before I lose my temper," the solider snarls.
This threat is all it takes to get all four men to disappear—running back to the sight where I'd first encountered them all.
After he's sure they've gone away, the Winter Solider finally turns his head my direction. Our gazes meet. I take a sharp breath.
Holy shit. He's gorgeous.
"Are you okay?"
I nod rather enthusiastically. A small smile even begins to creep onto my face, making the solider blink curiously.
"He didn't hurt you?"
I shake my head, finally allowing myself to use real words. "No, I'm fine, thanks to you," I say.
The man turns his whole body towards me now. I'm face-to-face with his tight pectorals and day-old facial hair.
"Well, I'm glad to hear it."
We stare at each other in the strangest, longest moment of my entire life. Neither of us says a word. Simply stare is what we do. His eyes are blue—but not like the blue of the ocean or the sky, but of a faded denim jacket. His jaw is so sharp it could slice a brick of cheese, I think with a tilted lip. He notices my slight smirk and comes very close to copying the gesture: his own plump mouth starting to twist upwards before he stops the gesture wholly.
"You—you, it's not safe to be walking out here alone," he advises me in a wavering voice. Only upon clearing his throat does his tone even out. He's got a rich, velvety tenor that my eardrums appreciate. "Especially this time of day."
"I think I've learned my lesson," I breathily chuckle. I glance around us. "I don't even wanna think about what could've happen if you didn't Superman me out of that."
Smirking, he gives his head a slight shake. "I'm sure you would've been fine," he lies in attempt to soothe my bruised ego.
I shrug. "You're probably right," I tease. He blinks before catching onto the sarcasm in my voice. "I could've taken them—I've been working out, you know."
What I guess is supposed to be chuckle makes his chest rumble. He huffs aloud before biting down on his lower lip. He's not aware of the gesture, but I certainly am. "I'm sure you could've." He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his grey sweatpants that hang low on his nice, toned hips.
I smile. "But seriously, thank you for helping me." I rub my hand up and down my other arm. "You didn't have to step in, but you did. So thank you for that."
The soldier blinks. "Of course. It was my pleasure." He looks around us once more, maybe wanting to say more. "Well, I'll let you get back on your way." The voice he uses with me versus the bad-guys before is ridiculously meek in comparison. He'd hardly sounded human before—growling like an angered beast on the brink of breakdown. Now he nearly cowers under the strength of my unwavering, curious stare.
I know this is his way of subtly excusing me, but I have no intention of letting him leave me alone. So before he can pass, stepping around the fallen wet cement sign, I grab him by the crook of his metal arm. His whole body reacts—stiffening like a mahogany board. His widened blue eyes dart to my painted nails that are bright purple against the silver of his faux limb.
"Wait—please," I begin hurriedly. "I know I have absolutely no right to ask, and it's quite a hefty favor since you've already saved my ass once today, but I was wondering—well, more like praying that you would—if you'd pretty please walk with me a little longer? At least until we're down the block, I mean."
The Winter Solider blinks stupidly. His gaze darts from my loose gripped hand to my pleading, freckled face. His chest heaves with a heavy sigh.
"Yeah," he ultimately responds. "It'd be my pleasure."
I grin like an idiot. "Oh thank goodness," I breathe. I finally release his arm only to scurry to the safety of his side. "I was really hoping you'd say yes."
Eyeing me in a questioning way, probably wondering why I'm standing so close to his shadow, the solider doesn't say a word. He just regards me for a moment before looking back to the street. Smiling ever-so softly, he turns his gaze out ahead of us when we start walking once more. I wait to see if he'll say anything, but he doesn't seem like the talkative type. So I decide I'll be the first to speak.
"I like your arm," I comment randomly. He gives me the most peculiar glance I've ever received—making me laugh. "What? I'm just admiring the tech of it!"
As if seeing it for the first time, the Winter Solider sprawls his metallic fingers and gazes down at them. I watch his face and how it catches the light. He's got a nice, broad nose and strawberry colored lips.
"It's not the friendliest looking thing," he comments aloud.
"Maybe not," I shrug, "But it's cool as hell. And it saved my ass back there, so I happen to think it's pretty awesome."
He chuckles. I hear the quiet laughing noise for the first time, and can't help but find it endearing.
Feeling brave, I sidestep closer. "Can I...?" My eyebrows dance and my hand lingers over his uncovered forearm.
"Uh," he begins—sounding torn. His eyes dart around my face before ultimately agreeing with a nod. "Sure."
Soft and gentle my fingertips trail down his metallic flesh. I trace a bit of the lines and shapes. I don't think much about my actions, knowing he's watching but not feeling, until he shudders.
Startled, I look up to him. We've stopped mid-street. We're gawking at each other curiously. "You can feel that?"
He nods. Another clump of brown hair falls out of the man bun.
"Wow..." I breathe. I don't want to stop, but I decide it'll only be creepy if I keep caressing the limb as I am now. So I allow myself only one more touch—daring to trail my forefinger down the center of his loose palm, feeling the word, "Beautiful," falling from my rebellious lips.
As my hand draws away I hear his voice—louder than before.
"Do you know who I am?"
I look upwards into his face. He's taller than me, but I'm not short. He's just rather tall. "Yes." I answer surely. He cocks his head to the side, not looking convinced, until I say, "You're that Winter Solider fellow that's been hanging out with the Avengers, right?"
"Uh... yes. Yes, that's me."
I smile. "I thought so." I turn back to resume our walk down the block. The sound of the construction crew working has resumed. "I watch the news a lot, so I knew you looked familiar." I look to him as I take the long way around a fire hydrant. "But what's your real name?"
"James," he answers. "But people call me Bucky."
"Bucky," I repeat, nearly in a trance. "That's nice."
"And... and your name?" Bucky asks, almost sounding unsure if he wants to. I can't decide if he's shy or merely anti-social.
"Y/N," I introduce myself. "But people call me Y/N/N," I copy him.
A soft, cute smile crosses his face. "Alright, Y/N/N."
We reach the end of the long block and simultaneously stop. He turns to face me, and I him.
"Where were you going?" I ask. "I mean, before you came and rescued my sorry ass."
"Just on a run," Bucky explains.
"This early in the day?" I question.
Bucky shrugs. "It's easier when no one else is around."
"Makes sense, I guess." I shrug.
Bucky's left lip tugs upwards. He opens his mouth to speak before quickly changing his mind. There seems to be some sort of internal conflict he endures while we stand there in the early morning sunlight. We're at the bus stop, and he seems to know that this is my stop. I've led us here. Bucky ultimately lets out an irritable huff of air. A hand, his flesh one, reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. His gaze is fleeting and unsure as he begins to pose a question for me. "Could I give you my number, Y/N? Just in case you ever need anything..."
"You know what, Bucky? I'd really love that." My stomach is fluttering like it's filled with a fairy garden.
Bucky nods, teeth biting down nervously on his bottom lip, while I pull out my phone. I let him type in his number then take it back.
"How'd you feel if I called you tonight? You know, so I can figure out a way to repay you for saving me." I shoot him a brash wink. I think I see him blush, but I can't be totally sure.
"You know," Bucky drawls nice and slow. "I won't mind." There's a smile playing at his lips.
Every day of life is composed a hundred thousand little, teeny-tiny decisions. Each has their very own pleasantries or consequences attached. And today? Well, my decisions have led me straight to the path of falling in love with James Buchanan Barnes.