A/N: This is the first of the two chapters I took from this story and adapted to be in my imagines book. While pretty much the same, it has some more story-specific dialogue and a bit of character development.
-Winnie
"Done."
I tiredly throw the dirtied rag into the wash bin. I step away from the sink and turn to lean against it—tilting my head to the metal ceiling of the kitchen with a lengthy sigh. A quick peek at my wristwatch (a gift from my sister in law) proves it to be eight pm. I've been cleaning at the restaurant for hours now. It's still open, of course, but my shift has gone much too long over. I should've been back at home at the tower hours ago.
I quickly throw off my apron and hat before hastily leaving the restaurant through the back door. Outside the air is brisk and ridiculously cold. I have to dig around my bag for the yellow scarf before finding it. Then I loop it over my neck and above the collar of the thick coat I wear. It's a twenty minute walk home, which isn't bad considering that it's a forty minute drive in all the traffic.
Friday takes me to my room first. The room is dark until I step inside and then it all glows a soft yellow-white. It smells like maple syrup and coffee beans in here. It's certainly the smell of home.
"Friday; is anyone using the Common Room TV?" I garble aloud around a mouthful of chocolate truffle that's been left on the counter. I'm slowly making my way through the box of European treats Tony gave me. I have to make them last, though. Who knows when the next time I'll get to eat something so perfect will be?
"No, Miss Sadie. The Common is free for you to use."
Pleased, I skip to my closet. Amongst all the coats and jeans I find something cozier to wear—a pair of yoga pants and an Oregon State sweatshirt.
My phone rings and for a moment I'm worried it'll be Dupont telling me to come back to the restaurant because I've done something wrong. I think I may have to call Steve to have him come hold me back from killing the stupid Chef if that's the case.
Thank God that it's not. It's my mother who's texted. She's the sweetest little thing you could ever meet. She's telling me about her day and expects I'll do the same in return. So I message her back; making sure to leave out the parts about Dupont being an ass. The more I complain, the more she worries.
It's not long until I've managed to make my way downstairs into the Common. Friday wasn't lying—it's an empty room.
"Don't mind if I do," I mutter to myself. I plop down onto one of the couches and then find the remote between two of the cushions.
I'm all bundled up on the big couch downstairs with a bowl of popcorn and the lights dimmed low. A content sigh slips from my parted lips. After a long day this is all I can imagine myself doing. I'm snuggled in the middle of the sofa with pillows all around and blankets wrapped over my shoulders. It's a cold January night to say the very least. Even with efficient heating I've managed to catch a chill. In Friday's defense though, I most likely caught Jack Frost's bite on my walk home from work rather than in the warmth of her Stark Tower walls.
"Well don't you look cozy," Captain America can be heart chittering. He makes his way into the kitchen which is just behind me. Apparently the Common is to be shared, after all. I try not to be annoyed as I find company.
"I am rather cozy, thank you very much." I take a handful of popcorn before craning my neck back to see him, Sam Wilson, and James Buchanan Barnes waltzing into the common space. "And what are you three doing down here?"
"Getting food," Sam answers. They're hustling around the fridge now, looking very akin to savage beasts.
An eyebrow cocks up on my forehead. Chewing on some popcorn I suppose, "Don't you all have your own apartments? You know, with your own kitchens?"
"Sure, doll," Bucky responds. "But we don't have your fancy little boxed leftovers in our own kitchens."
"Touché."
Sam takes a dramatic whiff of the air. "Do I smell popcorn?"
"You sure as hell do," I laugh. I hold up the bowl so that the light from the loading Netflix screen illuminates it. "Want some?"
"Of course I do!" Sam launches himself onto the lounge chair across from me. He helps himself to a rather generous handful. He cranes his neck to the TV. "What are we watching?"
"Not sure. I'm still deciding between Armageddon and Step Up. Atlantis was on the table, but I just watched that last week."
"What're they about?" Steve asks. He comes into the room with a box of Raisin Bran cereal. No milk or utensils—just the box and his hand dunked inside of it.
"First one's about an alien attack," Sam answers for me.
Steve chuckles and drops onto the couch next to me. "Sounds extremely familiar. What about the other?"
"A coming of age teen movie about a boy growing up in the projects, kind of a rough and closed-off type, falling in love with a ballet dancing protégé who needs his help to follow her dreams. A modern classic, really. Dewan and Tatum have the best chemistry of all time. And the dynamics between them and the other characters are unparalled by any of the other teen flicks of the time."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "Okay, IMBD. Don't have to get so fancy-schmancy."
"What can I say?" I shrug. "I'm a movie fanatic."
"Okay movie fanatic. I'm in." Steve settles down into the couch. "But you have to share the blankets."
"Aww come on."
He holds out a hand and a twinkle dances in his eyes. "Come on, sport. At least give me one."
I huff, "Sir yes sir."
"Do we have milk?" Bucky can be heard hollering—his head deep in the fridge.
"Yep. Check behind the orange juice pitcher, Buck," I call out. I've tossed the remote to Sam so that he can find the movie.
"Found the milk."
Sam grunts. "You better not be drinking it straight from the goddamn carton this time, Barnes. Fucking disgusting is what that is."
I risk glancing behind me into the kitchen. Bucky has the milk jug lifted up to his lips, readying to take a big gulp. I bite down on my tongue to keep from laughing as he rolls his eyes and braves the consequences. Then he brings a finger to his lips, swearing me to silence with a cheeky wink.
Ornery bastard. Dangerously handsome ornery bastard, more like it.
I shake those thoughts away.
"You gonna watch this with us, Buck?"
Bucky comes wandering into the living room with a bowl of grapes. "Sure. I don't have anything better to do."
"Wow. You really do know how to make your friends feel special," I sarcastically quip.
Bucky shrugs once while walking in front of me. "I've never been one for flatteries."
Sam snorts, "Clearly."
Bucky seems to be heading towards one of the chairs. I don't really think twice about patting the spot beside me. It's to my right because Steve's to my left—lounging on the corner with his phone in his face before the movie starts. Sam's on that other chair just beyond.
I'm pleasantly surprised when Bucky actually choses to follow my recommendation and sit beside me. Me! He sits next to me!
Dear lord, he smells so fucking good: like masculinity and laundry soap.
"Found it!" Sam cheers of his own lame success in finding the rom-com on the Netflix search screen. "God, this is gonna be goooood."
Bucky surprises me yet again when he reaches across his lap and into mine with his human hand for a scooping of popcorn. With my wide eyed reaction he asks, "Mind if I share?"
"Not at all. As long as I get some of that," I point to his lap then curse myself.
The grape bowl has been moved to the coffee table.
"Oh fuck, I meant the grapes." I'm blushing, I can tell. Bucky's snickering now. "I meant the grapes, actually. Not—not that," I gesture to the space between his legs again. My eyes can't seem to avert from the soft bulge in his sweatpants. I look to the ceiling for a moment. God bring me strength. "I should just stop while I'm ahead."
"Oh sweetheart you're way past that," Bucky chuckles. He doesn't seem thrown off by my stupid blabbering in any way. In fact, he looks a bit tickled.
"Shut up you two. The movie's starting. And put away your phone, Rogers!"
It's only thirty minutes into the film that Sam falls asleep. He's snoring like a goddamn tow truck on the other side of Steve. Fifteen minutes go by after that and Bucky's out cold, too. Then a few minutes more pass and Steve's phone is ringing. He says it's something about a mission and he can't let it go to voicemail, so he runs into the hall and then up the elevator to take the call in private.
So then it's just me and two sleeping superheroes.
I do a pretty good job at ignoring them for a while. Well, Sam's hard to ignore because of the snoring. But Bucky? Goddamn, he's hard to ignore because—well, because fucking everything. His beautiful brown hair, his gorgeous cheekbones, that lovely soft skin that's been revealed on his face since he last shaved, the toned torso through the thin cotton shirt, the peachy pink pout, the turned cheek against the pillow, and his metal arm that lingers so, so close to me.
The arm; it's, it's bloody gorgeous. I don't quite know how else to describe it. It fits him well. I can't imagine him without it. It's a work of art, but then again so is he.
I've never touched it before. He's very secretive about it, really. He's graced my skin with the cold metal touch only once or twice before. I'd say it'd been on accident but I have a strong inkling that there are no such things as accidents in Barnes' life. No, he'd been very careful those times before. They'd been necessary times. They've been instances where he's initiated it. He never lets me get too close. Or is it his closeness to me that he's worried about?
I'm biting my bottom lip. Something terribly stupid has just popped into my head. But now that the idea is there, it's surely going to be impossible to remove.
I want to touch Bucky Barnes' arm.
I glance behind me to the doorway. Steve's still not back, that's good. I don't even have to look at Sam to know he's sleeping. His goddamn snoring could wake an entire fleet of deaf dead men. Now it's just me and sleeping Bucky. His eyelids flutter peacefully with, what I assume are, sweet dreams.
Triple checking to make sure the coast is clear, I scoot slightly closer to my target. He doesn't budge. He's still propped up beside me on the sofa with his head on the back rest and his legs kicked up on the table. The bowl of grapes has been accidently knocked to the floor.
My hand reaches out for him. Closer... closer...
I stop—fingertips dancing in the air just before connecting.
Is this rude? Am I being impolite? What about creepy? Okay, perhaps I'm a creep. But what he doesn't know won't hurt him, right? And if he can't feel it, how's he ever supposed to find out?
So I do it. I touch that beautiful fucking arm.
My finger graces Bucky's wrist first. I'm gentle as a summer tide when my skin connects with the metal. It's colder than I thought it would be. I wonder if it makes him cold and if that's why he's always scowling all the time.
I trace some of the lines up from his wrist to his elbow. I can't help but lean closer and admire the light from the TV and how it reflects in bold blues and reds in the silver of his bionic limb. My touch climbs gracefully up to his bicep where I trace the outline of the red star.
Yes, I'm a dirty creep. But I don't even care, dammit.
"Having fun, doll?"
I gasp—pushing backwards and throwing my hands under my ass to sit on them. My eyes are wide as they take in the sight of Bucky's quietly smirking face beside me.
"Uh, uh..." I panic. I think I'm sweating. God, what a freak! "Yes," I splutter. My head shakes and I resist the urge to smack myself. "No—I mean, no. Wait! I mean yes. I was—no, that's—I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that was weird and rude and totally crazy for me to do and I shouldn't have done it, and it won't happen again—"
My rambling's cut short by a long finger to my lips. I keep my mouth pursed slightly ajar while my widened eyes take in the sight of Bucky's dark metal finger just beneath my freckled nose.
"Calm down," Bucky's voice drawls. He sounds tired but amused. An eyebrow rises on his face. "Are you gonna be calm?" I nod and then he's lowering back into his seat with a sigh. "I'm not mad or anything. I was just giving you a hard time."
"A hard... right. A hard time. Right," I repeat quite nervously. "But I am sorry."
"It's okay," Bucky replies. He looks to the TV briefly before glancing back. "It's not a big deal."
I still feel the need to explain. It'll be awkward if I don't. "It's just that you're so secretive about it and I'm just a naturally curious person. And I thought you were sleeping and that I could just—well, I can imagine you know what I was thinking actually."
Bucky smiles. It's not mocking; I notice and am surprised by this. "Actually, I don't really know what you're thinking."
"You—you don't?"
Bucky blinks; face not showing any emotions. "You seem surprised by that."
"Well, I am," I admit. "I'm a very easily read person and you seem like the kind of guy that knows a lot."
Bucky takes a moment to reply. He seems to be thinking. Then he says, "I guess those are both true." He shuffles, seeming uncomfortable now. "I guess what I can't figure out it why you've got such a fascination with it." He stops mid-gesture to his arm then swallows. "With me, too."
My mouth is suddenly dry. He's looking for me to explain.
Speak, Sadie! What are you, mute?!
"I think it's beautiful." I draw my eyes to his arm. "I've thought that for a long time now. It's a piece of art, if you ask me. It's unique. I like unique. And it's a bit rough and tough, but those are good things. It might be a little dangerous but it doesn't mean any harm." I stop to smile at him sweetly, hoping that with my words the uneasy expression on his face will soon ebb away. "All of those things are a lot like you, actually. I guess that's why I'm so drawn to it."
Bucky stares down to his arm. I can see the knot in his throat falling. His fist clenches, sitting rigid on his thick upper thigh. Then he's looking back to me with the weight of the world in his stare. He doesn't say anything yet; but his actions speak much louder.
He holds his metal hand out to me.
I'm smiling like a schoolgirl when I scoot closer. I look into his face, seeking permission, and he gives a soft nod. Then I'm grabbing his hand with mine and grinning at the way our fingers knot together. It's unmistakable how the metal warms drastically with the addition of my heated flesh.
"I like it," I can't keep myself from humming.
"You're not afraid?"
My eyes peek up past my knotted eyelashes. I see Bucky watching closely—jaw screwed tight and nose pointed down towards me.
"Of your arm? Of course not," I respond. I look back to the pretty thing and smile again when he lets me pull our entwined hands into my lap so that I can better see the grooves and gears.
"Of me."
I'm slightly confused by his statement when my ears first take it in. But then I'm gaping stupidly at Bucky's expression and realizing that he's asking if I'm afraid of him.
Am I afraid of Bucky Barnes?
He must take my slow response as a bad thing. The next thing that happens is that he's dropped his head and looked to the floor. The light from the television illuminates the hard swallow he takes. He still doesn't move his hand from mine, though his grip has grown weak.
"No, I'm not."
Bucky's eyes dart in my direction. Silently he waits for me to go on.
"I'm not scared of you," I speak quietly—wondering if he can even hear me over the movie's music and Sam's snoring. But he blinks hurriedly and the scowl on his face fades so I can assume he has. "And I'm a wretched liar, James. You'd know if I was." I chuckle lamely.
"But why?"
I'm confused as to his series of soft-spoken questions, but I suppose I have nothing to lose in telling him the truth.
I shuffle around. I haven't let go of his hand yet, but I don't want to. "I don't really know how to explain it," I begin. Momentarily I wonder if Bucky's forgotten about his hand in mine, but then his steel blue stare is locked onto the place where my soft fingers are touching his cold metal ones. I haven't even realized it but I've began to trace patterns against his wrist with my thumb. He seems intrigued by this.
"Please try," Bucky nearly begs. He sounds so... weak. I would've never thought that this big, burly, brutish man could have a voice so pleading and confused. Maybe it's because he won't believe me until I give him the truth. But why he cares so much? I'm not entirely sure.
"Okay." I clear my throat. It's grown rather dry. "I guess it's because I've learned in my life that the people you should be afraid of aren't the ones who have the grumpy faces or the big metal arms." I pause to smile softly, grateful when he copies the gesture with one side of his mouth. "I don't buy what the papers and TVs say. Sometimes the ones they advertise as heroes are really the bad guys, you know?" He doesn't respond; he's watching me closely. "I've met bad guys before. Guys that should make people scared. They scare me. But you?" I shake my head. "You're not one of them."
Bucky's brilliant blue eyes regard me. The dedication and focus in his stare is startling. He's nearly unreadable. I hate that I can't piece together his thoughts from the stoic expressions he wears. But now it's easy to tell that he's trying to figure out what the hell I'm talking about and how I can say such things without having gone through something strange, to say the least. He doesn't know the whole story about my terrible father: only that we hadn't been close. Bucky doesn't know, but by the expression he wears he seems to want to find out.
"Sadie, what—"
I choose to interrupt him instead of facing the questions that are surely to come. "I'm getting pretty tired. I think I'm going to head up." I stand up from the couch—letting his hand fall. He stands beside me.
Bucky's long haired head is shaking softly. "Wait, Sade."
I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and in front of my chest like a cloak. "You might not be tired, Super Soldier, but us regular folks need the sleep." I smile softly and point back to Wilson.
I try to step around Bucky to head for the exit. But his hand, the metal one, has reached out to stop me. He holds me gently by the forearm. My feet are cemented in place just to the side of him. "Hold on. I—I have something I wanna say." He sounds strict but not mean.
I blink. "Oh okay. What—what is it?" I sway from one foot to the other.
Bucky bites down on the inside of his fleshy cheek. His gaze ravages over my face—from my eyes to my lips then over each of my freckles. The length of his silence is murderous. Then eventually he lets out a jagged breath—the hotness fanning my cheeks. "Never mind. It's not important."
I can't help but to feel a bit confused and disappointed. "Okay. I guess I'll just..." I gesture to the door.
"Right," Bucky clears his throat. He lets go of me suddenly then lets me move around his large form. "Sorry."
I smile. "No worries. Sorry about, you know, violating your personal space and being a weirdo."
Bucky's lips quirk up in a smirk. "It's okay, sugar. You can violate my personal space any time." His smile drops for a second as he thinks over the implications of what he's just said. I'm grinning broadly at the way he flushes slightly pinker now.
I shake my head with a soft chuckle.
A hand runs through his hair as he tugs at it a bit. "What I mean is; you don't have to tip-toe around me or anything. I won't get mad if you're curious."
"Good, because I'm sure I'll do something weird and unpredictable again soon."
Bucky's taking his turn at a little laughter now. His eyes are so pretty and blue. "I'll be looking forward to it."
My bare foot scoffs slightly against the carpet. "Well," I clear my throat—feeling how my cheeks are warm now with the words he speaks and the weight of his quiet, introspective stare. "I guess I should go up to bed now." I pull my blanket tighter. "Goodnight, Bucky."
"'Night, Sadie." He doesn't say anything more than that—choosing only to nod and stuff his hands into his pockets. I take this as my cue to leave. The tail of my blanket cape runs across the floor behind me as my bare feet patter away.
Down the hall I let out a deep sigh and force myself not to glance back at the man over my shoulder: never knowing if he cares enough to watch me leave. I just go up to my room, lay in bed, and stare at the ceiling with thoughts of the infamous Bucky Barnes on my brain. What drove him to look at me like that? Was that genuine softness in his eyes or was I seeing things? Laurie tells me I'm fantastical. I know it's true. Maybe I'm thinking too much about our interaction: maybe Barnes just needed someone to help stitch his broken ego back together.
Or maybe, just maybe, those baby blue eyes of his had turned to mush because when he looks at me he sees the same thing that I do when I look at him: absolutely everything. He's everything.
And I want him.