Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing that had messed with you the most during the Blip was the quiet.

Four and quarter million people gone – just like that.

It had been terrible. The streets that were so noisy and busy were hushed; the City that Never Sleeps fell into a relentless slumber. Those who were brave enough to go about their lives tip toed, as if one false step could rain down more damnation. The cars that drove seemed to glide on ice, still and silent and creeping.

There were funerals; there was mourning, but it was all under a dark umbrella of fear. Fear of what this meant for the world, fear of what would happen to society and the people that survived, fear of what may still come.

In your case, your thriving little bookstore had emptied in seconds. You’d dropped your favorite teacup, leaving it to shatter unseen as you’d watched a couple stagger to a pause before their bodies just. . .filtered away. The other people that had been browsing fled from the shop, falling over one another in their fright.

Outside had been the same.

You’d felt somewhere outside your own body, watching in a frozen horror as person after person, the children, the elderly, so many people dissolved. Others screaming or weeping in hysteria. Cars had wrecked, people had been hurt, and you’d just stood there with fractured porcelain scattered around your feet, unable to move or think or breathe as a riderless bicycle crashed into the front of your store.

The window cracked into a spider’s mosaic as dust floated away on the wind.

You’d just stood and watched and stared at the mess for seconds, minutes, or hours until someone looked through the glass and came running in to shake you out of the stupor you’d fallen into, shouting, cursing at you until you had moved.

Everything after that fell back into a blur. The hour of terror turned into nighttime, nighttime into days, and days into weeks. After all the panic and scrambling to figure out what would happen next, it was quiet. Life staggered on. People were trying to find their feet, keep things going, but it was all done with a frightening sense of ‘what else?’

But you got used to it. You got used to the empty streets, the vendors that were permanently shut down; their trucks and carts left as monuments to the life they’d held. You adjusted to the shift in the tone of the world, the desperation as what world leaders were left tried to keep order.

The other kinds of fear as law and order slipped away now and then.

The early days where there wasn’t much on shelves.

You stayed far away from the river and the hundreds of boats that lay forever moored. Never leaving, just drifting with the swells that came in from the Atlantic. Empty, listless beacons of what life had been.

The water that had always been a comfort was now another insult to what had been lost.

Night was the worst, though. It was dark – far more dark than anything you’d ever experienced. There was no need to waste electricity on buildings that were empty; there was no need to run power to ones that had lost hundreds of occupants. People congregated and clung together while maintaining strong boundaries of self-protection, and it made it easier to manage natural resources that way.

You said goodbye to your little studio, bunking in with complete strangers and rotating around to different apartments as you felt more and more stranded.

And slowly, after first one year then another slipped by, New York City found its footing.

People truly came together and found support in each other.

It wasn’t perfect, of course. There would always be those who were willing to take advantage of the weak, who used people’s brokenness against them, but that wasn’t new. It was manageable, just like it had always been. You kept a knife in your bag when out and about, kept an eye out on the other women who also kept an eye on you, and you found a new kind of normal. Overall, everyone did.

While more and more parts of the city faded, and there were streets and neighborhoods that everyone avoided due to either decay or demonstrative power, other aspects rallied.

Restaurants began to open. People were reconnecting, having children again, and there was more hope in the air as the now-young adults learned to rally themselves. Memorials were constructed, and those that were left learned to make peace with what had happened. The nightmares you had of seeing the young lovers faded into the recesses of your mind, as did the ever-present haunting – even if the occasional, rough burst of wind carrying debris still made you jump.

You were lucky.

The bookstore you owned was able to reopen, to sell and trade books, and you started running local school drives again. It also became a sort of a little neighborhood library, but you didn’t mind. It brought back normalcy to your life, and you soon found a new rhythm. Years three, four, and five passed in this manner, and one day you realized that you were smiling again.

You were almost happy.

That’s when you found yourself standing, staring as dust from nowhere swirled together. From it formed the same couple that had vanished before your very eyes in the exact same spot five years prior. The mug you were holding slipped from your fingers, the ceramic breaking on impact, and somewhere in the back of your mind a part of you laughed and laughed and laughed.

Once again, you were frozen.

There was a roaring in your ears as you looked at them, and they looked at you, and they remembered from mere seconds ago you had been younger and dressed differently.

A man stood outside a flawless window, clutching a helmet and searching for a bicycle that had long since disappeared.

Once again, everything fell into chaos.

But it was so much better this time.

And while things were uneasy in a different sense with needing to readjust back to full capacity of living, you had hope it was going to be okay.

. . .it needed to be, for everyone’s sake.

And, a few months after the reappearance of everyone that had Blipped, it was okay. It was easier to make a shift when there was so much joy and celebration to be had, easier to ignore the instantaneous rising political tensions as the dead were reborn. The city lights sparkled through your studio apartment’s windows, the traffic increased exponentially, but most people had yet to complain.

The buildings that had been empty and waiting were filled again. Cleaned, washed, and restored. You’d gathered up what necessary belongings you’d moved around with you from the now-reclaimed room you’d been staying in and made your way back to your own dirty, waiting studio. It was kind of trashed, like some animals had maybe wiggled in through the broken window at some point, but it was yours again, to clean and to repair and to keep.

It was glorious.

You saw faces that had only ever been remembered in dreams, eaten food that had become a blurred memory. You eventually even walked by the wharf, hearing the chatter of sailors and the clamor of work.

A few months is all it took for things to mostly go back to the way they had been before.

Well, except for him.

Chapter Text

Jack Hughes.

It still surprises you that he’d wandered into your store of all places. It had only been a few weeks after the return of everyone, and you had been in this weird sort of stasis between being both a library and a store before fully reopening as a business.

Which had been going well, all things considered. The only bit of a snag you’d truly encountered was the older gentleman who had been assisting you during the Blip told you he was probably leaving to be with his family now that they were back among the living.

Which really wasn’t much of a ‘snag’ or an issue in the first place – you were happy for him, honestly. It just meant being alone again, which was fine. You could handle that. Better to be alone like before than alone together because he’d lost everyone.

Until you hurt your wrist, but at least that wasn’t until after you’d met Jack for the first time.

That day had been nice. Quiet, calm, and sunny without the overbearing humidity that inevitably follows after spring. It wasn’t terribly busy; in fact, you were the only one present mid-Friday morning. You’d been over at your little coffee and tea bar making yourself a cup when the bell had chimed. This man had come in, and it was like everything shifted.

He was tall, broad, and easily one of the most gorgeous men you had ever seen in your life.

That scruff-defined jawline? Wow.

You’d forced yourself not to gape, trying to peek through your peripheral vision instead as he drifted around the opposite side of the store. It didn’t seem like he had noticed you at all, so it gave you a couple minutes to take him in.

Dark shirt and jeans, black jacket, shoes, and gloves. If trauma could be termed a style, then this was it.

That or he was in a band. Actually, you don’t know. Not that it’s really any of your business, nor does it make a difference. And no matter what it was exactly, he certainly made it look good.

Yet what had caught your attention had been the air of exhaustion he’d carried with him. His appearance was haggard. Not in the sense of neglect but fatigue, and your heart had gone out to him immediately. Not that you knew everyone who had been behind during the Blip, but he wasn’t familiar to you at all. Was he trying to regain a life that he hadn’t known he’d lost? Struggling to reconnect with the people that had left him behind if he or they had relocated in the in between years, maybe?

Either way, he’d looked droopy enough that you’d glanced down at the cup in your hand, sighed, and quickly decided to pass this one along.

Tea fixes everything, after all.

He was at one of the more tucked away bookcases, almost out of sight, but you could still see that he was more zoned out than really looking at titles. However, you hadn’t even taken a full step into the aisle before he had tensed, swiveling around to stare across over at you instead. You paused, but let a warm smile soften your expression instead of the surprise you felt at that uncanny sort of awareness.

“Here,” you had said, making your way over to where he was standing, braced in between the last of the shelves and the back wall of your store. Once within arms’ reach, you’d held out the cup of tea you’d just made for yourself. “Earl grey, hot?”

There was a moment where he had just looked at you before silently extending a hand, sliding the cup away from you. His gaze had flicked between the rising steam and your face, which had heated up more and more with the extending silence.

His eyes were a startling, piercing blue, clear and bright and beckoning you towards an impossible daydream, and you’d known in that instance that you could end up in major trouble.

So, you’d scooted back a foot to give yourself some breathing space, clearing your throat. “There’s something comforting about tea on a bad day, right? Not that you’ve had a bad day,” you’d rushed to cover your mistake, flailing inwardly and slightly outwardly though he hadn’t so much as blinked.

“It doesn’t look like you’ve had a bad day. You look fine, totally. Uh, totally fine. I just thought – well, I made the cup, but then you came in, and sometimes people just need tea and a book. Not that you need tea – there’s also coffee if you’d rather coffee. Local coffee. It’s good, too. Just, you know, warm cup?”

Stop, please, the mortified part of your brain begged, while the chaotic side cheered.

He’d just stared, and you had smiled back, wide and uneasy before you’d excused yourself, making one final, desperate attempt to appear as the charming, confident book business owner you usually are.

And failing spectacularly.

“Sooo, welcome to Verbatim where we’ve not– no, we’ve got, uh, a way with words?”

Except. . .well, yes, that was your tagline, buuut. . .

He’d just stared, and you had panicked, yanking out the first book you could reach without checking the title. You’d promptly escaped to hide behind your counter, lowered your chair, and pretended to work to cover the internal screaming.

Only, once you were hiding safely behind the wooden paneling you had peeked back over to see what you had handed him. And of course. Of course, it was one of those self-help, “Ten Steps to Discovering Your Truest Self Or Some Shit” books that you kept on hand for the people that liked them.

For the love of– why. Just why.

You had to focus on the fact that as far as first impressions could go, it hadn’t been your absolute worst. Not your best by far, but not your worst.

Take the wins where you can, you’d ordered yourself later, much later when you had been moping in your apartment about your failure to human properly. At least he didn’t run away right away.

No, he had stayed, actually looked at the book you had forced upon him just to be polite, and then had drunk a sip or two of the tea before properly discarding it and slipping out without a backwards glance. That’s when you’d dropped your head into your hands to muffle an actual screech.

Oh, were his eyes something else, and it was such a shame you’d never get to see them again.

Or so you’d thought, at the time.

But then he’d come back, and to your utter disbelief he’d come back again after that.

Time began to trickle by, as it does, and before you knew it the season had changed.

A couple of things are different. It’s warmer now that summer has officially begun in New York, and you’ve got a rather itchy brace on your left forearm after a fantastic wipeout at home the other day.

Thankfully it’s only sprained, but it still makes your job that much more difficult.

You’re wrestling with a box of books that had just recently been shipped to you. Another author was able to push a quick release of a book he had written before the Blip and dug up from a packed away hard drive. While it was something you wanted in stock and had literally waited years for, the timing couldn’t have been worse.

“Okay, come on.” You grit your teeth, reaching an arm over the top and bracing the box against your hip. It’s not like you’ve never done squats before; you can do this. Just pin it against you and straighten, straighten, straighten-

Except it’s wider than you can hold properly with one arm, so before you’re even completely upright it slips away from you, crashing back onto the floor.

“Shit!” You hop away to keep your toes from getting crushed, blowing out an angry breath once they're safe before muttering a few more choice words. Of all days-

“Hey.”

Usually, you’re very cognizant of when someone enters the store. Usually, you hear the bell chime, or voices, so you’re not caught unawares.

Not this time.

You shriek, spinning around so quickly that you nearly topple yourself over again and grabbing at your heart as if you can physically keep it from beating right out of your chest.

And he’s there, angled around the doorframe. Not blocking it so you can’t leave, which you notice immediately, but enough that he can see what you’re doing and speak to you directly.

And he’s arching an eyebrow, lips twitching in what is most likely an attempt not to smile. You scowl, stabbing a finger at him, but before you can verbally scold him for startling you, he clears his throat. “Need some help?”

You pause, mouth hanging open, and he waits ever so patiently. Not laughing, not showing any signs of frustration – just waiting for your response.

Eventually you decide to stock mimicking a fish and nod sheepishly. “Yes, please.”

As he moves boxes around for you and helps you set up the new display table at the front of the store, you count yourself beyond lucky. It’s so much easier than dragging everything around one-handed. He’s quiet, but he seems really nice, and you finally get the introduction you were hoping for.

You get the feeling Jack’s not doing helping for anything in return, but you’re already planning on letting him pick out whatever book he wants when it’s all said and done.

Lifesaver.

He’s also really patient. That, or he’s really good at hiding what he’s thinking and feeling while you’ve nearly hit an all-time, high-level monologue with how much you’ve been talking. You’ve told him all about dropping out of college and the struggle it took to get this place open. Finishing up a business certificate program after-hours just to give yourself a boost, and even studying throughout the day when it was quiet. The relationships you’ve built or imagined entirely with the regulars and familiar faces that keep finding their way back.

You brush over the Blip, not wanting to bring down the contented mood you’re in, not wanting to talk about the rumors that have been rising around other corners of the world. Instead, you focus on the good, and are currently in the middle of explaining the transition you’re facing with the shop.

“It’s not going to be the same without James-“

“Who?” Jack cuts you off sharply, though he winces as soon as he does. With a mumbled apology he hefts another box of books to move out of storage. You trail behind him, chattering on, ignoring the interruption.

After your first disaster of a one-sided conversation, he gets as many conversational faux pas as he wants.

“Yeah, James. He’s been helping out for a while, but I’m not sure he’ll be sticking around much longer now that he’s got family back. They’re upstate, and I think he’s gonna move. Plus, it’s harder for him at his age to haul the crates around anyway, which is why I didn’t want to wait until he came in.” You sigh, wiggling your stabilized fingers at Jack. “I was doing it all, but. . .”

“You deadlift an encyclopedia?” He cracks a faint smile, which you answer with an affronted, haughty huff.

“Hilarious. Actually, I was-“ only you gulp down your answer.

Well, you had been dancing in your studio’s tiny kitchen area for some pseudo-Broadway-inspired workout before slipping and falling with all the dramatics of a newborn foal. But were you going to tell this handsome, how-does-he-fit-in-his-shirt-and-jacket stranger that?

Absolutely not.

It’s obvious that he’s still waiting on a response, so you clear your throat and bluster on, ignoring your awkward delay. “I was working out, and I messed up a punch.”

Jack blinks, looks you up and down, and then raises an eyebrow. “Punching?”

Okay, just because you don’t look like you could break someone in half like he does doesn’t mean he needs to be sassy about it.

“Yes. I kickbox,” you tell him firmly, nodding once for further emphasis.

Which was true. One time. Years ago. Which hadn’t ended any better than this, injury aside, but. . .

After another lingering look he shrugs, accepting the answer.

And that’s it. He helps you for a little while longer, staying until everything that needs to be moved out, set up, and put away has been done. You don’t really talk that much more, just a side comment here and there, but it’s a comfortable enough environment that you don’t mind.

It’s busier in the store by the time that he leaves so you can’t do anything aside from wave. But your heart melts a little when he lifts a hand in response, one side of his mouth tilting up in that half smile as he slips out.

You’re not entirely sure what to make of this enigma of a man. This strong, silent type that dresses in leather like the antihero always written about, but one who has to wear gloves for ‘circulation.’ He’s intriguing, and something inside you whispers that today might just have been a glimpse into something truly extraordinary.

Chapter Text

It’s been a couple of weeks. Long enough that you’ve almost started looking for Jack, started expecting him. Your wrist has healed, but it’s still nice to have his help, have him around for a bit to chat.

Even if every time you say his name you want to start humming the theme from a certain film. But that’s not important.

It’s Wednesday afternoon, and he’s normally here. Never in the morning, nor during lunch, but generally after. Right about now like clockwork, like it’s been integrated in his schedule.

And yours.

There are other random days that he’ll pop in. Usually three times a week, it seems. But always Wednesday afternoon. Always a bit tense, a bit unsure until he finds his feet.

But you worry about all your regulars, not just Jack Hughes. This is a perfectly normal response.

You’re still on edge until you hear the door swing open, hear the quieter tread that you’ve come to expect. You poke your head around the bookcase you were dusting, watching as he scans the wrong side of the room looking for you.

The romantic part of you swoons, the logical huffs, and your eyes crinkle when he awkwardly pauses.

It’s just because you’re friends. If you are friends. You are friends with this man, right?

At least acquaintances. Definitely.

Jack coughs loudly, announcing afterwards, “Sorry I’m late!”

You slide into view with a snort, forcing yourself not to show just how excited you are to see him by sticking your nose in the air with a snooty tilt and propping your hands on your hips. “This is the final straw, Hughes – I’m cutting your pay.”

“Oh no.” He deadpans, clasping his hands together and blandly calling your name. “Please, have mercy. How will I ever feed my family?” It sounds like he’s trying to impersonate the old trans-Atlantic accent, but it’s so bad it tricks a laugh from you.

“All right, all right, but this is the last chance you get.” Wagging your finger, you duck back around to continue cleaning, tossing in your own attempt at the accent. “Next time you drop the ball it’ll be your last shot with me, then it’s back to the docks with you.”

Ugh. You cringe, wrinkling your nose. That wasn’t any better at all.

“Don’t worry boss, I won’t let you down.” The salute he snaps while walking by you is sharp, and you have to tamp down on the urge to turn and gawk at his extra swaggered retreat.

The mental image of this man in a uniform comes to mind. While it certainly isn’t an unpleasant one, you have to shoo it away moments later when he returns to the area you’re in and concentrate so as not to blush.

He’s got cleaning tools of his own that he dug out of the closet – seriously, when did you give him free reign of the place? – and asks where you want him to start.

You decide it’s better to meet in the middle, and for the next twenty minutes the two of you clean in relative silence. Music drifts from the speakers, and if particles of dust catch the light, well, you make yourself ignore it.

The urge to become ill only happens the first time it catches your eye every once in a while these days, and after that you’re okay.

But it’s nice, and it’s peaceful.

Except for Jack’s constant ribbing, now that the two of you have come together on the middle aisle.

“You don’t pay me enough for this, you know. Pretty sure the feds would have something to say about free enforced labor.”

All you can do is sigh in return, but right as you’re coming up with a rather good response about him forcing help on you, something occurs to you then. Something that maybe should have sooner?

Well, that’s what you get staying up too late reading. Your brain gets filled up with more less things, and you tend to forget the bare necessities that come with running something single-handedly.

Still, better late than never.

“What if I did pay you?” You let the words sit in the air for a minute before pausing what you’re doing, leaning against the nearest shelf to gauge his reaction. He stops moving, but all he does is tilt his head.

Listening, not looking. “I mean, you’re already here a couple times a week, and it’s been quiet since James left.” And you can’t help but needle him a bit. “Plus, there’s always the employee discount if you ever decide you actually want to buy something from me. And I can tack on a starting bonus to make up for all the time you’ve already spent helping me out.

“Unless you have another job,” you add on quickly when he casts an odd sort of expression over his shoulder to you. “I mean, I don’t want to take someone else’s star employee.” Hopefully the joke will break whatever tension you just created, but the silence remains for way too long.

Eventually he turns, crosses his arms, and settles back on his heels, making what you can only describe as a ‘thinking’ face as he takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “That’s not a bad idea. No, I don’t have another job. The whole Blip thing, you know?”

The two of you stare each other down for a minute. It’s not that long, though it feels like forever before he nods decisively. “All right then, sure. Why not? If anything, I’ll keep things that oughta be green actually green.”

It shouldn’t make your heart skip with this much excitement, but it does enough so that you ignore his jab about your struggles with plant life. Swallowing, you keep your voice level and cheerful. Breezy.

You’re breezy. “Great. I’ll have to run a background check for legal reasons, but once we’re done with this row, we can go over some scheduling options? I don’t mind it being really open-ended.”

Turning around to hide the grin that is delight incarnate, you miss the shadow that passes over Jack. But then it’s gone before you notice and he’s back to work. You’re practically skipping, and everything’s going to be great.

Later, when he has to hand you his ID to make a quick copy of it for his brand-new employee file, you think he might be regretting the sudden commitment. You ask him again just to doublecheck, and he scoffs at you, the tension in his shoulders vanishing as quickly as it had come while he pokes fun at your wishy-washiness.

When you have to pull out a notebook to jot days and times that he’s available, your iPad dead to the world, you think he’s uncomfortable with your level of energy. You force yourself to settle down a bit and apologize for it, not noticing his hesitation as you do so.

When you casually ask about Wednesdays, wondering if he’d want to work longer by starting earlier or coming in the morning instead, you think it’s adorable how flustered he gets. You feel the tug at your heartstrings when he mentions a friend though, and you promptly agree that Yori’s time will stay Yori’s time, not catching the relief that flickers in his eyes.

In fact, you’ll believe these things for quite some time, but at the end of this day you’re happy. You’ve missed James, and Jack more than makes up for the lack of combatant wit and pure companionship having someone else around brings.

And if something deep inside you is happy for other reasons, well, you don’t listen to her just yet.

You especially don’t when you secure his phone number and shoot him a quick text with your name. That way if there’s ever an emergency, or he can’t make it in, you two can communicate much more efficiently.

That’s the only reason you’re happy.

Efficiency. And, just maybe, a new friend.

Chapter Text

“So, I’ve got a date tonight.”

It’s random, completely and totally out of the blue, and you’ve never swung around so quickly in your life. It almost feels like whiplash, and you have to take a second to refocus on what he just said.

Jack is leaning against the counter, tapping a finger against the wooden surface. He’s looking off in the other direction, pointedly ignoring how you gape at him.

Without a doubt, this is the most personal thing he’s ever said to you.

Shooing way your surprise, and an odd sort of vague insecurity, you make yourself beam over at him. “Really? Who with?”

He shrugs. “One of the girls at this restaurant, Izzy’s. Leah’s her name.” You hear him clear his throat, and then he glances over at you, drumming on the counter again. “She’s cute.”

You eye him back, wondering why he brought it up all of a sudden, but you clamp down on that other strange feeling to keep your voice even when you reply. “You excited? Nervous?” But he’s already shaking his head in the negative, so you nod and then turn back to finish returning the tabled books to their shelf, waiting to see what he’ll say next.

“I was gonna get flowers – but maybe not from a corner store?”

His voice pitches up a bit in question, and you hum first in response, sliding the last novel removed from its spot back into its place. You call back to him after moving around to the next shelf. “That’s really sweet of you.”

“Yeah, well, you know. . .” The rest of Jack’s response is mumbled, and you grin, knowing he can’t see it, and wait for him to ask. “You know any good spots?”

“Sure do.” When your hands are finally empty of books, you pop back around to see he hasn’t moved an inch. “You go south, hang a right after two blocks, and a few stores down on the left side of the street there’s a place called ‘Okay, Bloomer.’”

Somehow, beyond your wildest dreams, you keep an entirely neutral expression. Just an honest expression, completely earnest, and it pays off.

Jack’s look is dead. It’s nothing, blank, and you have to bite down to keep from laughing as he stares at you.

“’Okay,’ what?”

“’Okay, Bloomer.’” You repeat this cheerfully, flashing a brighter smile as you duck around your counter to finish locking down the till and organizing papers left scattered. “Like the meme? It’s a great little place. The owners are awesome.”

“. . .right.”

Ignoring the sheer cynicism contained in one single word, you quickly change the subject. “Where are you taking her?”

His answer is a confused sort of grunted mumble, and it’s your turn for skepticism. You glance over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Dinner? Movie? Coffee?”

Jack hitches a shoulder, looking down at the countertop as he starts tapping again. “She doesn’t get off work until 10. PM, so we’re meeting there. To drink, I guess? I know it’s not much.”

Eh, you work with what you got, so you smile encouragingly, nodding your head and telling him this. He waves it off, adopting a rather sheepish air as he admits, “Yori set us up, and it’s last minute, so. . .it’ll be fine.”

He trails off, shifting away from your gaze, but it’s so interesting that he brought it up in the first place that you want to keep digging. If he doesn’t want to answer, that’s fine, but it’s also an opportunity you don’t want to pass up. After you finish tucking away the last of your desk clutter, you prop your chin up on a hand and smile until he looks over at you. When that happens, you rapid-fire several questions.

“What sort of flowers does she like?”

“No idea.”

“Do you know a lot about her?”

“Not much.”

“How old is she?”

“Not sure.”

It’s the perfect segue to ask him the same question, so you breeze right along, happy to have a way of checking that doesn’t include stalking his employee file.

“Wait, is this cradle robbing? How old are you again?”

Without missing a beat, he deadpans, “One hundred and six.”

It makes you pause, and blink, after your brain catches up to what he said so quickly.

One hundred and six. Sure.

You laugh, and after a delay Jack does too, though you’ll realize at a much later point just how strained it was.

“What, you like younger people then?” You can’t help teasing him, as much as he picks on you, even though he groans. “I guess eighty some years isn’t that bad.”

“Try seventy, thanks.”

“She can at least have a beer with you, right?”

“Uh, I think so?”

That makes you snort. “You think so?” But when you glance over your shoulder he’s smirking.

The two of you continue bickering as you work on closing down for the day, you gently poking and prodding at his complete lack of information, and Jack blustering on with witty and quick counters to keep you on your toes while fulfilling his daily ritual of watering and trimming your plants.

Not that he waters all of them every day. Oh no. That was a lecture you don’t want repeated.

You bicker until you’re done, everything is put away, the drawers are locked, and you’re laughing about Jack’s insistence that yes, he has moves, don’t you think he knows how to dance? Should he demonstrate? And the expression he makes when he catches onto the insinuation that he made himself.

He sighs, foregoing any attempt at rectifying the situation and changing the subject instead.

“When does that flower place close?”

You’re still giggling. “Not until the hour. Walk fast and you’ll have plenty of time.”

“The faster I walk the quicker I leave this mess.” It’s a grumble but only in fun because his expression smooths out, and he slaps a hand on the counter. “Saturday?”

“See you then,” you confirm, and then he’s leaving – heading off to pick up flowers for his date tonight. Charming and cool as always.

But. . .watching him walk away, you think about how you don’t know him all that much. But you know enough, and in this day and age the fact that he wants to take flowers on a first date means something, especially since he’ll have to hang onto them for a couple of hours. It adds another tally to the pro side of the counter which just so happens to far outweigh the cons of this still mostly stranger.

“Hey, Jack?” You wait until he turns around, pouring as much sincerity as you can into your tone to alleviate any stress caused by your jesting. “The flowers are really thoughtful.”

The smile you give him is genuine, so much so that you’re rewarded with one of his own before he disappears, and you have to mentally power back up after it.

Oh, wow.

But. . .a date.

Well, even if it’s by Yori’s doing, he seemed. . .actually happy, behind the snark? Excited, too. At least what excited looks like for Jack, as far as you can tell.

And you’re excited for him, you tell yourself firmly, frowning as your gaze wanders to the door that had swung shut behind him.

You always support your people. Especially your favorite ones.

Favorite coworkers, that is.

Chapter Text

You giggle as he spins you out, the world flashing around you in bursts and blurs of color as you twirl. In one turn, you see his shadow as he’s backlit by the sun. When you stumble to a stop, arms outstretched and hands clasped in the middle, you’re able to focus on him more clearly.

Your heart skips.

He’s smiling. The expression is open and gentle, with an honest sort of happiness that you’re not used to seeing from him.

It melts you, and it takes you a minute to ground yourself as Jack slides forward to hover his left hand over your waist again, leading you around in another sweeping movement with the gentlest of touches.

Now the light from the front windows bathes the lines of his face, easing stress away in the glow of the sun. The blue of his eyes pulls you deeper, and you have to remind yourself not to literally swoon at the effect as you rest your hand on his shoulder to keep dancing, as he grips your hand more tightly.

It’s warm and intimate with how the pair of you are locked together, and it only feeds the craving that’s been slowly growing in you, one unlike any you’ve known before.

Something shifts, and the balance you’d held to tightly now tips precariously to one side. You can almost feel what lies in wait over that edge, and it’s nearly as terrifying as it is alluring.

“I told you I had some moves,” he murmurs, sliding closer to you, lowering his face to hum the next few bars in your ear, the low timbre of it resonating through your soul.

Logic and feeling war as he advances, physically and emotionally. Your gaze drifts down to the curve of his mouth, and in the space of a heartbeat you know you could meet him here. He could whisk you away and you’d let him. Without knowing anything about him, you could easily let him become your everything.

Something tells you he’d take care of you. That he’d treasure you. You think you see it in his eyes when you look up, but. . .

Instead of reaching back, you retreat. You mind darts back to that moment, that conversation when he told you. . .and try as you might to reason it’s a bad idea to bring it up and to mention it now, of all times, the impulse to protect yourself wins in the end.

“How was the date?” You blurt it out, far too quickly and loudly, immediately wincing at the abruptness of it. After nearly a full week, now you have to ask? Even after seeing him over the weekend without a word or question on it?

Jack straightens. You probably wouldn’t have even noticed how close he’d been to you if he hadn’t, but you can’t focus on that now because he’s rolling his eyes and you have to brace yourself for whatever snark is coming and berate yourself for what you’d just done.

Jack scoffs. “Come on, E, don’t ruin the mood.”

Okay, first off: mood? Was he intending a certain mood?

Something in your chest swells, but you brush past it, deliberately ignoring the heat as it rises into your cheeks.

Secondly, ‘E’? What’s that supposed to mean?

You squint up at him, but he must mistake your confusion for suspicion, because he heaves a rather melodramatic sigh before his lips quirk back into that rueful half smirk. “The date was fine. Was good. We talked a little, drank some beer, and we even played Battleship.”

Swiftly, you bring back your smile, pushing your questions to the side to pretend you had totally intended on having this conversation, trying to make it seem more natural as he tugs you back into the rhythm of the dance. “And the flowers?”

That draws a groan, timed perfectly with the final chords of the song, but he still guides you around in one final turn. “She said they were ‘adorably old-fashioned,’” he quotes, gently squeezing your hand before slipping out of your grasp.

Your face screws up at that. Old-fashioned? Who doesn’t like flowers, or at least the gesture it represents? It’s not every day that you find a man who would go out of his way to get them for you on a first date, let alone an actual bouquet from an actual florist.

At least your visible opinion pulls a small smile from him. . .and when it sends you reeling back towards that precipice, you can’t help also wanting to tease him to level yourself out. To drag yourself away from that edge once more.

“Well, I am sensing a theme, though. Who was that again?” You gesture vaguely towards the speaker that’s somewhere behind you as the next song begins, flashing an innocent-as-possible smile as he narrows his eyes at you, heightened emotion sparking that liveliness you adore to see hiding in them.

“. . .the Glenn Miller orchestra.”

“That’s right. And what were we just doing?” Your cheeks are starting to hurt from the ridiculously large, fake smile you’re sending his way, but it’s worth it as Jack skirts around you, muttering to himself as he makes his way back to the office slash closet to finish inventory.

“And what’s wrong with being an old soul?”

The fondness that has been slowly building creeps a little higher, and you allow that affection to shine through as he disappears from view, unable to see everything written on your face.

Nothing at all.

And if some more classic artists end up crooning in the background, especially on days that Jack is working, well, it’s more than okay.

Your playlist needed an update anyway, and he does have rather good taste.

Chapter Text

“Oh yeah? And what the hell were you doing these past five years? I bet you were-” The rant continues, and all you can do is put more distance between you and a highly agitated individual.

So, today. . .today has not gone how you’d planned for it to go.

It was fine at first. You had a volunteer from a nearby high school who was wanting to complete his community service hours before the semester started – he was trying to catch up on credits after being missing for five years in order to fast track his graduation – but he’d long since gone, and you’d been alone.

Alone, left to reel in the face of this onslaught without any backup. This rage-driven, drunken tirade by a man who was twice your size and angry.

Very angry.

Swallowing hard, you try to fight past the lump in your throat, try to push down the emotion and rationally get yourself out of this as you keep your voice as calm as possible. “I wasn’t doing anything. I was-”

“-laying an unfair claim-”

Shaking. You’d done a lot of shaking at first, jumping every time a breeze drifted past you. Terrified that you’d see yourself or someone else dissolve with it, see even more ashes carried on the wind when all you ever did see were other pale, stricken faces around you.

“-all the money that you-”

Hungry. You’d also been hungry. At first, it’d been fine, but then from panic resources were blown through or hoarded. It had taken a bit of time to balance everything out and rally together across all borders and walks of life to combat the panic and work together. No one thought surplus would be so intimidating, but it was. Too much left to rot, not enough people to consume, not until it all had settled.

“-bet you don’t even care-”

Blank. You’d also disappeared inside your head; there are too many weeks here and there in those first two years you have no real recollection of. Barely existing but continuing. Somehow, someway, you did. Someone, you can’t remember who, but someone had ensured it. You’d all taken turns with reality loss in one particular group home. . .

Your ears are ringing, but you have to say something.

“I was surviving,” you force out, blinking rapidly as tears begin to well up, as you can’t keep a grip on it anymore with the memories, the scars burning behind your eyes. “Just like everyone else. We did the best we could-”

A fist slams against the end of a bookshelf, and you’re not sure how he got you backed up into the far wall, not even sure you remember walking. You can see the end of the window, but if you try to run, how’s he going to react?

You never should have stopped carrying that knife.

“-unbelievable. You’re not even listening to me!”

He curses harshly, and you flinch away, twisting when his hand comes up to clutch at your shoulder.

But you’re not fast enough and he grabs you, pulling you closer and closer and closer until you finally find enough breath in your lungs to scream-

Only to be interrupted by darkness itself.

“Let her go.”

In the blink of an eye Jack is there, standing in front of you with his left hand locked around the man’s wrist. He’s got a hold of him, and the man starts wheezing, whining. In the next instance you’re released. You stumble away, sliding down the wall until you can run to the desk and grab your phone.

Jack isn’t moving. He’s standing ever so still as the man’s cries turn to pain, and he yells for Jack to let him go, dammit – just let him go because it hurts. You spin away to dial 9-1-1, adrenaline urging you forward and logic whispering to remain ignorant.

You call; the dispatcher answers, and you’re gasping out what happened, turning wide eyes to the front of the store as Jack drags the man back around the bookshelves into full view of the street. His mouth is moving, but you can’t hear what he’s saying.

Even so, based on the other man’s return to yelling, whatever it is it isn’t good.

It occurs to you then that Jack still has hold of the man’s wrist, who is doing everything he can not to move it, even as he rages and curses and in Jack’s face; even as his face gets more and more red.

Pressure points. You really need to learn those.

That’s one of the things you mention off-handedly to the cops who eventually show up, tired and aggravated and ever-so-apologetic about the entire situation. You try to explain what set him off and what you think had happened to disturb him so much, but they wave off any attempt at an explanation.

This wasn’t the first time it’d happened.

This probably wouldn’t be the last, either.

All you’re given is an unimpassioned speech about how everyone is doing the best they can, and people are still recovering from everything, and don’t you understand how someone could be driven to this point?

All you can do is nod and keep a fake smile plastered across your face, grinding out false appreciation to them for their help while trying not to shake as they escort the man out in handcuffs.

Drunken and disorderly conduct - that was all they would be taking him in and holding him for. You’d tried to insist that he had attempted to assault you, but they hadn’t even listened, brushing off your fear and concern as if he hadn’t grabbed you, hadn’t corralled you out of sight, even when Jack steps up beside you to confirm this.

They don’t even try to control him, either. He’s grumbling and stomping, but eventually he goes. Not before flipping his middle finger as best as he’s able with the restriction of the cuffs and spitting at the front of Verbatim, though.

But it’s ignored.

You’re ignored; you’re forgotten, and they leave.

After they leave and everything has fallen quiet, Jack takes a deep breath. He’d positioned himself next to you, shielding you throughout it all. He looks at you as you look blankly at the door before moving to flip your open sign to 'closed' and securing the lock.

Then he turns back to you and holds out his hand. “C’mere, E.”

Your obedience is automatic. Without bothering to process why you would listen so instinctively, you scoot over to where he’s standing. His fingers brush over your shoulder, and he tilts his head in question.

After you nod, he tugs your neckline over. Not down, a pleased corner of your mind notices, but over just far enough that he can look at your skin where the man had grabbed you.

“How’s it feel?” Gently, he nudges you to turn a bit so he can look over the curve of your shoulder. “I don’t see anything.”

“I doubt it’ll bruise.” You ease away from him, straightening yourself out and crossing your arms as you stare at your feet. “He didn’t really have a chance to do anything. You came out of nowhere.”

Jack shrugs, propping his hands on his hips before clearing his throat. “Yeah, well, he was really loud. Kinda hard to miss.” He tries to smile, but it looks more like a grimace.

You watch through your lashes as he looks you up and down, indecision flickering across his face. A muscle in his jaw is working when he finally meets your gaze, and there’s something you think just might be guilt, or shame, and that’s when it clicks.

He’d mentioned it briefly, but you hadn’t considered what way he meant it when talking about his lack of employment.

“You Blipped, didn’t you?”

His hands shove into his pockets as he agrees. “Yeah, I Blipped. Came back, and then. . .”

He smiles faintly, and you shake your head before finishing his sentence. “Aliens were back in New York? At least not in the actual city this time.”

“Yeah. That would’ve been bad. Again.” Jack runs a hand through his hair, still giving you an odd sort of look.

You hold steady, waiting for him to just spit it out.

And after a deep breath, he does. “You know I don’t agree with a thing he said, right? I mean, you said it. You were surviving. No one can blame you for that.”

That finally helps you perk back up. “I know. And I’m glad you were here.” You smile as he steps closer, but it falters as he leans in towards you, sliding his right hand around yours to squeeze it.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, E, I swear.”

It’s said so earnestly, and his hand is so warm, and his face is so close, and you think you just might combust.

Who is this man? Is he even real?

Until it occurs to you that you’re gawking at Jack, and you haven’t said a word in way too long. His grip is starting to slacken, and you’re once again ruining whatever is happening.

And now it’s awkward. Come on, say something; anything. Fix this. Or at least salvage it.

Placing a hand dramatically over your heart, you try to subtly lean away from him, draping yourself the back of the chair closest to you as you fake swoon. “My hero.” You flutter your eyelashes, sighing in exaggerated dreaminess before sliding your hand out of his to fling over your brow. “My rescuer. My own Ranger from the North. Bet if you grew out your hair and the beard you could pull off a pretty good Aragorn cosplay.”

Jack mumbles something rude, glancing down before squinting at you out of the corner of his eye. You’re laughing, only until you glimpse the honest confusion on his face, and you turn your head, narrowing your eyes right back at him in an identically confused expression.

He’s usually such a know-it-all, especially about the classics. How could he not. . .

“You. . .you do know what Lord of the Rings is, right? J.R.R. Tolkien?”

That gets his attention, and it’s absolutely adorable how he tries to hide the way he lights up. “You mean Tolkien, like The Hobbit?”

“Yeah? But the sequels?”

At this point, Jack is thoroughly distracted from your weirdness, and any thought of what-rock-did-you-grow-up-under is pushed down as you watch him. He holds himself together, just barely, but you can sense the excitement behind the measured, “I haven’t had a lot of time to read lately.”

But. . .everyone knew about the movies, right? Like, those were huge.

“Well, they are long, but you’ve never even seen the movies?”

“They made films?”

“With extended editions,” you confirm, and the way his whole countenance brightens has your heart skipping. “They’re phenomenal. Some of the best movies ever made, and the last one swept the Oscars. It was glorious.”

“It must’ve been.” His grin is crooked, nigh-on elated, and you can’t help but beam back. “You know, The Hobbit was one of my favorite books as a kid. I used to read it to my-“ Jack coughs, swiftly  turning away from you to cover his mouth and clear his throat. “Sorry, got ahead of myself. I used to read it all the time. My copy ended up lost years ago in a move or something.”

“Well, that’s easy enough to fix. Come on.”

You grab onto his sleeve, tugging Jack after you to the fantasy section and depositing him at the start of the T’s. To your bemusement he scoops up a copy of The Hobbit instead, but you do see him cast a baleful look at the rest of the Tolkien collection before easing his selection open.

You leave him be, deciding to just be done for the day and going through the motions of closing the store. It’s easy enough to do on your own, and if the gleam in his eyes was as telling as you thought it was, he needed this.

By the time you stick your head back around to the corner Jack’s tucked away into, it’s been nearly half an hour. His nose is still buried in The Hobbit, but at your approach he focuses on you.

“This one seems different.” He waves it at you, so you frown and take it from him, absentmindedly flipping through the pages for an obvious misprint or missing page.

It’s one of the movie-branded editions, with a poster or something in the back, but nothing else pops up in your cursory check. “What do you mean, ‘different’?”

“I mean-” Jack huffs out a breath, as close to sulking as he’s ever been. “It doesn’t read the same. The chapter with Gollum was one of my favorite parts, but it’s different.”

Different, huh? You chew on your bottom lip for a moment before unlocking your phone in one hand while glancing at the inside of the cover. You’ll have to do some comparison with older versions, but as far as you’re aware anything in the past couple of decades has stayed the same.

“How old was the one you had?”

In the blink of an eye his posture changes, and it’s a marvelous sight to not be the awkward one for once as he clears his throat. Twice. “Uh, I don’t know, E. It was basically a family heirloom by the time I read it, I think.”

“Ah.” Forcing jealously far, far down along with a sudden burst of incredulity that someone could lose their copy of one of the first several editions you nod, though you can’t quite help the grumble in the slips through. “You come from a whole line of nerds, then?”

“Sure.”

If you were paying attention, you might have caught the shadow that swept over him, and the distant hurt in his eye.

But you weren’t, so by the time you do look at him he’s got his head tilted and one eyebrow raised in a playful taunt.

Hmph.

Well, unless Jack has a couple hundred grand laying around somewhere, an original isn’t going to be possible. However, there is the facsimile first edition.

Tapping the cover, you hum. “Tell you what – there was a reprint of the first edition, so let me check on ordering one of those. I’ll let you know cost once I find it. In the meantime. . .”

You tug a matching set of The Lord of the Rings off the shelf and push the short stack into his chest. “Take those home with you, and once you’re finished reading, we’ll have a movie marathon.”

“Right, movies. They made one of The Hobbit, too, then?” He waves the book, the cover incriminating in its design.

“No.” Your vehemence jerks his attention back to you. His eyebrow raises as you huff, forcing yourself not to devolve into a ranting mess about it, instead muttering, “Nothing of note, anyway. Well, the animated one’s cheesy, but. . .”

Shaking your head, you snatch The Hobbit from his hand and jam it back onto the shelf in defiance, selecting one of the regular prints. “The Lord of the Rings were films. The Hobbit was not. There may have been another trilogy with the same name released that had breathtaking cinematography, and incredible music, and casting, but. . .no.”

You can hear him laughing – that familiar exhale that counts as his laughing, in your opinion – as you storm away.

Seriously. Screw film studio executives.

Chapter Text

It was all over the news that night: Sam Wilson, alias ‘Falcon,’ had turned Captain America’s shield over to the US government to be put into a museum.

There are many questions being asked from all sides. You’ve also thought of plenty in the past five minutes since all of these started occurring to you as well.

Where is Captain America? Why does Sam have the shield? Furthermore, why did Sam give the shield up? Was he supposed to? Was he going to be the next Cap? Did Captain America, the actual Steve Rogers actually die?

And what’s all this about the moon trending on Twitter? Who even uses Twitter anymore?

Wow, have you been out of touch. Sure, you’d read what reports you could stomach of the Avengers’ final battle with that space monster demon that’d killed everybody, and you’d heard in passing about Tony Stark’s death, but aside from that you really haven’t been keeping up with current news about the team. Too much else to do and keep track of these days other than the gossip about ‘Earth’s Mightiest.’ Mightiests. Rather, Mightiest Heroes. Or whatever.

It does cause you to sign up for a couple of news blasts, so you’ll at least have headlines with bits and pieces of the rest of the world in your inbox each morning. Then you go back to scrolling and sorting through the influx of articles and commentary.

Hm, there’s an interesting tidbit about the recently revamped Captain America exhibit in the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum as that’s where the shield is going to be displayed.

You click through to another article that talks about the upgrades to said museum that came with the recent influx of Wakandan tech that brought it back into full and modern operation, this will help restore full unity back to the US and its friends, yada yada yada.

But ooh, something that looks rather interesting catches your eye. It’s a link to a virtual walkthrough, available for a limited time now since the shield was officially installed following the press conference this morning. You have a few, vague memories from a childhood visit years ago, so it’d be neat to see just how much has changed.

There’s a pop-up asking for donations, but instead of merrily ignoring them as you usually do, in this case you shrug and enter in a couple of dollars before loading the exhibit, wondering how well their descriptions translate to the actual thing.

The screen blinks to the homepage, and your eyes widen.

Okay, so they weren’t being excessively dramatic. It’s really cool.

There are some panoramic shots of the actual exhibit to demonstrate the set up. It reminds you of something sci-fi, like a space sort of walkthrough the way everything is designed in advanced tech. There are glass pillars projecting information, digital displays littering the area, and various artifacts lining the walls.

New, albeit probably impossible bucket list vacation spot: Wakanda. Absolutely.

A navigation bar directs you to zoom in onto each of the displays. There are relics from a war gone by, news clippings and slideshows, and you also can read through an entire timeline of Captain America’s life starting with his introduction to World War II.

That’s the first thing you select, but one of the earlier slides doesn’t load, so for now you skip past the section onto the general display images which come up instantly.

There are pictures of the other items that you had seen years ago, those memories resurfacing with each photo: Howling Commando uniforms, the motorcycle, tactical gear, and other remnants of the war. The displays are gorgeously highlighted with glowy, ambient fixtures, and it feels more naturally immersive than you were expecting.

Something from Sokovia pops up and you pause, studying it for a moment as you try to recall what you knew of that entire phase of the Avengers. The Accords and the Winter Soldier, the ghost assassin that was apparently Captain America’s friend, the fall out in the Avengers, Wakandan royalty, and so many other things whirl around your mind.

There were so many arguments on who was right, who was wrong, and exceptionally tense newscasting and reporting. It had felt like the world changed so drastically then.

Never mind what would happen only a couple years after, or the absolute upheaval just a few months ago.

But that was before you'd dropped out of college to go another route, when you’d been less aware then and working on a degree. One of your all-nighters had included conspiracy theories and debates on footage and rumors that were leaked, but that had really been the end of it.

The whole fiasco had never fully made sense to you, anyway. There was always a piece missing in all the debates, and what little you had found frustrated you so badly you’d ended up ignoring it altogether. Nor had it come up at all during the Blip, everything else considered.

With a huff, you backtrack through the exhibit to try loading the pictures of the timeline again. It’s been updated as well, so you do want to read through it, especially it in order.

The website is probably being slammed, so you sit mostly patiently until it finally connects.

It starts with the promised background of Steve Rogers, something that even you knew enough about just from the sheer insanity of his life. But it goes into more detail about his attempts to join the army and the experiment that made him who he was, and you end up absolutely enthralled. It’s far more humanizing than any of the speculation and media that had flooded the internet after he was originally found.

You’re caught up in it so much so that it’s an abrupt awakening when the next set of photos also refuses to load at first. You blink, brought back to full awareness, and try to refresh the page. If you remember correctly, this set should be about Captain America’s friend. The one he lost. You’d daydreamed about him for a while as a child, thinking it so fantastic and fairy tale-like for some reason.

There’s something else right on the edge on your memory, just out of reach that causes you to linger on the blank page, hoping it will load. . .but it was his eyes, you recall. You remembered his eyes. Had been fascinated by them. The piercing, determined stare under the thick, strong brow.

But it was so long ago. It had been a childhood fantasy that faded into other areas of interest as you’d grown.

Though now that you’ve gone digging this deep into your memory, another long-forgotten factor also resurfaces, and it pulls a brief, rueful smile directed towards your younger self.

You’d always wanted to know what color his eyes were. That had been the primary element of those daydreams as an overly imaginative youngster, deciding what color suited him best.

“Come on, now,” you mutter as you click refresh one final time and scoop up your tea while you wait, frowning at the spinning wheel. If it didn’t work now, it was a lost cause.

You could always try to keep moving forward in the exhibit. . .but since it’d been so long since you’d ever thought about this man – Bucky Barnes, that’s it! You cheer softly as the first part of the transcript finally pops up below the blank image – it would be nice to read about him, for old time’s sake.

You’re just lifting the mug to your lips when the image loads, and you startle.

Blue.

His eyes are blue.

They’re blue.

Tea spills over your hand. You set it down with a thunk, grabbing a napkin to blindly dab at it, the heat barely registering as you stare at the eyes.

His eyes.

You should have known those eyes had been familiar. In this picture they’re gray instead of the blue you know them to be, but your mind colored them in instantly.

They’re his eyes.

Because plastered across your screen is your employee, Jack Hughes.

James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes.

You stare, stare, and stare shocked, unmoving, frozen. It’s impossible, but it’s not. It can’t be; it’s impossible, but your eyes track down, scanning the rest of the inscription under the photo in something akin to a daze.

“In 1944, while on a mission to thwart a Hydra weapon transport in the Alps, Barnes was thrown from a train and believed to have been killed in action. It wasn’t until 2014, over seventy years later that it was revealed that Barnes was alive, having been found by Hydra operatives.”

Hydra. He’d been with Hydra.

What?

You hurry to move forward to the next slide, glancing briefly at the picture of him and Captain America in uniform, needing more information or some explanation. Some proof you’re not going crazy, and it’s just a coincidence. Anything.

Instead, the title you read rather than glossing over it completes the puzzle that an uninterested and over-caffeinated, burnt-out student would never have been able to.

“The Winter Soldier: From Friend to Foe.”

You hold your breath as you read, scrolling slowly, heart pounding.

Some fragments jump out: “Convinced of (Barnes’) innocence. Into hiding. Barnes. Barnes. Barnes,” but it’s the final sentence that hits you like another round of ammunition.

 “. . .the current whereabouts of Barnes remains unknown, having been labeled a fugitive following his escape from custody.”

I know Jack’s whereabouts, your mind says, but you don’t. Because there is no Jack Hughes.

There’s Bucky - James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Solider, the man who was experimented on and brainwashed by Hydra that now works for you in your corner bookstore. A fugitive.

Okay.

Okay.

Okay.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

You keep telling yourself this, even as your breath comes shorter and shorter, and your chest begins to tighten.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

Everything’s going to be fine.

But what is he doing here? Are they tracking him? Is he safe? Are you?

What will happen if they find him? Do they already know where he is?

Giving up on the rest of the exhibit, you go to Google to try to find any more information. . .but nothing is coming up. Absolutely nothing. It’s completely dark; all the info available is along the lines of what you just read.

Think, you order yourself, even as you tap your fingers against the table in a nervous rhythm. What’s happened the past two months?

Nothing extraordinary. Typical business, one sort of late back-to-school book drive, and that was it. E-mails, bookkeeping, personal business, phone calls-

That’s when something registers.

The phone call.

The one phone call, when someone had asked about Jack and if he was at work. It had been strange, and you’d made a face at him from behind the counter (and behind his back) because he had been annoying you that day, but you’d told the woman that yes, he was. But she didn’t want to leave a message for him.

She just wanted to make sure that. . .he was on his schedule? Because she was concerned about him – her nephew, or something like that? She had said she was his aunt, hadn’t she?

Yes, she’d claimed to be his aunt. Because you’d decided to term her ‘Auntie Em’ since she had come off so shrewish.

Is that why he started working for you? Did he have to?

Or did they help him? Whomever ‘they’ are.

Groaning, you drop your head into your hands. This is insane. It’s absolutely insane. No one has recognized him – you didn’t even recognize him! Sure, his eyes had seemed sort of oddly, vaguely familiar, but not like you would have known. Who would? Not unless you were actively trying to track down his location. Or a superfan. Or a World War II or Howling Commando specific history enthusiast.

You suck in a deep breath, one knee bouncing spastically. So, nobody knows who he is. He’s not even going by Bucky; he’s going by Jack Hughes. You had paperwork with that name. He had documentation with that name. Hell, you’d even been able to run a background check, and it had come clear with the usual information.

Okay.

Okay.

A completed background check meant that the paperwork including his photo ID had gone through a government database. Maybe it’s something like Witness Protection Program, then? Maybe he was proved innocent. He must have been innocent.

You sit up straight, surfing your way back into the Captain America exhibit to double check. Okay, definitely proved innocent of the Sokovian Accords bombing, but that doesn’t seem to apply to all the stuff he did under Hydra based on what you just read.

But the whole brainwashing thing changes everything, doesn’t it? Doesn’t that mean it wasn’t his fault? Don’t they recognize that? Why don’t they just say that instead of this casual condemnation?

The word ‘tortured’ leaps out at you, and with a shudder you close your laptop with a firm swing, jumping up to pace around your little studio instead, the nervous energy flooding through you demanding an outlet.

Okay.

Concentrate.

This is what you know: Jack Hughes is Bucky Barnes. Bucky Barnes was experimented on, and he became the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier was brainwashed, and Captain America helped him escape and cleared his name from the bombing. Then the Winter Soldier vanished. . .

. . .only to appear in your store under a different name.

Plus, there was that one woman who was probably checking up on him. Government agent, police, or something else of the like.

You stop, prop your hands on your hips, and take a deep breath. Witness Protection, then. Or something similar. So, it’s fine. Really. They know where he is, and your shop won’t be overrun with black ops while he makes another spectacular getaway to avoid being punished for something that wasn’t his fault.

They don’t know that you know. They couldn’t. And no matter how much one, wild part of you screeches that they must, that they’ll find out, you aren’t going to listen to her right now.

Your eyes drift shut as you calm your breathing, the one picture of Bucky from World War II emblazoned on the front of your mind, drowning out the rest of the mental storming.

He looked happier then. Even in the middle of a war, he'd looked happier. You can’t even begin to imagine what his life has been like since that picture was taken.

What it will be from here on out as Jack Hu – oh.

Oh no.

Your head drops and you groan again, raking your hands through your hair. You’ll have to pretend you don’t know who he is. You can’t act any differently, or he’ll know something’s up. You can’t know. No one knows where he is; you absolutely can’t know, either.

Oh, no.

You slump over the table, covering your face and whining into your hands. Sure, you can pretend you don’t know who Jack actually is. He’s definitely not someone on the run, hiding from the world under a different identity. He’s not some super soldier thug person that was press-ganged into serving one of history’s most dangerous and deranged criminal groups. He’s just Jack, just your employee with a knack for plant husbandry, just someone you’ve started to refer to as a friend.

Just someone that you care about.

And you – you’re just ‘E.’ You’re his employer, and he has rights to privacy working for you. You have to maintain that privacy under any sort of circumstance, including life-alternating, history-making findings.

You can do this. You can pretend.

Only. . .there’s a reason you never tried to go into acting.

Chapter Text

It’s funny how simple things don’t always come to mind immediately when you’re basically slapped across the face with something extraordinary.

You’ve got a headache from lack of sleep. You’d spent most of last night panicking and pacing, then deep diving on the internet to learn more about him. All before panicking some more about what you were going to do today. Jack, Bucky was going to help come in today to pack orders, so you’ll have to talk to him. You’ll have to see him. And you can’t slip up; you absolutely cannot make a mess of things.

But at some point far past midnight, a stray thought had crossed your mind: Should I be afraid?

It had taken less than a minute to convince that errant, intrusive fear that no, it wasn’t necessary. You’ve never claimed to be an expert on people and their motives, but never not once in the past couple of months have you ever been afraid of Jack.

Of Bucky.

He’s done nothing to suggest any sort of danger – and based on what little information that exhibit held, you’re inclined to follow the leading of America’s namesake hero. Surely Captain America himself wouldn’t have given up everything for someone who was purposefully complicit in decades of criminal activity.

Bucky saved you from that drunken freak.

No, he’s not dangerous.

Well, he’s probably extremely dangerous if he wants to be, but he doesn’t want to be.

Does he?

No, he doesn’t. You’re sure of this. You have to be. Not the man who’d been so willing to help you without anything in return, who befriended lonely elders for no personal gain, and who bought flowers for a date he’d been somewhat coerced into.

No, not Jack.

Who is literally one hundred and six. Which makes total sense in hindsight and is the only thing to give you a quick laugh this morning when you remember that conversation from what feels like forever ago.

But you’re not stupid enough to think that he wouldn’t be upset if he finds out you know. Nope. While you have your moments as everyone does, this is not one of them.

But it’s hard to relax, so hard to function normally. By the time you’ve taken your lunch and have gotten into some number crunching, you’re pretty sure you’ve worried yourself into a frenzy that will be impossible to cover up.

And you’re exhausted. When you had finally fallen asleep it’d been fitful. Through the early hours of morning, it had been Bucky this, Bucky that – the train mentioned in the exhibit, and then your Jack and Bucky as twins? Ugh, it had been awful, and it had left you feeling like your brain had run a marathon instead of actually resting.

At least the bookkeeping distracts you. So much so that when a shadow falls across the back half of the counter, you hum quietly and tip your head just enough to get a quick glance at who it is, not expecting anyone in particular.

In the next second you’ve launched out of your chair, throwing your stylus over the countertop as you lock eyes with none other than James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes.

You wheeze for air, jabbing a finger at him as you try to settle your racing pulse, try to concentrate on what you’re not supposed to be doing, which is exactly this.

Cover, cover, cover. Please.

Something. Anything.

“You- you can’t sneak up on people like that!”

His eyebrow raises, and he is absolutely unimpressed by your antics as he looks between you and the object on the floor you’d just tossed at his face. “Who else were you expecting, E? Got someone else working for you on the side I don’t know about?”

You’re reading too much into it. He’s not suspicious; you do stuff like this all the time.

Right? Don’t you?

Hopefully he can’t hear your heart pounding in your chest as you huff, shaking your finger at him. “Of course not – don’t be ridiculous. But I am buying you a bell.”

It doesn’t have the desired effect; if anything, you’re even more alarmed as his eyes narrow, studying your expression. Your wide, blinking eyes. “Seriously though, you alright?”

You feel heat rising in your face, which you know is more incriminating, but come on. There’s got to be some way to get yourself out of this. You can do this.

Just tell the truth.

. . .or at least enough of the truth that any lie worked in seems plausible.

“Sorry.” Sitting back down, you drop your head into your hands, sighing heavily. “I didn’t sleep well. Had some really weird dreams-“ And then in the blink of an eye, praise be to whatever may be listening, you have an excuse. Though somehow, you keep your tone gloomy. “-about my old classmate Sebastian. You two look alike, you know. I thought he’d manifested himself somehow and was here to torment me like when we were in college.”

“I look like your weird ex-classmate named Sebastian?” Bucky scoffs, but you’re already fishing for your phone, ready to scour social media to prove it to him and lock down your excuse, even though there’s no trace of belief from him right now. “E, there’s no one in the world who looks like me.”

Yeah, well, you’re the only person in the world with a metal arm, aren’t you? The impish part of you grumbles.

Not helping, you snipe back at yourself before turning your screen towards him. The resemblance is uncanny; it’s a miracle you thought of it when you did. The dreaded classmate that you had conveniently forgotten about as soon as he’d moved away to do who-knows-what to make a name for himself after he decided that university was not for him to waste his talents on.

You definitely don’t remember having a crush on him before he’d revealed how unfortunately sleazy he was, that’s for sure.

“Huh.” Jack’s eyebrows raise, and he actually makes an impressed sort of face, the corners of his mouth drawing down as he nods. “Guess he is almost as pretty as me. The beard is a nice touch.”

You groan as he smirks, burying your head in your arms and ignoring him when he calls your name once, twice, laughing at you all the more as you grumble incoherently at him. “Come on, I’m kidding. E, come on. Seriously. I brought you tea.”

It’s the last of his cajoling that draws you out. Lifting your head slightly, you narrow your eyes at him until he holds up the cup, swirling it around. “Earl grey latte?”

“With added vanilla syrup.”

“Fine,” you say flippantly, switching dramatically as you hop back up. He smirks that faint, half-smile, and then it’s all okay. It’s fine. You made it. The first encounter was always going to be the worst.

So, you smile back, a fledgling shoot of confidence beginning to unfurl.

You’ve got this.

He never needs to know.

Chapter Text

Somehow, you manage to get away with it. You manage to cover your tracks; Bucky doesn’t suspect a thing.

Not that he’s paid all that much attention to you so far this morning, because this first morning of make-believe he’s been distracted. Annoyed even, though you’re pretty sure it’s not with you.

It can’t be you. Not if he brought you tea, right?

Or did he already figure out you were hiding something from him?

No, he probably would have confronted you immediately and directly if that were the case. It must be something else that’s bothering him, but with the way he keeps himself closed off you can’t quite tell for certain. There are glimpses, especially when he fails to notice you’re studying him, but nothing definite.

You could ask, but. . .somehow, you have the feeling that he wouldn’t appreciate any attempts to pry information from him. Nor would he appreciate you psychoanalyzing him, even though it does leave you to wonder.

It can’t be the government again, could it? Would he even be allowed out if they were stirring up trouble for him again?

Could he be sick? If he even gets sick. Does he get sick?

An excellent question to add to the list of things you’ll never know. . .but if he was unwell, you’re pretty sure he would have texted you and stayed away to avoid contaminating anyone else. That seems more like him.

So, not sick. Feds? Family? Does he even have family left?

There’s no telling no matter how much time you spend spiraling through all the possibilities, so you’re left deciding to keep an eye on him throughout the day. Which is very easily accomplished with how hyper focused you are to keep from slipping up.

That fear is helped knowing it also means he won’t sneak up on you and catch you off guard again, though it would help you more to know if you are just imagining things or if he really is upset about something.

You have a habit of projecting at times, especially when you’re tired, so you’re stuck in an unfortunate loop of second-guessing yourself throughout the morning.

Until you hear enough background chatter about ‘Captain America,’ and ‘The Falcon,’ and ‘the shield,’ and your tired brain finally catches up, jolting you into full consciousness.

Of course.

It must be the surrendering of the shield that’s bothering him.

Honestly, that should have been obvious. Steve Rogers was his best friend, right? And if Steve Rogers gave the shield to The Falcon, then that means he was done. Or dead. Or just ready for someone else to take his place, which hadn’t happened considering the Smithsonian now had a new display.

Unless that had been the plan all along, and The Falcon was just the go-between.

. . .but no, that would be cruel, and you never would have thought that Steve Rogers was cruel.

No, he never was, so that means it was something better.

Something like. . .The Falcon was maybe meant to take Steve Rogers’ place. But he chose not to?

Was it supposed to be Bucky instead? Or before?

No matter what the specific reason, of course it was logical for Bucky to be upset about it. It was the end of an era, or something. Or the end of someone.

What did that mean for him? What does it mean to him?

You maintain an even closer watch on him for the rest of his shift, but as far as anyone else would know there’s nothing wrong with him. There’s nothing that could be wrong, because national news wouldn’t overly concern your regular run-of-the-mill bookstore employee person just living their best life, right?

No one else knows why he might be frustrated and borderline caustic, so you make yourself pretend he’s not, and it works out okay. He still charms a couple people into purchases, still flaunts his knowledge of the classics as obscenely as possible, and still gets snippy about the unfair amount of tea you have compared to your selection of coffee.

It works out okay and before you know it, he’s marking his timecard and tossing you a lazy salute that you return with an equal indifference.

Until you realize that he’s always saluting because he was in the military.

Thankfully, he’s already out the door and gone before you fall into a minor panic, thus unable to see or hear your flailing.

Now that was a close call, but you made it.

Slapping your hands over your face, you take a deep, controlled breath, puff out your cheeks, and then allow it to whoosh out in a groan.

The first day is officially survived. You’ve done it once; you can do it again.

You’ve got this. You’re not going to screw this up.

But just to be on the safe side, you decide to mentally plan out a few different scenarios to avoid being caught off guard again like you already were a couple of times.

As long as you have the basic structure of a plan, then you’ll be able to improvise better if the situation calls for it.

Hopefully.

Well, that’ll be the goal, but you are moderately optimistic that you’ll succeed the next time that you see him. And it’ll only get easier each and every time, so you shouldn’t worry about it too much. Plus, there’s the fact that you’ll know when you’re going to see him, so it’s not like you have to care about him showing up at random.

. . .only he comes in rather unexpectedly the next Wednesday with an entirely different attitude, momentarily distracting you from the looming discomfort of knowing his secrets.

There’s another man with him today, and you bite the inside of your lip to keep from giggling at their entrance. Bucky looks like a sullen teenager the way he’s slouching, the other man his fed-up guardian who fears no one and no thing.

He makes this very clear the way he casts a suspicious look around Verbatim before his gaze lands on you, and his mouth pulls down while he addresses Bucky. “So, this is where you spend your time when you’re not harassing me.”

Not harassing him?

Oh. It’s Wednesday.

He’s got to be Yori. You love him already whomever this grumpy gentleman is, but you desperately hope you’re right.

He’s the only person Bucky ever talks about, so of course you’ve wanted to meet him.

With a wave, you grin at the pair as they wander further into the store. “Hello there!”

“Hey, E.” Bucky comes to a stop in front of you, gesturing to the older man along with a roll of his eyes before confirming, “This is Yori Nakajima.”

You introduce yourself, but Yori completely ignores you, pointing at Bucky with an accusing finger while you cough down a laugh. “James was late to lunch, so I wanted to see where he could have been that was more important than food.”

It’s a miracle how you don’t even blink at the different name, maintaining a total air of calm. Score one for your secret-keeping. “Oh, well, he wasn’t actually here this morning.”

Yori turns his attention to you, and you straighten your shoulders instinctively, smiling awkwardly as he glowers. He looks you up and down, and then turns around in a slow circle to send the same frown at your entire place again before pinning you with another look.

“I suppose you’re enough of an excuse. I get it now,” is added more loudly, even though Bucky groans at his side and tries to cut him off. “At least if you read a book you may actually learn something useful. Unless you spend all your time just looking at her.” He jabs a thumb in your direction to enunciate.

You wish.

Bucky protests, but Yori just scolds him some more, and you’re starting to struggle holding yourself together without breaking down and cackling as the two men argue back and forth.

“Come on, Yori, you know I know lots of things.”

“Young people always think they know everything.”

“You’re the one who needed my help with connecting your new TV to the Wi-Fi. You remember that? Huh?”

“’True knowledge exists in knowing you know nothing,’ you know.”

Socrates, you could chime in, though you clench your jaw to prevent yourself from adding insult to injury.

Bucky looks so done, no defense remaining, and it’s all you can do to maintain your straight face in view of his defeated exasperation.

However, once Yori pauses long enough to quirk an eyebrow at you, you graciously give your friend a bit of backup. “James has been a great help to me.”

You say it kindly, but the sudden wistful looks that crosses Yori’s expression surprises you. It’s nowhere near fleeting, and his chin tucks down.

Bucky twitches at the name, but he doesn’t say anything. When he catches your eye you mouth ‘James’, raising your eyebrow in mock question, and he shrugs, reaching up to subtly point at his head before scuffing his hair to hide the gesture.

Ah. Going with the forgetful old man excuse, then? But you nod in pretend agreement.

At this point Yori clears his throat and smiles, lifting his face back up to you. His eyes gleam with something like shared understanding about it as he glances over at Bucky, but there’s also a shine of emotion before he quietly agrees. “Yes. He is, isn’t he?”

As for Bucky, his face falls. It crumples in the most heartbreaking way, and you don’t think he realizes that you noticed, taken as you are with your chat with Yori. Sympathy that you don’t fully understand rises, but you can’t focus on it though because Yori’s speaking, and you need to concentrate on him.

It turns out he’s really quite charming, grumpiness aside, and you quickly realize why the two men click. They banter back and forth with practiced ease while you jump in with questions and gentle teasing of your own, and Yori’s mood slowly grows along with a smile.

Until you unknowingly ask about his family, ask if he has any children or grandchildren, just flowing in the conversation as you are wont to do in these situations. Then Yori changes again, and it’s like the weight of the world suddenly falls on his shoulders.

It’s obvious you overstepped, but while you try to apologize Yori murmurs something in Japanese, lifting a hand to his heart.

And you understand then that quiet description of loss. The inability to speak for the weight of grief bearing down on one’s words.

It haunted the world for five years; it’s not one you’re soon or ever likely to forget.

“I’m sorry,” you offer quickly and sincerely, but he brushes you off, folding his hands behind his back, his demeanor settling into something closer to what it was when he first arrived.

You also understand needing that defense.

“I have a pile of books on my table already, but when I’ve gone through them all I’ll see you for the next.”

That makes you smile. “Of course. You’re welcome anytime.”

Without another word or any further hesitation, Yori turns on his heel to leave. You wave, calling out a goodbye after his abrupt exit, which he answers with a flick of fingers over his shoulder.

Bucky’s ready to follow him, but before he turns back to you for a brief, hushed explanation.

“His son was shot a few years ago. There was no reason for it, just the wrong place, wrong time, y’know? Just don’t bring it up again if he does come back, alright?” He’s shifting on his feet, and he can’t look you in the eye.

Almost as if he’s ashamed of it, but he shouldn’t be. It’s not like it was-

Not like it could have been-

But he is. It was-

Realization strikes through you, but somehow you keep your feet under you, keep your sad smile resolute.

-his fault.

After you nod in agreement, after a rushed “Don’t wait up tonight; I’ll be back tomorrow!” Bucky hurries out to chase down the older gentleman.

Your necessary smile is stiff, your cheeks hurting by the time he’s gone, and you’re alone. Alone and safe to process, safe to consider everything he didn’t realize he just told you.

Safe to acknowledge what that expression he pulled earlier meant.

Of course. Of course, that’s why. He knows. Bucky knows exactly who this man is, knows exactly what happened to his son. Knows why the help and support is so invaluable.

He must have-

No, don’t go there. Not to the past.

Stay here, stay now. What’s he doing now?

He must be trying to make amends.

You have to grip the back of the nearest chair to keep yourself from sinking to the floor as another customer wanders in. You welcome them with a falsely cheerful greeting, hiding your shaking legs behind the wingback and concealing your trembling hands by white knuckling the headrest while all those years and the amount of trauma that there must be from them suddenly occurs to you.

The numbers of others like Yori that there might have, there must have been.

Maybe out of reach with the passage of time. Maybe just a memory.

What if he remembers all of them?

Oh, Bucky.

Chapter Text

A couple more weeks pass by, and both the temperature and humidity build and build until reaching the typical, unbearable back of summer heights.

But every interaction has gotten easier; every time you see him out of the corner of your eye your alarm has faded into something less. It fades into a small, flickering fear, but one of a different kind.

You’re more worried now about what would happen if you slipped, if you let someone else in on the secret you’ve locked within you. It keeps you cautious, keeps you on alert, but at least you’re no longer making a fool of yourself and coming up with strange excuses for your even stranger behavior.

At least not this week.

Just last week, Bucky had reached out with his left hand to move one of your tchotchkes to a safer location, as his right hand was busy balancing a rather precarious stack of books. You’d seen it out of the corner of your eyed how he’d paused briefly. Not long, but long enough that it’d made you think he was actually considering if he should touch it with that hand or not. When he did, it was with far more care and gentleness than you would have bothered with.

And you wondered. You had to wonder how many times he had hesitated, unsure, unknowing if it could be trusted with something delicate or precious.

It was when he’d turned around to look at you that you realized your vision was blurred with tears. At least you’d been holding a book open, as it gave you an excuse. A measly one, but still.

“Paper cut,” you’d practically whimpered, clearing your throat and blinking rapidly at his questioning head tilt. “Took me by surprise. It’s thicker paper.”

With the expert skill that only someone of your own career and ability would possess, you were able to flick a finger around in such a way as to actually nick yourself. At the sting of it, you’d screwed up your face in an irritated, pained sort of expression. But at least when you’d lifted your hand for his unimpressed inspection, the mark was there to prove it.

“Now that’s a battle scar. What a story for the grandkids.” He’d deadpanned some other nonsense about needing a doctor as you’d huffed and stormed away. Annoyed with him, with yourself for a completely melodramatic overreaction, and with the crazy that was now your life.

Hell, you should’ve just said the book was sad.

No, there haven’t been any other silly moments like that this week. Hopefully you broke yourself with that last one.

Today, the two of you are working on rearranging. As much as you hate change, it’s a necessary one. You need to readjust some of the shelves, need to make room for a few new authors that have published since coming back from the Blip. Need to move some décor around and a couple of the chairs away from the merciless heat beating in through the windows, even though the blinds are only cracked.

Since it’s been quiet with it being a mid-morning Tuesday, you decided you might as well do it now instead of staying later and expecting him to hang around longer also. The chairs and throw rugs were handled easily, but the rest is slow going and very methodical.

But it’s good work. It’s peaceful. There’s a lull, a comfortable quiet that you enjoy as the two of you work in tandem, dancing around each other and chatting every once in a while. Right now, Bucky’s settled into a rhythm with the books, and you’re working on aesthetic. Which is obviously as important for the youngsters that come in to take fancy photos on their even fancier phones.

Not that you mind. It’s good to see them living life and most are more than happy to tag the shop. Win-win, and even if they don’t, well. . .they’re smiling. It’s good enough. It’s better to have them here. Alive.

Anyway, you’d recently come across a somewhat astounding collection of glasswork spheres that were being sold in a thrift store. They were probably practice pieces, being all different sizes and shapes and a bit rough around the edges, but the earthy green and brown tones were absolutely stunning when combined with all the books, so they were perfect.

You put some on stands, place some thicker ones in between authors to separate their works, and tuck others into the corners of the bookcases. A few had to be discarded but most of them weren’t overly fragile, so as long as they were out of reach of little hands it would be fine. Should be fine.

“Mental note for me: search for New York City glassblowers later.” You toss this over your shoulder to Bucky while fiddling with one that was a bit too lopsided to stay put. He mumbles something in the affirmative, stepping around to stand beside you as he moves a couple of novels from one shelf to the next.

With a frown, you study the glass lump until you have an idea. Maybe one of the hollowed-out coasters? You might need to fix it in place with a hot glue gun, but for now it would at least give it something to sit in without tipping over the edge. . .hopefully.

“Be right back. Watch that one; it’s not stable.”

You get another indistinct answer, but you’re not paying much more attention either, focused as you are on finding the bag of mismatched coasters someone had given you that you’d stashed behind the counter. It’d been in that drawer, but then you’d moved it – no, Bucky had moved it when complaining that he couldn’t ever find anything. . .

Aha!

Scooping it up, you do a happy, wiggly sort of shuffling dance to make your way back to where you’d left the sphere. It’s deep enough in the center that it should sit fairly level, just like you had thought. At least that’s one minor inconvenience solved.

But when you duck around the corner of the aisle, you see that Bucky has inched closer to the end where the sphere is perched. In fact, he’s a little too close, and that’s when you wonder if he had even heard you earlier.

“Hey, Jack, watch out.”

But when he turns to look at you his elbow clips the sphere, and before either of you can even blink it shatters off the shelf in your direction. Bucky hops back, awkwardly grasping with his hands for a moment as if he doesn’t know what to do with them, as if he could have caught it as you merely jump, startled. The two of you blankly stare down, processing what just happened before Bucky shakes himself.

“The hell- I’m sorry.” He steps around to crouch down at your feet, carefully lifting the bigger pieces that have fallen. It’s adorable how he mutters to himself, flailing slightly and offering more apologies, even as you try to reassure him it’s not a big deal.

Not like he can help it.

You take a large step back out of the danger zone, quickly checking the bottom of your shoes to make sure you aren’t tracking glass anywhere before ducking into your supply closet. After successfully unearthing the dustpan, you brandish it like a sword as you hurry back over. Bucky moves away to give you space as you carefully maneuver to sweep up the other pieces remaining on the floor and shelf.

He watches you, rubbing the back of his neck, totally sincere when he tries to apologize again. “E, I really am sorry-”

“It’s okay, Jack,” you cut him off with an absent smile. You’re so focused on getting every bit of glass up that you breeze right on through. Not filtering the words coming out of your mouth. Not really thinking as you concentrate on cleaning, not missing a beat as you flap an elbow for a visual. “It was an accident. It would take a lot less than metal to break something this fragile. Nooo worries. . .”

You scoop up one of the larger bits, studying the thickness of it. You probably should secure the ones you’ve already placed around better. No point in risking more breakage because of how unevenly they were blown. There’s tacky putty in a drawer somewhere. Maybe. Or, if you get enough coasters, you will definitely hot glue them. . .but that might show through the lighter ones. Well, you could try at least and see what happens, keep any that don’t work well for yourself. . .safety first, and all. . .

It's a few more seconds before you straighten, ready to dump the mess into the trash and move on with your day, but you pause on route to the wastebasket at his words.

“What did you say?”

His tone is flat. Emotionless. There’s no trace of anything in it, and it’s odd enough that you turn around, wrinkling your nose up at him. What, does he want you to freak out and be angry with him, or something?

“I said-”

Only, it suddenly occurs to you what you just said. You realize so suddenly that on sheer instinct you inhale sharply and choke down the repetition of it, your eyes widening at the blank look that has fallen over Bucky’s face.

Oh.

Oh no.

Say something.

Say anything.

You clear your throat, trying to force out something, even though you can’t move. You’re locked in place; there is no going back. “I said, ‘nooo worries.’ It’s fine; it was just a trinket. There are more.” Your smile is too wide, your eyes drying as you keep your gaze locked on his, unable to blink or move or breathe.

Don’t look at his arm. Don’t you dare look at his arm.

“That’s not what you said.” The words are nearly growled at you as he moves closer to you.

And over the course of the next week, your reaction will haunt you. It will terrorize you, and you will spend most evenings berating yourself to sleep. He didn’t mean it; you’d probably unnerved him.

And it wasn’t him, personally. It was the fact that you messed up; you crossed that invisible line he didn’t know about. He’s upset, and it’s your fault.

This is why you were never supposed to let him know that you know.

You didn’t mean anything by it.

You didn’t.

It was just a natural reaction to wanting to run and hide and pretend the last few minutes had never occurred, because you’d finally screwed up just like you’d worried so much that you would.

But he won’t know that.

Because at the exact moment he stomps forward in demand, you cringe in shame.

That’s all it takes. He reels back, a rush of emotions flying across his face so rapidly that you can’t hardly place any. But his answer, his words carry so much loathing in them that it breaks your heart. “You know?”

You take a hasty step towards him, nearly spilling the broken glass back all over the floor with your frantic movement to fix what just happened. “No, Jack, wait-”

“That’s not even my name.” His snarl cuts you off and his expression finally settles on anger. Whether or not it’s directed at you, you don’t know, but it hurts; it’s awful to see him like this as he narrows his eyes at you.

No, it’s definitely you.

You’re just. . . ugh. You should’ve kept your mouth shut.

It’s too late now.

“I know,” you admit after pause too lengthy to hold anything other than the truth, giving up on hiding it from it and holding out a hand in a silent surrender.

Dread floods through you as he moves further away and shakes his head, ready to run as you ramble on and on, trying to make him understand, trying to keep the fading light from leaving his eyes. “I know it’s not your name, but I swear, I only just found out recently, and it was on accident. I promise I wasn’t trying to be nosy; I wasn’t going to tell anyone I figured out who you are-”

“Not going to tell anyone?” He’s almost at the door, snagging his forever-present jacket from the stand, and you’re still frozen, shocked at the hatred in his voice. The self-hatred, the embarrassment of being known. The reason why he had a pseudonym; why ‘Auntie Em’ called to check up on him. “Right, of course not. Because an assassin would be bad for business.”

Move, you stupid girl. Pick your feet up. Say something. Anything. It’s been too long.

Ex-assassin, a tiny, subdued piece of you corrects, but you can’t seem form the words.

You shake your head, floundering, shocked, too off-kilter to explain properly, scrambling to set the dustpan down to avoid losing any sharp pieces. “No, that’s not it at all, I just- wait!”

You hear footsteps. He’s leaving. You drop the dustpan onto the counter, but by the time you follow him to the door it’s too late. The bell rings, he slips through, and as you race outside after him you only catch one final glimpse before he vanishes into the foot traffic.

He actually vanishes, as in you can’t catch any glimpse of him, as if he was never there in the first place.

And you can’t leave the shop open to find him, you can’t leave it, and it’s too late, even if you do a quick lock up and run in the direction he went.

He’s already long gone.

He’s probably never coming back.

You stand there for a moment, people passing by in their usual evening city manner. Someone who rents across the street calls your name and waves, so you flash an empty smile and wave back before slowly, pathetically slipping back into your shop.

You take care of the glass, put the dustpan away before vacuuming the spot, and then there’s nothing.

There’s stillness. But not. . .not in a good way.

There’s no Jack – no Bucky snarking at you while the pair of you clean up before he leaves with a whistle, heading to who-knows-where while you disappear out the back door, swing around the alley corner and meander back to your studio apartment to end your day with the same routine. Dinner, movie or book, and bed. Any leftover work you have to take home. A text confirming the next shift, and a one-letter response turned emoji thumbs up in recent days to let you know he got the message.

A now-occasional meme or video regarding something that had happened during the day that he’ll laugh react to.

There will be no Bucky tomorrow, either. You’re sure of it. And that’s what hurts the most. That you ruined one of the best things to ever happen to you.

Great job, you chide yourself as you buzz yourself into your building, climb up the stairs to unlock your door and fling yourself onto your bed with tears of frustration ready to spill. Fantastic work there. Curling into a ball, you let the unfairness of his history and the fear of what he may be thinking wash over you as you sniffle.

You can’t text him. You definitely can’t call him. You don’t want to find out that he’s already blocked your number. That he’ll be just another ghost to you, more dust on the wind.

It feels like a break-up. Logic says that’s ridiculous, but emotion wails it’s true.

You hurt for you; you hurt for him. It must’ve felt like another betrayal, another person hiding behind a lie, manipulating his reality.

That’s when you start crying in earnest.

How did this happen? You never wanted this to happen.

Chapter Text

It’s surprisingly quiet again, almost like it was at the beginning of the Blip.

Yes, of course you know that it’s an exaggeration to think so, but it really sort of feels like it in one sense.

It feels like you did when the world first turned over and twisted around you, leaving you stuck in the middle of it with no sense of which way was up or down, hello Wonderland.

You’d gotten so used to him being around, and for him to suddenly not be? It was unbalancing in the strangest way.

Still, even though you doubt it will be him you keep an ear out for the door. Every time the bell chimes, every time someone wanders in you’re popping out from wherever you are to see who it is in wishful hope.

Even though he doesn’t show.

Even though you expected this.

You still check even though the disappointment just keeps growing, even though you do your best to ignore it.

You try, but you don’t entirely succeed.

His absence wears down at you. You’d never really noticed how much noise he made when he was there. If he wasn’t bantering with you he was shifting things around, snarking under his breath about something or someone, or whistling, or being outrageous with any present kiddos, but he was there. Moving boxes, poking at the tablet, caring for the plants, and doing whatever else needed to be done that he could do for you.

He was always there.

And now he’s not.

Some of your regulars have noticed. One of the little girls that used to follow him around all but dances up to you one day, eyes flashing with laughter as she beams and bounces. “Is Mr. Jack here today? Will he be here soon? He wasn’t last time!”

You’re able to smile, able to laugh with her as she infectiously wiggles around before you apologize profusely. There’s no real way to tell her, but you don’t want to outright lie so somehow, someway you stumble through an explanation that leaves her only slightly disappointed instead of overly upset.

Gone. Vacation. Family emergency. Coming back later? You’re not sure exactly what it is you’re saying, but it’s something, and it’s enough of a word vomiting explosion that enough is communicated and accepted.

. . .and that’s when you realize that you really should have thought of a better excuse for this.

So that’s what you do next. You plot it out from the fragments of what you'd just said, and then you’re able to wave away those curious with an easily fabricated story about an elderly uncle who needed some help for a bit, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible about it. You don’t want people focused on Bucky, nor do you want people questioning just how attached you are to him.

Were.

Are.

Ugh.

So, you tell your story, you patter along, you pretend there’s no hole in your world, and things settle back into a general routine. Summer is fading fast, bringing a new group of students wanting their volunteer hours logged right before the start of school. It’s not lonely, but. . .

If you’re being honest, you are.

Lonely, that is.

You miss him.

But you can’t let it beat you. You won’t.

---

It’s been another couple of weeks, so by now you’ve calmed down. The ache in your heart has lessened, because come on - what claim did you have to that anyway?

It was just a crush.

Sure, he’s wonderful. Gorgeous, obviously. Personality: 10/10. Kind, even though he might hide it behind the grumpiness. Also snarky, and so incredibly loyal. But it wasn’t anything serious, and he’d never looked twice at you in the same way.

Well, he might have once, but not again since that dance when you threw his date in his face.

So, it was just an unrequited crush that’s fizzled out.

That’s what you tell yourself, at least. What you convince yourself to believe.

Up until the moment you see him again.

It’s at a café out of your comfort zone, but you’d needed to go track down a misdirected shipment and on the way back you’d decided to walk. To wander, to keep your head clear, and also to make yourself enjoy the last days of true summery warmth before the decline into fall’s more windy temperatures.

And you were enjoying yourself. It was a beautiful, cooler-and-less-humid-than-usual morning to meander along. Verbatim couldn’t open without you, so it wasn’t like you couldn’t delay. When the corner coffee shop jumped out at you, you took it as a good sign to do something different for once in your life.

What you were hoping for was an authentic chai spice blend.

What you weren’t anticipating was seeing him off in the corner, facing out the other street’s window opposite to the direction from which you approached.

You'd recognize him anywhere, never mind the fact that his back and slumped shoulders are presented to you, his head dropped down he stares at the table in front of him.

Is he okay?

Is-

You nearly trip over yourself, your attention ripping away from him and ahead of your to avoid a collision with someone else attempting to leave. She scowls; all you can offer is a weak mumble of an excuse as you slide around her into the queue.

Did he notice you?

Would he even care if he did?

Your palms are sweating by the time the barista chirps out a greeting, and all you can do is awkwardly smile at them in return as you drag yourself up to the counter, trying not to stare over your shoulder or speak too loudly.

An idea flickers, and without a second thought you grab onto it.

You know what he likes. The darkest roast possible as black as can be. It was on an adventurous day that Bucky would add a flavored cream or some sugar, but this early in the morning?

Some habits die hard, even decades later.

The barista is definitely snickering at you when you order it and ask very quietly that they be the one to hand it to him. You try to be nonchalant, but the meaning of the request isn’t lost on them.

When they tease you outright in return, though they do extend the courtesy of keeping their voice down, you can feel your face heat up, but it works out for your benefit. Better for them to think you’re infatuated rather than slowly dying once again.

It’s the least you can do to try to apologize, to make up for any of it.

You take your own chai latte over to the bar top on the far side of the room, sitting with your back to Bucky in a reflection of his posture. However, there is some gold plating near you, so you position yourself in a way that enables you to keep half an eye on him as you wait anxiously.

Just like you’d wanted, the barista waits a few minutes and a couple customers before taking the cup over to Bucky. When he turns more fully to accept it, his profile shining through the gilded reflection, you duck your gaze down to your phone, tilting your face away.

You can’t watch.

The music covers any conversation the pair have, and you can feel every nerve in your body tense up. Time ticks away, some more people go in and out, and the song finally changes.

You take a deep breath, turn around, and-

“Oh, shit,” you say rather mildly, blinking once, twice.

-he’s gone.

Steam is still rising from the cup.

For a moment you gawk, frozen, unable to process the fact that not only had he clearly declined to acknowledge you, but he hadn’t even taken the coffee.

He hadn’t-

Not even the coffee.

That blow stabs deep in your core, and it takes a bit longer before you can rip your gaze from the cup to glance up at the wide eyes of the barista.

They’re not thrilled for your sake either, so you graciously accept their condolences and scramble to drop another tip on the table out of embarrassment before you run.

You run away, proverbial tail tucked between your legs, and dig your nails into your palms, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of oncoming tears at bay.

You haven’t cried yet. You won’t. Not even after this.

Maybe you shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up. Maybe you should have expected that.

Maybe, if you’re honest with yourself, you can admit you weren’t entirely sure what would happen, but outright refusal? Sure, he could’ve ignored you, but leaving the coffee?

Ouch.

You’re still smarting over it by the time you slip into the backdoor of Verbatim, and you pause to take a few deep, calming breaths.

It’s not Wednesday, so chances are he would have been here. He’d started coming around more frequently in the mornings just to help you open and putter around for half an hour before disappearing off into the world to do whatever else it is he does with his life. Working a second job, meeting up with old friends, fixing mistakes he was forced to make, trying to find people he lost track of over the years. . .you don’t know. It’s not really your business, so you’ve never tried to pry into it.

Not like you could have anyway, what with all the secrecy and lies.

Still. . .

No. No, it was never your business; even less so now. So, you're going to crank up the stereo to drown out your inner monologue, and you're going to let it go.

Just let it go.

You almost crack when some singer from the forties starts crooning as soon as you shuffle the playlist, but you clench your jaw and choose to ignore it.

You’re not going to let it affect you; you’re going to ignore it.

You’re going to do the littles’ group reading today. You’re going to tidy up, make the coffee, wipe up the inevitable mug rings off the side tables, and you’re going to idly chat and laugh with whomever comes through.

You are, and you will.

By starting with some dusting. It’s amazing how much seems to pile up when you give yourself one day off from the chore.

Well, it might not actually be that much, but you hate the sight of it. So, you dust. Meticulously.

You dust, you straighten the books as you go, and you brew the first pot of coffee. Then you settle in with a new release as it’s proving to be a slow morning.

Reviews are something you can control. You can read it, enjoy it, and share your thoughts on it alongside the online listing.

It’s only after a while when you mindlessly reach into your bag for some lip balm that you feel the wayward package and remember, and you realize.

You’d stashed it before forgetting it almost immediately what with the disaster that was this morning but just now, in this moment it occurs to you what it actually is.

It’s his, and that revelation that strikes through you is quickly followed by the ache you’d thought had already passed.

But there’s nothing you can do about it now, because an unsuspecting individual is strolling over with a couple of books, and you have to force yourself from the daze, force yourself to perk up.

You can’t ignore it, though. Not with how firmly it tugs at your heart during the monotony of scanning the barcodes and accepting payment. While smiling and chatting merrily, bagging the books, and waving a final farewell as the customer wanders off and away into the city.

However, as soon as you’re alone with no barrier to it that ache widens. It spreads through you weighing you down, turning your movements to lead as you slowly, morosely pull the package out to open it.

You’d wanted to open it with him, to know what made this version of the book so incredibly special to him, to see that honesty bleed through his carefully constructed mask. You’d wanted that marathon – extended editions, obviously – and you would’ve made it happen as soon as he finished reading all of the books.

But now, holding this particular copy of The Hobbit, all you know is that you’re a complete and utter failure.

Of course it was different, if he was anything then like the nerd he is today. How did you not recognize that sooner?

There’s another flash of emotion compelling you to toss the book aside, to let yourself sink into the hurt, but it’s overruled.

Instead, you go through the motions of checking in the confirmed order and rewrapping it up for pick-up. Then you scoop up your phone to draft a well-memorized message, pausing only when you have to input the contact.

Your knee bounces, your mind races, but you grit your teeth and make yourself tap ‘send,’ flinging your phone away from you once you do so.

. . .only to scoop it up not even thirty seconds later to read it again and take cautious note of 'delivered.'

Good afternoon! This message is to inform you that your order #190321 has arrived at Verbatim. Feel free to stop by at your earliest convenience to collect it. If this message has been sent in error, please inform Verbatim and any further reminders will be canceled.

After that, and several more desperate peeks, you make yourself turn your phone face down and get back to work.

Nevertheless, it haunts you throughout the rest of the day and into the evening, past your closing and through your dinner until you finally cave and reopen the thread to check again.

There’s no response, not even hours later. No notice that he’s even looked at it, and it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but. . .

It’s another rejection.

He’s always made sure to answer you at some point, even if it was just an emoji or a like or something more than ‘read.’ But this time you didn’t even warrant that.

You’re sniffling before you even realize you’re crying, the past weeks of hurt and remorse along with the morning’s bonus blow catching up and finally overpowering your control.

Tears are dripping pathetically down your cheeks as you scramble around for a tissue or napkin or something to scrub your face with other than your shirt. You’re not that heartbroken.

You’re not.

. . .

Except you are.

So, you tug your sleeves down over the heels of your hands and press them to your eyes as you silently weep. As you give yourself some space to grieve, to feel, and to regret all the things that could have been.

Five minutes.

You’ll give yourself five minutes, and then you’ll stop.

You’ll stop, and then you’ll wash your dishes.

And if a few more errant tears drip onto the soapy pan after those five minutes are up, well.

You’ll just ignore that, too.

Chapter Text

Today, you find the weather rather fitting.

It’s a gray day. The type of gray that blankets the world without a speck of blue or gold in the sky, and rain has been falling off and on all morning.

Everyone’s late on rainy days; for some inexplicable reason, you are now a part of everyone. You’ve somehow succumbed to the stereotype.

There’s quite a lot waiting for you on your checklist, but for today. . .today you give up.

You give up first in the morning when you realize you’d let your schedule get thrown off and hadn’t stopped by your favorite bodega to get a refill of your favorite tea earlier in the week.

You give up more when you realize too late that you’d forgotten your lunch on the counter which means you either go hungry or splurge on delivered takeout, both of which you dislike doing. Never mind the fact that you’ll have to throw said forgotten lunch away by the time you get home, which is such a waste.

You give up most when you realize that the majority of the plants that Bucky had started taking care of are well and truly dying, and you don’t know what to do to save them now that they’ve reached this point.

It only gets worse when the printer stops working sometime after you rush to open for the day, especially considering it takes you far too long to notice. Not until you need it, of course. That’s how it always goes.

When it rains and whatnot. Literally.

This means that foregoing lunch was decided for you as you were forced to spend a good bit of time getting the drum unjammed and have now moved on to fiddling around with some of the interior pieces.

Something isn’t quite in line, so it’s refusing to cooperate entirely, of course. But it’s slow going as you don’t particularly care to disconnect and wrestle the whole outdated contraption from its cave.

He would’ve fixed it, the traitorous part of you whines in spite of your attempts to hush her. He would’ve fixed it in like, ten minutes. Tops. He-

“Shit!”

Your fingers slip, causing the back of your hand to scrape on something inside the printer; however, miraculously, you avoid catching it on anything else as you reflexively yank it out.

Well. That’s not going to make this any more fun, now is it?

Sighing, you eye your knuckles, waiting to see if any of them are going to bleed.

But while you do, your thoughts end up circling back around.

Realistically, Bucky would have let you struggle for a while until you directly asked or begged for his help, that way he would have something to lord over you for the rest of the day.

But then he would’ve been there to help you.

And he would have helped, even though it would have been coupled with some mockery on your technical abilities, or lack thereof.

In the end, he always helped you. You and anyone else who needed it, as you'd seen time and time again.

It’s just a part of who he is.

Especially once you actually hurt yourself. He never seemed to like that happening.

You wiggle your fingers some more, curling and squeezing them before deciding to ignore the few droplets of blood welling up.

It stings, but it’s not bad enough to quit and lose whatever motivation you’re staggering along with. Particularly since most of the grievance isn’t physical, anyway.

Which is pointless to think about, because right now he isn’t here, so it’s up to you to do it.

And you will, scrapes and all.

Eventually.

With a groan, you settle back in to keep trying.

By the next time the bell jingles, you’re frustrated enough and wallowing more than enough that you merely call out a distracted greeting, and for a little while longer you’re allowed to remain lost in your own world.

Until someone clears their throat quite pointedly, causing you to jolt in surprise once more, this time smacking the back of your head on the wooden counter above you.

Shit. Not again.

Sitting back on your heels as best as you can while still hunched over, you reach around to grip the back of your head, breathing in and out of your nose to avoid cursing aloud or yelling at whoever it is that startled you or both.

You also school your face into something much more pleasant before you fully wiggle your way out from under the desk. Then, you finally shift onto your knees and glance above you, ready with a practiced smile.

Only to gasp and bolt upright, frantically tugging your clothes back into place and patting down your hair in embarrassment as quickly as you can before hiding your injured hand behind your back.

“Mr. Nakajima!”

The older gentleman is wrapped up in a raincoat, scarf, and hat and carrying an umbrella. It’s dripping rainwater into a puddle in front of the counter rather than into the stand placed ever so conveniently by the door, but you wouldn’t dare tell him that.

Especially not with the way he’s glowering at you.

What a week. First The Coffee Catastrophe™, and now a potential ambush.

Honestly, you probably should have been expecting this, but you really didn’t think Bucky would tell Yori anything about what really happened.

Because that would lead to what really happened to-

There’s no way.

He wouldn’t have told him about his son, would he?

No, of course not. There's no way Yori would be here if Bucky had.

Not unless he thought you knew and was also angry with you and wanted to demand answers beyond what Bucky had said to him.

Because you did. But did he know that?

Disorientation has you blinking dumbly for a moment too long before you catch yourself and smile again awkwardly, hoping it’ll help him not look quite so irritated if you start over more reasonably, hoping you may be wrong and that he just doesn’t like the weather, either. “Hello again, Mr. Nakajima. Sorry about that. Welcome back! How can I help you?”

Yori stares at you, not in the least bit mollified by your second attempt. “You can help me by explaining what you did to James.”

So, it’s not about the weather, then.

You only just manage to keep your expression in check.

Well.

It’s sweet that he’s here on behalf of his friend, but in no way, shape, or form can you go about actually explaining anything.

What exactly did Bucky say, anyway?

You’re faking innocence until you can get a better gauge on that, trying to maintain a confused air as long as possible. “I don’t– I apologize, Mr. Nakajima. What I did to James?”

“He’s been very upset about something recently-” Yori frowns at you, shaking his head slowly as if it’s your fault.

Which it is. Not that this remarkable gentleman needs that confirmed.

“-and still was today.”

You freeze.

Today?

Yes, of course today.

Because today is their day. Wednesday.

It’s a toss-up as to who wins the title for being the true child of woe, though.

Because even though you’ve tried to block it all out, this means you’re forced to face the fact that Bucky should be here right now. Should be just over there, keeping the jungle of plants alive and growing, keeping this stupid printer humming contentedly.

But you can’t mull over that any further, because Yori is pinning you with a look that demands more details. Which is unfortunate, considering you can’t exactly use your established story about Bucky visiting a relative. Nor can you admit why he’s been so upset.

Instead, all you can do is your best given the circumstances and share just enough of the truth to make it real.

Business as usual.

Though try as you might, you know your smile stiffens to something brittle. “I haven’t spoken with James in over a week, Mr. Nakajima. I don’t know what’s going on in his personal life right now.”

You might wish that you do, but you don’t. Nor did you actually talk to Bucky at the café.

Not directly, anyway.

So, it’s still the truth. From a certain point of view.

Unfortunately, as necessary as this deception may be, it bothers you more this time than it has with anyone else. It’s not really been a problem for you as it’s to keep attention off Bucky, but considering he and Yori are actually friends. . .

Nor do you know what context Bucky gave him, and that’s going to be another issue if you don’t tread lightly.

Maybe he picks up on the underlying apprehension because Yori’s scowl deepens, and he whacks his umbrella on the counter at you to enunciate. “He told me that you lied to him about something very important.”

Oh, wow.

Geez.

That doesn’t bode well for your believability, now does it?

Somehow, you manage to keep yourself mostly civil, keep this game of pretend on semi-stable ground, even though your frustration is building as you defend yourself. “I didn’t lie.” Not really. Just withheld. “I knew something that James didn’t realize I knew,” because you were trying to protect him and respect his privacy, “and he got angry when he figured it out. But it wasn’t a big deal.”

At least not to you.

That earns you a harrumphing scoff. “It was a big deal to James.”

Of course it was.

And of course, he’ll be on Bucky’s side; you can’t blame him for that. James is his friend, and Bucky is only-

No, was-

Ugh.

You hope he can’t hear your teeth grind before you force your jaw to relax, to unhinge so you can answer as amiably as possible. “He’s allowed his own perspective.”

“That’s all it was? A different perspective?” An eyebrow lifts.

Clenching your hands into fists tugs at the cuts on the one, and the twinge of physical pain catches you off-guard, and that added factor is unbalancing in the strangest way.

It’s a good thing he can’t hear that other part of you screeching still. “Yeah. Just a misunderstanding.”

“Maybe.” Yori eyes you, but then his entire demeanor shifts, and there’s something quite akin to sympathy that gentles his tone. “You young people. You’re too quick to be angry instead of listening to each other.”

Which isn’t fair.

And also what cuts through the last of your control, your grasp on your emotions.

“He wouldn’t listen to me,” you snap half angry, half embarrassed by the tears that start welling that you can’t seem to stop, that at least blur the care you must be imagining on his face. “I tried but he left, Mr. Nakajima. He wouldn’t let me explain it was just a misunderstanding and that I wasn’t-”

Scared of him.

You’ve never been scared of him.

You cut yourself off, but if Yori has any inclination of where you were headed with that, he ignores it.

And still, there’s that compassion. “Then what are you going to do about it now?”

“Nothing!” You will yourself not to give in to the gathering waterworks that will reveal far too much of your heart. “I’m not going to do anything else,” you reiterate, blinking rapidly as you rip your gaze away from his and lift it to keep any rebellious tears from falling.

And still, Yori is unmoved. “So. . .you’ve reached out to him?”

“Yes!” It bursts from you in an almost panicked manner, and just as unconsciously, you clap a hand over your mouth. Now utterly mortified, you force yourself to take a deep breath, to fully rein in the emotions.

And you’re successful-

All Yori does is look. At the traces of blood staining your skin, at you, into you, through you; you have no idea. But he looks, and you just know he understands.

That silent, sympathetic understanding tears a new hole in your heart.

-well, mostly.

You try again, taking in a shaky breath to steady yourself as much as possible. “Yeah, I have. I mean, I texted him. About a book that came in. But I used my direct number and not the automated system, so he would’ve known it was from me, especially since he was always picking on me about my robot assistant, and-” Yori’s shaking his head, but you press on regardless, “and I saw him in a coffee shop, and I bought him a cup, but he didn’t want it and slipped out when I wasn’t looking, and I-” you stop this time, pinching the bridge of your nose tightly as you flip between calm and chaos again; your eyes burning again.

You just need a reset. Thirty seconds, and you’ll be able to get it together.

This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous.

Just get it together.

Yet he doesn’t permit you more than a moment to collect yourself. “Whatever you found out, you should’ve been honest with him.” At your strangled groan, Yori shakes his head, watching you as you scrub your eyes clear of any lingering tears.

And if that wasn’t enough, there’s a sharpness that enters his perusal. Something that peels back the layers of your soul, that chips away at carefully constructed denial.

With a deep, heartfelt sigh, Yori folds both of his hands over the umbrella, using it to balance as he leans closer to you. “What were you afraid of?”

Your momentum falters.

Your pulse staggers.

Afraid-

No. You’re not afraid. Not of him.

Not of anything anymore.

Not after-

You’re not-

Unbidden, your attention flickers to the small basket of cleaning supplies tucked underneath the desk.

Or what you at least like to call your cleaning supplies. Those are actually stored in the back room; what you keep close by is what you use for dusting.

On the daily. Meticulously.

But it’s not that. Not regarding this.

It’s the unwelcome, long-buried memories that surge that are the problem. The broken, fractured memories that, while best left in pieces, have yet to be collected and shelved. They’ve just been ignored, been stepped over and crushed and ignored some more.

What were you afraid of?

Ice crawls down your spine freezing, rattling you from within.

“The quiet,” is what you force through the internal resistance, so softly and small that it almost hurts to hear what you’ve been reduced to. This tiny, trembling thing that’s best left behind in the past, in the last five years.

Logically, you know that sort of answer wouldn’t make sense to most, but-

When you glance back up, once more you know Yori’s one of the exceptions.

When you sniffle, Yori sighs again, shaking his head and muttering something to himself in Japanese.

It hurts, this half-truth pressing on you, because you know and just aren’t quite ready to admit that it isn’t all of it.

But if you can’t hardly admit it to yourself, you sure as hell aren’t going to admit it to Yori.

Who’s speaking again, this time to you, so you force yourself to tune back to him before you spiral too far mentally.

“You need to be more honest with James. You can trust him.” That distant haze creeps over him, and his voice falters ever-so-slightly as he continues, “He’s a good boy.”

The sight of it nudges you from the brink of your own disaster, and you cautiously study him for a moment, wondering what you can do or say to help.

You’re just about to reach out, to try to call him back before he clears his throat, rapidly focusing in on you again. “James is a good man.”

James.

Jack.

Bucky.

Your hand drops unseen.

“I know,” you murmur, and maybe it’s the remorse and misery in your answer, or the heartbreak that must be so evident on your face that’s too far gone to be concealed, because he nods slowly before quite abruptly, that is that.

After rapping the umbrella against your counter one final time, Yori puts his back to you. “I’m getting another book,” he announces before meandering away towards the nearest shelf, rather obviously and finally giving you a few minutes to get a grip on yourself.

But you don’t feel like it’s done out of pity, or out of disgust.

Instead, something closer to grace.

Once you’ve finally calmed down a bit, Yori makes his way back over with his book of choice and that same, impeccable timing.

He pays for it even after you try to tell him not to worry about it, and then he leaves without another word, clearly disregarding your offer to get him a cab as he goes.

Hopefully he doesn’t have too far to amble.

At least it’s not raining right now.

With a grim smile, you call, “Thanks again!” after him, but all he does is flap a hand over his shoulder before the door swings shut.

And that is in fact that.

Though the conversation along with the truth burrowing its way free settles to haunt you the rest of the day.

Even as people come and go. Even as the reading circle fills and empties, and the toddler chatter and giggles bring a short relief. Even as you get into a heated discussion over cover and print editions with an English major, and you end the debate with a stitch in your side from genuinely laughing.

It haunts you, but maybe it also helps. Because even after that student leaves, you’re left to face what Yori dredged up and left behind, what you've been pushing down for so long.

You’ve not been honest. Not with Bucky, nor with yourself. Not in a long time, even before all of this.

Those couple of group sessions you’d attended that last year before the Blip ended. . .it’s not like they had really done anything for you. But you hadn’t been willing to really give them a chance anyway, had you?

Maybe you should try again. One-on-one, with a neutral party who’s completely unknown to you in every way.

Maybe that would be good.

Sighing, you rub your hands down over your face as if you can wipe away the remaining turmoil from all of this. But all the action does is further reveal how tired you really are. How tired you’ve been after weeks and weeks of lying and hiding.

You’d known he wouldn’t be happy. You’d known that first night; you’d recognized that he would be upset if he found out what you’d discovered. So, instead of being honest immediately, you’d tucked it away and pretended it was for the best.

Even if it was only the best for you.

Bucky hadn’t been honest either, but he’d had a much better reason for his secrecy.

You’d just kept at it for your own sake.

You just hadn’t wanted to admit your own fear. That you were terrified of the exact thing he had done happening, even though you’d been the one to drive him to it in the end.

Walking away.

Because that leaving, that vanishing, it all pulls at the frayed edges of your sanity. It toys with that sudden, unexpected reality of nothing, of quiet.

Of the five years of quiet.

That quiet that’s devoid of normalcy, crippling and tossing you around.

The quiet that screams of what you’ve lost, as there’s nothing to fill the gap that remains.

The quiet that reminds you with each silent second that you’re alone.

You’d been so scared to lose Bucky that you’d tucked the truth away, squeezing it into a box ten sizes too small to contain it. Then it had burst free, as those things tend to do, and you were left with nothing but the torn pieces of a lie, of pretend.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen like that. Hadn’t intended for him to find out everything in such an off-hand, casual mistake.

Intention is its own aspect, sure, but it still doesn’t change what happened.

You’d hurt him while trying to protect yourself, those shattered splinters becoming a sort of shrapnel in their own way.

Maybe you should’ve just told him immediately. You could have orchestrated a semi-controlled, private conversation. You could have made a presentation or a bullet-point list to work your way through everything you wanted to say. Could have at least handed him a letter and begged him to read it à la Austen.

Maybe he could have listened to you instead of storming out. He could have; instead, he’d reacted as one would when faced with weeks of unveiled lies, and he’d left instead of listening.

But you can’t find it in you to blame him. Not after the decades of lies and treachery from Hydra. Not even with how much it hurts.

Because it hurts.

The aching, the dullness of it – it hurts.

And it’s not going to miraculously stop, even if you continue trying to pretend it’s not there. Because someone else has turned their back and you’re all alone again, and it’s quiet.

And this time, it's all your own fault.

So then, what are you going to do about it?

Once you’ve wrapped your hands around a new cup of tea, allowing the warmth to penetrate the chill, to ease the stiffness, it doesn’t take you long to decide.

After you close tonight, you’re going to take a walk. The days are still plenty long, so it’ll be fine. You’ll walk along the wharf, you’ll buy some street tacos and ice cream to make up for the lack of lunch, and then you won’t ignore it anymore.

You’ll sit with it. With all of it.

All of the lies you told, the rejection you earned, the hurt you’re feeling – you’ll allow it to be present. You’ll recognize it, honor it.

Then you’ll make yourself move forward. . .maybe, most likely with some help.

Starting tomorrow.

You owe that much to yourself.

Chapter Text

And so, another few weeks slide by.

You’re doing okay now. Not completely over it because hello, these things (feelings) take time, but okay. Better even.

Talking with Yori had helped kickstart the upward push to internal resolution, and for that you’re incredibly grateful. Even though you also attribute some of your motivation to a long-overdue comfort food after closing that night.

Tacos and ice cream are forever soothing to the soul, after all.

Anyway, after eating yourself into a food-based serotonin boost and spending hours into the night mulling over Yori’s words, you’d finally found the courage to sit down with pen and paper and really start picking apart everything. Starting with your decision not to tell Bucky anything, including that disaster of a reveal, all the fall-out of the past month, and your pitiful attempt at striking up a conversation with the coffee instead of facing him head on when given the chance.

It was all there, had been there in a swirling jumbled mess, but it was slowly coming into tangibility.

Was it pleasant? Hell no. But it was necessary to face it in order to move on. To face where you had gone wrong, and the reasoning as to why you’d felt that was the only choice to make. Why nothing else had seemed possible.

That part of the processing had come with some external assistance. You would never be able to have entirely open conversations with her, but with just enough fabrication about those things, it’ll be worth the late nights squeezing in extra time for it.

And as you’ve had an increase of experience with stretching the truth these recent months, it was going better than you had expected regarding all of that.

What you haven’t needed to fabricate is more the root of your issues, particularly those stemming from the Blip. That was a very interesting factor of your existence and had already consumed a couple of sessions in their entirety. Which was also hard, facing those fractured moments, days, years in that way.

But you keep telling yourself it’s going to be worth it in the long run.

A very long, very painful run, but worth it in the end. Because it’s helping, sorting through the wreckage and some of the other unfortunate, instinctive habits you’ve cultivated in an effort to protect yourself.

Especially since you were able to begin dissecting how that had most recently blown up in your face and really take into consideration what Bucky must have been thinking and feeling to react the way that he had in return.

It hadn’t helped that you’d flailed around as soon as he’d stepped towards you. He must have thought you were scared.

As if you would ever be frightened of him.

Still, you can’t blame him for thinking it based on your reaction. Not after you lied to him for so long. Not after he’d stepped towards you, and you’d flinched away from shame.

Nor can you force him to face you. Which he still has yet to do, as his new copy of The Hobbit is still hidden behind your desk.

You’d texted him once more just to let him know that “Hey! I can have your book sent to you if you prefer. Just send me an address or convenient pick-up point, and I’ll get it to you that way. No pressure or hard feelings :)” now that it had been almost a solid month with no word.

There may have been a bit more than a mild tinge of disappointment after almost another full day without even a read receipt, but it was understandable.

Sometimes things don’t get to be fixed the way you want, and you’ll just have to learn to be okay with that. Even if you’d rather not.

However, other times they do, and that is something you can be grateful for. Especially when it comes to particularly ornery machinery.

The printer was mostly working now, even though it did need a good whack now and then throughout the day to keep it going. That was a major win and proof to yourself that you are still the capable individual that you’d been before your heartbreak.

No, your crush.

It had just been a crush.

Never mind that.

The printer is plugging along, which means you haven’t needed to turn over any cash to a repairman or shelled out for a new one. You’ve had a few sales above and beyond what you’d typically expect on a Thursday morning, and the succulents you’d bought to replace some of the flora you’d accidentally murdered were still very green, which account for three wins all in all.

And that’s only for today.

Just this past week, one of your deepest internal fears had taken a firm blow.

There had been a time where you had gotten rather close to fully convincing yourself that you were truly alone; that there was no one left who would really notice your absence if you up and vanished your own self into some far corner of the world.

This feeling had crept back in after Bucky walked out, sneaking below your radar until it was well and firmly fastened once more, and you’d wondered anew if this was always going to be your lot in life.

Especially so since you really had thought you may have imagined the relationships that had formed with all the regulars and familiar faces that kept wandering back to your bookstore.

But you hadn’t considered that the people you recognized also saw you in return.

One older woman had been around for almost the entire life of Verbatim. She wasn’t one for much conversation, or so you’d always thought. When in reality, maybe it was that you had maintained a strong barrier up during those five years.

Consequently, when you’d endeavored to be more open, to chip away a bit at your walls her face had brightened almost immediately, and she’d launched into glowing recommendations about one of her favorite authors who had returned to a long-lost series after settling back into writing after recovering from the Blip.

She’d been over the moon when you promised to look into stocking the books here, always happy to support independent authors.

And the next time she came she even brought you tamales, pressing a brown paper bag over the counter and into your hand with a casual, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Then she’d smiled at your stunned, unable-to-respond-in-any-way-that-wasn’t-immediate-sobbing expression, picked up her book, and had left as merrily as she had entered.

Just like that.

Even the kiddos, the ones you’ve been watching grow for some time and the others emerging from their own shells of Blip-related trauma were changing. They weren’t asking about Bucky all the time but even when they did, they were at least still genuinely happy to see you.

Proven after you’d taken a personal day after one particularly grueling therapy session, and a girl from the former group had convinced her one dad to stop by outside of her normal routine with the other. She’d made sure you knew that the next time they were there a couple days later, indignance and concern wrapped up into one tiny, shrieking package as she’d flung herself into the store with cries and accusations about Verbatim being closed, and what if it had never been opened again, and I was so worried-

Her father had scrambled to apologize to you while simultaneously hissing not-so-quiet and presumably repetitious explanations about how people needed to take a break sometimes, and if her dad wasn’t such a sucker, they wouldn’t have been there in the first place-

At that point you’d started laughing, cackling more so at the redness creeping up the father’s neck while his daughter crossed her arms and pouted. And before you could second guess it, you’d opened your arms, and all was forgiven with a quick hug and a couple of bookmarks not-so-sneakily stashed in her bag.

There were even other instances involving passing comments or idle chatter with other familiar faces that helped you realize how much more you and they were aware of. Details you remembered, things they also recalled.

You weren’t alone. Not entirely.

Sure, it was still quiet at times throughout the day, but it wasn’t as bad as it had seemed just the month before. You’d fallen back into the routine of it, the way it had also been before Bucky had started working for you. The way you’d been so accustomed to.

It was quiet again, but it no longer felt like that overbearing finality that had plagued you for so many years.

. . .well, sometimes it did, but at least it wasn’t always anymore, and you were better equipped to handle it when it did.

Suffice it to say, no matter the remaining issues to sort through you’re doing well, and while relaxing at the desk you’ve just reorganized, minus the one wrapped book you refuse to move, you find yourself at the end of a day where you can truly believe it: you are doing well, and you will continue to do well.

It’s with this settling contentment you gaze out across the store, soaking in every square inch of it as if you haven’t already memorized every nook and cranny and scuff on the wall. Verbatim has been your sanctuary from its beginning, born from your blood, sweat, and tears when you initially, forcibly dragged a childhood fantasy into reality.

It came as a result of that determination, that belief in yourself, and it’s something you can’t ever allow yourself to forget. Even if you do have your moments now and then.

The Blip may have changed some things right near the beginning of Verbatim’s life, but it couldn’t kill it. There had been moments and seasons where the running of it had been forced to adapt, but you had determined that not even the world falling to pieces could fully break down what you’d built.

That remained in your hands alone, and you had no plans to swing that hammer.

Nothing and no one can or will take it away. Not the gap of a certain individual, the currently empty storefront, or the always-ending-up-crooked-no-matter-what-you-do blinds that you can occasionally raise now that the season is finally turning.

At least today the sun has moved far enough across the sky, and the temperature has stayed moderate enough to do just that. It’s something you enjoy, especially since the wide-open windows give you plenty of time for people-watching.

It’s a definite bonus of being in the city. There’s something incredibly delightful between the occasional person you recognize, the obvious tourists meandering in awe, or the others that never fail to make you smile with their personal expression of self-confidence.

Such as the present individual strolling down the sidewalk in fluorescent blue from hat to shoes. Absolutely iconic.

For the time you remain there, it’s fairly standard, and the soothing haze of it lulls you into a dreamy sort of state as you watch.

And watch.

And watch. . .

Until you blink.

Then lunge to your feet, palms smacking onto the wooden countertop as your chair scoots away with a defiant sort of squeak.

As you stare, just across the road.

You stare at a form so familiar with its broad shoulders and multiple, dark layers of clothing.

A form you never thought you’d see again.

Your body lights up with adrenaline, every nerve shrieking and whirling as your vision starts to narrow, tunneling towards him, everything else beginning to fade.

Because-

Because it’s Bucky.

He’s- he’s right there.

And he’s not moving. Not- not moving down the sidewalk, not on some sort of errand or anything.

He’s hovering, hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders hunched in – but he’s not walking away. His gaze is fixed on something else down the street, but he’s staying. He’s thinking about it. You know he is.

Your pulse is thundering, the feel of it reverberating in your ears. It gets faster and faster, louder and louder as you plummet towards a collision until everything vanishes, and he alone remains.

Somewhere you can sense it. Somewhere off in the distance, you’re so aware of everything around you. The familiar sights, scents, and sounds filtering in from the street that cushion the music playing softly.

But right here, right now, it seems as if the world has faded away.

It’s all gone; it’s nothing; it’s meaningless.

Except for him, growing larger and larger.

Because now he’s crossing the street.

He’s coming closer.

Closer.

And closer.

Oh.

Oh, no.

And these weeks of focused progress shift into a swirling mess of panic along with something desperate.

You’re not mentally prepared for this. You’re not. But you don’t have a choice. You have an opportunity to make things right, and you will, dammit, even if it takes locking him inside the storage room to listen to your apology.

You’ll do it. Or you'll grovel.

You’ll do whatever it takes.

The bell chimes merrily as the door swings open, there’s only him, and your heart all but stops when Bucky looks up right at you.

Then the phone rings.

No matter what he claims later, you absolutely do not jump out of your skin and almost fall over your own feet in a flailing, shrieking recovery at that absolutely impeccable, incredibly horrible timing.

For a moment, your hand hovers above it.

You have to answer. It’s your business, your livelihood; you have to.

Right?

Wrong.

Don’t you dare.

But you can’t think clearly.

You can’t think, but instinct has you snatch the phone off the receiver before whirling back in almost as much alarm to stare at Bucky, silently pleading for him to wait while you gesture frantically for him to come in.

Which doesn’t make sense considering he’s already in the door, but you’re too nervous. He might bolt if he stays too close to it, so that’s what you do.

And he does.

He comes inside but is immediately distracted by the display in the front window, veering towards it abruptly as if the sight of it is confusing.

As if he himself isn’t-

Even though your heart is racing, incapable of filling your lungs, somehow your mouth is still working, and you forcibly redirect yourself back.

“Good afternoon.” You clear your throat, faking the best cheery customer service voice that you possibly can in this moment, falling into the practiced role. “This is Verbatim, where we’ve got a way with words. How can I help you today?”

And he’s inside, and your heart is an absolute disaster, crashing, carrying you away as you first indifferently note that the person on the other end of the line is speaking.

“I’m calling on behalf of my nephew.”

Until you recognize her voice, and the indifference shifts to exasperation.

Ugh, not this again. Especially not now.

It’s that woman again, the one who called now and then to pester you about Jack and if he were working or not. The one you’d decided ought to be deemed ‘Auntie Em’ for all her distant, unappreciated hovering. She hadn’t in quite some time, though. Not since–

Since-

Your stomach twists.

Not since Jack became Bucky.

Not since you found out. And he found out that you found out.

And one of the things that had accompanied said discovery was the reasoning that Auntie Em is most likely a government agent keeping an eye on this wayward soul.

You remember this so instantly, so suddenly that your breath is snatched away. There’s a government agent of some sort on the phone checking in on Bucky, who’s just there across the store studying the changes in plants that have occurred since he left before turning and quirking that eyebrow of his at you.

It’s probably a silent dig over your inability to keep anything green alive, but that wisp of thought slips in and out without your taking hold of it, because he probably doesn’t know.

Not about her, anyway. Definitely. But she doesn’t know you know about him either, or that he knows you know. She couldn’t possibly, you desperately think, even as you gape rather dumbly at Bucky who’s now lifted one of the new succulents to shake at you to elicit anything other than stunned silence.

But you were right. Out of everything there is, that’s happened, or that could, this is what you had to be right about? She’s been calling because she knows Jack for who he really is as Bucky. She’s known right along, but she doesn’t know that you know, otherwise. . .

You’re caught in this cycle of thought, circling and circling back to this and grasping for anything to pull yourself from it, all in a matter of seconds.

What could happen if she knew you knew? They could send Bucky elsewhere, make your life hell or put you away, or-

Verbatim.

What if. . .what if you lost Verbatim?

The blood drains from your face, your body locking up in outright terror as you clutch the phone with both hands. As Bucky looks back up at you.

It might not have been the reaction he was aiming for, but it’s one that has Bucky reflexively dropping the pot and moving forward, his jaw tightening as he takes in the panic of your expression, as you fumble with the phone again, taking far too long to croak a reply.

“Sorry?”

You’re only half listening to her now, gawking instead at Bucky as he demands, “What’s wrong?” while storming towards you, every inch of him suddenly growing into something incredibly powerful and capable, and the simmering fear that you could lose the store, lose everything you’ve built is oddly calmed just as quickly as it’d risen.

The response isn’t quite as thrilled as you are by this development. “. . .My nephew.”

He seems mad. Shoulders tense, hands balled into fists, ready to take on the world for you as he looms large before you like a shield.

Your head starts to spin at the thought of this and the dark expression on his face before somehow forcing your finger to your lips to shush him when he goes to ask again, somehow forcing your own mouth to move instead. “Oh, right.”

“Is he there?”

“Today?”

Your voice pitches up into a squeak as Bucky comes to a halt directly, smack-dab, right in front of you, dropping his fists to the counter as he towers before you. He’s so close you could reach across and poke him, but your two-handed safety line grip on the phone makes that rather impossible.

As does looking at him looking at you like this. Like all he needs is a word, or a name, and he would burn down anything or anyone that dared place itself against you.

For one eternal, fleeting moment you’re locked in this standoff. You’re trapped, his eyes piercing through the other side of the storm and stripping away every last shred of your capacity to human.

Until she answers, all trace of mock politeness deadened to sheer irritation.

“Yes, today.” And while ‘obviously’ isn’t said, but the implication in her irritation makes you wince.

Pretense must reign once more, so you dig your nails into your palm and demand concentration from yourself in order to pull it off, dropping your gaze to help with this.

Just don’t look him in the eye. You can’t, or you’ll stay frozen, or you’ll flail some more, or something else drastic and dramatic.

Now, come on. You can do this.

“Excuse me.” First, you clear your throat loudly, then give an exaggerated sniffle. Then you quickly plaster on a fake smile to brighten your voice and manage to string a full sentence together. “Whew, I had a sneeze refusing to snoze there. I apologize.”

Good. That’s one; now another.

“Well, Jack’s been pretty committed to the schedule he’s given each week. It changes based on what I need and his availability, but I’ve not had any issues with him about it.”

Bucky had started to reach out a hand to you, maybe to take the phone or wave or something, but he pauses when you mention his alternate identity, his head tilting.

That burning in him seems to have eased, but you still can’t look at him without breaking. You can’t. Instead, you raise the volume of the call and squeeze your eyes shut briefly, slanting the phone away from your ear and beckoning him closer so he can listen in as the woman sighs.

“But is he there right now?”

Recognition flashes across his face as if he knows this voice, and he’s gesturing in the negative before the question is even finished.

Not that you needed more proof you were right, but wow, look at that! You were. Definitely, one hundred percent right.

It’s a wonder that she can’t hear the sound of your booming anxiety echoing through the phone. It’s a miracle you can fall back onto a lie so well in this moment, so effortlessly even as you stare just past his head to avoid true eye contact, even though his eyebrow quirks up at your attempt at disregarding him.

“No, he’s not. He’s been upstate, visiting one of your relatives. Someone. . .fell, I think he said? Broke a hip? To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. It’s been busy here, and Jack was in such a rush when he called on his way out, and I haven’t heard from him since. But I’m sure you already know that bit, anyway.” You pause, but she’s silent, so you allow your voice to rise again in fake uncertainty. “Would you like me to pass along a message? I haven’t wanted to interrupt his time with your family, but I can text or call him–”

“That isn’t necessary.” Her interruption is brusque and final, and you cringe at the swift change in her tone at your maintained denial. “I can contact him directly, thank you.”

Yeah, yeah. You can again too, apparently.

That’s what draws you into glancing back up at Bucky, and your heart leaps.

By now, the fire has dwindled. But in its place is something softer, something warmer and calmer than a raging, out of control inferno. It entreats you to give in, to surrender to its familiarity, to trust in the way it had burned for you when he thought you were in trouble, but first things first.

You swallow, working to force a cheerful response as he studies you shamelessly, a hint of a smile tucking into the corner of his mouth the longer you flounder.

“Oh. Well, of course. I won’t bother him then, no worries.”

And you see it in his eyes – the curiosity mingled with something else. That something else that’s been hovering over you and goading you for weeks on end now.

It makes your heart skip.

That something else, that warmth you yourself have felt but not seen from him since you danced.

Since you-

“I-”

For right now, you’ve got to continue to ignore it, even if just for the next ten seconds before you can drop this ridiculous, interrupting phone back onto the receiver and just stop talking to the freaking feds.

Smoothly continuing as if you didn’t hear her try to cut in, you wrap this up as neatly as you can. “Well, thank you for calling Verbatim. If I can be of any further assistance regarding the store or your nephew, please feel free to reach out anytime.”

A pause.

Thankfully, the line disconnects without a reply.

It’s only after you set the phone down and try to loosen your cramped grip that you realize your hand is trembling. You lift it up in front of your face, fixating in on it now more than on the man standing before you.

“Huh.” It’s interesting, watching yourself shake like this as detached as you feel. Because you’ve suddenly exited your body; you’re barely there.

The fear that floods through you is a necessary jolt to keep you from falling into the waiting stupor, but it pushes you back towards hysteria again, and there’s a distant part of you that’s already exhausted, but you can’t help it.

Verbatim.

You turn wide eyes towards Bucky, gasping, “Was that who I think it was? Did I just lie to the government? Am I going to be arrested? Are they going to put me on a list?”

Bucky starts to grin, but he shakes his head throughout your rapid-fire questioning. “E, c’mon-”

“What if I lose the store? Could I lose the store? Do you think they know where I live?” You rake your fingers into your hair, clutching it to help ground yourself, to not get swept away as your pulse races, as your voice catches on a swift surge of emotion that pushes you towards a spiral. “They know who you are, right? They’ve known right along, but I didn’t know the last time she called. Do they know that I know now? What does that even mean for me? And what about Verbatim?”

His back snaps straight at the crack in your voice, and that teasing smile drops.

“E, listen to me.” He reaches over the counter, clamping his hands on your shoulders and squeezing until you break off in a whine, still frantically scanning around your store. “Hey, look at me, will you? Nothing’s gonna happen to you. Or Verbatim, alright?”

The tone, the demand catches your attention, which you shift back to him.

And he’s serious. So incredibly, intoxicatingly serious as he promises this that you’re able to believe him.

Maybe not entirely, but enough to listen as he firmly continues with, “Hey, take a deep breath for me, will you?”

Breathing. Yeah, okay. Sure, you can do that.

Rude of him, telling you what to do, but you’ll do it for the sake of oxygen alone. Just this once.

Taking that deep, steadying breath, you hold it for several seconds before releasing and repeating. And while you do this, you find yourself becoming more and more conscious of his hands on you.

Both his hands.

And it’s obvious why he’d been so careful to never really touch you with the left one; you can easily feel the difference with him gripping you like this. Focusing on that, on reveling in the knowledge that he’s admitting and sharing with you openly helps.

It changes everything.

With every lungful of air your chest, your heart unclenches bit by bit and your fingers release your hair to drop to the counter. A sudden burst of courage has your gaze lifting to his. To study the planes of his face, to take in his eyes.

How you’d missed those eyes.

“Hi.” Your lips quirk up instinctively, and a little of that warmth curls around you when he smiles back.

“Hey.” Bucky squeezes your shoulders once more before releasing you, then glances down to where your hands are still gripping the edge of the raised counter. Ever so slowly, he slides his right hand down and over yours, bracing his elbow on the wood.

Once your grasp loosens, he laces his fingers into yours.

That’s when your eyes begin to well up.

And while he doesn’t outright console you, neither does he say anything critical. His hand holds yours, cradles yours until you’re able to blink away the onslaught of emotion.

All the while, those beautiful blue eyes keep yours, and the corner of his mouth stays lifted in that crooked smile. “Just for the record, I know exactly who that was, and I can promise you she doesn’t know you know. Or that I know you know. So, nothing’s going to happen to Verbatim, E, I swear.”

It’s impossible not to believe him, but-

You clutch more tightly at his hand, voice soft as you ask, “You promise?”

He’s already nodding, tone soothing as he says, “I promise.” Of course, the switch flips right back, and he’s back to gentle teasing. “And, if for some reason it turns out that she does know, then I’ll make sure to know that she knows, and then I’ll let you know so you and I both know that she knows-”

“Oh, knock it off.” You screw your face up at his responding chuckle. “You knew exactly what I meant.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of practice keeping up with you.” Bucky clears his throat, probably preventing himself from laughing more, the jerk.

A present jerk, at least.

That’s what sends your emotions a bit another way as well, drawing you back to the other reality momentarily on standby. Even as easy as it was to fall back into familiar territory, there’s something else.

Bucky also settles down with a more serious note coloring his tone, albeit with a slightly awkward posture as he glances around before looking back to you. “I guess we, uh. . .we might need to talk?”

You nod slowly, your own words as halting. “Yeah, I think we might.”

Except. . .you don’t. You just stand there focused on each other; hands still clasped. The warmth that radiated over you expands, increasing and rising until there’s nearly a tangible heat swirling around and between you, chasing you towards him, urging you nearer.

His gaze lowers, and you could swear that he tracks the movement when you reflexively bite your lip.

Is he leaning closer?

Are you?

You are. And you do even more, ever so slightly.

Until movement past his shoulder catches your attention, and before you can even so much as blink he’s rather neatly and swiftly adjusting himself, pivoting and dropping an elbow to the counter to appear casually at ease before even needing to call out to the gentleman that wanders into Verbatim.

Even though you wave, echoing Bucky’s greeting, you keep your words hushed so as not to draw undue attention, keep them from sounding too desperate, somehow. “Just, maybe not right now? Later?”

Nope. Nothing to see here, no, sir, no way. No underlying tension. None whatsoever.

For a beat, nothing.

Until-

“Later,” he confirms with a palm to the countertop for emphasis, and it’s a promise you’ll see him again, see that smile soften the careworn lines on his face as you stare at each other for a moment longer.

Then that smile shifts into a wicked smirk, and you think to yourself that maybe you don’t care all that much. “So, you got any coffee? Oh, c’mon, E,” he adds on instinctively when you groan, dropping your head into your hands, “We’ve talked about this. It’s a coffee bar; you need coffee.”

“I just never got around to it.” You mutter something else exceptionally rude under your breath while he saunters away to make his own cup. “And it’s a tea bar first and foremost, thank you!”

And so the day goes on in a strange, out of body sort of manner as routine slides back into place so simply, so easily. Almost too easily, dismay tries to whisper, but you smother that thought, bank any other creeping fear as for today it seems like he’s willing to pretend that there’s nothing shadowing his presence here.

As if there’s no looming, eventual conversation that has to take place. That needs to, for everything to be okay again. Hopefully.

But you’re in a better place now, and you’re better prepared. It’s fine. It’ll be fine, so for now, you allow yourself to relax into it, and you focus on redirecting every panicked, wandering thought.

Which is helped by the rather effortless way the hole his absence had created is filled and smoothed over without any fuss whatsoever.

Honestly, it doesn’t take much. It’s the sound and smell of the coffee brewing properly, his occasional whistling filtering throughout the store, and the random lurking you swear is done in an effort to startle you and take a year or two off your life each time.

It’s also the excitement that essentially explodes when one of the regular youngsters realizes Mr. Jack is back to read at long last.

Bucky’s looking fairly smug at the reaction, though that quickly shifts once the child starts quizzing him about his uncle and what they’ve been doing and how is he doing, and so on and so forth in a rush of unending questions based on the story you’d scripted.

You have to hide a sheepish grin behind your hand when he turns to you for help. At your shooing he rolls his eyes, gesturing with the book and a bland excuse before settling in, and then you have the timbre of his voice soothing the edge of your awareness.

Even his lecture about proper care of plant life that goes about four minutes beyond necessity and ends with his hands thrown up and a declaration that he’s just going to have to go buy a new peace lily at this point makes you laugh.

And while it starts off feeling fragile as the afternoon progresses, as things settle back into normalcy, you feel like it has the potential for something incredibly strong.

Especially when he sidles up next to you after closing, nudging your arm with his as he helps you clean up the desk.

“By the way. . .I’m, uh, sorry about the coffee thing.” Bucky clears his throat, his voice pitching lower. “Not today. That point stands. At the- well, you know.”

You do.

And yet, it doesn’t seem to matter all that much anymore.

Not in comparison to anything you’ve done, or the hope sparking in you now at this undeserved olive branch.

“Yeah, I know. So am I.”

You nudge him back, and he smiles.

Then, when you bring out The Hobbit and slide it over to him, he grins.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, that promised talk doesn’t actually happen right away as ‘later’ ends up being somewhat of an open-ended construct of time for a certain someone.

Which means there’s been no indication of an incoming heavier conversation of any sort for a couple weeks.

Which may be a good thing. It gives you time to settle down a bit and get back into routine with Bucky, rather than just hashing everything out immediately on the rush of his dramatic reentrance to your life.

. . .okay, so maybe it wasn’t that dramatic, but you do own a bookstore. You’re allowed to be a tad swoony over the fact that he was ready to take up arms for you after one tiny moment of panic, even though he had been angry and distant for several weeks.

And how he’d held your hand afterwards? Hello, Mr. Darcy, tall and broody himself.

So, maybe a good thing. Probably a good thing. It’s a practice in patience, anyway, as well as giving you time to gather your wits back to you and prevent doubt from creeping in. You want Bucky to feel free to open up to you; you don’t want to force it in any way. Nor do you want to handle it lightly.

You don’t want to rush an apology and spit out words for the sake of your own conscience.

So, when he’s ready to have that conversation, that’s when you will. And you’ll be better prepared for it, too.

He promised, and you trust him.

Even if there was that niggling fear that maybe he wouldn’t come back, that maybe you’d messed up again and driven him away for good, or that it’s only going to be a final farewell, you choose to trust him, to trust that he’ll come every day he says that he’ll come.

And he does.

So, you wait.

In the meantime, it’s been good to work alongside him without there being any walls or lies. It’s been comforting, just getting to know him more and more at a level of honesty you hadn’t had over the summer, as well as extending that courtesy back to him.

It’s not been anything incredibly deep or soul wrenching, but it’s been all the little pieces that make up who he is. The music in more detail, now that he doesn’t have to hide why he prefers the oldies, the films, the new food he’s tried; it’s those things that you’ve been learning.

It’s also been fun.

Plus, aside from Yori, he doesn’t really ever mention anyone else, so you think it might be good for him in that sense, too. You won’t pretend to know everything about him, but it must be lonely, suddenly existing in a world that had passed half a century by you.

Huh. Maybe that’s why, of all things, the Blip doesn’t really seem to bother him. It was probably fairly standard, all things considered.

Maudlin, that.

Less so is the emotion that’s started creeping up within you again, burrowing its way from the barricaded corner into which it had been squashed but not entirely discarded.

Because if you let yourself mull over it for too long, you’re pretty sure there’s also something else, there. Underneath. Something lying in wait, that you’re much more prepared to confront now than you were before. But it’s not brought up, so you leave it be just around the corner and out of sight.

For now.

But later. . .maybe later.

You’re careful to use his pseudonym during open hours, but once Verbatim is cleared out and the doors are locked, you switch back to his real name.

The first time you’d done this, Bucky had waggled his eyebrows and had some smart comment for it, but you prefer to think he’d been pleased.

It had accounted for how chipper he was, which by his standards meant that he’d walked off with a smug sort of grin once you were wrapped up for the evening. As opposed to merely having his hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders tucked near his ears as he waded into the evening foot traffic, the agoraphobic lobster.

Furthermore, he’s not said anything else either way about it in the weeks since then. And considering you did hear him still introduce himself as ‘Jack’ again earlier today, you’re content to continue with the slight subterfuge until he does decide to formally reveal himself. If he ever does.

It’s easier now that it’s a secret between you both and not something you’re trying to hide from him as well as everyone else. Him who is finishing up with the tea and coffee bar, situating every mug and cup so they are perfectly lined up.

Honestly, and he claims you’re particular?

Your lips quirk up in a smile, but you let it go without comment.

This time, at least.

Once you’ve dropped the blinds and clicked off the front set of lights, you take a moment to stretch out your back, as today had ended with quite a bit of time spent hunched over at your desk. While it isn’t the greatest thing for your posture, it is necessary for the bookkeeping.

What you need to do is buy one of those nifty chairs that you can put your feet up on. That’ll help, for sure. If it fits, that is, with what space you have behind the counter for your desk.

This only stays in mind for half a second though, because when you turn back to hopefully judge whether or not one would take up too much space, you turn to find Bucky hovering by said space, waiting.

He’s looking at you sideways, head tilted just enough that his face is hidden from direct light. It doesn’t mask the gravity of his expression, though, and you can’t help your first instinctive thought that you’re about to be in trouble.

But no, don’t be ridiculous. He just wants to talk; if he hated you, he never would have come back. Or stayed, as he has the past couple of weeks.

This isn’t about you anyway, so you remind yourself to get it together as you make your way over to him. Remind yourself that you’re willing to listen to whatever he has to say, to take responsibility for the pain you caused him.

You come to a stop sort of next to him, leaning your hip into the counter as you angle towards him. But you wait, purposefully concentrating on the faint outline of his dog tags underneath his shirt to allow him to lead.

Then you glance up, meeting him face on when he clears his throat.

Only to be a bit taken aback when he asks, “So. . .how are you today?”

“Doing pretty well,” you answer slowly, suddenly unsure. “And you?”

“Good, yeah.” Bucky scuffs the toe of one of his shoes into the floor, which only furthers the awkwardness of this attempt, then sighs. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to-”

“Just-” Waving a hand, you echo his sigh. “Go for it, Bucky. Say whatever you need to; it’s alright.”

And he does, but not in the way you thought he would.

“Just so you know, I’m not required to hide my identity. Or to use that card; I do have a real one, for the record. It was an option given to me. To use if I ‘felt it necessary with civilians for their safety. Or mine.’” His finger quotes are as sarcastic as his words, and you clench your teeth to keep from saying something nasty about that addition he was given. “When you didn’t recognize me, I thought it was a chance for something to be normal. I didn’t do it to lie to you.”

That admission alone stirs regret. “You had every right to.”

“Yeah, but then when you found out. . .I thought you were scared of me.” He says it with such nonchalance, borderline indifference that it pierces through your heart like a dagger.

Hell, you’d been so ashamed of yourself for that, but hearing him confirm what he felt in that moment?

You push every possible ounce of severity into your response, levelling your gaze in fierce determination. “No. You’ve never done anything that has scared me. I have never, not once ever been scared of you, Bucky. And I’m so sorry I made you feel that way. It was just, I don’t know, flight instincts kicking in and me wanting to run and hide because I was an idiot.”

It might take some time. And some rebuilt trust, but you will make him believe you, no matter how long or how much patience it takes. It’s your mistake to fix, after all. Your wound to help stitch back together.

This you promise, silent but unrelenting as you stare him down, daring him to deny you.

When he finally meets your eyes, it’s with an open, honest intent. For once, he permits you to see past that mask he keeps ever so carefully crafted to what lies beneath.

And you wonder if he doesn’t believe you. Not fully. But he’s listening, and that’s something that you can’t overlook.

Eventually, Bucky nods. Whether or not he believes you entirely is irrelevant; he understands that you believe what you’re saying. For now, it’s enough.

Trust goes both ways, after all.

You allow your glare to soften, willing to meet him on his chosen level of vulnerability. “I really wasn’t scared of you. I’d been worried about how you might react, and I didn’t want to upset you. Especially since you’d been hiding it. At least, that’s what I told myself, instead of taking the time to think about what you would want. But instead of making excuses about it, or trying to protect and control the outcome, I should’ve just told you afterwards.”

“Yeah, you should’ve,” he agrees quickly. So quickly that he grimaces, jaw working like he’s wanting to say something else and ease the blow, but you wave him off before he can.

It’s deserved, after all.

“It’s okay.” You manage a brief smile, though it immediately falls into a frown, reflecting back to the disaster that was him finding out. “I know I should’ve. I was worried about a lot of things, and yeah, there’s still a ton of shit of my own I need to deal with, but I still should’ve considered how it would impact you in the long run. I just, I didn’t-”

“Didn’t think I’d ever find out you knew?” Bucky bites his lip, but when you flush and nod, you see a flash of a smirk that he halfheartedly attempts to hide. “So, just for curiosity’s sake, when did you find out?”

“Ehhh.” Your voice goes all high pitched, and you cough to cover the obvious embarrassment as that smirk broadens. “They had a digital tour of the Captain America exhibit available for a couple of days after the shield was first installed, and I was going through the timeline. But not for anything in particular, just to see the pictures.”

Here you pause, shooting him another apologetic look. “I swear it really was an accident. I’d been to the exhibit once as a kid and thought it would be fun to see the new set-up and tech and the shield, and then. . .” You shrug helplessly.

“Saw something you recognized, huh?” Crossing his arms, Bucky reclines against the counter, but his posture stays relaxed rather than tightening in defense.

You feel rather sheepish at the simplicity of it, but you still sidle over to prop yourself closer to him. “Would’ve been hard not to, considering you’d been coming around several times a week for what, a couple months by then?”

“Mm.” You don’t get more of an answer, and it seems like he’s withdrawing, ready to exit the conversation and leave it over and done like that.

Until he lightly jabs you with his elbow, proving you wrong.

“But seriously, wow. You kept it to yourself for almost a month? That’s impressive. Normally your face is like an open book. Cause, y’know. . .” Bucky turns towards you, raising an eyebrow.

“Then you should be able to read just how funny I think you are. Ha, ha, ha,” you deadpan, scowling over at him until he cracks a grin.

But it fades just as quickly, and that’s what bothers you the most.

You never, ever want to be the reason that he loses that smile. Not again.

So, you elbow him back, pouring every ounce of sincerity into your words. “I really am sorry, though. So fucking sorry for pretending not to know for so long, and for hurting you.”

He sighs, and it’s as if his entire body deflates. “Yeah, I know you are. Don’t worry, E; we’re good.” Without missing a beat, he perks back up slightly, raising an eyebrow at you in mock suspicion. “Unless you have anything else to confess. Now would be the time.”

“Of course not-”

Wait.

Well.

There is the one.

The sudden remembrance of that particular lie floods through you, and it’s all you can do not to bury your face in your hands and screech, even as you shrink into yourself.

For crying out loud, secondhand embarrassment is bad enough when watching a show, but when it’s you yourself causing this type of shame?

Maybe you can pretend these last ten seconds never happened. Yeah, that’ll do it.

“E.” Bucky turns more fully towards you, his brow knitting together in confusion at the visceral nature of your reaction. “What-”

“I wasn’t kickboxing.” Humiliating as it is, it bursts from you as you don’t want him thinking the worst.

He blinks, repeating, “What?”

“When I hurt myself earlier this year, and you helped me with the boxes?” You swivel your wrist around for emphasis, scrunching up your face. “It was this workout dance video, with showtunes. And I tripped and fell.”

A beat.

“You were dancing?” It’s repeated in a skeptical, drawn-out way as he eyes you, as you stare helplessly back at him, wondering what he could possibly be thinking about you now.

Then he laughs.

He laughs, and you give in to the impulse of hiding behind your hands, groaning melodramatically and torn between feeling shame and pleasure over the fact that he’s actually laughing without restraint, without concern that he might be drawing attention to himself.

Until he has to go and open his mouth again. “Hey, now that I think about it, you were really weird about it. And you know what? I actually believed you. But I guess those muscles of yours are just from carrying around armloads of books every day like the nerd you are. Am I right?”

Your answering moan is muffled, and while he continues to chuckle, he very graciously takes pity on you and reins it in after that, knocking your shoulder again. “Guess I’ll have to actually teach you to dance, then.”

“Guess so.”

“Well, if that’s your only deep, dark secret, I think we’ll be okay.”

Still, you give yourself another minute to hide, hoping the blush darkening your cheeks has calmed enough after that addendum.

Thankfully, he leaves you to your own mortification.

Eventually, you find it in yourself to uncurl from your huddle and lift your head, only to find that Bucky has turned his attention forward, across the store. You follow it, finding it’s drifted straight towards the windows.

With autumn on its way the days are inevitably shortening, and the light from the sun’s setting is bathing the front in a warm, golden glow.

There’s something soothing about it, something inherently opposite to the busyness of the street just past your windows. Even with the blinds lowered, you can still see the hustle and bustle through the slats that you never fully close.

It lends an air of enticement that occasionally has someone peeking through the glass to see if they’d want to come back.

No one is tonight. At least not in the time you’re standing there watching, but that’s okay.

You’re not really thinking about it. Not particularly. Not when there’s so much to see, and the muted buzz of voices, cars, and countless other things to hear offers a soothing backdrop to your little world inside Verbatim.

But when you steal a glimpse at him, you don’t quite see the same feeling evoked. There’s a touch of wistfulness that flickers across it, you think, or something else verging on melancholy.

There’s something he’s missing. You want to ask outright, but-

Don’t scare him off, you order yourself, cutting off that thought in favor of a more tactful approach.

He’s been honest. You need to be, as well.

“It’s busy out there tonight.” You bite your lip as you weigh your next words, deciding how to extend your own experience without taking over his. “It wasn’t for so many years, and it’s still strange now. I still forget how busy it can be sometimes. How busy it always is again,” you add with a huffed laugh.

“Really busy,” Bucky agrees, not quite as amused. “Really different from the ‘30s, if you can believe that. There’re a lot more people, and cars. Then again, it’s really different from. . .” It’s not hard to catch the change in tone and direction when he trails off.

You force yourself to keep your breathing steady.

But he only takes a moment before deciding to continue. “I was in Wakanda for a while, after everything. Wasn’t anything like this, but. Peaceful.”

He ducks his head, saying it like he’s ashamed of it. Ashamed of wanting relief from decades of torture and regret.

But it ticks off the answer to one of the numerous questions you’d had about what had happened to him, and where he had disappeared to once the Winter Solider was officially retired.

Wakanda. Wow.

Humming softly, you remain watching the sidewalk in front of the store, trying to alleviate any pressure from a face-to-face discussion. It’s easier sometimes in your sessions, knowing someone is there without staring you down directly. Hopefully it helps him, too.

Maybe it helps, because you can see Bucky glance over at you in your peripheral vision studying, weighing, but when you stay placid, stay open, he straightens up again from the slump.

Then he shifts, pushing off the counter briefly before resettling with his feet further out and half a step over, which allows his arm to brush against yours when he resituates himself before offering more.

“It was calm, too. Much calmer than here, anyway. They put me on a farm so I would have time to-” Here he stalls, searching for the right word by physically waving a hand, “recover, I guess.”

It’s easy to picture. Suits him, too. He likes to stay active while he’s here in Verbatim, and with a farm? Working the land? It’s monotonous, but there are visible results. You can see what you’ve accomplished.

And when you’ve spent your life in a waking nightmare being forced to hunt and kill, cultivating life must seem like a heaven-sent dream.

Something helpful in recovery.

Still, it gives you an opportunity to keep it from being too heavy, and you allow the impish part of you to speak while you gently bump his foot with yours, leaving it there. “Any animals on your farm, Mr. McDonald?”

“Couple of cows and goats. Some chickens. I helped with the larger, national fields, but I also had my own garden.”

You turn your head just enough to catch a hint of a sad sort of smile, partially regretting your teasing at the sight of it. “That’s why you’re so good with plants, huh?”

“Sort of. I knew about flowers from before, too.” Bucky gestures vaguely, and you’re nodding even though it’s another new wonder, circling back briskly before the creeping shadow deepens.

“How long were you there?”

“Two years.” He sighs, tilting his face away to prevent you from seeing whatever it is he’s currently trying to repress. “I wasn’t conscious for part of the first, though. I went on ice until they figured out a way to get rid of all the shit Hydra put in my head.”

There it is.

Even without truly understanding what that means, no matter what he thinks when he looks at himself in the mirror, there is the selflessness that you know to be true to his character. Even though it was wildly unlikely that anyone in Wakanda would have purposefully triggered or used him, he wanted to make certain no one was anywhere near the realm of getting hurt.

“That was very noble of you.”

He grumbles, though it’s not an angry sound. More. . .tired. Almost as disbelieving as it is sardonic.

It’s a risk. You know it is, but after a lingering moment of silence, you shift your stance until you’re leaning more into him, conveying your support as best as you can right now while you quietly ask, “You miss it?”

“What, being brainwashed?”

“What?! No!” You instinctively backhand his stomach, glowering up at him when he has the audacity to smirk. “Ugh, don’t do that. You know what I mean.”

Wrinkling your nose, you settle back next to him, this time purposefully bashing your arm against his and hoping it stings at least a little bit. “Wakanda.”

Before saying anything, Bucky scoops up a book that was left at the register. He twists it back and forth in his hands, staring blankly down at the blurb on the back cover. It’s another deflection, another sign he wants this to be over.

But once again, even with another sigh, he proves that inner strength. “Yeah, E, in a lot of ways. Especially the kids. They were kind. And innocent, in a way I can never be.”

Self-hatred and loathing coats his words, permeating his self-perception. It must be a wearying burden to carry, because now that he’s approached it and made it known to you, the exhaustion pouring from him is evident.

The lines of his face are drawn; his shoulders heavy, and this one you can’t let pass by.

“You’ve always been innocent, Bucky.” It takes everything in you not to shake him, lecture him until he believes it, but you keep your tone as firm as it is kind. “Anyone who says otherwise is wrong.”

“It doesn’t really matter though, does it? What anyone says, either way.” He stares straight ahead, his expression going carefully blank. “I did a lot of things, E. Awful things.” Bucky rolls his lower lip between his teeth, breathing out, “You have no idea.”

Which is true. Because you don’t.

There’s enough information to be found about various Hydra schemes from when that one badass S.H.I.E.L.D. agent dumped everything online that could potentially be linked to him, but there’s no way to know for sure. Some of the assassinations, government building, and various treacherous works would make sense if they had involved him, but there’s no telling what all truly happened over all those years.

How many other things have been tucked away into the shadows, where the Winter Soldier had worked best.

There’s no really knowing the sheer number of memories and the weight they carry that are locked away inside Bucky. Not unless he ever opens up about it, but you don’t see that happening any time soon.

Not that you need or want to know, not really. Not unless he wants to tell you.

You know it was bad. But he’s not, and he needs to believe it, so you persist.

“But you’re not doing those things anymore. You’re proving who you really are and who you’ve always been by the choices you’re now making for yourself. Your choices, Bucky. Not Hydra’s. All the rest of it, and what they made you do isn’t your fault. It wasn’t you.”

Bucky’s chin jerks in a nod, but his nonchalance is betrayed by his response.

“You know, for a lot of people it might not matter anymore. But for me every night, every second I close my eyes, it’s there. So clearly. Like I’m still in it. Like I still-”

Your heart aches at the sound of his voice cracking, at the way he folds into himself as if bracing for a blow, for some sort of retribution.

What can you say to that?

What could anyone say to that?

There’s no magic answer, no quick fix you can offer. Just comfort, so you let your head tip over to rest on his shoulder and pretend you didn’t hear him almost break. “I can’t imagine. I wish. . .”

Wish you could take it away.

Wish you could wipe away all of the bad, leaving only the good.

Wish you could have kept him from being hurt and used at all, even though. . .even though it means you never would have known him.

Wishes aren’t a part of this life, though. Especially not retroactively. So, what can you do? How can you help?

You screw up your face since he can’t see it anyway, remaining gentle in tone. “What do you think it’d take for you to stop blaming yourself?”

He shrugs the smallest motion, which you take to mean he’s being careful not to throw you off him and doesn’t mind the contact. “Not having done any of it to begin with.”

Okay, then. There’s nothing you can do, nothing you can say if he’s determined to make himself suffer over crimes that weren’t his fault or choice to begin with.

You twist your mouth to keep from groaning or appearing unsympathetic in any way whatsoever. You just. . .you don’t want him prisoner to this anymore.

Not when he’s free.

“I don’t know what I’m doing now, E. I’ve been trying to fix a lot of things I caused, and trying to make amends, like with Y-”

Yori.

It hangs, suspended, waiting for you to question it, but you don’t.

Because, “I know,” you murmur, not willing or trying to hide it at all this time, but not wanting to be overtly blunt. “I might’ve figured that out, too.”

A strangled laugh. “’Course you did.”

“If it helps, I think it’s good of you. Have you decided how you’re going to tell him-” The way his body tenses has you backtracking. “If, uh, if you’re ever going to tell him?”

He begins rifling through the pages, allowing the gentle whoosh to fill the gap as they flip and settle. There are flashes of illustrations, swirling calligraphy on the chapter titles, but he doesn’t stop to really look at any of it until the last page.

The ending.

“I don’t know.” Bucky shakes his head, allowing the cover to fall over shut with a soft thud as he scowls. “Steve was better with people and knowing what they needed. Better about doing the right thing, no matter what. You know what they called him? The Star-Spangled Man with a Plan. It was him and that shield against the world. . .”

Uh oh.

You can hear a shift in his voice, and you brace yourself for the rising of it.

“That shield meant something. It gave people hope, gave them something to stand behind, and Sam tossed it aside like it meant nothing to him or to anyone else. Like everything Steve ever did for anyone was – like it was all worthless.”

It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned another hero, and the way Bucky said his name. . .but there’s also a bite to his words you haven’t heard before, with a foreign feel wrapped around and suffocating them.

So, The Falcon was supposed to carry the shield? How amazing-

No, forget Sam Wilson for now; that’s a question for later, because there was something else in what he said just now.

You twist upright to stare at him, but he refuses to look back, keeping his attention fixed firmly on the book.

All worthless?

All meaning everything Steve Rogers ever did, or all meaning everything he cared about? And everyone?

He’s– he’s talking about himself, isn’t he?

Biting your lip, you maintain your study of his profile. It’s certainly possible. Probably is, if you take everything into consideration. But with every passing second of silence, you can feel him curling further inwards, feel the wall building back up.

It makes you reach out, makes you respond before he seals himself away again.

“You’re not worthless, Bucky.”

He shakes his head, and you feel a tinge of desperation. At some point, he’s going to need to believe it.

In an effort to keep him thinking, keep drawing him out, you cautiously ask, “Have you considered talking to Sam about it?”

“After what he did?” With a scoff, Bucky smacks the book down harder than necessary. “No. He obviously doesn’t understand.”

There’s got to be more to it than that, but it’s not something you’re going to adamantly push quite yet. Not directly. Perhaps a more tactful approach. “Do you think maybe it’s more of a different perspective thing?”

Now that is an actual growl. “No.”

After that, he turns from you and hunches slightly, putting you in mind of a turtle, so you decide to ease off for now, taking a step away as well for physical space.

There’s no point in pushing while he’s feeling this defensive, this downtrodden, even though you’d rather take him by the arms and shake him until sense drops in to fill the space between his ears.

Instead, you point around him to the book he’d dropped for a reprieve from the emotional upheaval. “Pass me that, will you? I’ll put it back.”

Bucky hands it to you wordlessly, but you ignore that in favor of mild gratitude before slipping off to put the book on its shelf.

He doesn’t care to say anything else either, even when you make a passing comment a few minutes later about how the new flowers he bought for the store look like they might be wilting.

. . .okay, so he makes a sound that is the epitome of a ‘harrumph,’ but that’s about it. He keeps his mouth firmly shut even after he wanders over towards said flowers and proceeds to work what you know is his magic on them.

Which makes perfect sense, now that you know about the farming.

Anyway, you can’t really fault him the silence after the vulnerability he just gifted you with, or the irritation that goes along with Sam And What He Did™.

Well, you can, but it’s not something you’re going to try to tackle today after everything that’s already been said. Not now. Later, once he’s willing to hear and understand Sam’s reason for it, that is. Because you’re sure that Sam, being someone that Steve Rogers trusted, would have had a good reason.

Bucky will have to come to terms with eventually, because he’ll need to listen. Need to understand that his value isn’t based on a piece of metal.

So, that you’re not tackling now. But this misplaced guilt and stewing in misery? That you won’t accept.

That you’ll combat to the best of your ability.

You give him a few more minutes to internally grump to himself while you wrap up the register, purposefully letting the silence linger just long enough before skulking back over towards him and attempting to completely derail whatever train of thought he’s been swept away on by asking, “Can I see it? Your arm?”

You think you’ve successfully caught him off guard. He’s usually so quick, so snarky with a comeback for anything, but this time he falters, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. That lingering, stubborn light in his eyes fades. Unsurprisingly, he won’t meet yours now.

But you wait.

Until he exhales. “Yeah, sure.”

He’s never seemed so uncertain. Not even during your fight, or in how discomfited he’d been afterwards or when trying to explain Yori’s grief over his murdered son. But it’s the only way to describe his movements as he shrugs off his jacket and peels his gloves off one at a time, keeping his gaze fixed downwards.

Bucky clears his throat, pausing, but just when you start to question whether or not you should back down, he peels the glove off. After tossing it aside rather carelessly, he yanks the sleeve of his shirt up past his elbow and sticks it out for you to see with a dry, “Knock yourself out.”

He doesn’t seem too thrilled about it, but you don’t focus on that for too long. Primarily so you don’t lose your nerve, but also because the vibranium is absolutely captivating.

Captivating, extraordinary. An unending list of superlatives could communicate the intricacy of the plating. Everything slides and locks together smoothly with a flawless range of movement. And with the way the gold outlining is coming down from under his sleeve? It must go up his entire arm.

It’s amazing.

Dangerously so. And you can see the dilemma – see why so many people would fear it. But you? All you see is something that would never let anything or anyone hurt you.

And there’s a stray thought that points back to earlier this summer when that man had been drunk and angry, when Jack had protected you and sworn no one would ever touch you. You had believed him then, but now? Now you see the absolute proof that Bucky could fulfill that promise without any effort whatsoever.

He could have snapped that man’s wrist from touching you, and you’d thought it was pressure points. Geez.

However, you need to stay focused, and geeking out about any of these things isn’t going to help.

“It’s incredible.” It takes you a second to catch yourself when you reach out instinctively, dragging your eyes away and back up to him for permission, trying not to completely overwhelm his boundaries. “Can I. . .?”

He still won’t look at you directly at you, but he consents with another gruff, “Sure.”

You take his hand in yours when he doesn’t say anything else, flipping it back and forth. Even if it had been an excuse for his attention, you are actually interested in studying it.

The craftmanship is remarkable. If you hadn’t accidentally uncovered the truth and found out who he was, you never would have known it wasn’t real. And with the news and technology that came out of Wakanda a few years ago, it doesn’t surprise you all that much that a prosthetic like this could be created nowadays.

What does mildly surprise you is how much he seems to hate it, even though it’s not the one he had as the Winter Soldier based on pictures you saw when you found out. How he can barely look at it himself. How he seems almost ashamed of it, even though none of anything he’s done was ever his fault.

Has anyone ever even told him that before?

Has anyone ever cared enough to let him know?

You will, over and over again until he believes it.

But first. . .you think you want to show him. So, on this day of taking chances, you go for one more.

Slowly, giving him time to pull back or chase you away, you stretch his arm forward and pivot alongside it, stepping back, once, twice, until there are mere inches separating you from him.

Then you stop as casually as possible. Trying not to shift, trying not to startle him. Just acting as if you’re still studying the makeup of his arm and not merely using it as a way to get close.

It’s an eternity before he responds.

But instead of slipping away or downright pushing you off he eases closer, his right hand settling on your hip, the warmth of his body sending a chill down your spine.

You choose to ignore it for now, even though it makes your heart skip a beat. Or two. Maybe three, feeling him oh so tantalizingly close.

After you stroke several of the forearm plates, Bucky clears his throat, wiggling his fingers. “Well, what do you think?”

His breath brushes over the nape of your neck, and you wish, you hope it’s truly as uneven as yours is right now, even though he sounds perfectly nonchalant.

And here. Here is the opportunity, the opening you’ve been goading him towards.

“In one word? Safety.” There are so many other words, too many, even. But right now, that’s one he needs to hear.

Your pulse is racing, but you make yourself continue, even as you trace over his wrist and down the golden etchings on his palm. “It feels like safety.”

His hand clenches into a fist as he stiffens behind you, and there’s no disguising the bitterness of his tone, or the preparation to pull away. “E, nothing about this is safe.”

“I disagree.” Without pausing to think, to breathe, you press this fisted hand he hates to your chest directly over your heart, and you lean your head back against him. “It’s strong. You’re strong. You could protect me so easily if I ever needed it. Shit, you already have. And that strength, that protection means safety.

“And sure, you asked me, but you are the only one who actually gets to decide what this represents now.” You tap it to make sure he can’t deny to which ‘this’ you’re referring. “Not Hydra. Not anyone else in the world. Not even me. You, Bucky.”

The hand on your waist spasms, his fingers involuntarily digging into your side. Then for a moment he stands still, utterly still, and you let your eyes drift close, thrilled over this facsimile of an embrace.

Even if it’s as close as you ever get, it’ll be enough.

But before you can think, can breathe – he’s spinning you around, the hand around your waist bringing you flush against him, and the other rising to wrap around your jaw.

You gasp, clutching at his shirt, your breath stuttering when his metal thumb strokes over your bottom lip. It’s cold in comparison to the heat that swells within you, as with one touch he’s set the rest of your body alight.

Slowly, carefully, you lift your face just so, just enough to look up at him without moving any closer.

For once, Bucky’s staring down at you without any sarcastic quip or crooked, flirtatious smirk. But this close, you can see past the blank expression that he’s crafted ever so flawlessly as he studies you; you recognize the vulnerability in his eyes.

Then, to your absolute surprise, he bends down ever so slightly. You have to force yourself to breathe steadily, even though sheer delight stokes that fire in you, and you have to fight off a giddy smile.

He shifts, watching you, but there’s something, a hint of something that seems slightly off, and you sternly tell yourself to pay attention and figure it out, tipping your head back to look at him full on.

Is he nervous? You’re not sure it’s that, but it does seem like he’s still hesitating even though the two of you are nose to nose, and it would be easy to smother him in kisses right now.

You want to, desperately, but-

His eyes are bright. So bright and as blue that you could lose yourself, drown in them if given the chance, and you’d gladly do so. But you see something, just enough of something that while he remains still, as frozen as you are, you decide it’ll be worth the wait.

Before he can move in further, before you can second guess yourself, you lean up to gently kiss the scruff at the corner of his mouth. You’re so close to where you really want to be, but- it’s good.

The pressure enveloping you dissipates, and ease washes through you. It’s light and airy, as if all that needs to be said and done for now has been.

And before he can do anything else, before he can ask any questions, you wrap your arms around him for a tight hug, tucking yourself down snugly into his shoulder like you’ve been dreaming about for months.

His arms fold around you instinctively in return until you’re held so carefully and so rightly your soul practically soars from your body as you melt into him, as he momentarily softens beneath your touch.

After a bit, you can feel the corners of his mouth lift where he’s buried his face in your hair, but then his feet shift. He squeezes you one final time; though you’re rather reluctant to let go, you scoot backwards as soon as he gives the signal.

But you won’t let him run quite as easily. When you slip your hands into his he pauses, keeping his gaze locked on you in question.

“You’re a good man, Bucky.”

A huff is his only reply, and he creeps back towards his former turtle’s posture as he turns away from you, but you keep going just a little farther, keep gripping his hands to prevent a premature escape.

“You are. And I want you to listen to me, please. These hands might have done so many things, but this heart wasn’t behind it.” You drop his right hand, reaching out to press your palm against his chest, willing him to trust it, to trust you. “Not your heart.”

Bucky stares at you again. Searches your face, as if he’s intent on revealing some half-truth hidden in your eyes, but you remain steady, firm. There’s nothing else you’re hiding, no falsities anymore. You believe this, and you hope that one day he will as well.

His focus lowers towards the hand you’ve planted over his heart, then flicks to his vibranium fingers tangled with your own.

And he stiffens.

“Yeah, if you say so.”

It’s dismissive, and almost before he’s spat it out entirely, he’s yanking his hand from yours to snatch up another forgotten book, hurrying off to reshelve it before you can say anything else.

So, he doesn’t want to talk about it? Doesn’t want to admit you’re right?

That’s fine; you’ll wear him down. You’ll convince him of it, somehow, someway.

Eventually.

Chapter Text

It hadn’t really occurred to you before it stopped happening, but now that it’s been a couple of days, Bucky doesn’t look nearly as concerned or cringe away when you brush by or tap his left arm to get his attention.

He hasn’t completely relaxed, not yet, but at least he’s not been frowning as much, so there is hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, he is starting to believe you in the slightest when you say that he is a good man.

That he isn’t something to be feared.

That even though he’s hiding hurt and anger behind the curtain of what he presents to the world you do truly care for him, and that his past doesn’t bother you at all.

Aside from the fact that he was tortured, brainwashed, and forced to do all sorts of horrendous things, but that’s beside the point.

The point, you’ve decided this terrible, horrible evening is that this absolute insanity was going to ruin all of the progress that you’ve already been seeing this week.

Your heart is lodged in your throat due to the headlines streaking across your screen, lighting up every social media platform, every news outlet; every bit of anything that spreads any fragment of information whatsoever.

You don’t want to believe it, but it’s right there in front of the entire world for everyone to see, including you. Including Bucky.

You don’t believe it. Can’t believe it.

But it’s real.

There’s a new Captain America.

It’s. . .this is even worse than when Sam turned the shield over. That was something incredible and shocking and dramatic and everything, but this? This is so much more; you know it the instant you see the first linked article.

It feels wrong to click around until you find the formal announcement, but watching the clip of his national, world-wide introduction in a state verging on horror is necessary.

It’s- it’s so eerie. Unsettling, in a way you can’t fully explain. Not yet. But at least they had the decency not to copy the suit and helmet exactly.

Bucky would’ve found a way to teleport and rip it off this guy on live TV if that had been the case.

Oh, Bucky.

He’s at the forefront of your mind as you type in a quick online search and start scrolling down the main page to read the most recent trending headlines.

“From Captain Walker to Captain America: A hero’s journey. . .”

“Who is John Walker? Click here to learn more about the man taking over the mantle. . .”

“America’s New Hero! Here are the American values he embodies best. . .”

And the last one, the part of this that you know must be ripping a new hole right through Bucky’s fractured heart if he’s seen it with the simplicity, the poignancy of it:

“Cap Is Back!”

There’s no way he wouldn’t, not with all the reactions. The entire globe is responding in varying layers of excitement, dread, or hopeful anticipation but cheering all the way. As for you, you’re still tapping back to the video of John Walker’s entrance as the so-called next Captain America.

Of him basically prancing down the stairs, shaking the hand of whatever official was doing the announcing, flourishing the shield, and the winking.

You can’t get past the winking. It makes your brain itch and your nose wrinkle every time you play the clip, something uncomfortable settling in your stomach the longer you look at him, the longer you think about it.

You’ve got such a bad feeling about this.

And if you do, then there’s no telling what’s going through Bucky’s mind right now. No telling how it may be affecting or hurting him to see this happening.

Your phone is back in your hand before you even realize that you’ve scooped it up and unlocked it, but all you can do is stare at the picture of the new peace lily and the final bloom of the season that’s your new background.

Should you call him? Or at least check in and see if he’s okay?

You open the thread even as you debate with yourself, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as you try to decide. He- what’s he even thinking right now? He was mad about the shield being turned in; did he have any idea this would happen if it was? Was this the plan all along? There’s no way Sam would’ve done it if he’d known-

Wait. You blink, focusing back on the screen. Did Bucky just start typing, or are you officially losing your mind?

No, you’re not imagining things. The bubble pops up again and remains, so you hold your breath until the text comes through.

“See you tomorrow.”

Well, that’s a clear boundary if ever you have read one. No calling, then.

With a heavy heart, you quickly shoot back an “Okay :)” before hesitating once more.

But before you can second-guess yourself any further, you’re tapping out another short message.

“Try to get some sleep.” is immediately followed by a gif of a fluffy white cat snuggling down into a blanket, some z’s immediately floating up from its nose.

A beat, and then the ‘delivered’ under your texts flips over to ‘read.’

He doesn’t respond again, doesn’t so much as leave a thumbs up or the robot he sometimes uses now as a reaction which never fails to make you smile, so you force yourself to set aside your phone before you bury your face in your arms and groan.

It’ll be a miracle if he closes his eyes even once tonight. Even if he can withstand longer periods of time without rest, or so he’s claimed, it won’t be for a good reason this time.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day.

---

Especially depending on how he responds when he comes in.

You’ve been anxious since yesterday evening, since he said he’d see you this morning. There’s no telling what today will bring, or what state Bucky will be in when he shows up.

Especially when you consider how poorly he’d taken it when Sam turned the shield over all those weeks ago. Considering that, you know this is going to be so much more difficult for him to deal with.

At least no one else had seemed to notice that time. . .but that was most likely due to the simple fact that you were the only one who knew why he would have been off kilter in the first place. The only one who knew why it would have impacted him in such a personal, painful way.

Just like you’ll be the only one today who knows that his heart is probably broken, even if he won’t admit it to your face.

Ugh.

Forgetting the emotional aspect of this, you know he’ll only mark this as further proof that Sam made a horrible decision. Especially when Bucky’s hurt and bitter and not willing to understand why.

He won’t be able to recognize that this entire disaster, this insanity and instant devotion to a new cookie cutter Captain America is witness to that why.

Even though there’s a wishful hope that he might just possibly listen to reason, logic is persisting otherwise. . .and after what he said the other day about worthlessness?

Either way, you aren’t going to dump your concern on him. You’re not. No matter what he says, you’re not going to let him see how worried you are.

You will hide it; you want to so badly, and when you hear the bell and see him strolling into Verbatim, you’re determined to do so.

But the moment Bucky walks up to you behind the desk, the second he looks at you, you know you’ve failed. It must be spelled out on your face to perfection word for word, letter for letter.

Because as soon as you look back at him, as he comes to a stop in front of you, he’s on the defensive and lifting a hand. “Just don’t, E. Not now.”

From a distance he might look happy, maybe like he’s bantering with you or something else. But close up you can tell it’s that customer service sort of smirk, the one he only ever uses to perform. The one he used on you at times before that blown sphere had shattered.

The laugh lines around his eyes are barely visible.

It almost hurts how tightly you clench your jaw, but you do your best to school your features into something more neutral. You’re not sure how well you succeed with that either based on the look of sheer exasperation he directs towards you, but you do try.

“Not right now,” you agree, ripping your gaze from his before you do something worse and meltdown for his sake. He doesn’t want your pity; he doesn’t need you to emote for him, so you focus back on your list for the day and clear your throat, forcing yourself to rally and push ahead. “Okay, so, later for Storytime and Songs today-”

You’re cut off by a hand. Not literally, but you are, because one of his hands drops on top of your head, then ruffles your hair.

You level a glare in his direction, but you’re faltering again at the rare flash of vulnerability etched into his expression. His face, which now looks as weary as one would expect from a one hundred and six-year-old super soldier forced assassin.

It’s not effective, more of a grimace really, but he tries to smile anyway at your annoyance. “I’m not singing for a bunch of drooling toddlers, E.”

After you roll your eyes and swat at his hand, it lowers to the back of your neck. “You won’t be singing alone. All the other adults will be, too. Nor are they toddlers. Besides, you just told me the other day you miss the kids in Wakanda.”

It’s a cheap shot, but you’re not going to treat him like glass.

Especially not with the way he’s all but pouting. “Still not going to do it.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“’They’, huh? Who’s they?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The two of you bicker back and forth about it for a bit longer. Bucky insists he can’t sing, so it would ruin it anyway. Besides, he’d rather listen to you sing, but you counter with the inevitable excitement that will be running rampant again through this monthly group now that they’ll know he’s back, too.

You very kindly don’t bring up the fact that he had done this once or twice before and had never even needed to sing with how involved the kids’ grownup counterparts get, but you do point out that he tends to whistle and hum frequently, so you know he won’t be completely awful if he puts a scrap of effort into it.

He caves eventually, as you knew he would – his protests are generally for show on a good day, never mind on one when you both know he needs the distraction – but you don’t fail to notice the grip he maintains on you as if to ground himself.

You don’t mention that either, rattling on about anything and everything possible about the course of the day as his hand slowly tracks from your neck to your shoulder, then centered and down your spine until it’s pressed against the small of your back.

He stays close longer than you were expecting, but only after he steps away are you willing to move, to fix your hair. Knowing he wants that nearness, that form of comfort without being willing to truly open himself up to it. . .ugh, again.

It’s not something you can force so you don’t bother trying, but you do make plenty of excuses to casually touch him in passing or hip check him, so he’s reminded that he isn’t alone.

While it doesn’t fix it, there are hints of a real smile bleeding through the banality of his customer service face throughout the day, especially once the kids swarm in.

Also, you were right.

His singing is so much better than he made it out to be.

When he catches you grinning over at him once the session has wrapped up and everyone has left or wandered off to browse in search of something to buy, he doesn’t hesitate to flip you off.

The fact that he hides it behind one of the picture books so as not to let any of the remaining wandering tykes see makes you laugh outright.

---

He doesn’t plan for it like he did the other day. Doesn’t wait and make an effort to set the stage in a non-antagonizing sort of way for better communication.

This time, it comes without preamble. As soon as there’s no imminent threat of interruption, mere moments after the doors have been locked it bursts from him, and there’s no hiding the harshness of his tone.

“Sam should’ve known something like this would happen. Should’ve known that the feds wouldn’t let Steve’s legacy and the shield just become some token museum pieces.”

A hardback is slammed onto the shelf, and you wince at the thudding impact that punctuates his rage.

His pain.

But you don’t say anything; you simply turn to look at him over your shoulder in time to see him run a hand through his hair in agitation.

When he glances over at you, you’re reminded of just how many years he’s survived. How many lives he’s lived, and just how heavy the weight of those rests on his shoulders.

There are shadows haunting him, but at your sympathetic look he sighs, brushing his fingers over the spine of the book he’d roughed.

“Sorry. I just-” Bucky cuts himself off, and for half a moment he stares at his hand, at his fingers that are caressing the binding, and then he’s dropping a fist to his side and pointedly looking away. “That shield means something. Something so much more than a relic from history for tourists to gawk over. More than a toy to be passed around. Steve trusted Sam, and he threw that trust away right along with the shield.”

He pauses long enough for there to be a gap, expecting a response.

You measure your words, keeping them soft. “I doubt Sam saw it like that.”

He turns, and you can see him readying for a fight, can hear it in the sharpening of his voice. “Yeah? Well how do you think he saw it, then?”

It’s not you he’s angry with. At this point, you’re not even sure Sam is anything more than a target for whatever he’s refusing to face himself, and that’s what produces this anger.

So, refusing to argue, you patiently say, “I think you should ask him that instead of assuming anything.”

“What a great idea,” Bucky grouses, pressing his lips into a thin line. “You know what? I agree. That’s what I’ll do, and that’ll fix everything.” He scowls at you, shaking his head as he picks up the box, moving further down the row to restock the next series.

You return that scowl to his back before stepping around to the opposite side of the shelf and out of his sight. Taking a deep breath, you pinch the bridge of your nose to help compose yourself and stave off the responsive and looming irritation.

Circles. From the other day to now, he just keeps going in circles. Probably since Sam turned in the shield.

Maybe ever since Steve gave Sam the shield.

It’s not that you don’t understand his frustration, or the reasoning as to why would affect him like this. You do. You can understand to a certain extent, but it’s his blatant refusal to consider any other option than what he sees in front of him, what he carries deep within that bothers you.

Even though you’d worried it would go this way, you had hoped otherwise. It’s disappointing, and your heart aches for him.

Well, at least you know he isn’t just an ordinary, standard jackass. Not with the literal decades of trauma and a desperate need for therapy he possesses.

Still.

Doesn’t mean he never acts like one. Sooner or later, he’s going to have to stop storming off and taking things too personally.

But today of all days, you can extend a little extra grace. And hopefully pull him out of the cycle, at least for a little while. . .

Circles. One of these days, you’ll find a way to break through that well and drag him with you, kicking and screaming as he’ll most likely be doing. Or someone else will – maybe someone well-versed in how to speak to veterans. That’d be the minimum.

The bell rings, and you quickly call out a cheerful greeting, popping your head around the end of the shelf to wave at the new arrival. Stepping out completely with a pleasant smile when they come up to you to ask a couple of questions.

For now, you need to focus on work, but later – later you’ll take some time to figure out something new that will rattle him from this current spiral.

Answers first, then plotting.

One step at a time.

---

You scheme for a bit longer, but it’s the afternoon before something strikes you as so incredibly obvious that you almost laugh aloud.

At the last second you fake a sneeze into your elbow, sniffling for emphasis when he quirks an eyebrow at you, utterly suspicious.

It helps that Bucky has calmed down a bit, too. He never outright apologized, but after you’d let him be for the better part of an hour he’d eventually wandered back in your direction. Those big, sad eyes appeared so full of self-loathing that you’d smiled before he could say anything, extending your knuckles for a fist bump.

That was also unexpected, so he’d paused, no doubt internally debating with himself before very solemnly bumping your fist with his own.

He would have denied it if you’d called him on the nearly inaudible explosive sound that followed it, so you allow it to slide. This time, but just because it was absolutely adorable.

At the end of the day, while he’s slightly distracted and not directly facing off with you while you pack up after running through your closing routine, you decide it’s the right time to spring it on him.

“Why’d you start with the ‘E’ thing, anyway?”

The way he reacts lets you know this was the perfect redirection, you genius, you.

Because he freezes in place, book suspended in midair. “Uh, what do you mean?”

“Where did it come from? What does it mean?”

Bucky clears his throat, muttering something about a long story, but you pin him down with a look. After a bit more of shuffling and evading, he shrugs, looking rather sheepish.

“I was uh– it’s nothing personal. I was just trying to prove a point. . .” You’ve never seen him this awkward as he rubs at the back of his head, ruffling his hair. “We-ell, I had someone complaining that I had less than ten people in my phone. Not that I’m desperate for friends, or anything. Seriously, I’ve got to take it easy.”

With an eyeroll, you interject, “Of course you do.”

“I’m serious. I already don’t have enough time for everyone that wants a piece of me these days. You know how it is, social guy like me.”

“Uh huh.” You do a quick mental rundown of numbers one through ten, and it’s like a literal lightbulb goes off in your head, so you shake a finger in his face, but all he does is bat your hand away. “Nuh uh, back up. You only have– excuse me, had,” you correct at his playful glare and “not quite; try again,” “seven people in your phone?”

He sort of smiles, though it’s more of a wince, and taps his fingers against his thigh. You bite down on a smirk of your own, but you continue to prod him a bit further. “Sooo, when you added my number, that total probably rounded up to eight. Therefore, ‘E’ is for–”

“What, probably? You forget how to count? It’s easy, just use your fingers. There’s one, two, three, four, five, six-” Interrupting to demonstrate, Bucky starts quickly counting off on his own said fingers, easily dodging when you grab a book and swing at him. “-and then comes seven, eight, nine, and ten. After that you can use your toes if you need to. And I think you might. This is really Kindergarten stuff, you know.”

You give up trying to bully him, now fighting to keep from laughing instead. “Don’t try to change the subject! You nicknamed me after the number I ended up being in your contacts?”

“Well, it seemed fitting. At the time,” he adds on quickly before you can get another insult in, lounging back ever-so-casually against the end of your counter. “And now I think it suits you. Hell, ‘E’ could stand for a lot of things, like energetic, or elegant, or especially good at running a bookstore-”

“But it’s not for anything other than ‘eight’, is it?” You force yourself to frown, successfully imitating one of his growly grumbles.

It takes him a second, but once he makes eye contact with you, he realizes you’re not really angry. And with the way he arranges himself on an elbow with his hip cocked, his posture turns something rather scoundrel-like. “Well, like I said, I thought it was fitting.”

Finally breaking, you give in to the laughter. “Only you would, Mr. Hughes. I think your decisions on names need strong evaluation. What sort of name is Jack Hughes anyway?”

“It sounds classic.” Bucky gestures nonchalantly. “And I needed a cover if I was going to blend in.”

“Classic doesn’t help if you’re trying to blend in during the 21^st Century.”

“What would you know about going undercover anyway? Read a spy novel, watched a Falcon film or two and think that covers it all?”

You do so enjoy seeing what’s underneath all those layers of doom and gloom. Even if it is purely sass, even if it is a misdirection and only a flimsy covering of deeper issues.

One step at a time.

You mock groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Who are you, and what have you done with my star employee? It’s like you’re someone else, like I don’t even know you.”

That tricks a grin from him. “Come to think of it, we haven’t actually been formally introduced yet.” The teasing glint in his eye turns roguish as he rakes his fingers through his hair, fluffing it just so before readjusting his posture once more and extending his hand for you to take. “Hey, there, sweetheart. The name’s Bucky Barnes. And you are. . .?”

“Bucky. How dated.” The tone in your voice is appropriately charmed, though you smirk in return and shake his hand, firmly in line with his antics before rattling off your name and sighing, “but I guess you can call me ‘E’ for short. What a pleasure it is to meet you.”

He huffs a laugh, but before you can say anything else he yanks you forward, catching your chin in his grasp and tilting your face up towards him. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he murmurs, and in a moment his demeanor shifts to something much more dangerous as he winds his arm around you, as he tugs you in even closer.

You can’t help but sink into him with a sharp exhalation, your hands rising to the folds of his jacket to steady yourself, perfectly mirroring the position you were in just the other day.

For a moment as you stare at him, he gazes back at you. His eyes that same, ethereal, daydream blue, drawing you in somewhere deeper until you’ve hardly an idea of what’s happening around you.

Because there’s not an ounce of hesitation this time, and that’s the last proper thought you have for several minutes.

Because that’s when Bucky kisses you, and the rest of everything finally fades away until all you know is him. Nothing more, nothing less as you part your lips, and he slips his tongue in your mouth.

Even when he backs you into the nearest shelf and another one of those pesky glass orbs falls off and shatters. It’s easy to ignore what it symbolizes; easier just to feel as he presses the length of his body to yours and hums deep in his chest. Until you feel his lips suddenly curl up into a smile at the same memory, and then you’re giggling against him.

He lowers his arms to wrap securely around your waist in order to lift and spin you away from the mess. As soon as your feet touch down, he twirls you into a dance, this time pulling you in properly. Unlike before, he’s not keeping his metal arm away from you but tucking you firmly and securely against his chest as he proceeds to waltz you around for a moment.

You feel safe. Protected.

“I told you this meant I’d be safe,” you tell him, rapping on the metal, and you feel the chuckle that reverberates through his chest at the reminder.

“Yeah. Not like I just broke another one of those tchotchkes with it,” he mutters wryly, but you can feel the smile he hides in your hair as he spins you one more time before easing you back. “Come on, we need to clean up. I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” you quip as you retrieve the necessary tools, feeling plenty of satisfaction at the way this repeated moment has flipped around onto a much nicer side. “You won’t run away on me while I sweep it up this time though, will you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his snarky response is layered. “No, E, I’m not going to run away this time. In fact, I’ll sweep it up like the gentleman I am.”

“Sure you will.” You roll your eyes right back, mimicking his tone, but then you laugh when he snatches the dustpan and hand vacuum away from you before you take another step. “Thank you,” you offer as he crouches and makes quick work of the cleanup.

“Yeah, well, you’d probably cut yourself, and then I’d have to take you to the ER for stitches, and honestly? Not how I want to spend my evening.”

Bucky pauses for a moment after dumping the shards into the trashcan, and that cloud from earlier seems to loom, ready to drift back in, and you can’t allow that.

He’ll have to face it, all of it, but not yet. Not right now. Right now, maybe, you can linger a little longer.

You promptly gather up your bags and swing your arm out ahead of you. “You coming? I promise it won’t be the hospital.”

That shakes him back to the present. “What, an invitation to go home already? C’mon, E, we’ve established this already. It has been a while though, so just in case you forgot, I’m old fashioned. At least take me on a date first. Dinner, then a movie, maybe even an ice cream cone afterwards before all that other stuff.” Bucky crosses his arms, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

You gasp, fluttering a hand over your chest in fake outrage. “Excuse me. I don’t know what exactly you’re implying, but all I was thinking about was locking this place up and going home. I didn’t think you’d want to spend the night in here, but you’re more than welcome to push two of the chairs together and–”

You shriek, dropping your things and jumping away from his grabbing hands as he interrupts with a playful snarl. “More than welcome to what, come home with you? Fine, if you insist.”

While you evade him at first, true escape isn’t possible nor desired. Soon enough he has you bending backwards over the counter, gasping as he cages you in place, his teeth working over the curve of your ear and down your neck.

“I thought you were old fashioned.” You’re breathless, overwhelmed as he leans his body over yours, and you hum as he presses another firm, lush kiss to your mouth.

“Not so old fashioned that I won’t spend time with you.” His lips twitch up in another smile before he kisses you much more sweetly, his hands settling on your back and bringing you upright. He smooths down your clothes, then continues, “Besides, you’re worth any red letter.”

“Aw, look at you getting all sappy in your old age.”

Shaking his head, Bucky scoops up your abandoned belongings, outright refusing to return them when you pull on the strap. You back off when he threatens to carry you as well, hands up in surrender.

And you’re just, so ecstatic. So content and pleased that you feel as if you were floating through a dream.

So much so that after you lock the back door you can’t help but skip down the steps to where he’s waiting with your bags slung over his shoulder and ask, “So, avoiding letters aside, what do you have in mind?”

It takes a moment, but then Bucky peers over at you. “Well, speaking of movies, there was talk about this new Hitchcock picture that was supposed to come out, and I never got the chance to see it, so. . .” He drags out the word, but you nod before he finishes the thought.

“Yeah, we can find it. It’s probably streaming somewhere.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing at his immediate grumbling over said streaming services and ease of access as opposed to traditional cinema and how it’s just so much better and tuck your hand into the arm he absentmindedly offers before he sighs in defeat. “Come on; let’s go.”

And you do; you go, echoing his crooked smile with a beaming one of your own before you launch into a debate about what you’re going to order for dinner.

But even then, it’s all in fun. At least in this moment, the shadows have been pushed away. And you can see him, can easily see a glimpse of his heart beneath.

And it’s good. He’s good, in every way that could ever matter.

Even if he did nickname you after a number.

---

The End.

Chapter Text

Bucky: So, Spellbound. Sounds interesting, right?
E: *thinking*
Bucky: Peck and Bergman? Well, they’re no Bogey and Bacall, but okay.
E: *muttering*
Bucky: Great, a female shrink.
E: *almost there*
Bucky: Wait-
E: *lightbulb*
Bucky: *stares*
E: *facepalms*
Bucky: Uh, what is this?
E: Weeell, so maaaybe he’s got dissociative amnesia and maaaybe he’s a murderer??
Bucky: E, WHAT THE FUCK-

---

The (other) End.