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espinosaurusrexex · 1 year

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𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰

seven - the thing about lying

BuckyBarnes x Female!Reader

summary: Y/N makes a heartbreaking discovery, Bucky is there to comfort her - some tears are shed, and they finally talk about their feelings.

a/n: Finally! I’m so excited about this one, please enjoy 💓

!Divider is mine. Please give credit when using!

word count: 4.6k

chapter warnings: angst, Agnes is back again, alcohol, general sadness, soft Bucky, fluff, a moment we’ve been waiting for (yes, me too)

✶ 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 | 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 | 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ☾

The streets were unusually busy for the time of day. But Y/N was on a mission to find Agnes. Because even though the evening had played out smoothly and quite romantically for the ‘Barnses’, the nagging thought of things shifting in Westview had kept her up all night. Y/N hadn’t slept, even with Bucky lying next to her, because the pair had collectively decided that neither of them should be left alone last night. But she had spent the night looking up at the ceiling, concentrating on the even breaths coming from the other side of the bed until the birds had started chirping outside the window again. And as soon as the sun had cracked past the horizon, Y/N had been up and about to do something - anything, really.

Bucky must not have noticed. He spent the morning like he did every other lately. Dressing in one of those gorgeous suits, kissing Y/N on the forehead, and heading off to work. At least one of them had slept well despite the events of the day before - and Y/N would have had preferred Bucky to be the one anyway.

So she had left the house right after he had to weave herself through the busy streets of Westview, though she didn’t quite realize what the hustle was about. When she reached the curb by the town square, however, Y/N realized what was going on. She had entirely forgotten that Dottie had ordered the stage plan for the talent show today. And while Y/N tried to sneak past the accumulated huddle of ladies on the sidewalk - because she was sure that Agnes would not be amongst them anyway - Dottie had spotted her and yanked her into the circle of flowery perfume and peep toes.

Y/N recognized most of them from the book club meetings. And even though she appreciated Dottie's attempts to include her in whatever they were doing, she didn’t want to risk being talked into another duty during the show - especially not now that she had something much better to do.

“Ladies, Y/N over here has been such a great help to me lately. Y/N I want you to meet Simone. Simone is our newest event committee member. She replaced Natalie after she couldn’t juggle all the meetings anymore.” Y/N forced a smile upon her face while eager eyes watched her intently. Several faces were still foreign to her, but even those greeted her with a kind smile and subtle nods of appreciation. Of course, she could never tell with the housewives of Westview - behind their backs, there was always someone talked about - but for now, Y/N had nothing to worry about.

A black-haired woman spoke up with a sigh: “Poor thing that Natalie. She was such a sweetheart but she couldn’t keep a man for the life of her.” And all the others agreed in unison.

“A husband would have done her good.”

Y/N couldn’t ignore the light twitch of pain shooting through her at the mention of the name. But who would Balme her? It had merely been months since Natasha’s death. And she did count it as the most life-shattering event of her life. Natasha always talked about children and a partner would have been included in that fantasy of the late black widow. A jeering warmth settled in her heart Y/N thought back to the endless conversation she had with her and Wanda. Talking about ridiculous things and unattainable could-have-beens. She missed those days, even if remembering them brought a big deal of grief back to her soaring mind. Y/N shook her head. She needed to snap out of it for now. There were other things to do and one of them was finding Agnes to get a little more intel on the whole town. Not that she wouldn’t get gossip to last a lifetime from spending five minutes with these women. But the brunette neighbor seemed to have far more interesting knowledge of the former avenger.

“Didn’t she always talk about that one man? The scientist?” Simone pitched into the conversation. Apparently, the topic was not finished yet. And Y/N just stood beside these women, waiting for an opportunity to sneak away.

Another woman nodded her head eagerly, making her deep brown curls bob up and down. “Oh, what was his name again? Brian, no?”

This would be over soon, and Y/N would be back home with Bucky, exchanging small talk and cuddling into his side on the sofa. That was the thing keeping her going, the thing making her endure this unfortunate situation. The thought of Bucky felt like a sip of hot chocolate making its way down your stomach and seeping warmth into every part of your body - it never failed to calm her down, or distract you for the better.

“Y/N, there you are! I’ve been looking for you all over.” A voice ripped Y/N from her warm and delicious thoughts. It belonged to none other than Agnes, who had shown up out of nowhere like she always did.

“You? For me? What-” the black widow stammered, though her muscles relaxed at the possibility of an out.

Dottie’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Oh, Agnes! Come here, why don’t you help us out for a moment. What was that man’s name Natalie always talked about? The redhead - you remember her, right?”

Red-head? Named Natalie and dating a scientist? That seemed like one too many coincidences piling on top of each other. Y/N felt her hands glow clammy as her eyes wandered to the tall brunette who had joined the circle now, anxiously waiting for the answer she didn’t want to hear.

“Why of course! Bruce, I think it was Bruce.” And there it was: the stone falling into the pit of her stomach, weighing her down and drowning all the warm feelings from before.

“Bruce, that’s it!” Dottie agreed. This couldn’t be, could it?

Y/N’s heartbeat crept up her throat as the familiar flames of panic licked up her spine. The number of breakdowns she’d endured over the past month was enough to last a lifetime, but for some devilish reason, she dint seem to catch a break... ever. It wasn’t like she had not thought about it before. Vision was alive, for fuck’s sake! There was no way of knowing who else resurrected from the dead in the town. Especially if Wanda thought them important enough. For all Y/N knew, at least two more panic attacks were walking around amongst the red static walls of Westview and she wasn’t quite sure how well she could handle them this time.

The summery air felt more humid by the second, sweat accumulating on her forehead and as much as she tried to cover the shallow breaths escaping her dried-out lips, she felt as if every woman around her knew all of her secrets. But before she could even attempt to count in pictures before her mental eye, Dottie spoke up once more.

“Okay, now that we have that settled... Y/N what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. Since you won’t be performing at the talent show next week, how about I put you in charge of the pastry buffet?”

The former Avenger shook her head. “Dottie, I don’t think-”

“It’s really not a hard job. All you have to do is hand out the cakes and make sure everything is labeled correctly.” Dottie's blonde hair bounced off her shoulders with every persuading nod. And Y/N was surprised how much it calmed her down to solely focus on that.

She took a deep breath and mustered up a sorry smile for the eager blonde in front of her. She did have a good reason to cancel after all, and the thought of Bucky took the last bit of panic from her body. “No, I- Listen, Dottie. I would really love to help out. But Bucky has something planned for us that day and I really don’t want to cancel on him.”

“Oh? Well, what does he have planned? Can’t he move it to another day?” Irritation prominent on her face, Dottie frowned in her direction with a feigned smile.

“It’s... It’s a surprise?” It came out more like a question than anticipated, but apparently, it was enough for Simone. She clutched her hands to her chest with a puppy-eye look on her face.

“That is so romantic! Of course, we understand, Sweetheart.” Dottie didn’t say anything after that, though her face told Y/N that she was not satisfied with the outcome of the conversation.

“Oh, isn’t your husband just the sweetest?” Agnes laid an arm around Y/N’s shoulders and shook her left to right. “You should see these two together. Now, that is a marriage I would love for Ralph and me to have. But he’s as lazy as they come! Not Bucky, though. Have you seen him, ladies? He’s a hunk if I’ve ever seen one...” But all of Agnes’s words faded into background noise as Y/N’s thoughts became a ringing echo in her head.

It couldn’t go on like this.

As much as the thought of Bucky as her husband warmed her soul and made the butterflies erupt in her stomach, it simultaneously unleashed a longing that could never be catered to. Having Bucky this close was a farfetched fantasy, even if it felt as real as it would ever get every time she stepped foot into that blue house on Sherwood Drive. Y/N had never realized it before. She was too occupied by hiding the flustered expression on her face whenever the topic of her ‘marriage’ came up amongst the people of Westview. But now, as the aftermath of the waves of panic came rolling in, she realized how much of a toll it took on her - and how much it would if this all were to ever stop. She knew it would at some point. Everything felt a little too uncomfortable lately, and it plainly wasn’t realistic to live here forever. Even if Y/N wished it were, there was just no way of this situation going on any longer than it was doomed to.

She loved being married to Bucky. She loved having him closer than ever before even behind the closed doors of their beautiful home. But she also knew that she didn’t want to pretend anymore. It was exhausting and - even though the times Bucky attempted to make up for the mental toll the charade took on her - it would never be enough. It would never be able to fill the cracks of the broken heart she was nursing in her chest. Cracks that silently ripped deeper scars in the most fragile part of her. A part that was covering the deep-settled fear of loneliness with everything it could grab - even if it came in the forms of fake relationships and mocked promises of love.

Y/N knew it would destroy her. It would destroy her because - as she realized in the midst of women swooning over her feigned husband - she was so deeply and utterly in love with Bucky that the thought of ending their foolish agreement would make her heart explode. And the pieces that would be left of her would barely be holding together. She would be too fragile to ever give herself into the hands of another. Too fearful that the breaking promise of devotion would shatter her whole. There would be no one else. Bucky was the one for her and jeopardizing the chance of genuinely being with him by feigning a marriage seemed like the worst idea of the century all of a sudden.

“I- I’m sorry, Agnes. If you would excuse me.”

“Why darling, is everything alright?”

“Yes, I just have this thing- I need to go I’m really sorry.” Her breathing got heavy again, but Y/N stepped away from the women before anyone would notice. Agnes sent her a worried look she caught over her shoulder before stumbling down the sidewalk and away.

When Bucky turned into the driveway and got home that afternoon, Y/N barely registered the rustling in the foyer. She was empty, her eyes zeroing in on the bottle of wine between her legs. There wasn’t a lot of it gone. In fact, the bottle was almost full, but for some reason, it had felt like the normal thing to do. Because that’s how all the housewives in the movies did it, right? Drink their sorrow away in their huge suburban homes or with their girlfriends who were equally desperate to vent about their partners. But Y/N didn’t have any friends here. Well, at least none she could talk to at the moment. Because despite all the welcoming smiles and inclusions, the housewives of Westview were shallow and never bothered for a deep conversation with Y/N. She hadn’t even talked to the guys but she figured they’d be just as useless.

She really hated it. God, she hated how there was never nothing going on. Something always ruined things for her - this time, they were her fault. She knew that, but she was too hung up on the fact that she just couldn’t take a break. The universe was a bitch. It never gave you something without taking another thing in return. And for Y/N, it always seemed to be her happiness. She got to enjoy the weightlessness for a while and then - boom - like a bad magic trick, everything came crashing down leaving her with anxiety and trust issues. It was exhausting to always be on the lookout for the shoe to drop. Always tense and ready to fight, preventing her from enjoying the good times while they were happening. Bucky and she were very similar in that aspect. Though he seemed to be a little more relaxed about everything these days. Whatever happened to him since the Avengers disassembled, it had done him good and Y/N wished for him to let her in on the secret.

“What’s going on?” Bucky stood in the kitchen with his suit jacket lazily hanging from his hand. There was a concerned look on his face and it pained Y/N to know she was the one causing it over and over again. Worry had become a reoccurring state of mind for the super soldier ever since they got to Westview and Y/N didn’t want him to worry about her. She wanted him to enjoy the easy life, and she wanted him to show her how she could, too. But something always seemed to get in her way. She couldn’t go more than a week without panicking initiating another stage of crisis.

Bucky's forehead scrunched in confusion, his jaw tensing making him look lost - out of place. Y/N knew he wouldn’t accept her avoiding the big fat elephant in the room. And even though she did not want to bother him with yet another problem of hers, she had promised him to tell him whenever something felt off. They had both promised it to each other. Y/N was pretty sure that this pact was the one deal sealing them together like glue, but she worried that what she was about to tell him, was going to melt that glue away like acid.

She sighed heavily before circling her thumb over the opening of the bottle. There was no avoiding this. “It’s just...” But she trailed off anyway. How was she going to tell him that she couldn’t pretend anymore? That being with him for real, was her heart's most precious desire? Not without chasing him away, that was for sure.

“Tell me, doll. Please.” Bucky moved to sit next to her on the kitchen tiles. His knee slightly grazed hers, shooting a shockwave of emotions up her leg.

She turned her head to him, tears clearly shimmering in her eyes before her gaze wandered back to the floor where her toes were nervously twitching.

“Have you ever... Do you know what it feels like to wish for something so much that your mind starts thinking it into reality?” She shook her head, feeling a tear tickle her cheek before wiping it away with her sleeve before Bucky could see. “And you’re just hurting yourself with it because it will never happen - it’s unrealistic. But at the same time, it’s the one thing that keeps you going.”

“Until it destroys you.” Bucky completed. His voice had an uneven timbre to it now. As if he was tiptoeing around her - careful not to break her.

“Yes,” she whispered back. There was a short silence before Bucky reached over to retreat the bottle from her shaky hands. His face scrunched up in disgust after he took a sip from it and handed it back to her.

“I know exactly how that feels.” He wiped the remains from his lips with his hand and Y/N found her eyes sticking to them for a heartbeat longer.

“The radio?” She remembered one of their earlier conversations about ‘normal life’ and the way Bucky’s dream had made her heart flutter. All he wanted was a radio in his home. A wife and maybe a TV - that’s what he had said.

But the brunette shook his head with a small smile. His head dipped back on the blue cupboards and he took a deep breath with his eyes closed. “I didn't want it to be fake.”

Y/N looked up at him, his eyes were already on her. What did that mean? Bucky had his leg propped up and his arm rested on his knee. His eyes were soft and conveyed a comforting calmness as he watched her unravel the statement he had just presented. Y/N shook her head in confusion, her hand still clutched to the bottle that was now comfortably resting on her leg.

“Us. I didn’t want us to be fake,” he explained further. Her stare was blank. Surely, the wine could not have had that big of an effect on her. Though she couldn’t help but wonder why she wasn’t able to process his words. But still, her body reacted like it always did to him - tingling and warm.

“When you told me, we should plan our backstory. I didn’t want it to be fake.” He must have been referring to the discussion at the dinner table a couple weeks ago. His reaction had been weird, all shy, and then all of a sudden, resilient and... different. It was an unsatisfying exchange now that she thought back on it. She didn’t get what she wanted from him, but now, he laid it all out for her - honest and vulnerable.

“Bucky-“

“Please let me say this.” Y/N just nodded - a motion for him to continue. She would be listening, she always did. It didn’t matter what Bucky said, she hung onto his lips every time. “I know I should have asked that day Agnes greeted us on the street. But when she said that- When she said we were a couple, I don’t know, I short-wired.” He shifted, both his knees now folded to his chest. “It felt nice, to be normal, you know? It was nice not to be... me.” He glanced at his left hand where his vibranium arm used to be and it was almost as though disappointment swept through his face at the sight of skin. Y/n wanted to tell him that she liked him exactly for being him - Bucky, but she didn’t want to interrupt him either. So she just laid her hand on top of his and waited. “But then when you wanted to plan our story... I realized that’s not what I want.”

“Oh.” Y/N's shoulders slumped and she retracted her hand instantly. It somehow didn’t feel as warm and tingly inside her anymore. And all she could hear were the words ‘not what I want’ reverberating in her head. Bucky had realized how stupid being with her would be. She’d lost him before she even had him.

“Planning it would make it a lie, Y/N.” His hand stretched out to her side, his fingers slightly grazing hers. “And I don’t want this to be a lie,” he whispered.

Oh! She looked up at him at the touch. Her feelings blended like a smoothie and her expressions probably resembled that. “It’s funny ‘cause I’ve never had a problem with lying, it never made me uncomfortable. But you... I need this - us - to be real, do you understand?”

Y/N understood too well. ‘Cause, that was the thing about lying: it never ever turned out the way you wanted it to. Y/N understood that fear more than anyone. And that might have been because she was literally in the exact same position as Bucky when it came to the lie they were talking about.

“I don’t want this to be a lie either, Bucky.” The confession placed a smile on Bucky’s lips as his fingers moved to intertwine with hers. An excited shiver crept up her arms when he scooted closer to her on the floor, butterflies causing nervousness to erupt in her chest. This was a dream come true.

“Is this silly?” He asked honestly, his eyes shimmering with tears in the kitchen. “Because these past few days I have finally gotten to experience what normal feels like. And I don’t want this to be gone. Especially now that I can actually have it with you.”

He slipped away again. But Y/N couldn’t have that now. Not when everything finally fell into place. She had lost too many people to let Bucky go now. Now, that she had the chance to stir his intrusive thoughts in a better direction.

“No, No Bucky listen to me.” Her hands held his face with a firm but gentle grip. “Listen to me: This is not silly. I want this, too. And I completely understand, it’s okay to feel suspicious about this. Especially because nothing ever goes the way we want it to. But maybe - just maybe this time we actually deserve it. You deserve it.”

Bucky’s hands moved to cover hers and press them deeper into his skin. There was a thin shimmer of tears covering his eyes beneath his scrunched eyebrows. They were flickering between hers almost as if they were reveling in the comfort she tried to convey with all her soul.

“Are you sure?” His warm breath tickled her skin - that’s how close he was to her. Mere inches separated soft-skinned lips from connecting and finally embracing the heat brooding between the pair.

“Yes.” Y/N’s voice was only a whisper but she meant her words more than anything.

The seconds ticking by in which Bucky processed her answer felt like hours. But Y/N could wait for them to be over. She had waited months already - there was no difference in dragging it out a little longer if it meant having Bucky be confident in his decision. She would try to keep the excitement at bay. It was easier than she thought, because there wasn’t a trace of nervousness anymore, knowing that Bucky actually felt the same.

When his thumbs suddenly began moving over her skin, his stare softened. A weak smile snuck into the corners of his mouth as it lay crooked on his face. Bucky chuckled softly when the first tear rolled over his cheek.

“I would really like to kiss you,” he rasped out into the space between them, sending Y/N’s emotions into overdrive. She was happy - so happy she could cry.

“Please do,” she managed to choke out. And when Bucky finally moved forward and pressed his lips to hers, the butterflies erupted in a wild storm in her stomach.

Her whole body relaxed into his touch. His hands that were smoothing soft strokes down to her neck, his breath hitching when she kissed him back, moving her lips in synch with his and confirming everything he had ever doubted. This was where she finally felt okay. With Bucky being truly hers and his warm presence encasing her with his all-consuming being. He made her forget about all the bad things of the past days, of all the worries, all the fear and anxiety. This moment felt good - lightweight and free. Something Y/N had wished for a long time now.

Bucky’s hand wandered to the back of her neck, burying his fingers in her hair and tilting her head into him. She sighed into the kiss when she felt his tongue carefully plead for entrance. And Y/n granted it - eager and joyful. Her hands left his face as his traded their position on hers. She stroked over his shirt, feeling every rigid muscle on his chest until they pried their way around his torso. Bucky was warm and beautiful - the most amazing whiff of calmness she ever got to taste and now that she had, there was no way of ever letting it go.

When her fingernails dug into his muscles, triggered by the little moan that escaped Bucky’s lips, he pulled her forward and into his lap. His lips spread into a smile before they resumed their soft attack on hers, making her all dizzy in the process. Bucky’s body pressing up closer to hers with every heated movement, made her body tingle from head to toe. Her hands began pulling in his hair, wandering over his back, abs, shoulders - everywhere she could reach. She wanted to feel all of him - forever.

All the passion and fear and anxiety of the past weeks was tangible in the kiss - drenching it through and through while simultaneously fading into a foggy memory. Still, the possibility of having them back made Y/N lean further into the perfect man beneath her. She buried a fist into his hair suppressing the tears swimming to the surface. This was real and good, and hers. Bucky responded with another pleased moan when his hands wandered up her arms, resting on her elbows and finally leaning his head back on the cupboard door to take a proper look at her. Y/n whined when his lips left hers, her eyes still closed and soaking up the warmth that seeped through her fingertips from his skin.

His chest was heaving when she opened them again, a dreamy look encased her in all its wholesomeness and then, after what felt like another eternity, Bucky’s mouth opened again.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” He pressed her knuckles to his lips while locking his eyes on hers with an honest glimmer.

“I think I just might...” Y/N smiled as her head became hot. Up until a couple minutes ago, she would have bet that she had had a crush on him for much longer - a competition she would always win. But now, she wasn’t so sure anymore. What Bucky had just given her - shown her - felt more sincere than most things in her life ever had.

“Kiss me again,” Bucky whispered while watching his hands caress up and down her arms. “And please don’t ever stop.” His eyes looked softer than ever before, the deep blue of his irises washing over with happiness and longing. Y/N never thought she’d see that in them - especially not for her.

She felt her pulse pounding in her neck when she leaned forward again, an honest smile pulling on her lips when her nose brushed his. “I wouldn’t dare stop, Bucky.”

“Good,” he whispered just as silky. And then Y/N connected her lips with his again, her body molded into his as the faint taste of red wine danced across their tongues once more.

Maybe Westview wasn't all bad fantasies and lies and anxiety. Maybe it was more than that - the start of something truly wonderful, even. Something sincere and happy and pure, just like this very moment.

𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓

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buckyskorpion · 4 years

Text

11 hours - part three

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: we got some spicy things happening this chapter folks!! a lot of natasha too and plot and a tiny bit of fluff at the end. i hope you enjoy!! let me know what you think. i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist

part one | part two

Mrs Shoreditch had agreed to meet you at the cafe you’d been inhabiting daily as you kept watch on Steve’s shop, and you’re waiting for her now at your usual table with unusual trepidation. Your leg is bouncing under the table, you’re darting looks left and right down the street trying to catch sight of her. You have to finish this job - seeing Bucky last night confirmed that. Looking into his friends and his life feels wrong, and you want to end it as soon as possible. It’s none of your business unless Bucky wants it to be.

She’s late, one o’clock ticking by and then some, anxiety hiking with every passing minute. The file on her husband sits unremarkable on the table in front of you, and you drum your fingers against it unconsciously. The sooner this meeting is over the sooner you can move on with your day, maybe go see your dad, take on some normal clients who don’t have eery connections to your personal life and keep you up at night.

Someone approaches the table and you’re about to feel relieved, until you look up and instead of seeing Mrs Shoreditch apologising for her tardiness you find Natasha standing before you. She blocks out the sun, a ring of red wisps escaping her ponytail lit up like a halo behind her head but the calculating look in her eyes is nowhere near angelic. She looks nothing like the girl you met at the party - gone is the sundress, replaced by an outfit weirdly similar to yours. Leather jacket, skinny jeans, Docs and chipped black nail polish you catch as she wiggles her fingers at you in that same, condescending wave.

“Natasha?” You can’t believe she’s caught you, but you’re technically not doing anything wrong right now - you just feel like you are, with the way she’s looking at you like a ‘gotcha’ moment not gone your way.

Natasha nods, smirking, and says, “What a coincidence.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, but you know neither of you believe it. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting Steve,” she says. It takes everything in you not to glance over at the tattoo shop, giving yourself away. You bite the inside of your cheek and keep your eyes trained on hers, furrowing your brows in an approximation of confusion. She waits a beat, you don’t think you’ve convinced her, but then she says, ”He works over there.”

She jerks a thumb to the tattoo shop and you nod, following her finger with bone-deep relief. It doesn’t last long, tension eating it’s way back up your spine as she asks, “What about you? I haven’t seen you here before.”

Been here every day, lady, you think, but say with a tap to the folder on the table, “Work. Meeting a client.”

“Oh?” she asks, an eyebrow raised. She doesn’t question you further, but that in itself is suspicious. Everyone always presses for more with your vague answers - client? For what? Announcing you’re a private investigator kind of ruins your confidential reputation so you often have to work a lot harder than this to keep your work life private. Natasha doesn’t press it, though. Like she already knows. Dread curls low and heavy in your gut.

At that moment, Mrs Shoreditch finally shows up. She doesn’t seem harried, out of breath, or concerned she’s late in any way, shape, or form. She takes the seat opposite you, offering you a smile and placing her ridiculously expensive handbag on the table. With blonde hair tossed over one shoulder, to your absolute horror she looks up to Natasha and smiles at her, too. Recognition, as Natasha returns it.

“You should come over to the shop when you’re done,” Natasha says to you but it sounds more like a demand than a request, shattering the silence with a sledgehammer. You’d miscalculated, somewhere. Something isn’t right.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say, making eye contact with Mrs Shoreditch and hoping Natasha understands. You hardly think Mrs Shoreditch would want you going in there after you reveal that’s the place her husband has been shovelling her money into for months. Mrs Shoreditch avoids your gaze, however, picking at her perfect manicure. It clicks, then. You’re so fucking stupid.

“See you in a minute,” Natasha says, ignoring what you said entirely with a sparkle in her eyes that doesn’t bode well for you. She crosses the street, gone in a second, and you turn back to Mrs Shoreditch as a numbness creeps into your veins.

She’s a typical socialite, perfectly up-kept in every aspect and dressed to the nines even for a rubbish cafe in Red Hook. You didn’t think she was capable of hoodwinking you, and maybe that’s where you first went wrong. She finally meets your eyes, apologetic and almost tearful. She reaches a hand out, resting it on the file you’d prepared as if she realises last minute trying to touch you is a bad fucking idea.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, “I’ve been wasting your time-“

“Natasha hired you to hire me,” you say, cutting her off with the coldness in your voice. She nods mutely, retracting her hand back to her lap as if burned. “You already knew about Mike’s other bank account.”

“Yes,” she admits, rolling her lips together. At least she has the decency to look ashamed. “Ms Romanoff said she’d pay off an instalment of Mike’s debt if I hired you, and I- I didn’t ask questions. I’m so sorry, you seem lovely-“

You don’t wait to hear her finish, standing from the table and leaving your useless file behind without a second glance. You head across the street, for the first time approaching the front door of the tattoo parlour. Natasha knew you’d come here eventually, knew you’d see Steve and start putting dots together. She baited you here, but why? You were Bucky’s fuck buddy, nothing more. Why play this game at all?

You take a deep breath before shouldering the door open, entering the permanent twilight of the shop you’d come to know so well through the lens of your camera. It’s cool in here, the street noise dampened so all you can hear is pop-punk playing low through speakers and the buzz of the tattoo gun. Steve is at the back, bent over someone’s arm and doesn’t break concentration when the bell above the door rings, announcing your entrance. Natasha waits, however, hip propped up against the counter and smiling as she sees you stop at the door, not daring to enter further.

“What do you want?” you ask, calling out across the shop. It draws the attention of the two guys in leather, Steve’s regulars, sitting on the couch in the waiting area. They eye you suspiciously, as does the kid who mans the cash register you often see doing homework instead of his job. Natasha pushes off the counter, beckoning you to the back of the store where you know Steve’s office to be. You follow, heart in your mouth, aware you’re walking further into the trap you hadn’t even known had been set for you.

Natasha closes the door behind you and takes a seat at the desk, covered in stencil designs and files which she seems to entirely disregard as she crosses her feet on top of them, dirt smears be damned. You sit in the chair opposite, back ramrod straight with how uncomfortable you are, and wait for an answer.

“You’re smart,” she says, which is not what you were expecting. You blink, confused by the compliment, and Natasha smirks. “And a lot more observant than Bucky gives you credit for.”

“It’s my job,” you say, unsure of what to give away. Obviously she knows you’re a private investigator or you wouldn’t be in this mess, but she doesn’t know what you know. Not yet, anyway.

“I know,” she says, inclining her head, “I googled you.”

That makes you uncomfortable. Bucky doesn’t even know your last name, how does she? All that she would’ve found is your business website because you’re not stupid enough to put your life online, but still, the thought that she had been trying to look into you makes your blood run cold. You’re starting to really regret going to that party with Bucky - if Natasha’s weird behaviour then wasn’t a tip off, then your deep-dive into their secret lives has clearly shown you there’s a lot more to Bucky than he was ever intending of letting on. Natasha’s intervention in your job merely confirms what you’d already figured out.

“Why did you get Mrs Shoreditch to hire me?” you ask. Natasha regards you for a second, thinking, and it’s a look that reminds you eerily of Bucky.

“I wanted to see what you’d find,” she says. You feel your jaw clench, despite yourself - she’s being evasive even now, and it’s like she can read your frustration because she smiles then, says, “And I wanted to see if Bucky’s choice to trust you was a wise one.”

“He doesn’t trust me,” you say, defensive, too quick. She raises her eyebrows. Frustrated at this cryptic and frankly dramatic conversation, you ask, “Can you just tell me what you want? You’ve wasted weeks of my time and I think I deserve to know why.”

“As I said,” Natasha said slowly, clearly amused at the rise she’s managed to get out of you, “I want to see what you found.”

“Are you going to pay for it?” you snap. You don’t want to tell her - you don’t know why. Clearly, she already knows far more than you ever will, but this is the only thing you have over her and it feels like the most important thing in the world in this moment.

Natasha rolls her eyes and says, “You’ll be well compensated, don’t worry.”

You have a small stare off with the red head before you huff, conceding. That was a fight you were destined to lose, anyway. You grab your laptop from your bag and send a quick email of everything you’d collected to Steve’s business email. His monitor pings with a notification and and you raise your eyebrows towards it, watching Natasha unfold her legs off the desk and lean forward to start reading. You don’t trust her with your laptop as far as you can throw it, so you make sure it’s shut down completely before placing it back in your bag.

Natasha reads for a long time, because you’d found a lot. Her eyes dart across the screen almost too-fast, the set of her mouth growing tenser and tenser as each silent minute passes. You feel a weird, sick sense of satisfaction at that - clearly, you’d surpassed her expectations.

You had been thorough. Pictures of Steve, the kid working the counter, the regulars who park their bikes at the back, the bikes themselves, the inside of the shop from your window vantage point, Sam at one point, Natasha at others, meetings they held and rough angles of deals gone on inside the shop. You couldn’t get a clear shot, but you saw them exchanging money with leather-clad strangers for something. The long hours after closing they spend at the tattoo shop doing everything but tattooing is all captured and saved on your computer. You’d written up a run-sheet of the shop’s routines as well, based on what you’d observed from your little cafe spot - Natasha spends longer looking at that then anything else, mouse hovering over the word you’d written at the bottom. Gang?

You’d researched them all, except for Bucky. He never appeared at the shop while you were watching it, and it gave you the perfect out to leave him alone in your investigation. Steve and Sam had wrap sheets longer than your arm, and Natasha notably had nothing online at all. None of them had social media, which is weird, and the only photo you could find dated back to a highschool cross country picture of Steve and Sam, first and second medals respectively. You refused to look for Bucky. It made you sick just thinking about what you’d find on him, so you decided you just didn’t want to know. Not like that, behind a computer screen in your apartment with a bottle of red-wine half gone beside you. Bucky doesn’t belong there.

You could have kept digging, given more time. It had been eating at you, though, consuming the hours you were supposed to be sleeping and waking you up when you finally closed your eyes. It didn’t matter how much you found, ten more questions would arise from it, and you were becoming obsessed. So you decided to end it. Clearly, you’d come to that conclusion a bit too late.

“Bucky doesn’t know your last name,” Natasha says, suddenly, shocking you enough to flinch. She doesn’t look away from the screen, but goes on, “He doesn’t know you’re a PI, where you live, what you do in your spare time. He knows noting about you, but he doesn’t seem to care. I told him that was stupid.”

You swallow past the hard lump in your throat. You knew Natasha hadn’t exactly warmed to you at that party but you hadn’t expected this level of- what would you even call it? A threat? You feel threatened, a metaphorical knife to your throat as Natasha finally looks at you again, pinning you down with a cold green stare.

“He’s not in any of this,” she says, tapping a fingernail on the keyboard to emphasis your research. It’s not a question, but you know what she’s asking.

“I wasn’t hired to look into Bucky,” you say, refraining from adding because I have self control and I don’t need to invade his privacy to have sex with him. “Anything I need to know, I can get from him.”

Natasha is silent for a long time, staring at you, and you don’t dare look away. This, too, is a test. After god-knows how much time has passed, she stands and you do too, hurrying to grab your bag and meet her at the office door she holds open for you. Conversation over, you suppose - you’re starting to get used to Natasha’s cryptic ways even if they piss you off beyond belief.

“Delete everything you just sent me,” she says. You scoff, rolling your eyes at her, but she stares you down with the darkest, scariest look you’ve ever received from someone who’s a head shorter than you. You think about that word you’d written in your notes, gang, after one too many red wines and thinking back to the way Natasha looked at you when you described them all as a family. Maybe you shouldn’t argue with her, given everything you’d experienced today.

“I’d cover that window if I were you,” you say, instead of answering. A muscle ticks in her jaw but she says nothing else, so you take your leave. Steve waves awkwardly as you go but you ignore him, shouldering out of the shop and practically running down the street.

Energy burns in your muscles that you can’t seem to get rid of, even as you chose to walk all the way back to your apartment which takes over an hour. It’s anger, you realise, fisting your hair and pacing around your apartment like a crazy person. Uncontrollable rage at being played with, tested at every turn, and for what? You never asked to be a part of this game. You’d never done anything but exactly what Bucky asked and it still wasn’t enough.

Your phone begins to ring, Bucky’s name flashing across the screen, and with a scream of pure frustration you throw it full-force into the nearest wall. It makes a dent in the drywall, falls to the ground and the impact shatters the screen but that won’t stop it vibrating uselessly against the floorboards as Bucky rings and rings and rings.

You won’t pick up. This time, or ever again. And not just because you’ve now fucked your phone beyond repair, either. You never asked to play this game, so now you’ll take yourself out of it.

***

This is exactly why you keep yourself so guarded - cutting people out is easy when they have nothing to hold onto. You change your phone number when you go to get it fixed, and it’s like Bucky never even existed. He doesn’t know where you work, where you live, and you don’t go back to any of the bars you went to with him. It’s easier than breathing to remove him from your life.

The same cannot be said about removing Bucky from you.

He’d crawled inside your ribcage and stayed there, burnt a cigarette hole in your heart to claim it as his and you hate that. You never allowed him to do that. So he might not be physically in your life anymore but he’s still there, a ghost of a hand on your throat and an ache that might mean you miss him.

His friends are crazy and he’s in a gang, you tell yourself daily, like it’ll help. Like you believe it even slightly. It’s better this way.

“You’re quiet, kroshka,” you dad says, handing you a cup of tea. You remove your thumb from your mouth where you’d been gnawing at a hangnail to take it, smiling up at him in thanks. He doesn’t go back to his armchair, though, rather kicking a cushion off the couch to sit beside you. You dip with his added weight, closer to him, and he allows you to rest your head on his shoulder while you both blow on your teas in unintentional tandem.

“Kroshka is tired,” you mumble. He clicks his tongue at you, which is fair. Shit excuse, anyway. You sit up, twisting to face him, and ask, “How do I know if I’m overreacting to something?”

“With you, overreacting is baseline,” your dad says, grinning as you slap him on the arm. He takes a sip of tea and says, “Tell me.”

“No,” you say, aware you’re being a brat, but what are you going to say? This woman tricked me and she’s smarter than me so I cut the guy I like out of my life because I can’t let anyone in or I feel like I’m going to die? Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue.

“Well,” he says, giving you an unimpressed look, “If you’re questioning whether you’re overreacting, I would say there might be some truth to the feeling. It’s not like you to be unsure, though. Are you sure everything’s ok?”

“Yes, papa,” you sigh, going back to leaning on his shoulder. He might have a point. “You’ve just raised an idiot.”

“I did no such thing,” he says, placing his tea on the side table to pull you into a hug. You feel small, like you’re a little girl again, and you close your eyes against your father’s chest. Maybe you can just stay here and forget about the mess you’ve made of your life. He rubs circles into your back and says, “You’ll figure it out.”

“Ya lyublyu tebya, luna,” you say softly. I love you, moon. You’ve been saying this since before you can remember, your dad whispering it into your hair when he tucked you in at night or you calling across the playground when he’d drop you off at school. In your secret language so no one else knows, a message just for him - from you to your entire world.

“Lyublyu tetbya bol’she, zvedzdy,” he responds, kissing your hair. Love you more, stars.

He sends you off with a bag of donut holes, an obvious reminder you’re both not actually Russian but New Yorker to the bone, and you eat two on the subway ride home while you think. Deleting Bucky from your life is instinct, protection - he’d gotten too close. But really, when you allow yourself to examine the tight knot of feelings sitting in the base of your throat, what’s making you run is guilt.

You crossed a line, investigating his friends. You pried into the life he very purposefully kept you away from and you’d changed your number not because you didn’t want Bucky contacting you anymore, but because he might decide not to and you couldn’t live with watching your phone for a notification that would never come. Natasha will have told him everything by now, probably even showed him, and he’ll never trust you now. You’d blown it. You could be angry at Natasha for baiting you into doing it, but she never would have felt the need to if you had just been honest.

You stuff another donut hole in your mouth to stop yourself from crying. It works only a little bit.

The apartment feels colder, lonelier than it ever has even though being alone was what you thought you wanted. It just allows you to think of Bucky some more, curled up on your couch with the bag of donut holes now empty on the coffee table, sniffling into the sleeve of your hoodie. His smell, the way he always runs hot, the callouses on his hands probably from working in his garage you’ll never get to see now. Stubble, short-shaven hair, tattoos all down his left arm you never gave proper attention to. You can’t remember them all. Just the star, red and big in the middle of his deltoid. You thought you had more time.

“Fuck it,” you say, fishing your phone out of your jeans pocket. Bucky might not have your number anymore but you have his. Maybe if you just called him and heard his voice for a second, just that rumbly ‘hello,’ it might scratch the itch driving you insane. Before you can dial though, you get a notification from your banking app - a deposit from a new contact.

Natasha Romanoff jumps out at you, stopping your heart in your chest. Does she have a sixth sense for any time you so much as think about Bucky? She’s transferred you an obscene amount of money, and it takes you far too long to realise she’s paying you for the Shoreditch case that turned out to be one giant trust test you spectacularly failed. The reason you’re being a pathetic mess alone in your apartment pining over a guy who, as Natasha said herself, doesn’t even know your last name. Get a grip, Jesus Christ.

You open up the notification just to check it’s real and she really did triple the quote you’d given Mrs Shoreditch. That’s when you read what she’s written as the name of the transaction - an address for somewhere in Queens. You should probably at least think about jumping up, grabbing your jacket and practically sprinting from your apartment to an address sent to you by someone you’re 99% sure is part of a biker gang, but you don’t. You have a pretty good idea of what that address means, and curiosity is your biggest vice. Natasha’s sending you a cryptic message and you might not quite understand what it means just yet, but you’re certainly not going to ignore it.

Half an hour later you’re standing across the street from White Wolf Mechanics, hiding in the gaps between street lights and watching Bucky fix up a motorbike. The three huge roller doors are all open, letting light spill out onto the street as well as the thump of a baseline from a song you recognise, because you showed him it. Natasha sits on the work bench cross legged, scrolling on her phone and occasionally handing Bucky tools as he asks for them. He stands, wipes his hands on his skintight black t-shirt and says something into the depth of the shop. Sam appears, grinning wide and tossing a greasy rag at Bucky’s head which he catches easily.

He seems well, and that makes you happy. It’s only been a couple of days since you last saw him but it might as well have been months from how much you’ve spiralled. He might not have even noticed you’d separated yourself from him, and that thought makes you sick. You should go. You need to go. But your feet carry you across the street, jogging into the shadows so they don’t see you. You’ll hear his voice and then you’ll go.

You linger by the farthest roller door from them, sticking outside the pool of light and half-hiding behind the wall of the shop. You can still see them, though, Bucky’s face now turned towards you as he learns over the bike. Brow furrowed in concentration, and you want to smooth out the dent between them with your thumb but that’s not for you anymore. It never was.

“Have you talked Sam about it?” Natasha asks Bucky. You watch him glare at the part he’s holding in his hands and his whole body stiffens. He keeps his back to Natasha so you can see the anger play across his face clear as day.

“What’s there to tell?” he snaps. “You’ve taken care of everything, fuck what I want, so what’s the point?”

“Cut it out, James,” Natasha snaps back, “You know I was protecting you.”

“When did I ask,” Bucky grits out through a clenched jaw, throwing the part to the ground so the clang of metal on stone echoes out onto the empty street, making you jump. He balls his fists up at his sides and says, “You were out of line.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says evenly. She unfolds herself from the table with an unfair amount of grace and steps behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Bucky sighs, shoulders curling in and tension leaking out of his body. You want to hug him, but you will yourself to stay where you are.

Eventually, Bucky shrugs off Natasha’s touch and says, like a moody teenager, “Whatever.” Natasha rolls her eyes, watching him go back to work on the bike with a bit too much aggression that is strictly necessary. She hands him the part he threw silently, and it takes him a beat to unclench his fists and take it. A peace offering, you suppose, in Natasha’s strange language. She doesn’t go back to the workbench, rather staying by Bucky’s side despite his annoyed grumble.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she says, “You proved me wrong, and I’m not too proud to realise that. I am sorry.”

Bucky looks up at her, as confused as you feel because where the fuck did that come from, and says, “Proved you- have you completely lost it?”

But Natasha isn’t look at him anymore. She’s looking at you.

Busted, you think, and you consider turning around and running before Bucky can see you. It’s a bit late for that, though, so you step into the light of the shop and halfheartedly return Natasha’s welcoming grin. It takes Bucky a second, snapping his fingers in front of Natasha’s face like he’s worried she’s actually gone in insane before he follows her eyeline and lands on you.

You’ve never seen Bucky shocked before, but he looks it now as for the second time the spare part he’s holding hits concrete with an ear-grating clang. You flinch at the sound despite yourself, and that seems to shock Bucky back into action. He whips around to glare at Natasha, pointing at you as he does.

“What did you do,” he demands. Maybe coming here really was a bad idea after all.

Natasha, ignoring Bucky completely, walks over to hold out her hand for you to shake. I’m lost, you think, as she says, “Let’s start again. I’m Natasha, James is the only family I have and I’m neurotically protective of him. He’s right to trust you, as much as it pains me to say I’m sorry for meddling in your relationship.”

You don’t take her hand. You’re not entirely sure you want to forgive her just yet, even if she did extend the olive branch to get you here. You fold your arms over your chest and say, “Next time, if you want to know something about me, just ask.”

She quirks an eyebrow at you, retracting her hand back to her side and you hate the way she always seems to be laughing at you. Natasha ducks her head, smirks, and disappears into some back office without another word. It’s just you and Bucky, the body of a bike between you as well as the weight of all the things you never said that’s all out in the open now. You’re looking at each other like you never have before, eyes open to the vast chasm of secrets you’ve both been keeping, and for the first time since you met Bucky you keep your distance.

“So,” he says, folding this arms over his giant chest. Not fair, you think, as his biceps flex against the tight sleeve of his t-shirt. Bucky averts his eyes to somewhere beyond your head and says, “You’re a private investigator.”

“You’re in a biker gang,” you reply, mimicking his folded-arms tight-lipped expression. He raises his eyebrows in a silent touché, and now that it’s out in the open you feel something inside you break off, slide down the tense hunch of your shoulders until you feel weightless. You should want to lock up tight, keep Bucky out because he’s gotten far too close already - you should use this blight as an escape. Somehow, though, having Bucky see you like no one else really has doesn’t feel as scary as you thought it would. Maybe because you have something of him, too, tucked against your head and healing that metaphorical cigarette burn. A secret for a secret. You can work with that.

“You changed your number,” Bucky says, and he’s walking over to you now. Guard dropped, hands by his sides, pinning you in place with his eyes on yours for the first time in what feels like centuries.

“I was scared,” you say, coming out more like a breath than a sentence, too transfixed with Bucky being so close to you when you never thought you’d get this again. He smells like car oil and sweat, but you’ll take any gross combination over nothing at all. He places his greasy hands either side of your neck, pulling you closer so practically standing between his legs.

“You know,” Bucky says, rubbing his thumb over the protrusion of your collarbone like he’s trying to turn your brain and legs into jelly, “Nat doesn’t have a high opinion of a lot of people. She means a lot to me.”

“She’s terrifying,” you say, and Bucky throws his head back in a laugh that has you grinning like an idiot. That sound settles warm in the pit of your stomach, spreading through all the dirty guilt and fear you’d been living in for the past few days. Biting your lip as you sober slightly, you say, “I’m sorry for prying, I should’ve just-“

“Don’t,” Bucky says, stern, shutting you up pretty effectively. “I’m sorry Nat is a nosy bitch-“

“Hey!” Natasha’s voice comes from the back office, startling you both into laughing even as Bucky turns to face the door with a murderous glare on his face.

“Don’t you have anything better to do!” Bucky yells, voice thundering through the echoey garage. He waits few beats for absolute silence, neither of you convinced Natasha had actually left, but it’s the best you’re going to get. He turns back to you, small smile on his face so at odds with how rough and messy he looks. Hulking muscle and scars and tattoos and you should be cautious, should be running, shouldn’t be letting him back you up until you hit the wall and he can pin you there with his hips pressed into yours.

But you’ve never been one to ignore something as intriguing and mysterious as Bucky Barnes, no matter how dangerous it might be. Bucky slides one hand up from your neck to splay across your jaw, fingers pressing almost too tight into the soft skin, and you should run from this, too. A reminder, a promise, a warning. You let him.

“Are we even?” Bucky asks, mumbled into the minuscule space between you. You can’t find your voice so you just nod, and Bucky cocks his head to the side as he asks, “You can still leave, y’know. I’ll understand.”

“No way,” you say with a vigorous shake of your head, probably too quickly if Bucky’s amused smirk is anything to go by. You shut him up real quick with a roll of your hips into his, watching with a sense of victory as his expression darkens and he tightens his grip on you. You say, eyebrows raised, “I’ve still got way too many questions.”

“Like what?” Bucky asks, but he’s not got his full attention on what you’re saying anymore, too busy using his grip on your jaw to tug your head to the side and kiss up your neck, warm and open-mouthed with just a bit of teeth.

You nod your head towards the bike he was fixing before, drawing his attention for a second as he flicks his eyes in its direction before resuming his trail of bruising kisses. A bit breathy maybe, you say, “Ever fucked someone on a motorbike before?”

“Absolutely not!” you hear a male voice practically scream, and soon enough Sam is practically running out of the back office with a smirking Natasha on his tail. “This is our place of work! It’s sacred!”

“Go home, Sam,” Bucky says into your skin, still loud enough for them to hear but he doesn’t get off you. You’re blushing, making eye contact with Bucky’s friends and wishing the ground will swallow you whole but Bucky just digs his teeth into the crook of your jaw and grins as he watches your eyes flutter shut. This mixture of embarrassment and unadulterated horniness is making your brain short-circuit.

“My eyes!” Sam cries as Natasha grabs him by the wrist and drags him from the garage. Not without a wink sent your way, and you’ll find time to be humiliated by that later. Right now, you’ve got Bucky’s mouth on yours to contend with and it’s going to take all of your attention.

Part 4

~~~

let me know what yall think of this part!! THANK YOU

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