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buckysdollbarnes · 1 month

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you are in love series - part two

meant just for you

PAIRING: tfawts!bucky x grad student!reader

Chapter Summary: Without the barrier of identity between you now, you sympathize with Bucky and think of a way to make him a bit more comfortable.

warnings: FLUFF! some sad fighting with his past Bucky, but again FLUFF!

word count: 2.7k

a/n: thank you ALL so much for the love on part one: one look, dark room. when I posted, I didn't expect such overwhelming positivity! you're all so wonderful and I hope you love part two just as much if not more than part one. this will be slow burn, but there will be plenty of cute moments in between too. also, as a long time fic reader, heavy fics are sometimes just what you need, but other times, nothing can beat easy reading, and I hope to be able to provide that for you <3 no need to worry about a broken heart on my blog ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

a/n: if you would like to be added to the taglist, just let me know! I appreciate every one of you <3

masterlist | part one

With the first signs of sunlight trickling in through the blinds and the early hum of traffic along your street, you stirred awake. The soft rays of dawn kissed your eyes as you settled into calm contemplation of the night before. The events were still fresh in your mind, and it was hard to believe such a significant part of Bucky’s life had been revealed to you. Even harder was the realization of how quickly you returned to feeling normal about it. The shock wore off almost instantly, and his presence returned to just James again, reminding you that nothing about him had truly changed.

You felt no aversion towards him—neither at the moment he told you, nor afterwards. The fear and repulsion he seemed to expect never surfaced. Instead, you were filled with awe and empathy.

To Bucky, his identity was tied to the events and actions of a past he had desperately tried to forget. But for you, it was about the life he had missed entirely.

Closing your eyes, you could hear it in the silence, the crackling strains of Sinatra, the melody that had brought a brief flicker of peace to Bucky’s troubled face. As the music played, you exchanged a few words, but not too many. You didn’t want to spook him, sensing the lingering tension after your discovery of his other name. He chose to stay, and you let him sit unmoving as long as he needed, letting him know you were comfortable with him there. In that moment, you were content to simply watch him.

The music seemed to cause a shift in him—as if the song reached into the depths of his memories, the parts he still cherished, and pulled him back to a time when things were simpler, when he knew how to be a part of the world. A time when he didn’t feel like he was taking up space that wasn’t meant for him.

That moment deepened your view of him. You realized how much had been taken from him—not just the music of his time, but everything that made life rich and full. Sent to war, never to return home, and then being thrust into a world that had moved on without him, a world where nothing felt familiar, just like Captain America had. The weight of that understanding pressed on you, filling you with a sense of urgency that lingered now, in the light of morning.

Seeing that fleeting calmness, the softening of his eyes as he listened, you knew he needed a lifeline—a way to escape the constant feeling of not belonging.

As the morning light grew stronger, a decision solidified in your mind: you needed to help him find that peace again, to create a space where he could retreat whenever the world became too much. A decision fueled by altruism, and perhaps, by the desire to see that beautiful look on his face again as he found solace in your apartment.

It wasn’t just about surrounding him with memories of the past. It was about finding a way to bridge the gap between the world he remembered and the one he found himself in now.

Finally pulling yourself out of your much-too-comfortable bed, you moved to the kitchen, your bare feet padding softly against the floor as you prepared a simple breakfast. The rhythmic sounds of shifting ingredients and the sizzling of butter provided a backdrop to your thoughts, which were still occupied by Bucky. His presence lingered, even in his absence, as if you could sense him across the hall in his apartment without needing to see him.

With the toast popping up, you added it to your otherwise completed plate and set it down at the small kitchen table. You grabbed your laptop and opened it, quickly diving into what you do best: finding treasures among other people’s old junk, all while working through your breakfast.

Your fingers moved quickly across the keys as you typed in the names of artists from the 30s and 40s you’d found on Google. The results flooded the screen—some listings for supposedly ‘pristine’ records, others showing signs of wear and scratches. It didn’t take long before you stumbled upon a lot of records—30s and 40s jazz and swing, bundled together in a collection. Some of the vinyls were described as being in less-than-perfect condition, with scratches that might affect the sound, but for $30, it was worth the risk.

The thought of Bucky being able to listen to more music from his time, music that could help him feel just a little more at home, made a feeling of warmth spread through you. You added the records to your cart, excitement building as you placed the order. It seemed like a small step, but felt a lot bigger. All you needed to do now was wait a couple of days for the package to arrive.

As you closed your laptop, you took a bite of your breakfast, the warm food a comfort as you considered the days ahead. The records would arrive soon, and with them, the hope that Bucky might find some peace, some connection to the world he once knew, and maybe even more of a connection with you.

Bucky had spent the past couple of days trapped in a loop, a repetitive cycle of hope and despair. The night with you had sparked something within him—a small flicker of what could be, of what it might feel like to be normal, to have a friend. But that flicker was quickly smothered by the reality he faced every time he closed his eyes.

His nightmares had been relentless, each one a violent reminder of who he really was. The images would blur and twist, merging the faces of those he had hurt with those he had lost.

He’d wake up on the floor, sheets sweaty and falling around him, the cold emptiness of his hardly furnished apartment pressing in on him from all sides, making him feel like he was trapped in a continuously shrinking box. Telling himself that he could move forward and live normally felt like he was just pretending.

He knew he was different, that the world was different. Without Steve, he was alone—no one else was stuck like he was. Just him.

The life he was supposed to have had was a distant memory, replaced by something darker, something he couldn’t shake no matter how many times he tried to convince himself otherwise.

But then there was you. You, who had looked at him with kindness instead of the fear he was used to. You, who had sat with him, listened to music with him, and hadn’t flinched when he revealed his secret, if he could really call it one. It had almost reminded him of Steve in a way. Knowing him, he would have accepted him immediately, just as you had.

For the first time in a long time, he had felt the crushing weight of loneliness ease just a little. The realization of how isolated he had been hit him like a punch to the gut. He found himself longing for your company, wanting to hear your voice, to see your face again.

But that longing came with a gnawing sense of guilt. He didn’t want to be a burden. The last thing he wanted was to drag you down into the darkness that clung to him like a shadow. He knew he shouldn’t get too close, shouldn’t let you get too close.

So, despite the pull he felt to reach out, to knock on your door and ask if you wanted to listen to more music, not knowing how else to connect with you, he held back. He decided to wait, to let things happen on their own, if they were meant to.

He wouldn’t tell Sam about this. And he definitely wouldn’t tell his therapist.

It was already hard enough to have to deal with the emotions as they were. If he told either of them he was just going to end up frustrated and annoyed by what they had to say. Sam’s jokes and his therapist’s lectures were just too much for him right now.

So, he waited. Every day he would find himself standing at the door, hand hovering over the handle, debating whether to take that step, to cross the hall and knock. And every day, he would turn away, convincing himself that he was doing the right thing, even though it felt like he was just running in circles.

The days passed by fairly quickly, with you busying yourself with admissions office job you had gotten at the university. After waiting, the lot of records you had ordered online arrives.

You headed down to the lobby, where the same disinterested worker from the other week was on the job. You were almost certain he was the only employee at this point. His eyes barely flicked up to you as you approached, his indifference almost offensive.

You couldn’t help but think you could probably steal everyone's packages and he would never know the difference, but being honest in nature and too excited, you took the box you knew now belonged to you up to your apartment.

Once inside, you carefully unwrapped the package, peeling back layers of bubble wrap and cardboard until you were through to what you cared about.

You inspected each record with care, worried with them being so old that they may be brittle. The listing had promised only slight scratches on some, the majority having stayed in their sleeves, untouched, for years.

A smile tugged at your lips as you saw the seller’s claims had been true. The records were in remarkable condition, considering their age. You decided to transfer them into new, clean sleeves to ensure they stayed as nice as possible and one by one, you slid them into fresh covers.

With the records now properly housed, you moved over to your setup, making space on the shelf. You cleared out one of the cubbies, sliding the new additions into their place. The final touch was a small bow you tied onto the ledge, to showcase that the spot was a gift.

Your heart thudded with anticipation. There was no reason to wait any longer; you wanted to share this with Bucky today if you could. You made your way across the hall to his door, your excitement making your steps lighter. Standing outside, you knocked gently, calling out his name to let him know you were there.

But there was no response.

You knocked again, your voice a little louder this time, but still nothing. Disappointment began to settle in as you considered the possibility that he wasn’t home, or worse, didn’t want to see you.

Just as you were about to turn away, you heard a sound behind you—the soft creak of a door opening. You turned back to see Bucky standing there, his expression unreadable but his eyes locked on you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant.

“Hey,” you replied, the relief washing over you causing a grin to replace the disappointment that had been on your face just moments before. “I was hoping to catch you.”

He looked at you, waiting, so you continued, “I got something I wanted to show you. Actually... it’s a bit of a surprise. I was thinking maybe you could come over for dinner again? I promise it’s for a special reason.”

For a moment, Bucky seemed to wrestle with something inside himself, his gaze dropping to the floor. But then he looked back up, a small, almost imperceptible nod following.

“Yeah,” he said finally, “I’d like that.”

As he closed the door, unseen to you, a smile spread across his face. Giving it time had been the right choice, but he had no idea what reason could be so special to invite him over for.

The rest of the day passed by in anticipation, your thoughts constantly drifting to the dinner you planned for the evening. As the time approached, you began preparing the meal, the kitchen filling with warmth that promised a good night ahead.

Just as you were finishing up on the stove, a knock sounded at the door. Quickly moving the pan off the heat and covering it to let the food simmer, you wiped your hands before heading over to answer.

When you opened the door, Bucky stood there, his expression slightly guarded, but with something else there as well. Maybe it was just curiosity, maybe just happiness to be here.

You hoped it was both.

“Come on in,” you said, stepping aside for him to enter, “I was just finishing up. If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were spying on me.”

The two of you sat down, and slowly eating, the conversation which had started slow and nervous eased into something more relaxed. The topic eventually drifting to your past and his, you shared how you got there and Bucky, with a small, nostalgic small, told you stories of going dancing.

You couldn’t help ask more.

“Dancing, huh? I can’t really picture you out on the dance floor.”

Bucky chuckled softly, his eyes distant for a moment as if he were pulling the memory from a far corner of his mind.

“It was different back then. Everyone went. It was just something you did.”

The idea of Bucky, so often serious and reserved, out enjoying himself like that was both endearing and a little surprising. An idea began to form in your mind as you stood up from the table, making your way over to the shelves where your record player and collection were kept.

“Maybe you heard one of these when you were out there with one of your dates,” you said over your shoulder, pulling out the box you placed in the cleared cubby earlier.

Bucky’s gaze followed you, a hint of confusion knitting his brow as you came back to the table with the box. Setting it down in front of him, you opened the lid to reveal the records you had carefully collected, each one now neatly housed in its new sleeve.

“That,” you said, gesturing to the empty shelf, “is your spot. And this is the start of your collection. And if you want, you can add that Sinatra record from the other night in here too.”

For a moment, Bucky just stared at the records, recognizing some of the names through the clear plastic covering them, his fingers hovered, hesitant to touch something that felt so much like home yet so far removed from his current reality. Then, as the realization of what you were offering him sank in, a flicker of shock crossed his face.

“What is this?” he said quietly, his voice thick with an emotion he was clearly trying to keep in check.

You shrugged, smiling at him. “We could say it’s a happy early—or late—birthday gift maybe? If I need to have an excuse to give it to you.”

Bucky looked at you, a mix of gratitude and disbelief in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice softening. “It’s meant just for you. So, whenever you need it, a little bit of comfort, come and be familiar with something.”

Bucky nodded, his eyes glistening slightly, though he quickly looked away, trying to hide the depth of his reaction. You could tell the gesture had touched him more than he was letting on.

“Thank you,” he said, almost a whisper.

You leaned back in your chair, trying to lighten the mood a bit. “Maybe once you hear some stuff again you'll get an itch and have to show me how those old dances went. Since you owe me now you know? For starting your collection for you.”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a small smile, the tension easing from his shoulders. “I guess I do.”

And there it was again, you could hear it in the silence the same way you did the morning you ordered the gift, Frank’s voice in the back of your head.

In that moment, something shifted between you—a subtle but significant change. You’d take it one step at a time.

a/n: well there it is, hope you liked the way this part played out. your support is unimaginable! ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

taglist:

@mcira

@mostlymarvelgirl

@hzdhrtss

@winterslove1917

@purplecolordeer

@nicksolemnlyswears

#bucky barnes x reader #Bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #Bucky Barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky fanfic #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky x you #winter soldier #the winter soldier #tfawts #bucky barnes x f!reader #Bucky Barnes x female reader #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes slow burn

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buckysdollbarnes · 1 month

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you are in love series - part one

one look, dark room

PAIRING: tfawts!bucky x grad student!reader

Summary: Moving to NYC to go to grad school, your friend's dad has a connection with the owner of a rental building in Brooklyn where you can live on your own, for cheaper than you could get anywhere else. On a student's budget, you strive to still make your place your own by thrifting as much decor as possible. Meeting your quiet and somewhat secretive neighbor, James, you gain some free labor to help you move the random stuff you buy, and with that he may be growing to love parts of the modern world he has been missing. With you in a big, new city feeling alone for the first time and Bucky wanting to make a connection with someone other than Sam and his therapist, maybe online marketplaces and a turntable will bring you both what you need most.

warnings: mild language

word count: 4.7k

a/n: this is my first time EVER writing fiction, usually I only ever write academic papers so this is fun. :) I read over and revised this chapter so many times, so I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed and I'm excited to start on the next chapter.

a/n: also!! sorry for it being so long genuinely just so much had to happen in this chapter for it to be set up the way I wanted, which I think I did well enough. lmk what you think <3

Why did I think carrying this by myself was a good idea? It might be cute and a great deal, but I don’t think I'll be able to feel my arms tomorrow. I might need to hit the gym again before I find more bargains like this. Hell, maybe I'll even invest in a neck towel, because this heat is unbearable. I’ve been searching for some larger pieces to fill my apartment, and this vintage bar cart should fit perfectly. Just five more blocks to go.

Moving here alone has certainly come with its challenges: being on my own in such a big city, dealing with a lot of stress, and managing on a tight budget. But I’m determined to make it work though and prove everyone wrong. Growing up, you see so many romcoms where the heroine leaves everything behind to chase her dreams in NYC, landing a job at a magazine or fashion house, living in a gorgeous high-rise, and meeting the perfect guy. It’s a beautiful fantasy really, but the reality is much tougher. New York isn’t a movie set; it’s a real city with real people, and you have to work just as hard, if not harder, to be here. I know that, but it feels like a majority of my people back home DON’T know that I know that.

I came here for school. In about two months, I’ll be starting my Master’s program at NYU. I don’t think I’ve ever been as proud as when I received my acceptance email. I worked my ass off in undergrad to earn strong recommendations and good academic standing, and seeing it all come together was a huge relief—until the reality of the cost hit me.

Luckily, a friend's dad has a connection with a landlord in Brooklyn and got me a good deal on a place of my own. It’s incredible not to have a roommate in this market, especially in a place where your bed doesn’t touch your stove, though it can be a bit lonely.

Finally, reaching the stoop, out of breath, you set the cart down on the pavement. Wiping your brow, you notice the street is unusually quiet for this time of day. The city never truly sleeps, but the residential streets seem to take occasional naps. A little breath of air somewhere where it feels like oxygen is running out sometimes. Light filters through the trees, momentarily blinding you, and you turn back toward the building.

“How on earth am I going to get this up to my floor?”

Carrying it down the street was one thing, but hauling it up the stairs is a whole different challenge. Plus, who knows when the building's maintenance has last been here, the steps might not hold up under the cart’s weight. They usually feel like they could give away holding one person.

Deciding that falling to your death and being crushed isn’t really how you want to go, you open the double doors and drag the cart into the lobby, using the wheels on one side. Passing the main desk where the worker, who looks completely uninterested, engrossed in a crossword puzzle, you make your way to the end of the hall and start pulling the cart backwards up the incline of the stairwell.

“Nah, I can’t,” you say aloud, after struggling up two floors, letting the cart rest on the landing. There’s still three more floors to go, but your body is clearly telling you the cart belongs right here. Maybe the universe wants it to stay here—who knows, maybe the entire second floor needs a communal bar more than you do.

“Excuse me,” a quiet but rough male voice comes from behind me. You turn around to see him—a guy you’ve seen around your floor a few times, though you’ve never talked. One of the neighbors. You quickly realize you’re blocking the entire staircase.

“Sorry! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I’ll move this um — just give me a second.”

You shove the cart closer to the wall to make some space for him to pass, but he stays put, his gloved hands in his pockets. He’s definitely handsome—tall and solid, but not intimidating. His furrowed brow and tight-lipped expression don’t exactly scream “welcome,” but he’s still got a certain charm.

He shifts a bit, clearly wanting to say something but hesitating. Feeling a bit awkward under his gaze, you decide to try talking to him again.

“You can just squeeze by if you want. It’s just really heavy, so I’m taking a quick break before I try lifting it up again.”

After a moment, he seems to make up his mind and asks, “Do you need help?”

Looking back at him, you consider saying no. You pride yourself on being independent and capable, and part of you wants to insist you can handle it. But then you think about the struggle of getting the cart up the last two flights of stairs—only this time, it's three—and decide against it.

“You wouldn’t mind? You’re headed down, I’m sure you’ve got somewhere else to be.”

He gives a little smirk that makes you feel a bit dizzy.

“Well, I’m already here so.”

You nod slowly, a small smile appearing on your face.

“Sure, you can take this end, and I’ll get this o—” you start to say, but before you can finish, he’s already in front of you, lifting the cart with ease and starting up the stairs without breaking a sweat.

“Hey! Be careful, uh—,” you pause, realizing you don’t know his name.

He picks up on your hesitation and hesitates himself, considering whether to give his name. He’s wary of how others might perceive him, potentially recognizing his name from past news broadcasts or papers, still dealing with the shadows of his past despite his efforts to make amends. Not wanting to be dishonest, he chooses the safe option.

“James.”

“Be careful, James. I don’t want you tripping and falling on my account.”

“Won’t happen, doll.”

“What-,” you start, caught off guard by the pet name, “what if it does?”

“It won’t, see?” With the last few steps, you and James arrive at your floor. “Already here.”

He must have seen you around before too, to know where you live.

He gives you a quick look and then carries the cart to your door.

“This is yours, right?” He turns and looks at you expectantly. You rush over, fumbling for your keys to unlock the door. If he’s willing to move it all the way, who are you to turn him down?

You lead James into your apartment, wondering if it looks anything like his. The layout can’t be that different; it’s not exactly a luxury building.

He strolls further into the room.

“You can set it right here,” you say quickly. “Thank you for bringing it up for me. I was honestly thinking about giving up when you showed up.”

Setting the cart where you indicated, he straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, and gives you a look that feels intense.

“It’s no problem.”

His gaze wanders around your apartment, taking in the mix of vintage furniture and eclectic decor. On a student’s budget, you’ve filled your space with secondhand finds. It’s more affordable and personal that way. The place might not be filled with new things, but it’s entirely curated by you. Finding beauty in the mix of old and new is something you do well, and now, thanks to James, you have one more piece to add.

James’s eyes land on your turntable setup. He seems intrigued by your collection of records but doesn’t say anything, turning his attention back to you.

“I have to go.”

Your eyebrows lift at his abruptness. Sensing your surprise, he quickly adds, “I’ve got an appointment.”

You nod vigorously, urging him to go and thanking him again for his kindness. Feeling a bit sad that this chance encounter with your new neighbor is ending so quickly, you call out as he heads for the door.

“I’ll see you around then? Since you live here too.”

He turns on his heel, giving you one last smirk.

“Yeah, you’ll see me.”

As he heads down the stairs, you shut your door and lock it behind you. Wandering over to where James’s gaze lingered, you pull an album from the shelf, lift the acrylic cover on your turntable, and set the record down. You close the cover, push play, and let the needle softly drop onto the vinyl. As the music starts, your mind drifts back to James.

Embarrassingly, you find yourself hoping this isn’t a one-time encounter. You don’t know much about him beyond his name, but there’s something about him that makes you want to see him again.

“Two hundred bucks for this is crazy,” you mutter to yourself, staring in disbelief at the sofa you’re eyeing on Facebook Marketplace.

“People are practically giving this stuff away.”

Not wanting to miss out on such a good deal, you message the seller to check if it’s still available.

Since you got the bar cart about a week and a half ago, you haven’t picked up anything else. With the July heat blasting, just thinking about moving a sofa in this weather makes you want to rip off your skin to cool down.

You can’t help but think of James, who you’ve seen briefly in the hallway since your last encounter. He just nodded as he passed by, and that was it.

Your phone dings, snapping you out of your thoughts. The seller confirms the sofa is still available and offers to deliver it since they have a truck.

Excited, you reply with a yes, and they let you know they’ll head your way soon.

You get up to rearrange your furniture, making space for the new sofa. You don’t have much to move since you’ve been slowly collecting things. As you shift the pieces around, your turntable stops, signaling it’s time to flip the record. After you do, you take a moment to picture how the sofa will fit in the space.

Then it hits you—moving a sofa is way heavier than the bar cart. If you struggled with that, how on earth will you manage this?

“Independent woman, my ass.”

With the delivery imminent, you decide on the only solution you can think of. Without hesitation, you head to the apartment across the hall and knock softly on the door. You wait, hoping James will answer. After a moment of shuffling and then silence, you start to wonder if you should just try something else.

Just then, the door cracks open, revealing half of James’s face. He looks curious but not annoyed—no one usually visits him.

“Hey! James! Great to see you again! I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I was wondering if you could help me out a bit? I just bought a sofa from this marketplace deal, and the seller’s coming to drop it off right now. He said he’d deliver it, but didn’t offer to help get it up to my apartment. I realized a sofa is way heavier than a bar cart, and you saw me struggle with that, so I was kinda sorta hoping you could help me bring it up here?”

After your rambling, you offer him a hopeful smile, waiting for his response.

A few moments of silence later, that smirk you’ve been missing appears on his face. Opening the door wider, he comments with a grin.

“You bought another thing you knew you couldn’t get up the stairs?”

“I honestly didn’t think it through. The deal was too good to pass up. I’m really sorry for bothering you. I can try to find someone else if you’re busy.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, doll.”

The smile that blooms on your face is unavoidable.

As the delivery guy drives away, James shows you where to grab the sofa and effortlessly lifts the other end. He encourages you to take the lead, making sure the weight is on him as you both navigate the stairs. With minimal effort, you get the sofa up to your place.

After some awkward maneuvering, you finally get the sofa into your apartment through the thin door and set it down. You put your hands on your hips and exhale deeply, only to find James already looking at you with that same intense gaze from before. It makes you a little nervous.

You can’t help but feel grateful—there’s no way you would have managed this on your own.

“I could have handled the bar cart,” you say, nodding toward the cart now adorned with bottles in the corner, “but this? No chance. Thanks so much for your help.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies. “I wasn’t busy.”

As you look at him, you start to feel like you know him from somewhere beyond being just a neighbor. Maybe you’ve seen him around the city before you moved?

Brushing off the thought, you offer, “You’ve helped me out twice now, and it doesn’t feel right not to return the favor. If your whole evening consists of not being busy, why not stay for dinner? I promise I’ll cook something totally good and not poisonous.”

James looks surprised by your offer but quickly hides it.

“You don’t need to do that. You don’t owe me anything,” he says, not wanting you to feel obligated or uncomfortable. He worries that his presence might not be enjoyable.

He wishes he could be as charming as he was back in the 40s. Being friendly used to come easily, and if he were still the same person he was at 26, he wouldn’t have left so quickly after helping you on the stairs the first time. He wouldn’t have had a therapists appointment to go to and he wouldn’t have a hidden arm made of metal. He’d have asked you to dinner or for you to let him take you dancing instead in return for his brawn. Now, he struggles to make new connections beyond a few familiar faces, like Sam, and asking someone for a dance feels out of reach.

“No, no! Stay, I insist! It gets kind of lonely around here, doesn’t it? Why not have a friend dinner?” you press, hoping he’ll take you up on the offer.

Seeing your sincerity, though still feeling a bit miffed, he finally agrees.

“Yeah, sure. I can stay.”

James settles onto the sofa while you work in the kitchen. You’ve decided on making some stuffed ravioli and garlic bread—easy, delicious, hard to mess up.

Before getting into cooking, you switch out the record, letting new music drift softly through the space. Unbeknownst to you, James watches closely, paying attention to how you handle the records and the turntable. The care you take when putting a record back in its slip, taking a new one out of its dust cover, and gently putting it on.

Seeing you focused on cooking, James gets up and strolls over to your setup. He runs his fingers lightly across the spines of the record sleeves, feeling a surprising sense of comfort. He hadn’t realized people still used record players so often.

The setup looks quite familiar to him, with many aspects reminiscent of the record players he used back in his earlier days. In his life before this one.

As you finish preparing the pasta and pull the bread from the oven, you call out, “Hey, food’s ready!”

You glance back to see James hovering by the turntable. He quickly moves to the table and sits down.

Over dinner, the conversation flows comfortably. James seems to be relaxing a bit, his initial reserve fading. He’s still somewhat guarded, but what he does share is genuinely interesting. You sense that opening up is challenging for him, so you respect his pace and take whatever he is willing to give. Laughing with each other a few times and getting through some odd topics, he mentions that he hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in quite a while and thanks you with a smile.

After a pleasant dinner, you decide to bring up something you’d been curious about.

“You like records?”

Caught off guard by the question, James tries to answer without revealing too much about himself. It feels strange to be here, knowing you don’t really know who he is, but he worries that being too open might scare you away. He decides to keep his secrets for now, selfishly hoping to get to know you better before revealing more.

“Yeah, I used to have quite a few records as a kid. My ma would play them too, especially when she was cooking, just like you. I didn’t realize they were still so popular.”

Excited by this glimpse into his past, you push further.

“Oh, there’s definitely a huge market for vinyl. Lots of people who think it makes them superior, but also a lot who just love the physical aspect of it.”

“So which one are you?” he asks.

You laugh and reply, “Maybe a bit of both.”

You glance up at him from beneath your lashes, catching his rare smile.

“But really, I just like having it. There’s something different about the listening experience. It requires more effort than just hitting play on a playlist. It’s about choosing a full album and actually sitting down to listen. That feels more intentional to me, and that’s why I do it.”

James seems to ponder your answer, his expression softer than before. He then turns his gaze back to the turntable.

“So, since you mentioned you had records as a kid, do you not have any now?” you ask.

He shakes his head.

“Haven’t had any for a long time. Talking about it makes me miss them. Everything these days feels so complicated. I like simple things like that.”

Watching him as he looks away, you hesitate but notice the nostalgic shine in his eyes. You sense he might appreciate physical music even more than you do.

“If you ever get any and don’t have a place to play them, you’re welcome to use mine.”

He turns to face you, his expression unreadable.

“I mean, I know it’s not the most convenient offer, but it’s there. One record lover to another,” you add with a smile.

He returns your smile, saying, “Okay… thank you. I’ll keep that in mind, Doll.”

That night, Bucky lies on his makeshift bed on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and replaying the events of the day. You knocking on his door for help with the couch, inviting him over for dinner, and all the easygoing conversation you shared. It was such a stark contrast to his usual rigidity. He'd let his guard down just a little—letting himself smile or flirt ever so slightly.

He wishes he were better at this. It used to come so naturally. Hell, before he left for war, he’d gone dancing with both his own date and Steve’s at the same time. Now, he finds himself listening to you talk while struggling to share anything of his own.

He doesn’t want to pass up your invitation, especially since you’re inviting him into your space again. Clearly, his reserve hasn’t put you off too much.

“What would I even bring?” he wonders aloud.

All he’s ever listened to is 40’s music and big band. He doubts that’s readily available these days.

Rolling onto his side, he grabs the cell phone Steve had insisted he get before he went back in time to live his real life, without Bucky.

“You can do anything on here, Buck!”

Scrolling through the three contacts he has, he taps on the name of the guy who’s been trying to reach him for weeks.

“So, is there a valid reason why you haven’t picked up my damn calls?” Sam’s voice comes through.

“Sam, hi.”

“Did you finally learn how to click the screen? Is that why I’m hearing from you now, old man?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t like the thing. Too confusing,” Bucky says, grimacing as he fiddles with the phone.

“Okay, okay, what’s going on, man? You doing alright?”

“I’m fine. I just have a question and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t harass me about it.”

“Is it about wizards?”

“What?”

“Wizards. Is the question about wizards?”

“No, what the hell. Look, I had dinner with one of my neighbors tonight—”

“Was it a girl?”

“Does it matter?”

“Hell yes, it matters. And from that response, I KNOW it was a girl, so—”

“It doesn’t matter. She has a record player, which I didn’t know people still used, and she offered to let me use it, but I don’t have anything to play on it.”

“I’m not getting the problem.”

“I only like the stuff from the 40’s and—”

“Did you listen to that Marvin Gaye playlist I sent you?”

“Not interested.”

“C’mon, man, it’s good stuff. Give it a listen.”

“Not feeling it.”

“Alright, your loss, I guess. Still not seeing the problem though.”

“What do I bring? I can’t just bring around the stuff I know because where would I even get it?”

“Whoa, man, what do you mean, where would you get it? Just go to a record store and hit up the vintage section or something.”

Bucky pauses, mulling over Sam’s words.

“They have that?”

“Duh. You know, you could answer these questions a lot easier if you just looked them up on your phone—”

“Thanks, Sam. Talk to you later.”

Lying back down, Bucky decides that the next time he’s out to see his therapist, he’ll first stop by a record store to find something to bring over to your place.

Your easygoing presence was so comforting, and he found himself longing for it as he drifted off to sleep. He’d see you again soon enough.

Later in the week, as you wind down from a busy day, you focus on making your space as calming as possible.

You light some candles and turn on an orange floor lamp, the soft glow wrapping around you and setting the perfect mood to sink into your sofa with the book you’ve been neglecting.

You’ve just started settling into your reading when you’re jolted out of your half-nap by the sound of someone knocking on your door.

You get up and peer through the peephole, and there’s your dinner guest from earlier in the week.

Opening the door with a smile, you greet him.

“Hey James, unexpected visit! What’s up?”

His eyes linger on you for a moment before he speaks. You glance down and realize your outfit—shorts that really lived up to their name and a tank top—might not be the most guest-appropriate.

Brushing off your embarrassment, you look back up at him.

“I’ve got something I’d like to play, if that’s alright?”

Bucky’s mind races. Standing at your door, he worries maybe you only offered your place to be nice, and now he’s making a fool of himself. Of course, you didn’t want him there—he could barely talk.

Just as he’s about to get lost in his own head, your bright smile pulls him out of it.

“Oh my gosh, please, come in. What do you have?”

His doubt fades away as he sees your genuine excitement.

“Brought some Sinatra. Not sure if you’re into that, but I used to like his stuff when I was younger.”

You spin around abruptly, staring at him in disbelief.

“There’s no way you think I don’t know who Frank Sinatra is…”

Bucky stumbles over his words.

“Well, I mean, it’s not exactly new stuff so—”

“You think I wouldn’t know ‘Fly Me to the Moon’? ‘Singin’ in the Rain’? ‘New York, New York’? I mean, I even moved to New York—I had to get the romanticism from somewhere.”

“What are those?”

You pause, confused.

“Like, the most iconic Frank Sinatra songs. You are talking about Frank Sinatra, right? Not some other Sinatra I’ve never heard of?”

“No, you’re right, it’s Frank.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I guess I don’t know those ones.” He admits.

“So, what era are we talking about?” You ask, reaching for the record.

As you grasp the sleeve, you notice a glint of light catching James’s bare hand. Realizing he’s not wearing gloves, confusion sets in before it clicks. You HAD seen James before.

Looking up at him, he seems frozen, obviously panicking. He planned to tell you eventually, but not like this. Not when you weren’t close enough yet.

He thought there is no way you are going to want anything to do with him now.

You thought there is no way was there's an actual Avenger in your apartment right now.

You’re frozen, just like him, but more in shock rather than fear.

“Do you… usually go by James?” you ask cautiously.

Hesitating, he shakes his head.

“What do you usually go by then?”

Bucky feels anxiety creeping up his back. You’re both still holding the record, and he can’t tell if you’re scared or just surprised.

“Bucky.”

You stay silent for a moment while Bucky’s nerves are on edge.

“So… metal hand…”

Clenching his jaw, he replies, “Arm.”

“You’re that Bucky.”

“Yes.”

After a long pause, you start again.

“You’re an Avenger and you didn’t tell me?”

Bucky hesitates, his discomfort visible. “I’m— I’m not an Avenger.”

“What do you mean? You’re totally an Avenger! Why wouldn’t you tell me? How did I not recognize you before?” you ask, laughing in disbelief.

Bucky’s taken aback. You really thought he was an Avenger? You’re not scared of him at all, which surprises him. You must not know much about his past if you’re still standing this close.

“No wonder you don’t know ‘New York, New York,’” you say, almost to yourself. “It’s from after your time! This is crazy, I—”

You’re interrupted by his response.

“Are you not scared?”

“Of course not.”

Bucky closes in on himself, panic evident. “If you really knew me, you’d want nothing to do with me. I’ve—”

“I might not know the version of you you’re talking about, but I’ve met James, who helped me not once, but twice carry stuff he definitely didn’t have to up the stairs, stayed for dinner, has been very polite to me, and has given me zero reasons to be scared of him.”

He looks at you, his piercing blue eyes revealing an internal struggle. That one look holds more weight than his words. You can see the battle within him, torn between his past and the present moment.

“Listen,” you say, finally letting go of the record, “if you don’t want to stay, you don’t have to. But I’m not scared of you, and I actually like your company. So, regardless of whether you’re James, Bucky, or whoever, you’re still welcome here.”

You pause, adding, “And we can still play this if you’d like.”

Bucky struggles with his inner turmoil. The idea that you know who he is but still want him around is foreign to him. He doesn’t feel worthy of the kindness you’re offering, but it’s been so long since he’s received such warmth that it’s almost impossible to turn it down.

He’s not comfortable with his identity or his past, but in this moment, he wants to push it aside. If you don’t care, maybe he can allow himself not to care, even if just for a bit. Maybe he can prove something to himself, or even his therapist.

Handing you the record, he relaxes his face slightly. You’ve always thought him handsome, but in the dim light of the dark room, he looks almost ethereal.

You’re hoping he believes you because your excitement for his company tonight feels more significant than it probably should, but you’re okay with that.

“I’m Bucky.”

You smile warmly at this change. “Alright, Bucky. What do you want to do?”

He gazes at you deeply, his look sending a shiver down your spine and warming your chest. “Play it.”

a/n: well, hope this was alright. as I mentioned before, ive never wrote fiction before, but ive definitely read enough to get the gist.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky fic #bucky fanfic #james bucky barnes #Bucky Barnes x reader series #marvel fanfiction #Bucky Barnes slow burn

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