Archive of Our Own

Note (6/27/21): I have updated the look of the text messages in this fic to make them more visually realistic. If you need or prefer a more stripped-down version (basic text; no color; with name tags on the text messages to indicate who's speaking), you can click on the "Hide Creator's Style" button at the top of the page. I'm actively working to make my fics more accessibility-friendly, so if you have any trouble with the formatting, please let me know and I'll see if there's anything I can do to improve it.

No matter how long the winter, spring is sure to follow.
     -African proverb

It started with a napkin.

That girl from the labs— Darcy was her name, according to Steve— had been sitting at the table next to them, talking and laughing with some of the interns from R&D while she ate her lunch— if that’s what you wanted to call the poor excuse for food that she had on her tray…

He’d watched as she’d mowed her way through three of those single-serving bags of Cheetos that were always sold out of the vending machines, and now she was sipping on an extra-large iced coffee that looked like it had as much cream and caramel in it as anything else, and Bucky’d been pretending not to notice the way her lips closed around the wide plastic straw in between giggles and salty-mouthed exclamations like ‘he fuckin’ didn’t’ and ‘get the fuck out of town’ and ‘he can kiss my sweaty ass.’

That last one had him thinking about said ass, which, over the last week-and-a-half of covert observation, he’d noticed was probably the finest he’d seen around the compound— and that included the female members of the strike team, whose high-performance nylon-spandex tac pants left little to the imagination.

He’d thought he’d been doing a passable job of watching-without-watching— until she stood up with her friends, threading her curvy body between their two tables as she carried her tray of empty chip bags in one hand, and her gigantic coffee in the other— and then a napkin that she’d left on the tray got caught on a stray air current, sailed off the tray like a paper airplane, and drifted to the floor behind her.

It was instinct, more than anything: saw her turn, her face saying, “Aw, shit,” as clear as if she’d said it aloud... not wanting to litter so blatantly, but frustrated, because her hands were full, and was she really gonna have to set it all down just to—

Before he'd even finished processing it, he found himself pushing up out of his seat and then bending down to grab it for her; put it back on her tray with the rest of her garbage, and a quick flick of his eyes to her face— where he saw an expression of surprise, and then something else he couldn’t immediately identify. Maybe would have called it flirtatious, if it hadn’t been directed toward him...

“Thanks, soldier,” she said, with a big friendly grin, showing off the gap in her teeth; and his heart skipped a beat, thinking at first that she’d meant Soldier, with a capital S: wondering how much she knew about him, what she’d heard... until she quickly followed it up with, “It’s James, right?”

“Yeah,” he said gruffly, even though nobody called him ‘James’. It sounded stiff and wrong, like something a doctor would say when flipping through a chart— but he didn’t want the first thing he said to her to be a criticism, so he just stood there and cleared his throat, feeling like an idiot: staring at her, nothing to say, but not knowing how to escape, either.

Some operative he was: the fuckin' Winter Soldier, completely hamstrung by a five-foot-four girl with a pretty smile.

“Well, thanks again, James,” she said, with another flirty grin, and then flounced back around— jogging to catch up with her friends, who were waiting for her by the door, and who immediately began to rib her as soon as she rejoined them. She dumped her trash and put the tray on top of the bin, and he was still standing there, watching, when she turned her head around to look back once, on her way out the door.

He heard Wilson’s voice behind him: something like "Hooo-boy", definitely amused— had witnessed the whole sorry spectacle— including, no doubt, the way Bucky’s eyes had dropped to the swing of her ass as she’d sauntered away, and the mischievous smile on her lips when she’d looked back. Wilson was loud enough that the guys at the adjacent table looked up to see what the deal was, and Bucky scowled as he sat back down.

Wilson wasn't done: “You’re in trouble now, Barnes.” The man was positively jubilant; elbowed Barton, who was still engrossed in the pornographic flip-book that’d been making the rounds for the past thirty-six hours, ever since Mason had found it abandoned in the ladies' locker-room.

“Huh?” said Barton, looking up. “What’d I miss?”

“Barnes,” said Wilson, smugly. “Checkin’ out that lab girl’s ass. Didn’t know Mr. Cold-as-Ice had it in him.”

“You mean Lewis?” said Barton, and it pissed Bucky off, that the man knew right away who Wilson was talking about, even though he hadn’t looked up once during the entire lunch break. Maybe Bucky hadn’t been as subtle as he’d thought. The possibility bothered him. A lot.

“Yeah,” said Wilson. “Shoulda seen the look she gave him, too.”

“Oh yeah?” said Barton. “What’d it say?”

Yeah, thought Bucky, in spite of himself. What did it say.

“Let’s just say she wasn’t tellin’ him to keep his eyes to himself. Maybe not his hands, neither.”

“Better watch it, Barnes,” said Barton, as he went back to the flip-book. “I heard she tased Hammond in the balls.”

“Yeah?” he said, happy to shift the focus to someone else, even if it was that asshole Hammond. “Why’d she do that?” He was shuffling his fingers through the dregs of the shitty institutional french fries, now gone cold. He ate them anyway, and then wiped his hands on his napkin and balled it up, tossing it onto the tray as he leaned back in the cheap cafeteria chair.

“Word is, he got a little fresh when he was droppin’ her off after a date,” said Barton. “Wouldn’t take the hint, so she gave him a better one.”

“What kinda girl takes a taser on a date?” said Wilson.

“Smart one,” Bucky found himself saying, and then he added, a little sourly, “Don’t know why she’s wastin’ her time with a knucklehead like that, anyway.”

“Shit,” said Wilson, elbowing Barton again. “You hearin’ this? Guy’s jealous already, and he ain’t even asked the girl out yet.” He was shaking his head now, a big grin on his face. “Trouble, Barnes. So much trouble.”

“Fuck off,” he said, picking up his tray as he stood up. He could still hear Wilson snickering behind him as he walked away, and he dumped his garbage, tray and all, straight into the opening on the trash bin on the way out.

Barton was working the flip book again— cackling as he watched the lewd images come to life— and Sam grabbed it away from him, feeling very pleased: both with himself, and with Barnes' reaction. 'Bout time the man got back in the game. “Gimme that thing," he said. "You been hoggin’ it all morning.”

“What do you know about Barnes,” said Darcy, striking what she hoped was a casual tone. She was sitting at the big central workdesk in the lab, doodling little whirlpools and figure-eights in the margin of the printout she was supposed to be copyediting.

“You mean, formerly-Sergeant Barnes?” answered Jane, looking up from her tablet. “Steve’s friend?”

“You know anyone else named ‘Barnes’ around here?”

“Well, there’s that guy from accounting; isn’t his name Barnes?”

“You mean the creep with the bad hair and the tragic baggy-ass pants who talks to my tits every time we cross paths?” Her pen stopped moving as she looked up at her friend. “And by the way, his name isn’t ‘Barnes’; it’s ‘Baines.’”

Jane just looked at her like, ‘Well?’

Darcy rolled her eyes. “Gee, Jane, which one do you think I’m asking about? Creepy McCreepster accountant guy, or the smoking hot super-soldier with the cool metal arm and the ass that launched a thousand ships?”

“That figure of speech totally doesn’t work when you change it to ‘ass’,” said Jane, frowning. “It makes it sound like he’s farting the ships off to sea.”

Darcy raised her eyebrows. “How dare you,” she said, in mock-seriousness. “Have you even seen his ass in those tac pants? Apparently not, or you wouldn’t be dorking out on the correctness of my metaphor. You’d be nodding your head and agreeing with my ass-worship.”

“It’s not a metaphor,” said Jane, making Darcy roll her eyes. “And anyway, how would I know you weren’t talking about...Baines?” She said the name emphatically, just to prove she’d been paying attention. “You’ve dated some pretty weird people in the past few years...”

“Janey…”

“Okay, okay… I might know some things. What do you want to know?”

“I dunno; all the normal stuff, like is he nice; does he like girls; is he dating anyone?”

“I don’t know about the last two, but from what I’ve seen and heard, I guess you could say he’s nice. I mean, as much as a guy whose life revolves around the expert wielding of guns and knives can be characterized as ‘nice’…”

“Anything else?”

“I mean, I’ve only been around him a couple times, when he was getting his arm worked on in Tony’s shop. He was… ‘shy’ isn’t really the right word. ‘Quiet’ maybe? Polite.”

“Hmm…” said Darcy. She’d gone back to doodling.

“Thor’s only said good things about him,” supplied Jane helpfully. “Like that he’s a ‘good man,’ and a ‘fine warrior.’ You gonna ask him out?”

“Maybe. He seems kinda nervous. I don’t wanna scare him off. You know how I can come on kind of… strong…”

“You do know he’s like a former World-War-Two sniper-turned-assassin, and that half the recruits pee their pants when he walks by, right?” said Jane. “You really think you’re gonna scare him?”

“I thought you said he was polite. Why is he making people piss themselves?”

Jane chuckled. “I don’t know. Thor thinks it’s funny. I guess because he’s such a nice guy, but everyone’s scared of him anyway.”

Darcy’s forehead wrinkled. “That doesn’t sound funny to me. Seems kind of sad. Today in the cafeteria, he looked like he wanted to… flee.”

“Maybe it’s love at first sight,” said Jane. She stuck a stick of celery in her mouth and started crunching on it, loudly.

“How can it be love at first sight, if he’s been watching me for weeks?”

“Wait, he’s been watching you for weeks?” Jane was talking around the celery, but Darcy could still make sense of her garbled words.

“Okay, that may be an exaggeration,” she said. “I’ve only noticed him watching me for, oh... the past nine days or so. But he might’ve been looking even before then, in a sneakier way…”

“You sure he’s watching you in that kind of way? Maybe he’s just paranoid.”

“Pretty sure,” said Darcy. “He checked out my ass today, when I was walking away.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean anything,” said Jane. “You’ve got the best ass in the compound. Next to your potential boyfriend’s, apparently.”

“True,” said Darcy. “But I know what I saw, and he was… nervous. Like, cute-awkward. You know how that’s my kryptonite, and combined with a face like his…” She slumped back in her chair. “Jesus. I might have to knock off early and go spend some important personal time in my room…”

Jane snickered and started working on another piece of celery. “Maybe he’s just… out of practice. Wasn’t he supposed to be, like, a natural with the ladies? I mean, what if he hasn’t dated anyone since…”

“1945? God, that’s sad.” Darcy was staring into space now, thinking about it.

“Yeah,” said Jane, sighing. “It must be hard, after everything he’s been through.”

“Yeah, that too,” agreed Darcy.

Jane started laughing again. “Wait, what were you thinking of?”

“The tragedy of that beautiful mouth going to waste.” She let out a dramatic, careworn sigh. “Maybe he could use a little nudge in the right direction.”

“Key word being ‘nudge’,” said Jane, her voice stern. “As in, gently. I’ve seen your ways, and now that I’ve been persuaded by your hypothesis that the man might be nervous, I’m feeling weirdly protective of him.” She pressed her lips together and then released them, letting out her own sigh. “But I think you should go for it.”

When Darcy grinned, Jane immediately added, raising her voice, “But go easy! Don’t terrify the super-soldier.”

“How do you know he’s not gonna terrify me?” said Darcy. “Like, with feelings and stuff?” She’d meant it to be a joke, but somehow it didn’t come out that way.

“Aw,” said Jane, and she put down the last stick of celery instead of biting into it. “That would be the sweetest terror ever. I’m gonna get all gooey now, thinking about it: Darcy in love...”

“You?” said Darcy, raising her eyebrows. “Gooey? Please…”

“Hey, I may never get to live those first-time tingles again, so let me experience them vicariously through you, okay?”

“I’m gonna remind you that you said this, when I’m actually all lovesick and annoying, you know.”

“Do your worst,” said Jane, and took a big bite of celery. “It’ll be worth it.”

Thwack— pause...
Thwack— pause...
Thwack— pause...

Bucky and Steve were in the gym, tossing around the largest medicine ball— the 100-pounder— like a father and son playing catch, throwing it back and forth, trying to trip each other up by shifting distance or trajectory just before releasing it. So far, neither of them had missed.

And then Steve paused a little longer on his turn— delaying his throw just long enough to time its impact with the words he tossed out: “So I heard you were checking out Jane Foster’s friend. Darcy.”

THUMP.

The ball got Bucky right in the gut, and he staggered a little, even as he managed to hang onto it. Steve grinned.

“You’re like a buncha fuckin’ women, the lotta you,” said Bucky, as he wound up his return, still recovering from the blow. “You have a girls’ night or somethin’? Get all the latest gossip?”

Thwack.

Steve caught the ball easily, and returned it just as quickly. “Whyn’t you ask her out?”

Thwack.

“Yeah, and where’m I gonna take her? Huh? Dinner in the cafeteria? Stroll around the running track?”

Thwack.

Steve was silent, so Bucky added, “Not like I can take her to the pictures or nothin’.”

Thwack.

Noting that Bucky hadn’t bothered to deny the desire to take the girl out, he said, “Why not? You always liked goin’ to the pictures.”

Thwack.

Bucky held onto the ball this time, panting a little, and stopped to wipe the sweat off his forehead with the hem of his athletic shirt. “Yeah, before.” He’d said the word almost derisively. “Jesus, Stevie, come on. Can you picture me in a movie theater? All those entrances and exits; openings up above, behind us? Shadowy figures in front ’n’ behind? Music cranked up so loud, can’t hear what’s happenin’ two feet away?”

“Yeah, all right,” conceded Steve. He made ‘come on’ hands to Bucky, asking him to throw the ball back.

Thwack.

“Don’t have to be anything like that,” he said, still pressing. “Just buy her a coffee or somethin’. If she likes you, she won’t care what you’re doin’. Just hang out. Give her a chance to get to know you better.”

Thwack.

“Get to know me better,” echoed Bucky. “Right. Like how good a shot I am at three thousand meters? Or maybe my kill count in Chechnya? Girls love that…”

Thwack.

“I’m sure she already knows some of your… history,” said Steve. “She’s not stupid. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Thwack.

“You seriously askin’ me that?”

Thwack.

Steve didn’t reply, so Bucky elaborated. “Maybe… maybe if I don’t wind up hurtin’ her, maybe I’ll find out what I already know: that I ain’t cut out for this kinda stuff no more.”

Thwack.

“Bullshit you aren’t,” countered Steve, his voice even.

Thwack.

“Maybe you’ll find out you are,” he continued, “and that’s what’s really scarin’ you.”

Thwack.

Bucky held onto the ball again, circling around a little as he tried to think of what to say; how to convey to Steve that this was a terrible idea, for so many reasons... but all he could think of was how bright her smile had been when she’d thanked him; how cute that little gap in her teeth was; and how he’d like to know what those lips felt like, pressing into his…

“I get it, Buck, believe me,” said Steve, his voice a bit more gentle now. “I know it’s easier, not puttin’ yourself out there. But she’s a nice girl. I’ve talked to her, a bunch of times. Smart, too.” He mopped the sweat off his own forehead and gestured for the ball again.

Thwack.

“Just don’t shut it down before it can even get started,” he added.

Thwack.

“Unless you really like takin’ all those extra-long showers…”

Bucky gave him a look that essentially said, ‘Oh no you didn’t,’ and then hurled the medicine ball with such force that Steve instinctively ducked, and the ball slammed through the wall-sized span of glass windows twenty feet behind him, shattering them spectacularly and showering the gym floor with thousands of tiny shards of broken glass and pulverized dust.

“Oops,” said Bucky.

“I am not payin’ for that,” said Steve, and then he started laughing.

“Hey, guys; whatcha lookin’ at?”

“Oh, hey, Darcy,” said Steve, looking up; casually slid the flip-book back to Barton, who tried to hide it under his sleeve. Bucky just rolled his eyes and tried not to look too awkward as he shifted his tray over, making room for the girl to sit down next to him at their table.

“That’s not one of those flip-books, is it?” she said, and leaned forward, making grabby hands toward Barton. Bucky stifled a laugh: those idiots hadn’t fooled her for a second.

Barton, to his credit, simply handed it over, while Steve dropped his forehead into his hand, his cheeks pinking slightly.

“Oh,” she said, as she flipped through the well-worn book with her thumb, revealing its smutty magic. “I’ve seen this one a million times already. You gotta check out the new stuff.”

When the guys all looked at her blankly, she said, “Series three?”

Still nothing. She slid the little book back to Barton and said, “Talk to Michel in purchasing. He’ll hook you up.”

“Thanks, Darce,” said Barton, giving her a grin and an eyebrow wag that Bucky felt was entirely too suggestive. He shifted uneasily in his seat, tapping his metal fingers on the table— glad Wilson wasn't there this time, to sniff out his premature jealousy. Darcy, for her part, just flashed Barton a sassy smile and shot him with cute little pistol hands.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Steve— apparently recovered from the shame of being caught actually being human, looking at dirty cartoons like everyone else in the entire goddamn compound. Bucky almost laughed at him: what a dumbass. But then Steve went on to say, “We owe you one. Maybe we could buy you a coffee?”

“Oh,” she said, looking a little confused. He didn't blame her; the offer from Steve was stilted and weird— like he was suggesting the three of them all take her out, simultaneously. “Uh… okay? I mean, I love coffee…”

“Well, I got something I gotta do right now,” said Steve— stood up before Bucky could try to crush the guy's foot under the table with his boot— and when Steve gave Barton a stupidly blatant look, the archer stood up as well.

“Yeah, me too,” said Barton, struggling to keep a straight face. "See ya, Darcy," he said, and then the two of them hightailed it out of there like a couple of idiots. Assholes thought they were so clever.

“Sorry about those jerks,” said Bucky, feeling awkward as hell, now that it was just the two of them sitting there, side-by-side, at the big cafeteria table. To his horror, he felt his face heating up. "But, uh… if you still wanna get a coffee, I uh… I could—”

“Oh,” she said again— with that same note of surprise— and his heart fell a little... but then she quickly followed up with, “I wish I could, but I have to get back to Jane by twelve-thirty, or she’s gonna freak out. She needs me to write down the coordinates for a bunch of shit while she reads them out to me. I don’t know why she doesn’t just use a speech-to-text app like everyone else on the planet…”

It was the most she’d ever said to him— just to him— and he was smiling at her like an idiot, as though she’d said something really funny or entertaining, instead of just reporting the mundane details of her work duties. He was sure she was going to follow it up with some kind of exit strategy but then she surprised him:

“But I’m free around this time tomorrow…”

He was speechless for a second: hadn't expected her to actually say 'yes'.

“I mean, if you want to…”

“Yeah,” he said, too loudly, and then cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he repeated, in a more normal voice. “Uh… you wanna meet by the coffee cart? The one by administration; not the one up on three.”

“Good choice,” she said, looking at him appraisingly. “Three doesn’t stock the scones with the orange glaze.”

He grinned involuntarily— caught her eyes dropping down to look at his mouth— and something unfurled in his gut, like the shiver of a memory: a warmth that spread through his limbs like liquid, and he had about a second to think, Jesus, get a hold of yourself. He had the feeling he was about two seconds away from giggling like a schoolgirl.

“So anyway,” she said, and she was pushing up from her seat now, so he stood up too, remembering his manners. She was smiling more shyly at him— having to look up now, as he towered over her. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then. Twelve-thirty okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Twelve-thirty's fine.”

“Okay,” she said, and then gave him one more grin before swiveling around with a “See ya,” and then hurried off, back to her duties.

As soon as she was gone, Bucky blew out the breath he’d been holding, and then felt the tingle of eyes on him: glanced over to the group of guys at the table next to him; didn’t miss the smirks on their faces as they quickly looked away.

“Assholes,” he muttered, as he grabbed his tray, and then stomped his way over to the trash bin.

Steve had just finished up a training session with some of the recruits— was zipping up his duffel, ready to go, when he heard his phone buzz. Fished it one-handed out of the side-pocket, and checked his messages. It was Bucky. He'd taken to texting better than Steve, and preferred it to regular phone calls.

"Shit," said Steve, under his breath. Put down his water bottle, and wrote back:

When Steve stepped into the apartment that he and Bucky shared, he immediately got a case of déjà vu: there were piles of clothes strewn all over the back of the couch, and he could hear the sound of Bucky pacing in the bathroom, muttering to himself.

“Jesus,” said Steve out loud. “It’s just like old times.”

“I look like an asshole,” said Bucky, emerging from the bathroom— looking weird and wrong in some flat-front pants and a short-sleeved button-down shirt that Steve hadn’t even known the guy owned.

How many times had he done this, back when? Watched Bucky pace around, ripping through his wardrobe, getting ready for a date. It’d been so long since he’d seen it happen, he’d almost forgotten about it: how much of a routine it’d been. Fussing over his clothes, fixing his hair… it was almost like stepping back in time. Almost...

His hair was different now, for one thing: long and loose and a little unkempt, like he left it now— unless they were in the field, when he’d tie it back. And that was a pretty big sign right there, that this wasn’t the same Bucky as before. Not as vain, not as tidy. He'd barely run a comb through it— though clearly some part of him was trying to do what he'd done before; repeat the ritual.

“I wouldn’t say an asshole, but…”

“But what?” pressed Bucky. He was already working the buttons on the shirt, needing to rip it off.

“Well, it doesn’t seem… you,” said Steve, gesturing to the stiff-looking pants and shirt.

“Don’t feel like me, neither,” said Bucky, as he pulled the shirt off and tossed it aside, adding it to the pile on the couch.

“It’s just coffee, Buck,” said Steve, gently. “You don’t need to dress up or nothin’.”

Bucky sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Yeah, I know. Don’t know why I’m doin’ this.”

“Doin’ it— you mean emptying your closet? Or goin’ on the date…”

Bucky huffed a laugh and said, “Well, I was gonna say the clothes… but now that you mention it—”

“Hey, hey…” said Steve, and he actually went up to his friend; put his hand on his shoulder. Bucky still flinched away from casual touch like that sometimes, but this time he just sighed again and shook his head, like he was fed up with himself.

“Just be yourself,” said Steve. “That’s who she was flirtin’ with. Right?”

“Yeah,” said Bucky, but he sounded tired. “Maybe.”

He wound up being fifteen minutes late, after finally settling on some clean jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt. He felt like jerk, making her wait, but when he got to the little coffee-cart area they'd agreed on, she wasn’t even there yet. Or maybe, he thought, with a sinking feeling, she’d already been there, waited around; figured he’d stood her up, and left.

He would've texted her, but he didn't have her number. Didn’t know what else to do, so he sat down at one of the little tables anyway, just in case. His body was vibrating with nerves, his leg bouncing under the table as he fidgeted with the case on his phone, which he’d laid on the table face-down.

There were a handful of other small tables spread out in the open seating area by the cart, most of them taken by solo workers, probably on a break— sipping at their beverages, while they stared at the screens of their phones. The woman at the table next to him glanced at him, and then quickly looked away. He felt exposed— even in this casual setting— and he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

After about five more minutes of waiting, feeling horribly self-conscious just sitting there alone, without even a cup of coffee, he was about to stand up and leave— flee back to his room; try to wipe the whole thing from his mind— when suddenly she was there, slamming her phone down on the table, along with a little zippered pocketbook with jangly keys attached to it. She was breathing heavily, like she’d run a long way, and before he could stand up— pull out a chair for her— she'd collapsed into the one across from him, like she needed a rest.

“Holy shit,” she said, breathless. “I’m sorry I'm so fucking late. I was seriously scared you'd be gone, by the time I got here. Did you order yet?” When he didn't answer right away, she bounced up again, apparently still running on adrenaline. “What can I get you?”

He was flustered: surprised by the sudden turnaround, but also feeling like it was all wrong— like he shouldn’t be sitting down while she was standing, and he should be the one ordering— but something about her just made him fall into line: “Just a coffee, I guess," he said, as he tried to sit up in his chair a little straighter. "Black.”

“Cool beans,” she said, and grabbed the little pocketbook off the table, leaving her phone there while she got into line.

He snuck little looks at her, on-and-off, while he waited: saw how she smiled and greeted people; made the coffee-cart lady laugh at something. He flipped his phone over and checked his messages, just to have something to do— and then felt like a cad again, when he looked up to see her carrying the two drinks, one in each hand, her little pocketbook hanging on her wrist by a looped strap. He was half out of his seat to help, but she was already there— said, "No, you're good," and then carefully set the drinks on the table. There was one of those mega iced-coffee things for her, in a giant plastic cup, and a regular-sized cup of steaming-hot coffee for him. She'd put one of those little cardboard sleeves on it— the ones to keep your hand from burning— and he smiled a little at it: he never used one; didn't need it.

"Thanks," he said, pulling the cup closer; blew on it, out of habit. "How, uh... how much do I owe you."

"Forget about it," she said. "Yours was like, one eighth the cost of mine."

"You sure?"

"Yup," she said, and then took a long pull on her straw. He didn't know what to say after that. Could barely look at her. His leg was still jiggling, under the table...

He could tell she was watching him, and after another long pull on her straw, she said, "Do I make you nervous?"

“No,” he said immediately, and then, “I mean, yeah. Not you, but— I mean, I haven’t done this in a long time," and he was cringing at himself, hearing his own words: Jesus, shut up, ya fuckin’ idiot.

“What, get coffee?” She was teasing him, but her smile made him feel better, nonetheless. “Sorry,” she said, even though it hadn't bothered him. “I mean, I’m super flattered, though. Hot potato like you, I figured I must be way down on the list you’re working through.”

“First one,” he admitted, too quickly. Finally made eye contact: “And there ain’t no list.”

She looked a little flustered by that, and he wasn’t sure if it was in a good way or a bad way, so he looked away again, subtly scanning the other tables. He felt like people were staring at them. Wondering, what’s a nice girl like her doing with the Winter Soldier?

He looked down at his coffee. The leg started to jiggle again.

“Hey, you wanna go for a walk?” she said.

“Uh, sure,” he said, and she immediately stood up: shoved her phone into her pocket, grabbed the little pocketbook with the keys, and then picked up the big plastic cup with her other hand. He stood up too, grateful to be moving.

“Cool,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

It was a gorgeous spring day— one of the first really warm ones— and he felt a hundred times better as soon as they got outside. They were walking side-by-side, at an easy pace, sipping their drinks. He’d been joking to Steve about walking around the racing track, but that’s exactly where they wound up heading, because it was mid-day, so nobody else was using it: all of the recruits either at lunch or heading down to the gun-range by now.

He was pretty quiet at first, but she was so easy to talk to that before long they were chatting each other up— making each other laugh, sharing their various anecdotes, and one-upping each other with humored bullshittery— and he got so comfortable that he almost didn’t recognize himself.

Far too soon, it was time to go back, and he felt it like a bitter pang: wished he could just fuck off the rest of his responsibilities for the day, and keep on talking to Darcy. He felt like he could have talked to her for six more hours, and not been bored. He would have suggested it, if he’d had the afternoon off, but he didn't— and anyway, she had her own stuff to do, and he didn’t want to seem like a creep, like he was desperate...

He insisted on walking her back to her door, even though she was perfectly safe within the compound— no hooligans to protect her from here; or if there were, she was apparently more than capable of handling them herself. It still seemed like the right thing to do— the proper thing, if he’d been walking her home from a real date in the city— or maybe it was just what he wanted to do. It’d been so fucking long since he’d walked a girl home... and even if she didn’t want to see him again, he wanted to savor the experience while he could…

Now she was leaning her back against the closed door of her room, and she hadn’t made any move to unlock it, or to send him away, and suddenly he was nervous all over again: unable to read the situation. Didn't know what she wanted, what he was supposed to do. God, he was rusty...

“Whattsa matter, big guy,” she said, and she snaked out a finger to draw a little circle on his chest with it, just below the V of his T-shirt. It was the first time she'd touched him, and it felt like electricity: a warmth that spread from her fingertip into his chest, and then down his body to pool in his gut. “Been a while since you kissed a girl, too?”

And Jesus Christ, because he wanted to— maybe in some kind of fantasy, but… God, he didn’t want to fuck this up. He couldn’t even believe she’d said it— that she wanted him to, so soon.

“That’s part of it, yeah,” he admitted, as he tried to breathe in and out normally.

“What’s the other part?” she asked, and she dropped her finger from his chest; reached down to touch his hand— the metal one— and she threaded her fingers into it as casually as if it were just any old, ordinary hand…

“Well,” he said, and he figured he'd try a joke— maybe lighten the mood— because if he didn’t, his heart was gonna explode. “Didn’t wanna come on too strong," he said, and he tipped his head a little to the side— one of his eyebrows lifting, as he looked down at her. It was a sassy sort of expression, and it was so familiar— like an old tune you couldn't place— but also a little unnerving: like someone else entirely had taken the wheel. "I heard about what you did to Hammond,” he said. “I mean, I’m sure that knucklehead had it comin’…”

“Damn right he did. Asshole thought that taking me to the Pizza Shack meant he also bought a ticket to pussy town.”

And that did it: he burst out laughing, and it felt so good… and she was laughing with him, looking up into his eyes...

But even as he was laughing— relaxing just a little— he was also thinking Yeah, and how are you any better, asshole; your dick is like a fuckin’ steel rod already, just thinkin’ about kissin’ the girl… Jesus, what a cad…

And she must’ve picked up on some of his hesitancy— misread it for reluctance— because she said, “I mean, you don’t have to—”

But before she could finish the thought, he’d found his courage— or maybe just lost the will to keep drawing it out— because he was moving in, his flesh hand lifting, all on its own, like it remembered what to do: slid around the back of her neck to cradle her, as he leaned down and brushed her lips, like he was testing the water…

It was just a touch at first, and he was already almost panicking, after that first little spark of contact: frozen in place, heart pounding— holding there, afraid to continue, but just as afraid to step back— until finally she decided for him: tipped her chin up to capture his lips— pillowy soft, and warm, and wet— and he felt it all the way to his toes...

She smelled good— had a flash of something his Nana used to make... for the holidays, maybe, a lifetime ago: vanilla and almond and some kind of spice. He could taste that caramel from her drink, and though he didn’t think his dick could get any harder, it sure was trying, and he widened his stance and found his courage and finally kissed her back...

She'd dropped his metal hand, along with her pocketbook— keys jangling as they hit the floor; moved both her palms to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric... and somehow his hand had moved to her hip— pulling on her a little, to keep her close— and it felt so good that he made a little noise, and then he kissed her, and kissed her and kissed her…

Finally she pulled back, needing to breathe, and he licked his lips— tasting her flavor, still there on his skin— and he heard her whisper, “Wow”, which pretty much summed it up for him, too.

She turned around— was fumbling with the electronic lock. He noticed her hands were shaking a little, and it eased his nerves a notch, to know that she was feeling it too...

His eyes were roving all over her body: the long, wavy hair; the shapely curves— those big blue eyes, when she turned around again— and God, that smile... All the lovely parts that made up the whole: the girl who'd caught his eye, hitting him out of nowhere... waking him from a kind of torpor— like stepping into the light, from a roomful of grey...

“You wanna come in?” she asked quietly, and he shut his eyes for a moment, needing to think it through— because he really, really wanted to; was considering whether he could reschedule his class...

She’d bent down to pick up the little pocketbook, and when she stood back up, he opened his eyes, and said, “Don’t you gotta be somewhere soon?” Even as he said it, he wished he'd said it different: hoped she wouldn’t take it as a rejection; think he didn’t even want to…

She breathed a little laugh; looked up at him through her eyelashes and said, “Well, yeah… but I was thinking of just saying ‘fuck it’— and hang out with you instead…”

Hadn't he just been thinking the exact same thing? It was making it a little hard to breathe, to think that she wanted that too: to blow off whatever she was supposed to be doing, just to spend more time with him.

She was waiting for him to answer...

When he finally spoke, it was fumbling, awkward: “I don’t wanna… I mean I do, but… aw, Christ.” He took another breath: tried to get a grip, so he wouldn’t sound like such a dumbass. “This is gonna sound stupid, but… I wanna do this right.”

He was almost afraid to look at her; afraid he’d made a mistake— taken the path that would lead away from her, instead of circling back around— but she smiled a little, her eyes soft: “It’s not stupid. It’s nice.”

She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and clicked it on; scrolled and swiped through some screens. “Gimme your number,” she said. “I shoulda gotten it yesterday; then I wouldn’t have freaked today when I was late, thinking you wouldn’t wanna wait for me.”

He recited the number, and she typed it in— texted him right away, so that he’d have hers— and he was already wondering how soon he could text her, without coming off like some kind of creep, when she blurted out, “Let’s do this again tomorrow. I mean, if you’re free.”

"Same time?"

"Yeah, same time. I mean, if that works for you."

“Yeah, I’m free.”

“Good,” she said, grinning up at his face. He could tell that her eyes were mapping his features— almost like she was gonna kiss him again— but then she turned around to push open her door, so he stepped back a little, letting her go. She looked back once, before closing the door— gave him another smile. This one was playful, and it made him feel warm; wished he could fast-forward twenty-four hours...

“See ya tomorrow, handsome.”

Darcy was at her desk, a little before lunchtime, when her phone chirped. She paused her typing, and checked the lock screen: it was a text, from James. She took a second to save her work, and then unlocked the phone to read the message:

Huh. She leaned back in her chair; took a moment to think. Did he mean... ever? That 'I don't know when' read an awful lot like someone who was trying to gracefully bow out. Had he changed his mind? Gotten cold feet? That kiss sure hadn't felt like a guy who was unsure of himself— once he'd got going, at least. Maybe he needed a little reassurance...

She'd felt pretty good about how they'd left it, but when she hadn't heard from him after more than a few days, she was starting to wonder again. Maybe he was just trying to let her down easy. On the morning of the fifth day, she was considering sending out her spy network— to see if he was really still gone, or just avoiding her— but resisted the urge, wanting to trust him. Later that night, while she was sitting on her couch— scrolling online and eating a bowl of microwave popcorn— a message popped up on her screen:

She put down the popcorn; wiped her greasy fingers on her pant-leg and wrote back quickly— hoped he had some time to spare, so they could chat a little.

She grinned, scooping up another handful of popcorn while she waited to see what he'd say to that.

She didn't answer him right away; had switched over to an online dictionary. Scrolled down the list of definitions, muttering under her breath: "Nope, nope, definitely not, nope," and then, "Bingo." Took a screenshot of all six entries, and sent it to him.

She waited, so he could skim through the first four definitions— the ones about morality and ethics, righteousness, chastity and virginity: stuff like that— to get to number five, which defined virtue as a good or admirable quality or property; and number six, which she really liked the sound of: Effective force; power and potency.

There was a pause, and then:

There was another pause after that, which was a bit worrying; she'd expected some kind of quick, snarky comeback. She wished she could see his face; it was impossible to tell, through texts alone, how much he really liked her brand of flirting— and there was a wide range of possibilities between enjoying and tolerating.

She really hoped he was grinning, like she was— but figured she'd better cover all the bases, just in case:

She was about to add 'counting the seconds', as a joke, but she just sent him a smooch-face instead. He responded with the distraught emoji, which she took to mean that she was killing him, by not being able to smooch in person. She felt the same way— but rather than looking distraught, her face had melted into a dopey grin.

She had the same dopey grin on her face twelve hours later— sitting at her desk in the lab, staring at her phone— when Jane walked in, carrying a steaming-hot mug of coffee. Took one look at Darcy and stopped.

"What's going on?" she said. "Why do you look like that?"

Darcy didn't look up from the phone; was too busy re-reading the text conversation for the umpteenth time. "Like what?"

"Like you just ate an entire tub of ice cream, and the regret hasn't hit you yet."

"Oh," she said, still staring at the phone. "Yeah, I guess that's fair. James texted."

"Who's James."

Darcy finally tore her attention away from the phone. "James," she said, emphatically, as though that would help. And then rolled her eyes: "You know, Barnes. Bucky. Whatever."

"Oh, him," said Jane. "What'd he do; propose?"

"Shut up," said Darcy, good-naturedly; went back to looking at the text. "He was just letting me know he's delayed."

“Oh boy,” said Jane. “If you’re like this after a single coffee date and one measly kiss, you're in big trouble.”

“There was nothing measly about that kiss. It was... " She trailed off— had been about to say 'special', but realized it would make her sound even more like a lovesick schoolgirl. "Anyway, you seriously have no room to talk; you're way worse whenever Thor comes back.”

“I am not,” said Jane, sounding offended.

Darcy actually put down the phone. “How many times did I have to listen to you being ravished in the supply closet, because you guys couldn't take the five minutes to make it over to residential? I've paid my dues, and then some. And now you’re gonna have to put up with my derpy love-face.”

“Ok, fine,” said Jane, conceding. She took a sip of her coffee. “But don’t knock the supply closet. That table in there is sturdy.”

“Eww," said Darcy. She was making a face, but laughing a little, too. "I so did not need to hear that. It was better when it was all... vague..."

“But you like him, huh?” said Jane, finally serious. “I mean, for more than just a fling?”

“I guess,” said Darcy. “I mean... I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a fling, if that’s all he—” She cut herself off, acknowledging the skeptical look on Jane's face. "Okay, fine," she said. “I like him. A lot.” And then the dopey smile came back, and she picked up the phone again; sighed and scrolled back up to the top of the conversation.

“Oh boy,” said Jane.

By the seventh day, she’d resorted to reading porn on her phone in bed, and she got so turned on that she put the phone down so she could touch herself while she thought about his face, his smile, those pretty eyes... reliving the heat of that kiss by her door. She’d almost gotten herself off, when the phone startled her with a chirp, and she scrambled to flip over and grab it. It was him:

She grinned— wondering how he'd react to that information— but his reply was so neutral, that there was no way to tell how it'd landed.

There was a long pause— even longer than the 'ass' one, the other day— and Darcy could feel her face heating up: wondered if she'd finally stepped over the line, being that candid.

There was another pause, but she waited this one out.

She couldn't tell if he was serious, or yanking her chain. Thought about it for a second, and then decided to just ask him:

There was another long pause, but this time she could see the animated bubble there, indicating that he was typing. It took him a while, and there must have been a lot of editing going on, because when it finally came through it was shorter than expected. It made her wonder what he'd reconsidered; what he'd left out of the final version.

She added three winking emojis after that one, and when he immediately sent back a nerd-face emoji, she laughed out loud. And God, she hated to admit it, but Jane was absolutely right: she was in big trouble. She really liked him. He wasn't just hot; he was thoughtful, and charming, and funny, too. She wondered how many people knew that. Knew that there was way more to him than the quiet, broody soldier with the terrifying history.

She felt the sudden urge to tell him: to let him know how much she liked him, and that she missed him— no joking around— but she didn't want to scare him off, either. As Jane had pointed out, they’d only had one date; they barely knew each other. It was weird how it seemed like so much more already. At least it did to her.

She was glad she had some evidence that it wasn't one-sided— like when he said that thing about wanting to do this right, at the end of the date. If he'd just been looking for a piece of ass, they probably wouldn't be texting now— at least not in the way they were, like a couple of dorks.

She just hoped to God that doing it 'right' didn't mean no hanky-panky without a ring...

She paused, thumbs hovering over the keys— and then thought fuck it; typed it out, and then committed: sent it quickly, before she could chicken out and just make another joke instead.

She could see the bubble there again... and then it vanished, but no text popped up— like he’d typed something but deleted it before sending. Then it happened again. And again, one more time. Finally, a single line came through:

She sat there, not knowing what to say next— her heart beating a little faster— because it felt like something had shifted, just a little, with that exchange. Maybe he was feeling the same, because it was quiet on his end too. Finally she saw that he was typing again, and a minute later, it came through:

There was no response— and when the radio silence dragged on, she wondered if she'd said something wrong. Maybe he really was a bit old-fashioned, in spite of his assurances to the contrary. Seemed weird, though, for him to be thrown for a loop by something so mild— especially after all the other innuendo. It wasn't like she'd been subtle; she'd flat-out admitted to giving him star billing in her spank bank, and he'd done all right with that information.

No response.

She waited for a while, staring at the screen, but there weren't any more texts. Finally she leaned over to plug in her phone, and then rolled back the other way. Grabbed the extra pillow and pulled it into a hug, and tried to sleep.

“What’s wrong?” said Jane, as soon as she shuffled into the lab and got a look at Darcy. “You look like hell.” It was saying a lot, considering how rumpled Jane looked herself: it was after two in the afternoon, and she'd just gotten up, having pulled another all-nighter.

Darcy dropped her phone on the desk and ground the heels of her palms into her eyes, rubbing them. She’d just checked her messages again for the two hundredth time, even though she knew nothing new had come in.

It’d been two days since their last conversation; he still hadn't checked in, and she was worried sick. She’d tried to ask through official channels, but all she’d been told was that the mission was classified, and that they couldn’t tell someone with her clearance-level anything further. She also got the impression that he probably wasn’t supposed to be texting her, so she didn’t go into details about why she was so concerned in the first place.

“I haven’t gotten any real sleep since Tuesday,” said Darcy. “I’m so fucking worried. What if something terrible happened?”

“Huh?” said Jane, looking thoroughly confused. “They got back this morning.”

“What?” said Darcy, raising her head from the desk.

“Yeah, I thought you knew. I was up in the big break room this morning, when Barton and Sam shambled in like a couple of zombies, moaning for coffee. That must’ve been… oh, I don’t know… seven? Darce?”

Darcy had missed the entire explanation, having only processed the part about ‘back this morning,’ and had stood up, grabbed her phone, and hightailed it out of there, heading straight for his apartment, whose location she'd scoped out several days earlier. She was just rounding the corner to their hallway, when she slammed into Steve, who put his hands on her shoulders, steadying her.

"Whoa," he said. "You all right?" He was holding a paperback book, and looked completely exhausted.

"Is he in there?" she said, ignoring his question, as she peered around his big body, towards their apartment door.

“Aw, shit," he said, his face crumpling. "I was supposed to call you; let you know.”

"Let me know what?"

“That his phone got crushed, when the building came down. That's why he ain't called you.”

“What? A fucking building fell on him? Is he okay? Why didn’t anyone—” She was on the verge of panicking— was trying to sidestep him, get around— until he figured it out, and stopped blocking her way.

“Hey, hold up,” he said, as she hurried past. “He ain't in there.”

“Where the fuck is he, then?" she said, whirling around. "Jesus Christ, Steve, just give it to me straight: Is he all right?"

“He’s fine,” he assured her, and she relaxed a fraction. “He’s in medical. Had a concussion, so they insisted on watching him for a few more hours. I was just heading down there, to give him a book." He considered her thoughtfully for a moment. "Do you maybe… you wanna take it? I could sure use some rest…”

“I can do that,” she said briskly; held her hand out for the book.

He gave it to her, and she’d already taken off without so much as a 'seeya'— heading straight for the stairwell, instead of backtracking the other way to wait for the elevator— when Steve said, “Hey, Darcy?”

She turned without stopping; was walking backwards as she spoke. “Yeah?”

“He uh… he likes you, you know. A lot.”

She grinned, unable to help it. “The feeling’s mutual.”

He looked vulnerable lying there asleep.

His pants and boots were in a pile on the floor, next to the narrow hospital-style bed, but they'd let him keep his base-layer shirt on, as scuffed and dirty as it was. He had scrapes and bruises all over him, but they looked like they were already more than a week old, and she knew that was his accelerated healing at work. A big white bandage was taped to one side of his forehead: maybe covering the concussive wound.

She wanted to scoot up a chair, hold his hand while he slept— feel the warmth of his skin. She turned around and pulled the visitor's chair closer and sat down, but refrained from touching him; didn’t want to wake him, if he was actually getting some rest.

She watched him for a minute— listened to his steady breathing, while her eyes moved over his face. He was scruffier than when he'd left, but it didn't diminish how handsome he was. His lips were gently parted, and she got a tingle in her tummy, remembering how it'd felt when he'd kissed her. His eyelashes were ridiculously long...

Eventually, she leaned back in the chair with a little sigh; got as comfortable as she could, determined to wait. Took a look at the book that Steve had given her: it was some kind of science fiction thing, and she flipped it over to read the back, curious, and then opened it up to where he'd saved his spot with a torn piece of paper. Read through a few paragraphs. She was about to flip back to the beginning— start reading it herself, to pass the time— when she heard his breathing change, and she looked up to see that he'd woken. He looked tired— but as soon as their eyes met, his mouth pulled into a lazy smile...

“Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes."

She closed the book, being careful not to lose his place. Kept her voice soft: "Hey, you."

"How long you been here?"

"Not long." Her eyes flicked up to the bandage on his forehead. “Does it hurt?”

“Nah.” He sat up slowly; did a half-twist with his upper body, grimacing a little. “Lyin’ in this fuckin’ torture bed is doin’ me more harm than any conk on the head." He reached up to feel the bandage, and then ripped it off unceremoniously; dabbed at his forehead with his fingers. “Seems all right,” he said. “How’s it look?”

She got up; left the book on the chair. Sat down on the edge of his bed, aware of his eyes following her movements. She leaned in to inspect his forehead, gently touching the healing area with her fingertips. “Like nothing happened," she said. "Just a little bruising, but it's faint.”

She retracted her hand then, and just sat there, looking at his face. Realized she felt like it already belonged to her, somehow. She wanted to kiss him...

“We could sneak out,” she said. “I happen to know where there’s a bed a lot more comfy than this one.”

He swallowed visibly, but didn’t break eye contact. “You invitin’ me to your bed?”

“Maybe." She paused, and then: "What would you say if I was?”

His face changed again: something hesitant in his eyes— almost like he was worried. “You sure you know what you’re doin’? Gettin’ mixed up with me?”

She picked up his flesh hand. Looked at it as she played with his fingers; felt the rough callouses on their tips. “I did my research, yeah.” When she looked up again, he seemed even more worried.

“So? What’d you find out.”

“Well… for starters, I found out that nobody calls you ‘James’." She dropped her eyes again, still playing with his hand. "It’s Barnes, or Bucky— and only people in your inner circle get to call you Bucky, which I guess means only Steve does." She looked up again; went ahead and said it: "And you should’ve told me, because now I feel like a dumbass, calling you James all the time... even when I was touching myself…”

His lips parted at that, and she barreled on, still holding his hand…

“And I know you used to like jam on your toast, before the war, but now you like peanut butter, but only if it’s super-chunk; and that you like your coffee black or not at all; and you’re a briefs guy, but they have to be boxer-briefs; and your favorite color is blue; and you kicked some guy’s ass on the training yard last month for saying a racial slur to one of the recruits; and you take really good care of your gear— like, it’s super important to you… oh, and I totally know that you’re the one who sent me the crate of Cheetos that showed up yesterday, even though there was no gift card.”

She glanced back at the book that she'd left on the chair. “Oh, and last but not least, you’re a total dork who reads sci-fi novels. That’s a compliment, by the way." She let out a little breath. "So yeah. I think that about covers all the important stuff.”

He held her eyes for a few more seconds, and then finally spoke: “Those Cheetos took long enough to show up. Ordered 'em over a week ago, before I got called away. I should complain.”

She was trying not to smile, playing along. "Uh huh." And then, because she really needed to know: “So, Barnes, what do you think?”

He sat up more, so that he could lean in and kiss her— long and tender, erasing her doubt; licked his lips when they broke it to breathe, and said, “I think you should start callin’ me Bucky.”