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hispeculiartreasure · 5 years

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All We’ve Got is Time - Chapter Three | B.B.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

AU: If They’d Survived/Post-War/Window Washer!Bucky Barnes

Rating: Teen | Due to language

Word count: 2,930

Chapter 3/24

Warnings: Very brief language

AN: Y’all are getting this chapter a night early because I have had a supremely shitty week and could use some cheering up. So far, this has been the chapter I was most nervous to write because it’s from Bucky’s POV. I have felt so incredibly unworthy of trying to delve into this character because so many fantastic writers I know and love write him flawlessly. It’s been so intriguing for me to explore what Bucky would be like post-war and I think I’m liking where this is going. This chapter has actually turned into one of my favorites and I’m proud of how it came out. Sidenote: Did y’all REALLY think I was going to write something completely void of Steve Rogers???? If you did, you don’t know me that well 😉

Chapter Two

Series Masterlist

Mondays usually were accompanied by drowsiness and wistful thoughts of a weekend passed.

Not for Bucky.

For Bucky, Monday meant he could return to a life where he blends in, where he gets to be the one who observes everyone else. Washing windows is not what he wants for the rest of his life, but for now it felt good to be doing something useful, to have tangible results in front of him everyday. Monday morning means having someplace to be, a set schedule for his day, someone counting on him, and quiet stretches of time alone and away from the worried eyes of his family members.

The pitying glances over breakfast were becoming a bit much for him. Bucky loved his family to death, wouldn’t trade them for the world. But for all their ability to give him space to figure his life out, they sure were clueless that he was keenly aware of the way they looked at him, the way they spoke to him. He doesn’t really blame them, he wouldn’t know how to handle himself either. Most days he pastes on a smile, tells them not to worry, he’d be back on his feet soon. Maybe if he said it enough times, he’d actually believe it too.

Unfortunately Monday also meant dealing with the rest of the boneheaded window washing crew. He was constantly reminding himself to go easy on them, they were just kids. But nothing made him more aware of his age and veteran status than being around them. Compared to their carefree countenances, he realized how much he’d been through, how much he’d seen, how much he’d survived. He should be grateful they were able to be total idiots instead of being shipped off to war. But most days he was tempted to share the number of his confirmed kills so they would leave him alone.

Bucky scales down the building, wind tousling his hair as he looks up to count how many floors he’s finished.

That makes this. . . six.

He peers through the window, pretending to be checking the glass. Scanning the office, he doesn’t see you - his disappointment surprising him.

In the week in which he’d been working on the east side of the building he’d seen you every single day. The way you carried yourself was what first caught his eye - you were confident, poised, not demanding attention but not morphing into a wallflower. You cared about your work, always looking intense and focused. And you saw him. Not in the way people usually saw him - as a figure in the window, someone to be ignored and walked past. In the smallest of ways you were kind to him. You waved every single day, always had time to spare him a smile. There was something about you that was calming. Granted, your interactions were minimal and nonverbal. But you didn’t make him nervous. Which was a rare occurrence these days.

Something in him just wasn’t working lately. Every girl he took dancing, he stepped on her toes. Try to share a meal, he couldn’t find anything to chat about. Dating was easier before he left. Or maybe everything had gotten harder since he’d returned home.

He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit it. Bucky knew he’d changed, he just hadn’t realized how much. Steve had echoed the sentiment a few nights ago.

Reluctantly, Bucky had allowed his idiot friend and Peggy to drag him to a bar after dinner - how the times had changed. It wasn’t one of their old haunts from before the war. Neither Bucky nor Steve could handle the cacophony of noise a club filled with energetic people brought. They bumped into several groups of those kinds of people, including a raucous group of slightly inebriated young women. Suddenly they felt old, weary, uneasy in a place where they used to belong. Or at least where Bucky used to belong, Steve always argued.

This place was quiet, refined even. Conversations were at a dull murmur while a band played casually. No one was here to drunkenly drown their sorrows or celebrate being alive wildly. Almost like everyone here knew the patrons just needed a rest.

“You realize you two don’t have to invite me on all your date nights, right?” Bucky huffed as the three settled at a table near the back.

Peggy smiled coyly. “Don’t worry, James. You aren’t welcome for the entire night.” Steve choked on his drink, coughing violently while his ears burned pink. Bucky’s response had been something along the lines of “gross”.

After the usual chit-chat, Steve had waited for Peggy to excuse herself to refresh their drinks before broaching the subject.

“Doing okay, pal?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky responded, rolling the last sip of his whiskey in its glass.

“You sure?”

Bucky recognized that voice. Eyes flicking back to Steve’s guilty face, his suspicions were confirmed. “Alright, who’s been in your ear this time? Ma? Becca?”

“I’ve got my own eyes and ears.” Steve waited a beat before adding, “But your ma did mention-” Bucky groaned, not hearing the rest of the sentence. “Don’t be like that. They just care about you, Buck.”

“I know,” he snapped. Then he repeated quietly, “I know.”

“You’ve been dragging a lot. Gotta admit you haven’t been yourself.”

Bucky leaned back, leveling Steve with a hard look. “To tell you the truth, Steve? I don’t know who I am. Nothing that mattered to me before means anything anymore. Once I got to Europe. . . I stopped making plans. Didn’t seem to be much use in dreaming about things that I’d never come home to. But then you, being the punk you are, saved my ass countless times - even caught me falling off a damn train - and somehow I’m back in New York. I didn’t plan on having a 29th birthday or hugging my family again.” He idly scratched at an itchy patch of his beard. “Yet here we are.”

“We’re all lucky to be alive, Buck.”

“But for what?” Silence hung thick in the air at Bucky’s question.

“You know. . .” Steve started, then paused. “I do know where you’re coming from.”

“Don’t try to sell me that bullshit. You’re literally a god-damn hero. There are comic books written about you, movies carrying your name, and you have job security for the rest of your life. You had dinner at the White House on your birthday and bagged a kickass partner in crime. If that’s not purpose, what is?”

Steve had the nerve to look embarrassed. “It may be purposeful. . . but it’s not normal. You know better than anyone else that all I wanted was to do my part in the fight. To say I got more than I bargained for is an understatement.” Bucky could only respond with a snort. “But none of us thought I’d survive the scarlet fever, the arrhythmia, or the anaemia. I was lucky to make it as long as I did. The chances of me surviving the serum injection were laughably low.”

Memories of many days spent at Steve’s bedside float over the table, somehow sobering Bucky even more. “But each year was a surprise. My ma would’ve called it a blessing. I never knew what to do with myself, especially when the war started and I was the only man not being shipped off. . . I was desperate to feel normal. What I got was a hard swing in the other direction.” Steve’s eyes shifted to Peggy at the bar, a whisper of a smile on his lips. “I’m grateful for it, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes I wouldn’t hate it if I had ended up with a stable job, a calm life, and a happy home.

“So I get it. Purpose, normalcy. . . we’re all struggling to find what we lost the last few of years.” Steve clasped Bucky’s shoulder, “But Ma taught me that we always have to stand back up. I don’t care if I have to drag you to your feet, Buck, we’ll get you back up. Whatever we have to do to make it happen.” Bucky knew the stubborn fool in front of him wasn’t going to let him wallow much longer. The tables had turned harshly.

Peggy returned to her seat with three drinks in hand, instantly catching on to the shift in mood that had happened during her absence. Misty-eyed, Steve and Bucky cleared their throats and shifted in their seats.

“And while the pair of you are gallivanting around saving the world, I’m washing windows and living with my family, who don’t know what to do with me.” Bucky had meant it as a joke, but it came out much more bitter than intended.

“Still haven’t heard back from the VA?” Bucky just shook his head at Steve’s question, tossing his drink back in one gulp. “You know you’ll always have a job waiting for you at the SSR as long as me and Peggy are there.”

“Eh, that’s not the kind of normal I’m looking for.”

“What are you looking for?” Peggy asks softly, even gently, for her.

“Guess that’s the million dollar question, huh? A coupla years ago, all I cared about was having a good time and getting through school. Dancing with pretty dames. Maybe get hitched, have some kids.”

“And now?” Peggy prompts in a way that allowed no room for a vague answer.

“I wish I could tell ya, Peg. I really do.”

Peggy’s voice echoed in his mind again.

And now?

Bucky shakes that night from his mind, still not spying you anywhere in the office. Deciding you were either taking a late lunch or were sick, he gets on with his job. Halfway through cleaning the window he notices someone sit at your desk, which was strange. You’ve kept your workplace meticulously tidy since the first day he saw you - surely you wouldn’t appreciate this. Out of the corner of his eye he kept track of the stranger’s movements as he continues to work. Part of him wants to tell the lady to buzz off for you, another part of him can’t wait to watch you take down the person scrambling up your desk, the other part of him. . . . is definitely attracted to the Desk Invader.

He only catches glimpses of her during his task and her chair is angled away from him to tend to a filing cabinet adjacent to her desk, so he can’t see her face. But Bucky could tell she was graceful. Ruby red nails carded through the mounds of files, curled hair shined in its rolled-back fashion. Her dress was a bold blue - and fit in all the right places if he let his mind wander.

Right when he was getting desperate for a look at her, she swivels her chair back to the desk - revealing half of her face. Fine powder, bright red lipstick, nothing he hasn’t seen his sister don at the beginning of her day.

She’s made up like every other girl he’s seen pass through the office. Well, not every girl. You seemed to prefer a utilitarian approach to your appearance, which he didn’t ha--

And then the stranger turns fully towards the window, smiles, and waves at him.

It was you.

Is that actually her?

Bucky leans back in his rigging and takes you in fully. Yeah, looks like the utilitarian approach was out. In was a dame on-trend and truly pulling it off. Before you were beautiful, charming. Now? With the makeup only serving to highlight your features? You were stunning. Shaking his head, he can feel the heat in his cheeks with the realization that he’s been ogling you while you watch. Your smile falters, shoulders drop ever-so-slightly. Not very gentlemanly of you, Barnes.

Bucky touches his own face and hair, raising a brow. Making it obvious that he was looking you up and down, he quirks his head to the side in question.

You roll your eyes so far into your head, a chuckle escapes from him. After a surreptitious glance over your shoulder at the rest of the bullpen, you point towards the office he assumes belongs to your supervisor. He nods. Quickly, but clearly, you raise a certain finger in the direction of the office door.

A laugh emanates from deep in his chest, Bucky’s shoulders heaving. He can’t remember the last time he’s laughed hard enough that his eyes are forced shut. When he opens them again, a similar smile is echoed on your face, definitely pleased with his reaction. You’re sassy. He likes that.

With a remnant of a easygoing-Bucky he’d almost forgotten about, he sticks out his lower lip appreciatively while nodding towards you. Accompanied by a wide grin, he knows you’ve gotten his point. You look good.

You duck your head, but he catches the smile you aim toward your lap. A little something stirs in his chest.

And now?

Then and there, he decides he’s going to allow himself to be impulsive.

Just this once.

Bucky knows for certain he has never completed his job so quickly -and probably never as sloppily. He checks his watch as he smooths down his hair. Just as planned, he’s finished earlier than usual - much to the confusion of the rest of the window washers. After stashing his supplies in the outdoor service closet designated for his team he rounds the building, the front entrance being his destination. The remainder of the team was still cleaning several floors up.

From above Bucky hears his boss shout, “Where you going, Barnes?”

“Don’t worry about it, Harrison,” he shouts back. “I finished. Got something to take care of.”

“You better be here early tomorrow!”

Tucking the tail of his shirt into his slacks, he favors the stairs for the elevator as he climbs to the sixth floor and is met with a giant bullpen of desks and offices.

That’s when it registers exactly how many women work in this office - funny how he hadn’t noticed before you walked in. He’s become accustomed to having little attention paid to him due to the nature of his job but now at least a dozen sets of cat-eye-lined eyes are set on his every movement.

Oh boy.

Trying to be as nondescript as possible he begins to head to your desk when the abrupt clearing of a throat stops him. Sitting at a huge desk immediately in front of the elevator is the most intimidating woman he’s ever seen. Tall and rail-thin, her features seem to be pulled tight with the fastidious bun resting at the nape of her neck. A gold sign affixed to the front of the desk reads: M. Flannery, Office Manager.

“May I help you. . . sir?” Scrutinizing him behind thick-framed glasses, she somehow dons an expression that makes her more severe.

“Umm. . . I’m just looking for someone. . . ma’am.”

“May I inquire who it is you have business with?”

He waves a hand, warding her away from the chock-full appointment book she was reaching for. “No, I don’t have an appointment or anythin’ like that.”

“Then what exactly is the reason you are here?”

“There’s a typist I was hoping to speak with.”

“What is her name?”

Shit.

“Umm, I- we’ve only exchanged pleasantries. I was hoping to catch her name today.”

Mrs. Flannery hums disapprovingly.

“I know where her desk is,” he points to the furthest corner of the office, “she had on a blue dress today. Can I pop over there and say hello?”

“I am afraid unauthorized persons are not allowed past the front desk.” An argument bubbles in him, but he swallows it down after her stern gaze tells him that it was a lost battle.

“. . . Could you ask her to meet me out here, then?”

“The woman you are looking for has already left for the day.”

“Oh.” All his nervous energy deflates and the letdown weighs heavy in his gut. He turns to leave when Mrs. Flannery speaks again.

“You may leave a note with me and I will deliver it to her when she arrives in the morning.”

“I would appreciate that, thank you, ma’am.” He looks down at his empty hands, then scratches the back of his neck. “Got a pad and pen I could use?” She sighs heavily, as if his request is the most inconvenient part of her day. Once she shoves the utensils in his direction, he stares at the paper. In the heat of his impulsivity he hoped he’d see you and know exactly what to say. Now the blank page mocks him. Mrs. Flannery’s pointer finger taps on the desk, urging him to hurry up.

Bucky glances up at the office manager again. “I’m guessing I can’t convince you to give me her name, huh?”

“I am not in the habit of giving out young women’s personal information to every dandy that walks in. I will make sure it gets to the girl in the blue dress.”

Becoming increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze, he scribbles the only thing he could think of and folds the paper twice. Holding out the note Bucky asks, “For her eyes only, ma’am?”

Mrs. Flannery’s eyes narrow as she takes the note from him. “I am offended at the implication that I would violate the privacy of a person’s correspondence.” With an upturned nose she swivels away from Bucky, promptly dismissing him.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

With a spring in his step he returns to the stairwell, whistling a happy tune; purposefully ignoring the room of women still watching his every move.

Chapter Four

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