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viperbarnes · 2 years

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Roses & Thorns [40's AU]

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: All your life you'd wanted to get away from your sleepy little Irish hometown. Only, now that you actually have, you're nothing short of completely homesick. And then you meet Bucky Barnes on your fire escape one evening, and your entire perspective changes.

Warnings: reader is a black irishwoman. mentions of drugs, alcohol, and smoking. mentions of period accurate racism, but it's not a focus.

Notes: this story was originally written for @giornojoestarsmainarsmain, so the reader was inspired and named for her <3

Words: 15k!

1946

“And this Miss Callaghan, is where you will be staying.” Mrs Galloway pushes the door to the bedroom open and you peek inside. The room was modestly furnished, small, but had a window next to the bed. Your view? The wall of the apartment building next door.

“Miss Mulligan arrived several months ago and chose the room with the street view, but this isn’t so bad.” The portly older woman tells you, and you shake your head, looking up at her with a smile.

“No, it isn’t at all. Thank you.”

“Now. I understand both you and Miss Mulligan are young women, but I will tell you the same things I told her.” Mrs Galloway begins, helping you with your second suitcase into the room, laying it on the neatly made bed. You turn to look at her, as she clasps her hands in front of her.

“I will not tolerate any unbecoming behaviour. No men will be allowed in the house, nor will you be allowed to… abscond for the evening. Not without a good reason.” You nod vehemently, a slight frown pinching your brows, but it’s born more from concentration than disagreement.

“You may do what you wish on your own time, Miss Callaghan, but your curfew is nine o’clock on weekdays and eleven on weekends. Church is at nine on Sunday mornings.” You nod again.

“I will serve breakfast at six am, lunch at 12 and dinner at six. If you wish to make your own meals outside of those times, you are welcome to do so. Questions?” You shake your head, and she smiles, her round face wrinkling slightly.

Mrs Galloway was kind, really, but she was also strict.

“Very well, I will let you unpack, let me know if you need anything, dear.”

Then, you’re alone.

For the first time in what felt like two weeks, you breathe in long and deep before exhaling, the air not stuffy or thick or filled with the scent of sea water. But it was different, too. Gone were the rolling hills and green plains of Ireland, now you breathe in the city of New York.

You’d never seen such a place before, so many buildings, so many people. When your parents had agreed to send you to the United States, for the work opportunities, and the life it offered, your sister-in-law Bonnie had written to her aunt’s cousin, Mrs Galloway, and asked if she still had a room available for board. Many years ago, before the war, Bonnie had intended to make the trip, and stay with Mrs Galloway in her apartment, which she often let out the rooms of, to Irish women immigrating to New York.

And so, two weeks later, here you are, your whole life in the two suitcases before you. You feel yourself buzz with excitement, dulled only a little by the thought of being alone.

You unpack quickly, placing your dresses in the closet, and setting up any of your trinkets and things on the vanity. You didn’t have a lot anyway, so it fits easily within the dresser and closet of your new room. When you’re finished, you stand for a few minutes, a little unsure of what to do. It was Sunday afternoon, you’d begin your job tomorrow morning.

“Miss Callaghan? Come meet Cora before she leaves!” The voice from down the hall, makes you jump for a moment. You follow it, walking back down the narrow hall, past the closed door of the other bedroom, and into the kitchen where Mrs Galloway stands at the stove, a lovely redheaded girl sitting at the table, all dolled up, a pocket mirror in her hand as she fixes her lipstick.

“Cora, this is Miss Belle Callaghan, Belle, this is Cora Mulligan.” You smile.

“Nice to meet you.” You say. Cora doesn’t look up, barely acknowledges you with a hum, and you frown.

“Sure.” She drawls when she finally does finish fixing herself, placing her mirror back into the purse that sits on the table. You purse your lips but don’t say anything.

You’d met a hundred girls like her, you’d meet a hundred more.

“I won’t be late, Mrs Galloway.” When she speaks, you pick up on the northern Irish lilt to her voice and refrain from rolling your eyes.

No wonder.

“You’d better not, girl.” Mrs Galloway points her wooden spoon at her, and Cora rolls her eyes, standing.

“And don’t you go drinking the night away either, you have work tomorrow morning like the rest of us!” She continues, voice getting louder as she calls out, Cora already sidestepping you to make for the front door. You hear it open and close. The woman in front of you tuts and shakes her head.

“Cora can be difficult, lord help me, but she’s a good girl.” You raise an eyebrow, but only when she can’t see you.

“You’ll have to get along.” She says, as if reading your mind, and you shift on your feet.

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem, Mrs Galloway.” You tell her, and she hums.

You excuse yourself to your new room, and after a quick dinner at six o’clock on the dot, you elect for an early night, turning in as your new house-mother pulls out her knitting needles.

Outside, the sounds of Brooklyn fill your ears, and you don’t fall asleep until you plug your ears with toilet paper.

—-

Over the course of several weeks, your great American adventure becomes only slightly less monotonous than your previous life in the tiny little village of Belsloe. The constant flow of the city never ceases to shock you, and the occasional look of distaste you receive upon opening your mouth in certain areas of Brooklyn have trained you into keeping your lips shut unless necessary.

Now not only did you struggle against those who deemed your skin colour offensive, but those who hated the Irish too.

Among all of this, you do find routine, crave it and seek it out to distract you from your growing homesickness. Each morning you wake at six, have your breakfast and arrive at work by eight. The floral shop may be brightly coloured and fragrant, but you’d found it hard to notice, the world seeming black and white. You throw yourself into furthering your knowledge of flowers, growing up in the countryside with a large and wild garden had taught you much, but there were still so many things you didn’t know.

Each day you make a note of the many men and boys who enter, requesting bouquets of various designs, listening to them chat idly about their wives or girlfriends, and their favourite flowers, colours, whatever else. You day dream often about different scenarios, ones in which some handsome man buys you flowers, but alas, at the end of your day, you walk home alone and clean up, ready for dinner and a quiet night in.

Cora was not around very much, and so most nights you spend the evening by the radio in the living room, listening to the dulcet tones of Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald, joined by the quick clicking of Mrs Galloways knitting needles.

There is one thing that breaks up the slog of your day. Signalled by the bell above the door like any other fellow, he enters with a smile, his hat in his hands. He always dressed well, but simply, and was distinctive thanks to the dark stubble he always seemed to have shadowing along his jaw. Piercing blue eyes shock you in place every time he turns them on you, like diving into an icy lake in the middle of winter, but he seems to avoid eye contact if he can help it.

He comes in almost every other day, requesting daisies, or petunias, other flowers that weren’t often the centrepiece of selections. You think he must love his wife or girlfriend very much to bring her flowers so often, and it makes you smile to yourself.

He’s handsome, very much so, his face young yet a bit aged. You’d put him in his thirties, but then again many men who’d returned from the war seemed to look mature beyond their years, so you don’t know. But despite his reluctance to meet yours or anybody else’s eye, with his deep but soft voice, he always manages to make your face heat up like an iron, innocent flirtatious remarks, pet names, or even the occasional wink as he replaces his hat.

You think about these small moments of heart fluttering sweetness when the dreariness gets to you and of his sparkling crystal eyes pinning you in place for longer than two seconds at a time.

“Miss Callaghan? Miss Callaghan, there’s a letter for you!” The words greet you the moment you’ve shut the front door behind you, and waft in from the kitchen along with the scent of gravy that makes your stomach gurgle. With a spring in your step now, you hang your coat and hat on the hook by the door and hurry further into the home.

“How was work dear?” Mrs Galloway smiles kindly at you from her place at the stove and you throw her a quick smile of your own, rushing to grab at the thick envelope sitting on the table.

“It was good. I’m just going to take this to my room!” You tell her, hardly hearing when she calls out about dinner being ready soon.

Your heartbeat hammers in your ears and you’ve barely got your bedroom door closed before you’re tearing open the top of the envelope, toeing your shoes off and discarding your purse as you make for the window by your bed. Sliding the shutter open, you crawl through the small space and onto the fire escape, your fingers nearly tingling with the sensation of holding the letter in your hands.

When you’ve settled yourself properly, back to the wall and knees curled under you, the soft, now-familiar sounds of Brooklyn filling your senses, you pull out the folded pages and begin reading.

You smile through it. Your parents tell you about the goings on in Belsloe, about the weather, the politics, the gossip. The last few pages are from Bonnie. She tells you much of the same, but with a slightly less rosie-eyed view, and clipped to the last page, as per her words, she’d included a photograph of your nephew, Liam.

You stare at the photo for longer than necessary, take in the smiley features you hadn’t seen in months. You used to spend everyday with the boy, four now, and with it being October, you’d missed his birthday.

You’d missed a lot, so it seemed.

Before you even really know it, you’re crying, the pages crumpling in your hands as you hold on to them tightly, sobbing softly and wishing you were somewhere far, far away. You hold the letter to your chest and squeeze your eyes shut as the tears and sobs wrack your body, not worried about somebody hearing you here. You’re alone.

You are always alone.

You miss everyone and everything so much it makes you feel sick, and you gasp for breath as you try and get a hold of yourself, but you only seem to be able to suck air in. Your cries eventually become quieter, and you curl up against the brick wall beside your window, pulling your knees to your chest as you sniffle, wallowing completely in your misery.

You don’t hear the window above you slide open, and you don’t hear the soft footfalls down the metal steps. You do hear the slight gasp, the sharp intake of breath that signaled surprise and the arrival of somebody else, and your head snaps up, blinking wildly at the stranger who’d appeared and seemed frozen now on your landing, his eyes wide and worried and—

Familiar?

It takes you a moment, as you unravel yourself and wipe at your face, that you know him, it’s the man from your shop, the handsome one who’d flirt innocently with you and unknowingly brighten your day. You think you might be delusional until he speaks.

“Are you alright Miss…?” His voice is the same as always, and you see recognition in his gaze too, but you’re embarrassed at having been caught and you continue to try and wipe your face clean.

“I’m f-fine, thank y-you…” You say, attempting to stand, to clear the way for him to continue moving down, but your grip on Liam’s photo slips and for a moment you panic, only barely catching it before it falls through the grating of the fire escape.

You start sobbing again at that, giving up entirely at any pretend, and put your palms to your eyes.

“Hey, hey, look, it’s… whatever it is, it’s alright…” The man moves closer and crouches down in front of you. He gently gathers up the pages of your letter from your hands, and folds them up, placing them back into the envelope he then tosses through the crack you’d left in your window. You’re thankful for that, lest you almost lose them again, but you can’t help but shake your head, feeling utterly hysterical now.

“I w-want t-to go h-home!” You cry, almost jumping when a warm hand lands at your back, rubbing gently up and down in soothing motions.

“Shh, it’s alright. Where do you live, sweetheart?” You sniffle a little, looking up when something flashes into your view, and you realise he’s holding out a handkerchief for you. You take it delicately, blotting your cheeks and eyes with it as you shake your head again.

“I l-live here… but I w-want to g-go…” You swallow, taking a deep, stuttered breath of air, and you see something on the man’s face click.

“Oh… Ireland. You’re from Ireland, yeah?” He must’ve remembered from the brief words you’d had while at work, and you nod, finally feeling your chest stop heaving so much. You’re a little surprised when he shifts, moving to sit down beside you, sighing heavily.

“Homesickness, huh? I know how that can be…” Your lip wobbles a little as you look up at him, as handsome as ever, and somehow, sitting next to you on your fire escape. Was he some sort of guardian angel?

“During the war, when I went away to bootcamp, I couldn’t stand it. I hadn’t even left New York yet, and I was sick. Only got worse when we got shipped out to England.” He chuckles humorlessly and shakes his head, and you swallow thickly, listening carefully.

It’s the most you’ve ever heard him speak before, and you think his voice is lovely, calming and deep. He side-eyes you.

“Mind you, when we got stationed I didn’t have much time to be homesick, but it was always there, in the quiet moments… but I knew I was where I needed to be.” You hadn’t even noticed until now that you’d stopped crying altogether, and the man nudges you gently.

“New York can be hard to get used to, I don’t know much about Ireland, but I’ve been around… nothing’s quite like the big city…”

“I just miss it…” You speak softly, and he cocks his head, nods slightly and smiles softly.

“‘Course you do. That’s okay. It’s normal. How long ya been here?” He shifts again, hand digging into his jacket pocket for something and you clear your throat.

“Two months.”

“Mhmn, not long at all, huh? You work at uh, the florists, right? Thought I recognised you… though you look all different when you ain’t smiling.” He finally pulls what he seeks from his coat, quickly placing a cigarette between his lips, he offers the pack to you.

“Oh, no, I don’t… I don’t smoke…” You tell him, and he nods enthusiastically, pulling the cig from his mouth.

“Good. That’s good. You shouldn’t.” He says pointedly, matches in his fingers, but then he frowns down at the little stick.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t either.” You watch him toss it over the fire escape, and shove the pack and matches back into his pocket.

It was a little silly, a bit odd, and you hadn’t heard someone curse around you in a while, so you can’t help it, you giggle. The man swings his gaze back to you with a lazy grin and winks.

“That’s better. You got a lovely smile.” Your face feels warm, and you look to your hands in your lap.

“Thank you…”

“I’m Bucky, Bucky Barnes. I guess you’re stayin’ with Mrs Galloway, then? I live above you.” You nod and look back up at him.

“Belle Callaghan.” You shake the hand he holds out, and watch as he sighs, leaning back against the wall again.

“How old are ya? Seems a long way to come from home with nobody.”

“Nineteen. And my parents have their property to look after… There’s no work for the young.” You explain, and Bucky nods, sighing again.

“Nineteen, huh?” He blows out, and digs into his pocket again, producing the same cigarettes and matches he had before. You watch him absently light one up, take a drag and then blow it out away from you.

“I remember bein’ nineteen… was a little shi—” He cuts himself off, eyes flickering to you quickly.

“—Sorry. Sorry… Shouldn't curse in front of—”

“—It’s alright!” You rush to cut him off.

“I’m… I’m Irish, remember?” Bucky cocks his head, his lips pulling slowly into a wide grin and he chuckles.

“And… it reminds me of my brother… he used to curse so bad even the navy wouldn’t have him.” You joke, and Bucky laughs again, nodding.

“Your brother in the war?” He asks when you’ve both calmed some, and you nod, smile falling, though you look away from Bucky to the brick wall of the apartment complex opposite you.

“Yeah. But he died.”

“I’m sorry… I…” He trails off and you hear him clear his throat.

“I’m sorry.” You blink back your tears and clench your jaw for a moment before looking back to Bucky.

“Me too.”

You realise then, staring into his ocean blue eyes, how absurd this whole situation is, and you jolt slightly. Bucky was the handsome stranger from work, apparently your neighbour, and he’d clearly been going somewhere when he’d stumbled across your sad scene.

“D-do you have somewhere you need to be?! I’m so sorry, I— I shouldn’t have taken up your time!” You hurry to apologise, but Bucky only smiles in amusement, taking another drag of his cigarette, he taps off the burnt end, clearly in no real hurry.

“Don’t worry about it. I was just going for a walk, but sittin’ with a pretty girl will always be better than that.”

Again, he flirts so easily you have to look away, lips unable to stop from pulling into a shy smile, your cheeks remaining warm even in the cool autumn air.

“Oh… well… thank you… for sitting with me. You didn’t have to…” Bucky shrugs, and is opening his mouth to reply when there’s a knocking at your door, a little distant and muffled from where you sit outside.

“Belle? Dinner is ready!” You stick your head through the window, heart thumping, though you don’t know why. Maybe the thought of being caught alone with a man? A handsome one, no doubt.

“Be right there, Mrs Galloway!” You reply, waiting until you hear the sound of retreating footsteps before you relax.

When you look back to Bucky, he’s already putting out his cigarette, poking the remaining butt behind his ear as he pushes himself to stand. You follow suit, but take the hand he kindly offers out, and try not to think about how easily he pulls you up, about how strong he must be.

“Thank you, again.”

“It’s no problem, Belle.” The way he says it, despite there being no real hint of anything but politeness, makes your toes curl and your belly flop around like a fish in a bucket.

He keeps hold of your hand as you climb carefully back through your window, letting go only when you’re securely inside. He crouches slightly down again and tips his head at you.

“Goodnight, Belle.”

“Goodnight, um, Bucky.”

And with that, you close your window, and draw your blinds.

—-

Your interaction with Bucky on the fire escape doesn’t quell the crush you have on the man. Rather, it only intensifies it. Over the weekend you don’t see him, but around about midday on Monday, you find yourself buzzing with excitement, your heart hammering in your chest as his familiar form steps through the front door of the florist’s, plucking his hat from his head carefully as his eyes scan the store.

You’re the only worker out front today, but you tell yourself he’d have come to you even if you weren’t.

“Afternoon, Miss Callaghan.” He greets politely with a smile, and you think it’s rather foolish, the thrill you get from him knowing you by name now.

“Mr. Barnes, how can I help you?” You duck your head just a little, and he leans on the counter with one arm, stroking his chin as if in thought.

“You have any Irish roses?” He asks, squinting at you and you falter, eyes flickering around the store behind him.

“Oh… I uh… I don’t think they— we stock them…”

“Well that is blatantly not true.” He frowns, standing up straight, an almost sternness overcoming him and you still. Despite never having seen him anything but quiet and kind, you prepare for the same rudeness some customers met you with.

“I see one right here.” He points to you, and when his words, his joke, click, you relax, scoffing bashfully, and dropping your gaze to the counter as your face lights up. Bucky’s face falls away from the stern look as well, smiling softly as he ducks to catch your eye.

“Feeling better today?” He asks softly, the over the top flirtatiousness gone and replaced with the personality you’d come to expect. You nod, still feeling warm, but your heart leaps that he was asking.

“Yes. definitely.”

“Good, good…” You stare at one another for a moment, seemingly unable to look away… but, as your boss steps through from the back, you jump into action, as does Bucky.

He orders some regular roses, and you move about quickly to wrap them up. When he takes them, replacing his hat on his head, he doesn’t wink like usual, instead he smiles kindly and nods at you firmly, pointedly.

“Have a good day, Miss Belle.” But he’s gone before you can respond. You watch him walk away through the front window, until you can no longer see him, and swallow thickly, your heart racing.

“Do you know Mr Barnes? From upstairs?” You try to keep your voice even as you scoop some more peas onto your fork, trying to sound as uninterested as possible. Mrs Galloway lifts an eyebrow at you.

“Sergeant Barnes. I do. How do you know him…?”

“Oh! He comes into the shop every so often!” You explain quickly, stomach churning, but the older woman seems to buy your half-truth, and she nods, but then stops, and looks at you sternly.

“Sergeant Barnes is a hero and a lovely man, but a young lady like you should stay far, far away.” You blink, and lower the fork currently on it’s way to your lips and frown.

“He seems nice…” You say in a weak defense, and she waves her hand.

“Oh he’s plenty nice, Miss Callaghan, especially to pretty young things, I might add. But the man is almost twelve years older than you! Surely there are others for you to—”

“—I wasn’t—! I was just—!” You stutter and shake your head, cheeks heating up once again.

“I was only wondering!” Mrs Galloway gives you a knowing look.

“He’s known for dating around, man like that should be settled by now! It’s no good, if you ask me.” She shakes her head and you purse your lips, but nod.

You don’t think it’s such a bad thing for him to date lots of women. Perhaps he just hadn’t met the right lady yet!

The conversation turns more general, and even though you engage, your mind wanders back to the man who’d been occupying all your thoughts since you’d first met him.

Twelve years? That would make him thirty-one, you calculate. That was a fair bit older than you, perhaps even more than you would be comfortable with… but Bucky was kind and respectful and sweet. Not any man would stop and comfort a crying girl on the fire escape, would they?

You chew on your lip and when Mrs Galloway asks if you’ll join her by the radio, you politely decline, instead claiming you were dog-tired, and retire to your room where you promptly pull on a cardigan and climb out onto the fire escape.

Ever since that first time, it had become a sort of ritual. Each night, you’d sit out in the open air, at least until it got too cold, listening to the sounds of the city. Maybe a part of you wished Bucky would so happen to come by, but so far he hadn’t.

You’re lucky tonight however, as you’re climbing through your window, you hear movement from above, and look up, finding blue eyes peering back down at you.

“Fancy seein’ you here…” Bucky cocks his head, pushing off where he leans against his window sill. You can smell the smoke in the air, but he must have gotten rid of it by the time he’s trotted down to your level, because when you’ve righted yourself, he’s cigarette free.

You end up seated on the steps this time, Bucky a few steps above you, leaning with his back to the safety railing, while you face the opposite way, looking up at him.

“Mrs Galloway said you were some sort of hero…” You venture, and briefly see a crease form in his brow before he blows away the smoke of his second cigarette and shrugs.

“Guess so. I was with Steve— uh, Captain America.”

“In the Howling Commandos!?” You ask, a little excitedly, leaning forward. You’d heard of them, everyone had of course, but your parents had kept you relatively sheltered from news during the war, so you hadn’t seen more than one newspaper article about the group, still, they had been intensely interesting.

Bucky nods, lifting his brow just slightly.

“Didn’t recognise me, darlin’?” You can tell he’s teasing, but it still makes you look away meekly.

“I didn’t, actually…” His face seems to change, not into disappointment or offence, like you might have thought, but into curiosity, and he takes another drag.

“That’s a nice change.” There’s more to his words, you feel, but you don’t know if you’re allowed to ask, so you stay quiet.

“What was your home like?” Bucky asks suddenly, and you blink at the quick subject change, floundering for an answer.

“Oh, well, it was…” You trail off and think for a moment, gathering your thoughts.

“I lived with my parents, my sister-in-law, and my nephew on a little property outside of town… our house was on a little knoll, like, a hill, and it was old, like really old… We didn’t even have central heating for ages until my Ma kicked Pa’s ass over it…” You laugh at the memory. Your father hadn’t wanted to mess with the purity of the house’s structure, and they’d had one huge blowout over it.

And when you’d awoken the following morning, you’d come downstairs to find an electrician giving your parents a quote.

Bucky snorts.

“You live on a farm?”

“Sort of? Not really. My Pa owned several acres around us, but we weren’t farmers. He rented the paddocks to our neighbours. He was a carpenter. Ma looked after Liam while Bonnie went to work. Oh, Bonnie is my sister-in-law, Liam is my nephew.” You explain, and Bucky nods.

“My town, Belsloe—” Bucky snorts again, and you look up at him questioningly.

“Belle from Belsloe.” He says, clearly humoured, and you shake your head with a smile, rolling your eyes.

“Belsloe was small, but not as small as some other towns. We had a dance hall at least, and a few different pubs… a bookshop… some towns don’t even have bookshops!” You say. You still remember when yours hadn’t.

“It sounds nice. I saw a few towns like that in Holland, Italy… France even. The ones that weren’t bombed out were nice.” He shrugs, and for a moment you try to picture Belsloe bombed out, but you quickly push the horrifying thought from your brain.

“Would you ever go back? To Europe, I mean?” Bucky chortles, blows a puff of smoke out and shakes his head.

“Not on your damn life. No offense or anythin’, but I’m never getting on a transport ship again.” He shakes his head, smiling mirthlessly.

You could understand his point perfectly. The boat you’d travelled on to New York had been cramped and dirty, with hardly any privacy and you’d gotten sea sick at least once a day for the two weeks it took to travel. You can’t imagine it being filled to the brim with soldiers instead of just regular civillians.

“I won’t ever make that trip again unless I have to.” You say with a shake of your own head and an involuntary shiver, and Bucky lifts an understanding brow. You fall into a comfortable silence for a while, listening to the sounds of distant trains and people and cars, the sun well and truly set by now. A thought strikes you however, and you perk up.

“Did your date like her roses?” Bucky turns to look down at you with a confused frown, before his features fold into recognition and he clears his throat.

“Oh, uh, they were actually for my mother. She likes roses.” Your mouth makes a round shape as you duck your head in embarrassment.

“Oh! I’m sorry! I just assumed! Mrs Galloway says you dated lots of—” You cut yourself off with almost a gasp, slapping a hand over your mouth as Bucky raises an amused eyebrow.

If there were ever a time for the world to open up and swallow you whole, now would be that time.

You can’t believe you’d just said that to his face.

“I’m—! I’m so sorry!” You squeak, feeling your stomach churn and sink.

“It’s not my business— and I don’t, I’m not- I’m not judging!” But Bucky only seems to chuckle, shaking his head a little as he waves a hand out.

“S’alright, sweetheart.” He brings his cigarette to his lips and takes one last drag before he puts it out on the step.

“I used to date around I guess, when I was younger— before the war. I don’t really anymore.” He shrugs, and your curiosity gets the best of you.

“But all the flowers you buy… are they all for your mother…?” If he only came in once a week that would be one thing, but sometimes he’d come in twice, or even three times.

“Sometimes I’ll take a gal dancin’... but other than that, I never show up to see my mother or sister without… S’how my father did it, s’how I do it.” He shrugs again and you blink, nodding your understanding. How sweet, you think, clearly his father left an impression.

“That’s so lovely.” You try to keep the dreaminess out of your voice, but likely fail entirely as Bucky sends you another raised-brow sideways glance.

“I guess.” He snorts, opening his mouth to continue, but he closes it, shaking his head and you frown.

“What?” You probe, and he only continues shaking his head, and this time you have to laugh, reaching out to gently shove his knee.

“What!?” Bucky smiles wryly at you.

“I don’t want to sound like a dog.” You roll your eyes.

“I won’t judge you.” It takes him a moment, but eventually, after he shifts a little he opens his mouth.

“Most women these days recognise me from the war… most of them are more than willing to let me dance with them, buy them dinner, take ‘em home…” You feel your cheeks heat with the insinuation his words give, but you’d promised not to judge.

“... And that's all they seem to want from me. A good night and a story to tell their friends.” He looks to his shoes, and despite the age of his face, and everything else you know about him, for the first time he looks young, vulnerable, and you resist the urge to coo.

“Well, I think they must be regretting that!” You say, huffing a little. Bucky looks at you, brow raised, but his face is only soft still, a little sad even.

“I’ve only known you a short while and you’ve been nothing but kind and sweet to me. Any lady who doesn’t see beyond your reputation doesn’t deserve you anyway!” You try not to let your anger at these nameless women show, your slight flare of jealousy that they’d captured Bucky’s attention only to squander it. Really though, you are upset for him, sad that he feels the way he clearly does.

Bucky lifts his chin fully, leaning back against the railing and chortling softly, but his face doesn’t seem amused, he appears grateful for the pep talk.

“Thank you, Belle.” He holds your gaze for a moment, and you wonder if he can see your admiration, wonder if he sees you as a young woman or as a kid he lives by. You know you’re younger than him, but you weren’t a child! You’d be twenty soon!

His eyes shift away and he pulls out another cigarette, lighting it up, the butt glowing in the darkness.

“What about you, Miss Callaghan, need me to threaten any boys for ya?” The question is telling to your previous internal queries, and you deflate a little.

“No… No boys.” You say, and Bucky blows out his smoke, cocking his head.

“None? I find that hard to believe. There’s got to be a line of ‘em somewhere!” He teases, playfully looking over his shoulder and down to the ally. You chuckle, but shake your head.

“Nobody’s really lining up to be with a black Irish girl.” You say quietly, looking away, but your eyes snap back to him with a jolt when Bucky hisses.

“Morons. Only morons will take either of those into account.” He tells you sternly, pointing at you like Mrs Galloway had earlier.

“Don’t you accept anybody who doesn’t think you’re equal to them, alright? Because you absolutely are.” You’re ensnared by his intense gaze for a moment and you can only nod your affirmation, a little awestruck by his outspokenness. Bucky nods firmly and looks away again.

“M’serious, ain’t nobody worth your time who thinks less of you.” He says after a long drag of his cigarette, the smoke billowing out and blowing away.

You shift, a little awkwardly and shrug, keen to bring the conversation away from less touchy subjects.

“It won’t be a problem regardless… I’m not like Cora, I don’t go meeting men and dancin’ and all that.” You say ‘men’ on purpose, hopefully putting it in his mind that you weren’t a child, but he only frowns back at you.

“Who’s Cora?”

“Oh. The other gal staying with Mrs Galloway. She’s always out dancing or dating.” You roll your eyes, but Bucky shrugs.

“Well, a lot of gals wouldn’ta been able to go out doing that whenever they wanted when I was your age… some people are just built different, they get their kicks from dancin’... some get them from talking to their old neighbour on the fire escape at night.” He shrugs, smiling cheekily and you giggle, nudging his leg again.

“You’re not old…” You say, and he lifts a brow.

“I’m an old man compared to you, darlin’.” You roll your eyes, but feel a slight pang in your chest that you desperately try to ignore.

“Speakin’ of old…” Bucky brings his wrist close to his face, squinting down at his watch in the dark.

“I should get some sleep.” You jump, nodding.

“Oh! Me too.” You agree, and despite all the little things working against you, Bucky steps with you down to your landing, once more taking your hand to help you as you climb back through your window. The warmth he radiates matches the warmth of your face, and you gaze back up at him when you’re inside.

“Goodnight, Belle.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

—-

You don’t catch Bucky for another few weeks. Your birthday passes, and your boss, of all people, gifts you a bicycle. It’s not solely a birthday present however, as he’d finally agreed to your long proposed idea of flower delivery. You do get to take it home with you though, and it’s made your commutes to and from work that much quicker.

But it did leave you rather tired in the evenings, your days riding from the shop to various Brooklyn addresses was rather exhausting on your body, and you slept more soundly than you had in months. And it had also come with a raise. Your boss had proudly told you how well you’d been doing, which had made your entire week.

However, your deliveries made it so that you rarely saw Bucky during the day or night, and you were starting to wonder if you’d ever get to catch him again. Truthfully, you hadn’t planned on sitting out on the fire escape tonight, just opening your window for a little bit before you went to bed, but an odd sound catches your attention.

You blink, frown clouding your face as the quiet sniffling reaches your ears, and you poke your head out, looking upward for the source of the sound.

You don’t see Bucky, not fully anyway, but you see his hands, one empty, the other holding the neck of a wine bottle, both leaning over the edge of his window. Your heart sinks, fizzles away when you realise he’s crying, and you all but scramble out of your own window and up the steps before you can think through what you even want to say.

“Bucky?!” You mock whisper as you finish climbing the steps. He seems to startle, exactly where you thought he’d be, leaning against his window sill, eyes bleary and red, his cheeks a little puffy.

“Belle? What’re you—” He cuts himself off, swallowing as you approach, eyes never leaving you however. You slowly kneel down across from him, resting your own arms on the window and biting your lip.

“What’s wrong? Why’re you crying?” You ask quietly, knowing it might be a touchy subject for a man, but he shakes his head, sighing before hanging it, his movements jerky and clearly drunk. You purse your lips.

“Bucky…?” Almost like he’d forgotten you were there, he lifts his head again suddenly, eyes focusing on you with a wide stare and he stutters.

“I… uh— sorry… did I wake you…?” His words slur a little together and you shake your head, smiling kindly.

“No… I just heard you when I opened my window… Are you alright?”

“M’fine.” He nods, before bringing the wine to his lips and throwing back a hefty swig. You follow him with your eyes as he drops the bottle to hang over the window sill again.

“Are you sure?” You know it's not your place to ask, or to know, but he’d comforted you when you’d been upset, the least you could do was return the favour.

“Is it… is it the war?” You ask carefully, and watch as his gaze snaps to yours suddenly. He seems to freeze in place for a moment before he nods slowly. He takes another drink.

“Y-you do what you gotta, you see the kid next to you hit the ground and you keep moving because otherwise you’ll be next…” He pauses and takes a deep, shaky breath.

“And they tell you to focus on the men that are still alive, there’s nothing you can do for the dead you know, but what do I do now?” He falters, and chokes on his own words. You quickly lean forward, sleeve pulled over your palm to wipe at the fresh tears, and try not to let your own spill over. Bucky leans into your hand a little and shakes his head.

“Most of ‘em were just kids. I— I just wish… Sometimes I wish it’d been me…” You lean back again and shake your head.

“I’ve never… I’ve never been to war, but I can’t imagine coming home is easy… you saved a lot of people, I bet, and if you had died… It would only mean some other fella would be sitting at his window right now, thinking about you.” Bucky nods mutely, looking miserable and lifts his bottle hand back up. His grip must not be very tight however, as the wine slips from his grasp, crashing down into your lap, covering your skirt in crimson red before you can even put it up right again.

You both jump, and you stand quickly, putting the bottle on the window will and wringing out your skirt as best you can while Bucky babbles apologies.

“Oh sweetheart, fuck, I’m so sorry, shit, shit, shit, will that come out!?”

“Uhm…”

“I’ll— I’ll buy you a new dress, I’m so sorry, fuck!” You look up at him with a smile and shake your head.

“It’s okay. It should wash out…” Bucky’s face is pulled in a wince and you take him in. He looked wrecked, bags under his eyes and hair a mess, even more stubble than usual...

“You should go to sleep… Here, let me help, you can hardly move…” You say, a little surprised by how easily he moves aside to let you in through his window, holding your hand, albeit not very steadily, as you climb in. You don’t give yourself time to squeal over being inside his apartment, with him, alone, because he’s swaying oddly, and you swoop under his arm to help prop him up.

“Here, take your shoes off, I’ll pull back your covers…” You instruct, leaving him leaning against the wall as you move to his bed, peeling back the sheets and arranging his pillows. When you turn back around, you nearly gasp, met with an almost nude Bucky Barnes whose clothes now sit in a pile on the floor, aside from his briefs. You spin around again almost immediately, your face prickling white hot, but your brain has already committed his image to memory.

Strong arms, thick muscled chest… your heart rate picks up rapidly. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong however, and stumbles past you, falling to the edge of his bed before dragging himself onto it properly. You swallow thickly as you pull his covers over him.

“M’sorry about your dress, sweetheart…” He drawls, eyes already closed and you hum, still coming down from the shock of seeing him near-nude.

“It’s okay. Sleep well, Bucky…” He hums, and you watch him for a moment, before your eyes are drawn back to the pile of clothes on the floor by the wall.

Cautiously, you tip-toe over to them and pick them up, nosing around quickly for his wash basket, placing them inside, before sneaking back to his window. You take one last look at Bucky, dead asleep now, before climbing back out and down to your room.

Once inside, with your window shut, you stare down at your soiled dress and bite your lip.

How would you explain this to Mrs Galloway? Pursing your lips, you peel it off, changing into your night clothes, before peeking your head out of your bedroom door. You could hear Mrs Galloway’s needles clicking still, which meant she was knitting in the lounge. You look toward Cora’s room and creep down toward it. If you put it in with her washing, she might not even notice, and Mrs Galloway would be far less likely to question her over a wine stain…

You complete your little espionage mission and return to your room, lying awake for hours, Bucky’s image haunting your mind, before you eventually find sleep.

—-

The warmth of the rare autumn sun sends goosebumps over your arm as you reach out, inspecting a sweet looking ribbon-trim. You didn’t sew very often, or at all since you’d come to the United States, but it was a sunny Saturday, you had the day off, and you were exploring a nearby market. It wasn’t as though you had a load of spare money to spend, but you did have a small amount, and you had a very specific intended purpose for it.

The local deliveries you’d been making on your bicycle had become very popular, so much so that you needed a new basket, a bigger one, and you thought you’d try your luck at the local weekend markets.

The narrow street which normally held shops anyway was lined by stalls selling all sorts, some of them belonging to the shops in question, and others owned by folk who usually sold elsewhere. The neighbourhood is predominantly an Irish one, though there are plenty of Italian and German folk walking about, a few flags hung to show the origin of certain stalls. New York was a lot more multicultural than Ireland, and even though you still faced discrimination, within most Irish (and some Italian) circles, you found kinship.

Most Irish folk faced their own bigotry, and weren’t willing to dish it out upon you as well. When Mrs Galloway had asked you to fetch some meat from the butcher’s last week, you’d been confronted by a woman who had told the man behind the counter she wouldn’t buy from him if he sold to you. To your surprise, the butcher, one Mr. O'Donoghue, told her he wouldn’t sell to her anyway, and asked her to leave.

You’d been awfully embarrassed, but it was overshadowed when he’d given you far more than you’d asked (or paid for) and apologised. Situations like that didn’t always turn out so nicely, but they were becoming a little rarer.

You hum lightly under your breath as you turn from one stall, to gaze upon the next, an assortment of homemade and embroidered tablecloths and doilies, some knitted kettle warmers and children’s gloves. They were beautiful, but not really anything that interested you, so you turn again, intending to make your way back toward a stall you’d spied across the street. Unfortunately you don’t make it so far, your turn coinciding with the step of someone else, and you’re momentarily winded by the force, though it wasn’t enough to knock you down.

The girl, or young woman really, is subsequently barrelled into from behind by another woman, their third companion who you haven’t quite noticed properly stopping without incident. The young woman though, the small amount of vegetables she carries spill out and you gasp, apologising before you can even gauge anything else.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“I should have watched where I was walking!” The other girl tells you at the same time, both of you crouching down to collect the potatoes and tomatoes, placing them back into her arm basket. You look up at her as you both stand, finding a pretty young woman, with dark hair and blue eyes, and an older, almost identical lady standing behind her.

“I’m really sorry!” You say again, eyes flickering to the man who’d stopped with them, only to find your breath caught in your throat.

“Bucky?” You blurt before cognition kicks in again, and for the surprise on his own face, he blinks quickly, shaking his head some as if to clear the fog.

“Belle? What are you doing here?” He asks, partially still surprised, and a little happy, if you don’t say so yourself. Although you do cock your head at his odd question.

“It’s… it's the weekend market…?” You say, looking around briefly, and you think you see his cheeks flush.

“Right, yeah. Right. Of course…” You both state for a moment until the young woman you’d bumped into elbows him in his ribs.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Buck?” She asks, somewhat conspiratorially, and you blink as Bucky nods, looking to the girl and then at you again, and your heartbeat nearly stops when he takes a step toward you, hand grazing over your back and resting between your shoulders.

“Uh, Belle, this is my sister Becca, and my Ma. Ma, Becca, this is Belle Callaghan. Belle lives with Mrs Galloway, below me, she’s new to New York.” He turns to his mother mostly when he says this, but you hold out your hand politely anyway, Becca shaking it first, a large grin on your face that you can’t entirely discern the meaning of.

“It’s lovely to meet you both.” You say, shaking Mrs. Barnes' hand too when she offers it, smiling more politely.

“How long have you known each other?” Becca hurriedly asks, and your face seems to heat up at the insinuation of her words, both you and Bucky stepping apart from one another quickly, coughing and spluttering.

“Oh, no, we just—”

“—It’s nothing like that!” Becca, for her part, only seems to smile wider, her eyes flickering from you to Bucky and then back again. Mrs. Barnes takes a small step forward.

“How long have you been in New York now, Belle?”

“A few months. It was a lot to get used to at first compared to home, but I think I’m adjusting.” You nod at your own words and instinctively look up at Bucky when he looks back at you.

“You fetching something for Mrs. Galloway?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“No, actually, I’m searching for a larger basket. For my bike.”

“How large—?”

“—When did you get a bike?!” Bucky and his mother speak simultaneously and you blink between them for a moment.

“I… got it for my birthday, to deliver flowers on… and larger than the standard.” you say to each respectively, Bucky’s brow furrowing and you eye him as he steps back toward you, turning in as if saying something rather private.

“You didn’t say anything? About your birthday?!” He speaks softly, remorse painting his words as his hand lifts to land on your own arm and you swallow, waving his concern away.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Really.” You say, even though currently it's everything, very much so, your heart thumping away in your chest and ears that he would care so much.

“No, it’s no—” He seems to cut himself off, as if remembering the other people around you, and purses his lips, eyes swivelling back to his mother and sister, and he drops his hand from you, hesitantly. Mrs. Barnes clears her throat.

“I believe we have a basket like that at home, I used to use it when I rode, we can give it to you, save you the hassle of buying a new one!” Your eyes widen and you immediately begin to shake your head.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Barnes, thank you, but I’m sure I can—”

“—Nonsense. Think of it like a gift, for your birthday!” She waves her hand and you falter. You can’t reject a gift, that would just be rude, and if you insisted more, that would be worse. This wasn’t any old stranger, this was Bucky’s mother!

“Oh, uh, well, that would be lovely. Thank you!” You duck your head bashfully and the woman once again waves you off.

“It’s nothing! We have to collect a few more things for lunch, but then we’ll go fetch it.” You nod demurely, feeling rather lucky if you’re honest, and turn to follow as the older woman begins moving away again.

Bucky walks at your left and he leans down to say something when you’re both startled, Becca winding her arm through yours on your right.

“So how old did you turn, Belle?” She asks excitedly and you stutter for a moment before you can reply.

“Oh, twenty.” You tell her, not missing the brief look she shoots to Bucky, but quickly her focus is back on you.

“Twenty! What a lovely age. I’m only two years older than you—”

“—Sometimes I wouldn’t know.” Bucky cuts her off pointedly, and she glares, though it makes you snicker.

“Well… anyway… it must have been exciting to travel so far from home!”

“A little… but it was scary, too…” You say honestly, and watch her nod in sympathy.

“I bet. I can’t imagine travelling to England or Ireland by myself… I’m still unsure I'm going to manage when Sam and I get married!” You cock your head, eyes darting down to her hand to look upon the engagement ring that sits there.

“You’re getting married? That’s lovely! More exciting than travelling, if you ask me!”

Becca smiles, but rolls her eyes, nodding.

“Yes! In December, hopefully. Are you?”

It takes you a moment to understand her question and you frown, blinking rapidly.

“Am I? Getting married? Oh, no! Not at all…”

“So you’re single then?! Bucky is single, did you know?” She asks, signalling a groan from your left, and you look up at Bucky who wears a pained expression, your own head becoming muddled and confused. Was she… trying to set you up?!

“Rebecca, leave her alone.”

“I was only stating your commonality, James!” She covers your hand with her own.

“I’m only saying, because even though he pretends he isn’t, he’s very lonely—”

“—Rebecca.” Bucky’s voice is sterner now, more final, and Becca seems to pull back, although she glares.

“I was only saying.”

When Mrs. Barnes stops to look at a baker’s options, Becca joins her, leaving you with Bucky, who seems to nervously reach for the cigarettes in his pocket.

“I’m sorry. She’s nosy. Don’t listen to her.”

“I think she’s kind to worry after you. She loves you, clearly.” You tell him, watching him place the smoke between his lips, and then light it up.

“She could show it better. Jeez.” He rolls his eyes, and then looks away to blow out.

When he looks back at you, he’s squinting, his brow furrowed slightly, and he pulls the cigarette away, holding it between his index and middle fingers as was typical.

“You really turned twenty and didn’t say anything?” You wonder what he means by it, genuinely. It wasn’t as if you were more to him than his neighbour, perhaps you could call each other friends, but you hadn’t realised you’d been given that honour yet. You only shrug and look away.

“What was I supposed to say?” You ask, and quickly look back when he steps closer again.

“‘Hey, Buck, It’s my birthday, take me to celebrate!’?” He suggests, doing a rather decent impression of your voice which you scoff at, despite your giggle.

Mrs. Barnes moves along to the next stall, and you slowly follow, Bucky’s hand landing on your back again as the crowd thickens, and your heartbeat triples.

“You wouldn’t really have taken me anywhere.” You say quietly when you’re sure he can hear you again.

“Nonsense. Woulda taken you dancin’, or something. I dunno. Birthdays are important.” You look up at him, frowning.

“You’d only take me dancing on my birthday?” You can’t stop yourself from asking, feeling a little embarrassed after the words leave you, but his own bashful expression and quick closing of his mouth leave you hopeful.

It was only one number, but maybe he’d stop thinking of you as so much younger than himself now.

“Well, uh, no, but I—” He’s cut off when his mother turns back to the two of you.

“Alright, I’m all set here. Let’s head home and I'll make us some lunch. Belle, you’ll stay, yes?”

You can’t bring yourself to say no.

You stay for lunch at the Barnes’, Becca’s fiance Sam stopping by as well, a fine man with a bright smile and deep amber toned skin, leaving a kind word for everybody. You’re reminded distinctly of your brother, and he even enquires about him when you say so, wondering if he ever ran into the man during the war. You doubt it, but it was kind anyway.

Thanks to living in the same building, you’re treated to a lengthy walk home with Bucky, and you spend almost the whole time speaking of both your families. Your question about him taking you dancing is either forgotten or ignored.

You bid goodbye at your apartment door, and go inside to show Mrs. Galloway your new basket.

—-

You’ve just set the kettle on when the telephone rings.

It takes you a moment to calm down from the scare it gives you, and another moment to stare at it until it rings again. Mrs. Galloway had gone to the neighbours for a knitting evening and you were home alone, so it was up to you to answer it.

You move carefully to the wall it hangs on, and pick it up gingerly.

“Hello?”

“Belle? Oh, thank god.” You perk, and then frown at the sound of Cora’s voice, crackly down the line, but clear and familiar enough.

“Cora? What’s wrong?” She’d gone dancing, again, and by the clock on the wall, it was already a little late.

“Well, I… I’m at the Pavillion… on Dorchester Street, you know the place?” You search your memory, and you weren’t quite familiar with the club, but you do know vaguely where Dorchester is.

“Yes…?”

“I… I think a fellow I was dancin’ with put something in my drink… I’m… I don’t feel very good, and the bartender’s let me use the phone… Could you come get me?”

You blink at the request, and balk a little when it processes.

“Wha— What sort of not good, Cora? You should go to the hospi—”

“—No! I don’t have the money for that! And my head is gettin’ fuzzy… please, Belle, you owe me for that wine stained dress I found in my basket!” Come to think of it, her voice does sound rather funny, and her words slurred, and you gasp at the mention of your ruined dress, the one you hadn’t thought she’d noticed.

“Oh… Fine! Just stay in the back, though! I’ll be there as soon as I can!” You hang up the phone and look at your watch. You don’t know when Mrs Galloway will be back, but you had an hour until your curfew regardless…

How you find yourself on the floor above yours, nervously knocking on an apartment door, you have no idea, like your feet carried you without thinking. Bucky opens the door, his expression surprised when he sees you, his eyes flicking over your coat bag.

“I’m so sorry, it’s late but…”

“Belle? What’s wrong?” He steps toward you straight away at your worried expression, his hand gently taking hold of your arm and you shake your head.

“No, well, yes, actually, I… Cora called, she thinks a boy— man, put something in her drink… she’s not feeling well and she doesn’t want Mrs. Galloway to know she’s been drinking again, I think… She asked me to get her, but I don’t know—” Bucky holds up his other hand and calms you from your hurried rambling.

“Wait, wait… so Cora is sick? Where is she?”

“The Pavillion… I don’t really know it, I thought you might… I thought you might help me…?” Bucky nods, his own expression concerned now, and you watch as he steps back, taking a coat from his hook on the wall, checking his pockets for keys and his wallet.

“Of course. Come on, we should get going…”

You try to dissuade Bucky from hailing a taxi, but he assures you that it’s fine, and the quicker you can get to Cora the better, and so in barely any time at all, you’re making your way through the throngs of dancing and drunk people.

Bucky stands tall and broad behind you, like a pillar, with his hand on your lower back as he guides you toward the bar, a stout man perking as you both near, your clear sobriety and worried expressions tipping him off.

“You here for the Mulligan girl? She’s just in the back… Poor thing’s been vomiting since she got off the phone…” Bucky thanks him as you hurriedly make your way around the counter, finding the tiny back office easily, the loud roar of the music and patrons hushed from back here.

“Cora? Oh, look at you!” You half coo, half scold as you see her, sitting on a chair, a cleaning bucket in her hands that her head is hung over.

“Belle? I don’t feel very good…” You push some of her hair back, and feel her temperature. She’s warm, but not quite feverish. You look over your shoulder to Bucky who watches on in concern.

“Can you walk?” He asks loudly, clearly, and Cora’s eyes travel to him, confusion in them before she keels over again, spitting up some more sick into the bucket.

“I think that’s a no…” You say, standing up and stepping aside as he moves in.

“Cora, I’m gonna pick you up, alright? You hang onto that bucket and let me know if you wanna stop, okay?” She nods, and Bucky looks to you.

“Can you open the backdoor we passed in the hall? It’ll be easier to get her out through that instead of hauling her through the crowds.” You nod obediently, and swipe her purse from the floor before moving back out to the hall to shoulder open the door.

Bucky comes through seconds later, Cora held bridal style in his arms, her own tightly clutching at the bucket. You follow him out to the alleyway, shadowing him closely as he stops to adjust his hold.

“I’ve seen this before, I think… she’ll be okay, just sick for a day or two… poor thing…” You nod, and rub at Cora’s back when she groans.

“Let’s get her in a cab.”

You let Bucky slide in with Cora first when you’ve gotten a taxi to stop for you on the main street, and you follow sitting close and leaning over him slightly to fix her skirt and jacket while Bucky calls out an address to the driver.

Cora leans her head against the window and groans every so often, but she doesn’t vomit again, which you think is a good sign.

“She’ll be okay, sweetheart.” You look up at Bucky, who’s eyes watch your worried expression, before he covers your hand with his own, squeezing just slightly. It makes your whole body stop for a few seconds, and you swallow, nodding.

He doesn’t let go until you’ve arrived again.

Bucky holds Cora again in the elevator, seeing as her knees seem rather wobbly, and when the doors open up on your floor, you blanch, quickly pounding the ‘shut’ button again. Mrs. Galloway hadn’t seen you from where she stood, talking animatedly with several other women, clearly on her way back to the apartment, and you swallow with pure terror.

“Take us up to my floor. We’ll get you in through the fire escape.” Bucky commands, cool and collected still, and you do as he says, hurrying to open his front door when he directs you to take his keys from his pocket.

It’s an awkward climb and dance, to get Cora through the window, then Bucky, and yourself, then all over again once you’ve gotten down to your bedroom, but you manage it, heart hammering away in your chest, you quickly show Bucky to Cora’s bedroom, helping put her under the covers before the keys in the door jingle.

You all but race back to your room, not saying anything before you shut Bucky inside, and move to greet Mrs. Galloway.

“Evening!” She calls, and you smile as calmly as you can.

“How was your knitting night?”

“Oh it was lovely to see the ladies again.” She looks you over and cocks her head.

“Belle, I have told you before, if the house is too cold, turn up the heat! You don’t need to wear your coat inside!” She scolds lightly, and you swallow, trying to play it cool.

“Right. Sorry… I forget sometimes…” You move to shrug out of the thick fabric, and hang it back on the hook.

“Is Cora in?” Mrs Galloway asks, and you nod, even as she moves to the other girl’s door, cracking it open to confirm that the redhead was, in fact, in bed.

“Lovely. I hope she had a good time at her own crafts night!” She says, shutting it again, and suddenly it becomes clear why Cora hadn’t wanted Mrs. Galloway to know… She’d lied.

Still, the success of your little mission lets you forgive her easily enough, and without much more hassle, you bid the older woman goodnight, and return to your bedroom.

Upon shutting your door, you suck in a deep breath, and close your eyes, leaning against it and attempting to let out all your stress.

“This your family?” You nearly scream at the sound of Bucky’s voice, your eyes snapping open as your hand clutches at your heart. You’d forgotten he was still here!

“Don’t—! You scared me!” You say in a hushed whisper, and he blinks up at you innocently. Your eyes travel to the framed photo in his hands and you push away from the door.

“Yes. It is.” He nods, smiling softly, but puts it back on your bedside table.

“Thank you for… for everything tonight… I don’t know what I would have done without you, and- and about the taxi’s, Cora and I will pay you—”

“—Don’t even think about it. I’d rather pay a little cash and make sure Cora got home okay than anything else happening to the two of you… besides… I owe you, for the dress I ruined…” You bow your head a little and nod.

“Well… Thank you. Really.”

“Course. If you ever need anything, you can count on me, Miss Callaghan.” He says playfully, but you know his words are genuine, know that he means it.

“Thank you, Sergeant Barnes.” You do your own take on playfulness, and Bucky chuckles, ducking his head.

“Alright. Let me know tomorrow how she is?” You nod again as he moves back to your window, carefully climbing through, and turning around as you move to him.

“I will. I’ll knock on your window.” You say, and he cocks his head.

“I’ll look forward to it. Shame we didn’t get to dance tonight.” He says, and you chortle.

“I wasn’t even thinking about it!”

“Oh… well… another time.” He shrugs, and before he can fully stand, you reach out, grabbing at his sleeve.

“Wait! Uh…” Bucky looks back at you curiously, and you decide it's either now or never. Leaning up on your tiptoes, you kiss his cheek, pulling back before too much time can pass, and find him staring at you a little wide-eyed and surprised.

“Goodnight, Bucky.” You say softly, watching as he blinks himself back to proper thought and smiles.

“Goodnight, Belle.”

—-

The next day, Cora plays the part of being a little sick rather well, and you play along with her just fine. Mrs. Galloway fusses and worries, and whips up some of her chicken and corn soup all the while cooing over the redhead’s health.

You carry the tray of soup and water, nudging open her bedroom door easily. The older woman had stepped out to fetch a hot water bottle she’d leant to a friend some time ago.

“How are you feeling?” You question, setting the tray down on her bedside table as you help her to sit, and adjust her pillows, before delivering the food to her lap.

“Better than last night… thank you, by the way…” You just shrug and take a seat on the side of her bed.

“It’s alright. I’d like to think you’d do the same for me.”

“Well, I would now.” She says, a little haughtily, but you can see through it to understand she’s only joking. You shake your head with a chuckle.

“You know… I used to think you were boring and uptight.” Cora starts, taking her spoon and stirring the steaming bowl. You frown and cock your head, hands fiddling in your lap.

“But then I saw you with Mr. Barnes last night, and I understand now. His fire escape connects to yours, right?” Your face heats up and you splutter.

“Oh! No! I mean- Yes, it does, but it's not- he’s just a friend— Not even a friend! He’s just—”

“—Oh, calm down, will you! I saw him holding your hand! And no fellow would have helped out a gal like that if he didn’t like her…” You words fall silent and you grow anxious. Cora takes a few mouthfuls of her lunch and hums happily, before fixing you with another look.

“I won’t say anything. I mean, I owe you after all… and he is quite a catch, isn’t he?” She winks, and you shake your head, groaning again.

“Cora, really, it isn’t—”

“—Belle? Cora? I’m back! I have the bottle!” Mrs. Galloway’s voice carries in from the hall, and you look back at the redhead.

“Your secret is safe with me.” She winks, and you swallow, standing as Mrs. Galloway appears at the door, a pink hot water bottle in her hands.

“I see Belle brought you your lunch, dear. Is it helping?” You excuse yourself and get your own lunch, stomach churning, but not entirely in a bad way. At least maybe Cora wouldn’t be so dismissive any more.

—-

You form a friendship after that. It’s odd, because normally you wouldn’t get along with someone who behaves the way Cora often does, but somehow it works. A lot of the time you see through her haughtiness, most of it being humorous and mocking anyway, and in turn she brings you a little more out of your shell.

While you still weren’t keen on big, boozy nights out, she’d bring you along to meet up with other girls and friends at diners and the like, and for the first time since you’d arrived in New York, you don’t quite feel so lonely.

She does somehow convince you to come out to dance, which is how you find yourself in the jazz club now, watching on as Cora and a few other girls you know dance wildly with their respective partners. It is rather fun, you’d danced a little bit with a boy Cora knew, before he’d moved on and you’d taken up your place by the bar, sipping on soda to quench your thirst.

Everything seemed to be going swell when a man sidled up besides you, a charming smile on his face, but his breath reeked of alcohol.

“Evenin’ darlin’... you here all by yourself?”

“No… My friends are just dancing.” You say stiffly, hand tightening on your glass when he seems to lean in closer.

“No boyfriend?” You swallow and glance at him, the way he leers at you, his eyes flicking toward the buttons at your chest, and you shift uncomfortably.

“Yes, actually, he’s just in the bathroom, but he’ll be back any moment.” You say, praying to god Cora would acknowledge your desperate eye contact, but she was too busy being twirled around.

“Oh, I’m sure he won’t mind if we just talk for a minute, sweetheart…” You scrunch your nose at the pet name. Only Bucky called you that, it sounded awful on the lips of any other man, and you jump a little when a hand grazes over your upper arm, up to your neck, where you try and shrug away.

“Come on, darlin’, I’m just tryna talk to you. No other fella in here is…” You want to spit that his attention wasn’t the compliment he seemed to think it was, but you can’t because you’re blinking at the familiar face that cuts through the crowd. Even though he’s not looking at you, in fact, he’s stopped by Cora, when she does look around, and then point you out, Bucky’s face splits into a wide grin, before his eyes travel to the drunkard leaning into you and his brow sets.

You swallow thickly as he makes his way over, unable to look away, even as the guy beside you keeps jabbering on, his hand roaming to try and touch your hair now when Bucky nears.

“There ya are!” He greets, reaching for you easily, smile familiar and reassuring. The drunk’s hand snaps away, and you step toward Bucky, hands finding his arms as he pretends to only notice the stranger then.

“This guy botherin’ you?”

“Nah, I was just ordering another drink…” The guy mumbles, turning away, clearly defeated, and stepping back just slightly, before slinking off entirely and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“Oh thank god…” You say, relaxing, and Bucky frowns, looking at you, and then after the drunk.

“Was he really bothering you? I’ll kick his ass…” He says, and you shake your head, giggling a little.

“He was, but you don’t have to do— What are you doing here?!” You cut off your own words, happy confusion filling you as Bucky steps aside you, to the bar, though he keeps his hand on your back.

“What do you mean? Cora said you were all going dancing, she said you’d asked her to ask me?” Your face goes warm and you look over your shoulder to where Cora grins maniacally and gives you a thumbs up. Your head whips back to Bucky.

“I- I didn’t! I didn’t ask her anything! I didn’t even know she’d asked you!” You try to explain, and Bucky nods slowly, understanding dawning on him.

“Right… I see.” He shakes his head, but smiles, nudges you in the side.

“Well, nevermind. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“It’s— It’s okay…” You reply slowly, and look away for a moment.

Bucky seems to stand back, and you turn back to him to catch his appraising gaze, your face feeling warm again when he whistles lowly, stepping close again.

“You look beautiful, Belle.”

“Thank you!” You squeak, ducking your head, and Bucky considers you for a moment more, eyes flickering over your features.

“You wanna dance?”

You let Bucky lead you to the dance floor, his hand clasped securely around yours, and you wonder if he can feel your heartbeat through his fingertips. When he spins around, his other arm encircling your back and bringing you close, you think all the air must leave your body at once. It’s loud here, the band’s lively tunes making it hard to hear or talk much, but you don’t really need to.

You release any tension and embarrassment from your body as you dance, content to just appreciate the moment while you had it, Bucky’s hands twirling and guiding you easily through each song while you laugh together. He seems to smile brightly, freely too, and you like seeing his face so clear of worry or anything else.

You also like the way he feels against you, solid and strong, his height seemingly even more than usual when you’re so close.

When the songs begin winding down to something softer, he pulls you close again and holds you there, swaying gently now. He adjusts his hold on your hand, and brings your arms in closer too. It feels intimate, and private and you’re already so warm from the dancing, you can’t tell if your face is hot or not. You get the courage, at some point, to rest your head against his shoulder, to which he responds by laying his own atop yours, and you close your eyes to savour the moment.

“You know…” When he speaks quietly his chest rumbles against yours, and you hum in reply.

“I’ve been wondering for a long time what it’d be like to hold you like this…” Your heart jumps, it leaps right out of your chest and you swallow heavily multiple times before you can bring up the courage to talk.

“You’re just saying that.” You tell him.

“I’m sure there’s plenty of gals you’d dance with before me.” He shakes his head, which you feel against your own, and your heart continues thumping.

“There’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be right now, or ever, really…” You’re too afraid that if you look at him, you’ll wake up from the dream, or he’ll disappear, so you only squeeze his hand a little, and remain quiet until the last song plays, and you’re forced apart.

Bucky walks with you and Cora home, and although the redhead chatters loudly, you feel trapped in your mind with what Bucky had said, jumping each time his hand grazes yours as you walk, until he takes it properly, secretly, and you feel as though you could take off flying right then and there.

When you arrive at your apartment building, Bucky slows as Cora continues on still, and you turn to look at him curiously. You’re taken off guard however, by the way he pulls you in, all the air leaving your lungs when his free hand brushes some of your hair back.

“This okay?” He asks, and you nod, swallowing nervously.

“Y-yes…” His lip quirks and his eyes dip to your lips.

“That’s good.” He says vaguely, before leaning in. You close your eyes in anticipation, hand squeezing subconsciously at his arm, and right when you feel his lips ghost over your own, you’re startled back by Cora’s voice.

“Not to interrupt, but we have less than four minutes until our curfew!” She calls, and you jump, checking your watch.

“Oh! Sh—” Bucky swoops in and presses his lips to your cheek.

“Let’s get you home, hmn?” He says before you can respond, pulling you along again.

He doesn’t walk you to your door, Cora not so subtly telling him Mrs. Galloway might have a fit, so you bid goodnight in the elevator, looking over your shoulder when the doors close.

You fall asleep with a pounding heart, and a smile on your face.

—-

Disaster strikes a few days after your night out.

A telegram reaches you at the post office, from your father. Apparently your mother had fallen extremely ill, and the doctor had warned that her recovery was unlikely. In a panic, you hastily pack all your things, Mrs. Galloway helping you book passage home again.

It wasn’t ideal, with your mother being sick and all, but the trip was an excuse to return home, back to normal, and you pack all your things with that in mind, though you don’t exactly have your mind made up. You miss your family, but New York had become familiar… still, you could decide that at a later time.

Bucky must have found out somehow, you hadn’t had a chance to tell him yourself, because the morning that you’re due to leave, he comes down to help you with your luggage, ignoring the look Mrs. Galloway sends him.

He doesn’t say much, staying quiet as he helps the cab driver put your things in the trunk, and when he’s done he steps back.

Cora glides in to hug you first, pretending that she wasn’t teary eyed, and makes you promise to write. Mrs. Galloway also embraces you long, and tightly, wishing you and your family all the best, and promising that if you come back, you’ll have a room.

You swallow nervously as you set your eyes on Bucky, and he steps forward again, letting you hug him. When you pull away, he holds both your hands in his and swallows thickly several times before he speaks, his brow set in a frown.

“I’ll miss you, but I want you to do what you think is best, okay?” You nod, and try to stop your wobbling lip.

“You’ll write?” You nod, and curse the tear you feel drip over your cheek. Bucky coos and releases one of your hands to wipe it away.

“Don’t cry. Be safe, alright?” You nod, and shakily let him go, turning back to the open door of the car and climbing in.

You roll the window down as Mrs. Galloway steps forward, running through a last minute checklist.

“You have your ticket?”

“Yes.”

“And your hat- oh, it’s right there. What about your passport?”

“It’s in my purse.” You tell her and she nods, finally stepping away.

“Alright dear…” She looks to the driver, who she hands a couple of dollar bills.

You wipe at your face again, watching as Bucky waves to you one last time, before turning and walking back toward the apartment building. You watch him go, burning his retreating form into your mind one last time, when he suddenly turns.

You blink, watching him in confusion and wonder as he quickly bounds back toward you, reaching you just as the driver climbs back into his seat.

“Bucky what are yo—?” You don’t get to finish your question, he just takes your face in his hands hurriedly and presses his lips to yours.

Any surprise or shock you have in you leaves when you realise this is likely your first and last chance to ever kiss him, so you lean in further, basking in the feel of his lips curling against yours, and committing every little movement to memory.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only because the car starts moving, slowly pulling out and into traffic. Bucky grabs your hand and holds it, right up until he absolutely has to let go, and you scramble in the backseat to stare out the back window, watching slowly as Bucky shrinks into the distance, blurred only by the tears in your eyes.

—-

By some miracle, three weeks after you’d arrived home, your mother’s condition had dramatically improved to the point the doctor had no choice but to announce her more or less cured. You were all relieved of course, and for the weeks following, you lived in a state of perpetual thankfulness and magnanimous graces.

Your father had hardly left your mother’s side, doting on her and performing her every wish, which by the third week, was to just let her be.

It was odd for you, returning home in urgency where nothing at all felt normal or home-like, only for that feeling to never really fade at all. You’d thought with your mother’s illness that things would of course feel different than before you’d left, but even in her good-health, you felt like a comfortable stranger in your own home.

The quiet was uncomfortable for you now, you could hardly fall asleep each evening, and you wonder when the loud, obnoxiousness of New York had started to feel more like home than the country-side. That isn’t to say you don’t love being surrounded by your family once more. Your nephew Liam had grown so much since his last photograph that Bonnie had sent you, and the boy was your pride and joy, your favourite distraction when the world became too still.

You spent your days with him while Bonnie worked. Borrowing your mother’s bicycle, you’d let him sit on the back while you rode into town, trying to find various things to do and show him. Belsloe hadn’t changed one bit to your chagrin, and you were quick to run out of interesting things.

If there were an accessible train or bus system, you’d be able to take him to another town or city, like how you and Cora would occasionally travel into Manhattan, but it was not so.

A month passes, and then two.

You dig up a plot of abandoned garden and replant it all, tending to each flower and bushel carefully, nurturing them the best you know how. Sometimes, you’d even package some up on your mother’s bicycle, and ride them into town, pretending you were on delivery. But you weren’t.

You miss your job at the florists, and Cora, and Mrs. Galloway, and Bucky. Bucky especially. Sometimes at night, when you can’t sleep, you’ll open your window and look out at the sky, wondering if maybe sometimes he does the same.

You begin craving the loud and over the top. You go with Bonnie to the dance hall several times a week, usually dragging her out to join you even when she was tired. Surrounded by folk drinking and dancing you can almost forget you’re in Ireland, and find yourself repeatedly looking toward the door, waiting for Bucky to come waltzing in.

Three months pass, and then four.

A local boy, the son of a leatherworker who’d moved nearby after the war, Sean Healy takes a shining to you. You aren’t sure why, you’d never really spoken to him before, but when he asks you to dance one night, you say yes.

He’s sweet, a kind boy, though his palms sweat quite a bit and his movements and flirtations always seem a little nervous. Bucky was always so sure of himself when he moved, or flirted, even in jest. Sean isn’t as tall or broad as Bucky either, his body a little too gangly. You don’t dance with him again after that first night, but that doesn’t stop him from asking.

Almost the whole town knew now, some of the other women even scolding you behind your back for not paying attention to him when it was clear you had no other prospects.

You sigh, and pull your cardigan tighter around your arms, bracing yourself as you begin the ascent up the small hill your house was on. You pass the huge oak, touching it fondly as you go, and look up with a frown when the front door opens and closes hurriedly.

“Belle! Belle!” Bonnie speaks in a mock whisper as she calls out to you, all but skipping up the stone pathway to meet you where you stand, beginning to open the gate.

“What?” You eye her sheer excitement suspiciously, and she takes your hand in both of her own.

“There’s a fella inside for you! He’s talkin’ to Pa!” You immediately groan and roll your eyes, pulling your hand from hers.

“I swear! That Healy boy has gone too far!”

“It’s not Sean, Belle!” Bonnie catches you by the sleeve again as you push past her, your features turning from anger to confusion.

“He’s an American!”

Your heart catches in your throat, your stomach dropping to your knees and you swear you go deaf for a moment as the world seems to freeze around you. The only thing you can hear is your heart beating rapidly in your ears, until everything seems to snap back to normal all at once.

You tear yourself away from Bonnie, racing as fast as you can up the long pathway until you reach the heavy wooden door, and all but break it down to get inside. The loud crash as the door flings against the stone wall makes any previous talk go quiet, and your eyes zero in immediately on the three people in the kitchen.

Your mother stands with her back to the sink, facing the table where your father sits in his usual place at the head. In the spot your mother would usually take beside him, is Bucky. All eyes are on you, and the moment Bucky has looked over his shoulder to find the source of the commotion, he stands abruptly, chair scraping loudly on the wooden floor.

For a moment, nothing else in the entire world exists except for the fact that Bucky is standing in your kitchen, in Ireland, three-thousand miles from where you’d left him.

“Belle.” Your name breathed out like a sigh of relief is barely audible and you can only stare at him for a moment longer before your feet carry you forward. But you stop again, blinking as your senses come back to you, and you look at your parents, and then back to him.

“Bucky… what are you… what are you doing here?!” You try to not sound too excited, and you’re too shocked to cry even, despite feeling as though you might any second.

You see Bucky swallow, and he half looks to your father, but never quite taking his eyes off of you, until your mother speaks.

“Why don’t you take a moment to say hello?”

You step out of your front door once more, Bucky following you closely, the whole moment feeling surreal. Without much intent, you begin walking slowly, Bucky shoving his hands in his pockets as you fiddle with your own in front of you.

“How have you been?” You ask, feeling odd with the formality of the question, but not feeling entirely comfortable to speak freely just yet. Bucky shrugs and nods, and when you look at him, and he at you, you both quickly look away.

“Alright. Bec and Sam got married.” You gasp softly, and coo.

“Oh, I should write her to congratulate!” You say, reaching out for the gate at the same time Bucky does.

Your hands almost touch, but you pull back, unsure and shy, and after his own moment of hesitation, he unlatches it, and you step through.

“Your uhm, home is nice. Just like you described it.” Bucky says, clearing his throat, and his accent is so stark amongst the Irish you’d gotten used to once more, it reminds you again that he was really here, in Ireland, in Belsloe.

“Thank you…”

You reach the oak once more, and Bucky stops to gaze up at it from a few feet away while you choose to begin moving directly around it slowly, kicking the grass a little as you do.

“The fresh air is nice after the trip.” He says, beginning to slowly pace as well, and you hum, peeking at him from around the trunk.

“I thought you said you’d never get on a transport ship again?” Bucky shrugs once more, and tips his head slowly.

“Yeah… well… uh…” He trails off, and you don’t push him, swallowing your nerves as you stop walking, watching as he catches up to you and pauses.

You just look at each other for a long moment before you can look away, off to the fields and then down at your feet as you lean back against the heavy tree.

“Bucky… why are you here?” You don’t mean to sound so exasperated, but truly you were tired. Bucky shoves his hands back in his pants pockets and squints, pursing his lips as he casts his gaze around the fields, and the gardens, up to the house, before he finally lands back on you, pinning you in place as his face relaxes.

“I guess… I guess I felt like I needed to see all of this, what you always missed so much, your family… before I asked you to come back home with me.” Your heart flips and flops like a fish out of water as his words sink in, and he steps a little closer, enough that you have to tilt your head up to look at him.

“I’ve lived in New York my whole life, I know the streets and the alley and the people like the back of my hand and- and yet, the past four months you’ve been gone I’ve felt like a stranger in my own city…”

“…Belle, please come home with me.” Your breathing is shaky at best as he crowds your space slightly, hand reaching out to brush some stray curls back from your face, and then stopping to caress your cheek tenderly. His eyes are imploring, and it's now you can see clearer the bags under them, the way his facial hair is neat, but far longer than he usually wore it, the tiredness in his face.

You try to speak, but your mouth is parched, and it takes you a moment to clear the dryness.

“My-my Pa won’t let me go without a ring.” You say, eyes glued to his, unable to look away at all, even when he drops his hand from your face. You feel a fleeting sense of panic, of rejection, but when his eyes finally tear away from yours, you follow his gaze to the tiny, silver ring he holds in his pointer and thumb between you.

“You think I’d come all this way without a ring?” You blink rapidly at it, and back up at him, your emotions mixing between wanting to burst into tears, and laughing.

“Really…?” You say after a moment, still feeling as though any second you might wake up from the cruelest dream you’d ever had. Bucky’s face breaks into a smile, and he chuckles while nodding.

“Yes, really.”

“Y-you have to ask my Pa proper…”

“I know.”

“Okay…” You stare at one another, your lips quirking slightly, but you’re still far too awestruck.

Like you’re magnetised to one another, slowly Bucky leans down, eyes flickering over your face, even when you shut your eyes, your hands wrapping around his neck and his mouth slotting against yours.

This kiss, the first proper kiss you’ve shared, is calmer than the previous one. Bucky ‘s hand on your face tilts it up slightly, and you can’t help the hot tears that begin dribbling down your cheeks, even as he deepens it. His lips crash perfectly against your own, his tongue light but teasing and making you want more, but you break, pulling apart. You rest your foreheads against one another, just looking into each other’s eyes.

“M’sorry I took so long…”

“It’s okay.”

“Got one request though, darlin’.”

“Whta is it?” You can’t help the giggle that breaks your words and Bucky grins at your smile, thumbs wiping at the tears tracks, his own eyes a little red.

“We’re getting a plane home.”

#bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes/you #bucky barnes/yn #bucky barnes x yn #40s!bucky barnes x reader

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