#BUT THIS IS THE WISH OF MY HEARRTTT | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

widowsofchaos · 3 years ago

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But he was ready to fight those waters with you. He’d do whatever it took. He’d run Hydra into the ground himself if it meant alleviating the weight upon your shoulders. He’d go down fighting if he had to.

my hearrttt, my hearrrtttt, the angsttt!! but the fluff woven in it!! whewwww, I wish he didn’t have to find out this way, but at the same time, I’m glad he knows finally. Also, Dot … can literally fuck off. i hope reader beats her ass, or maybe Natasha!!

Delicate Edges (7)

series summary: Trapped under a mountain of debt to the Hydra club, it is only in moments when Bucky walks into your flower shop that you forget the cruelty of the biker clubs of this town. But a war is brewing. And Bucky will stop at nothing to keep you safe. (Biker!AU) pairing: Bucky x reader chapter word count: 8k chapter warnings: hydra sighting, hint: the woman in the header is not Y/n 😬, bucky is protective af

series masterlist / series playlist

“So, what are the chances Bucky sics the 107 on me for turning you against him?”

You could practically see the grimace on Wanda’s face through the phone; the lines forming around her nose, brows pressed down, lips pinched into a tight frown. She was pacing inside her apartment, the squeak of old wooden floors crying under every step. She’d been racked with guilt since you told her the truth behind the rumors.

“None, Wanda,” you reassured for the third time that evening. You slipped the key into the lock at the front of your shop, tugging on the door to make sure it was secure. “I told you... the 107 isn’t Hydra. They’re not like that.”

The keychain Bucky had given you tapped against the glass and you brushed your fingers against the plastic affectionately; edges that were both sharp enough to puncture but not enough to cut you. Offense and shield in the same breath. Quiet in its defense.

Wanda sighed. “It’s just tough to get used to. The whole town is convinced the 107 is just as bad as the Hydra club, if not worse. The things they whisper about what Bucky and his friends have done...”

“The power of folklore in a small town,” you agreed solemnly, weaving your way through the locals on the sidewalk as you followed the setting sun over the horizon.

“But you’re all right?” Wanda asked tentatively.

You smiled, though it carried such weight it struggled to touch your eyes. But it did. It lifted despite the heaviness there. “Yes, Wanda. I promise.”

Between the static of the speaker, you could hear Pietro’s faint voice rambling in Sokovian. The two of them were bustling around the small kitchen inside their shared apartment, bickering with one another through hushed tones you weren’t meant to hear. It only made you laugh.

“Sorry,” Wanda groaned, “my brother is useless in the kitchen today. We’ll talk later, okay? Before Tuesday.”

You knew the inflection in her tone, the strain as she sobered her voice. There was only four days left before the Hydra club was due for their next visit. The two of you had a routine, a set plan that helped you get through the night and sleep despite the lingering echo of engines following you through the shadows. You’d been doing it for years now, ever since your parents passed. It was what kept you going when the darkness felt like it was closing in around you.

“Of course,” you replied quietly, quickening your pace as the crowd began to thin.

After you hung up, you gave yourself thirty seconds to give into the panic. Thirty seconds to feel it rush into your skin, tingling and restless like ants crawling under the surface. To give into the pounding of your heartbeat and the short rasps of breath. To lose yourself in the fear of Rumlow emerging from the dark edges of your shop and Rollins’ hands inching too close to your hips. It was only four days away and you’d almost forgotten. How was that possible? Rumlow had been inside your shop less than twelve hours ago, reminding you just how dangerous he really was.

Thirty seconds.

But then you spotted a figure along the horizon, standing alone at the center of the sidewalk just behind the red X marked on the concrete. Your anxiety slipped away like water through your fingers as Bucky came into a view, a single hand raised in the air as he waved at you. Any trace of Rumlow was washed from your mind because Bucky Barnes was waiting for you on the border – that sweet smile upon his face, nervous sway of his weight on his heels. The Hydra club did not exist when Bucky was with you.

When you were close enough, Bucky extended his hand for you. There was no hesitation as you took it with ease, surprised at how familiar it felt as his fingers intertwined to yours. He squeezed against your grip lightly, nudging your side as you fell in line with him. God—you'd missed him.

“You sleep all right?” he asked, guiding you down the empty sidewalk on the path of the Centenarian.

“Better than I had all week.” You had spent too many nights in the last week laid awake and staring at the ceiling, listening to his voicemails over and over again – trying to find the game twisted into his words, the monster hiding under the grieving ache in his tone.

You knew now that there was never any monster to find. Bucky was not the man you’d heard campfire stories about or hushed warnings through the gossip of your town. He was not ‘the Rumlow of the east’ as Wanda had once called him. He was a good man. A wonderful man, really. You slept soundly after you had managed to convince him to return home last night, the trace of his lips burning warm against your temples.

Bucky hummed, a slow smile spreading upon his mouth. He leaned over and kissed the crown of your head without missing a step.

To your right, you spotted a few kids in schoolyard uniforms playing soccer in the open field with a half-deflated ball and makeshift goal posts. They froze as they spotted Bucky approaching, laughter dying sharply in the air. You recognized the look in their eyes, the stillness they carried. Fear clung like sweat on their skin – children, terrified of the loving man whose hand was wrapped tightly in your own.

You glanced up at Bucky and he appeared to be intentionally keeping his gaze forward as if he didn’t notice the children at all, but you could see the strain in his jaw. The muscle seemed to ache in his effort to not let their fear affect him, to not allow the burden of disgust and terror sink into his chest. It must have pained him to allow these children to carry such fear.

“Why don’t you let the town know the real you?” you asked quietly after the children were out of earshot. You heard the faint tap of the ball as they resumed their game.

Bucky swallowed, offering you a strained smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “It would show our hand to Hydra. They keep out of the east because they believe we’ll retaliate if they press the border. In some twisted way, they respect our hold on this side of town. If the people knew we were nothing more than a biker club, Hydra would walk right over us. I have to keep up the mask.”

“But you get into fights, don’t you? I remember the fight in the diner by the border before the line was drawn. The whole place was destroyed.” You’d seen the articles in the papers the following morning – vandalism wrecked through the family-owned diner. Bullet holes were found in the upholstery.

Bucky nodded. “It’s unavoidable sometimes. Most of us are former military so we know how to handle ourselves if we need to. But we’re not going out looking for a fight.”

“What happens if someone from the Hydra club were to show up over here?” you asked slowly, hoping Bucky might not catch the waver of fear in your voice. You had hoped the east side would be a safe haven, somewhere Rumlow and Hydra could not touch you, somewhere you could pretend if only for a moment that the shackles on your ankles did not chafe into your skin. But Bucky crossed the border almost daily for the past month. What was stopping Rumlow from doing the same?

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Bucky replied, a heavy sigh in his voice. “They haven’t tried yet. Doesn’t mean they won’t. But I imagine it would get ugly. We couldn’t let it slide, not without risking the border completely. I’d have to get my hands dirty.” He paused, drawing in a shaky breath. “Does that scare you?”

You studied the lines along Bucky’s brow, the worry etched into his face. Perhaps, it was the way he spoke of the clubs and the inevitable violence attached to it with such reluctance that answered the question for you. Bucky at his core was not a violent man. He was not cruel and vindictive. When his hands were bloodied, it was only ever in defense.

Wasn’t that what he’d said to you last night?

It was self-defense. It’s only ever been self-defense.

“Not in the way you think,” you said honestly. “I’m not afraid of you. But I worry, knowing the responsibility on your shoulders. I know there will be days my fear of what could happen to you will ruin me.”

Bucky nodded, taking in your answer. He brought your hand to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss against your knuckles. Warm and sweet, gentle in his touch. “Then I’ll do my best to keep out of trouble.”

“I’m not sure that’s a promise you can keep.” You smiled as you said it, almost teasing, but there was a heaviness in your tone that Bucky caught onto instantly. He frowned, though he didn’t argue the point. You both knew what Rumlow and the Hydra club were capable of. Trouble was inevitable.

“This is it,” Bucky said after a few blocks. Your hand was aching from how tight you’d been gripping his; a dull, comforting pain.

The Centenarian stood at the end of the road; a series of bikes parked out along the street – one lined up after the other. Even from the sidewalk, you could hear the faint melody of a Fleetwood Mac song through the windows and someone shouting over the chorus to turn it down. Bucky chuckled to himself, guiding you up the path to the entrance.

You took in a breath, trying to ground yourself to the steadiness in Bucky’s hand. He wanted you to meet the club – to dismiss any doubts you still carried, the lingering aftermath of rumors that had wielded a tight grip into your mind. They’d blinded you to the man you knew Bucky to be – muddled every good part of him because you could not reconcile the legend to the man.

It would take time to reverse the gut-wrenching association you held to the 107 club, the instinct to panic when their name was reared. Bucky had promised that giving faces and names to the anonymous members of the club you’d only heard rumors about would help fracture the uncertainty you felt. Even watching the ease that slipped through Bucky’s shoulders as he set a hand on the knob and opened the door was enough to break the image of the big, bad biker club. He was coming home. And if Bucky’s defenses were down, so were yours.

There was little time to react before a blur raced across the room and skidded to an abrupt stop in front of you; cheesy grin wide upon his face, brunette hair mopped on the top of his head. He looked barely drinking age as he sharply pulled something from the pocket of his apron and offered it to you.

“You must be Y/n! I’m Peter. French fry?”

You stared at him; lips slightly agape. Slowly you turned to Bucky. “Is he serious?”

Bucky nodded rather reluctantly. Peter gestured to the pocket where he seemed to have lined the fabric in a silicone material, almost as if his apron had been transformed into wearable Tupperware. He grinned, rather proud of himself for the innovation. Bucky rolled his eyes despite the laugh under his breath.

“Well in that case.” You took the fry and popped it into your mouth, surprised it was still warm from the fryer. “Thanks, Peter.”

He beamed as his cheeks flushed pink. Just as quickly as he came, he rushed back to the table he’d been bussing before you arrived. Bucky led you over to the bar, towards the man standing behind it with a towel draped over his collar; long sleeve t-shirt clinging tight to the muscles of his broad shoulders.

“This is Sam,” Bucky said with a bit of a scowl upon his features.

“The pain in the ass who saved Bucky’s life,” you said as you extended a hand to him, recognizing the name from Bucky’s story of his last encounter with Hydra and the reason for the scar along his ribs. Sam raised an eyebrow, a satisfied smirk pressing high against his cheeks as he shook your hand.

“I like her,” Sam said to Bucky. He winked at you and swiftly placed an empty glass on the bar and filled it with whatever was on tap. He slid it in front of you and gave you a short nod to take it. You smiled, raising it to him in thanks before you took a sip.

“You got one for me, too, or...?” Bucky huffed, sinking into the barstool beside you. Sam rolled his eyes and filled Bucky’s all the way to the rim. It splashed over onto Bucky’s fingers as he grabbed the glass and he shot Sam a warning glare. Sam winked at you instead and you pressed a hand over your mouth to hide your laughter.

“Stark and Barton are over there by the jukebox,” Bucky explained, pointing to the men bickering over the controls. “Barton was banned a few months back for playing My Heart Will Go On one too many times. Turned the whole bar into a damn karaoke joint. Guaranteed Stark’s trying to prevent him from DJing.”

“Bets are on Barton for Cher,” Sam said casually as he cleaned the inside of a glass, throwing a confident look over his shoulder.

“I’ll take Stark for AC/DC,” Bucky replied, handing Sam a five-dollar bill. The two of them seemed to always be caught in a battle of wills, even in the simplest of conversations. It reminded you of Wanda and Pietro. Sibling rivalry. The knowledge that it had been Sam to rush across the border in search of Bucky that night made their fighting all the more endearing.

Then, If I Could Turn Back Time started playing through the speakers and Stark threw his hands up in defeat, stalking away begrudgingly. Sam pumped a closed fist into the air while Bucky dropped his head to the bar. You grinned, rubbing slow circles between Bucky’s shoulder blades, soothing him as if he’d suffered a real loss.

“You’ll find they’re all rather dramatic around here,” a low, sultry voice said behind you. You turned to find a red headed woman leaning against the wall by the dartboard, a vase of nearly wilted roses beside her. Braids were woven through her hair, pulling the strands away from her face – the fiery red in startling contrast to the black she was dressed in from head to toe. She stepped forward, a soft smile breaking through the hardened exterior. “I’m Natasha.”

You told her your name and she only seemed to smile wider.

“Oh, I know. This one hasn’t shut up about you all month.” Natasha smirked.

Bucky eyes were wide, a flush of pink in his cheeks when you looked at him for confirmation. He avoided your gaze, his jaw clenching as he stared down Natasha, though she appeared completely unfazed. You grinned at him, touching your fingertips to the heat on his skin. He melted under the touch, the hardened look on his face slipping away as he turned his head just slightly and pressed his lips to your fingers.

“So, you’re the one brightening up this dump?” a man approached from the kitchen. Bucky leaned to your ear and whispered his name. Steve. The giant, former shrimp; Bucky’s best friend. He tapped his finger to the dried carnation hung upside-down on the wall behind him. Bucky swallowed nervously to your left, shifting in his seat. “This is from the first hoard of flowers he dragged in here. Preserved the thing himself.”

You looked to Bucky, any trace of teasing falling from your features. He smiling shyly at you before he shot a glare at Steve. His friends had a terrible habit of embarrassing him, but you were grateful for it – the ease in which they greeted you, the comfort they brought that somehow felt familiar. This group of people – they weren’t just a club. They weren’t a business or a shady gang the way Hydra was. They were a family.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Y/n,” Steve said and you could hear the sincerity in his voice. You longed to know the things Bucky had said about you to allow for such kindness in their eyes. Maybe you could entice Bucky into telling you later.

***

Bucky hadn’t known relief like this in years. To be surrounded by his friends in the shitty old bar he loved, sitting next to the woman who made his heart skip several beats too many any time you looked at him. Your head leaned against his shoulder, grinning as you watched Natasha trying to teach Peter how to dance. They’d moved the tables out of the way to make room.

Your drink was nearly gone; his own was finished a half hour earlier. Bucky tapped his fingers against the bar, the weight of the last week still weighing upon him. There was one thing he still hadn’t amended – one regret he wished he could change.

“Hey, so, um,” Bucky started, the nerves evident in his voice. You lifted your head, turning to face him. You must have sensed his anxiety because your hand settled against his thigh, thumb brushing over the rips in his jeans. He shivered under the touch, trying to let it comfort him rather than rush straight to his head, among other things.

“In case it wasn’t abundantly clear,” he continued, “the reason I left the festival last week is because—”

“You saw someone from the Hydra club, didn’t you?” The realization seemed to drown into your features. He nodded slowly and it only worsened – eyes widening, panic into your veins. Your grip on his thigh tightened. “God, Bucky. If they caught you, you could have—”

“I know,” Bucky replied calmly. He knew the risks.

You shook your head, unwilling to accept his answer. “Why would you—Why would you risk that?”

Bucky smiled sadly at you, an ache somewhere lost between the realization he would do just about anything for you and the blatant disregard for his own safety in the process. You stared at him, worry slipping into devastation upon your features. Perhaps this was the fear you’d warned him of earlier. The fear you held for him.

“Don’t be reckless like that for me,” you said slowly; your voice low, determined. “I don’t want any part in it. At least now that I know about all this, we can be cautious, okay? No more needless crossing into the west. Let me come to you.”

Bucky pouted, shifting himself away from the heaviness of the conversation. “I’d like to argue your definition of ‘needless’...”

You swatted his arm. “I’m serious, Bucky! If Hydra were to catch you because you were walking to my shop... If something happened to you because you were coming to see me... I’d... I’d...”

Something in Bucky broke when your voice began to waver. You clamped down on your teeth, looking away from him as your eyes glossed over.

“Hey, come on now, honey. No tears,” Bucky begged as he tugged you into his arms. You came willingly, falling against him as if you might sink into him entirely. His arms surrounded you, the heat of your body pulled flush against his. “We’ll be careful, alright? I promise. Nothing’s gonna happen to me.”

You nodded against his chest; your fingers gripped tight into his jacket. No part of him was glad to see your fear for him rushing to the surface, but it was a comfort to know you still cared for him – even after the hell that the last week had been where you’d believed him to be a monster no worse than the Hydra scum on the west. You still cared. Cared enough to cry for him, to hold him this tightly in the middle of a dingy bar, unbothered by the wandering eyes of his friends.

Bucky caught a glance of the clock and sighed. He’d promised last night to take you on a real date, to show you more pieces of himself that weren’t obstructed by the walls he’d built to protect his town from the men who would burn it to the ground.

“We should head out if we want to make it in time,” Bucky said. “But we don’t have to go if—”

“No, let’s go,” you replied, pressing out a smile as you reluctantly pulled away from his embrace. You set your hand against his cheek, touching him with the kind of tenderness that could break his heart. No one had dared treat him like he was something worth preserving before, like his body was meant to be soothed and eased instead of bloodied and bruised.

You let your hand fall to the side as you stood. Peter bounced over to offer you another fry before you left and Bucky was grateful for the genuine smile that returned to your face as you accepted it. The rest of the club rushed over to say goodbye before you left; Natasha lingering a little longer than the rest as she offered a rare embrace. Bucky could sense your surprise, the loss of words for how easily his family accepted you without question. It warmed you, eased you. Bucky ruffled the hair on Peter’s head as he followed you to the door.

Once outside, you spotted the long line of bikes propped up on the side of the road; all with similar qualities but still distinctly different from one another. They all carried the same silver paint marking the 107 club along the engine.

“Which one’s yours?” you asked, gesturing to the bikes. The way Bucky’s heart swelled at the simple question, he wondered whether he might survive the day he finally asked you to ride with him – if your eyes would light up like that again, if you’d love the feeling of the open air the way he did. It carried a freedom in it, a silence and a security. He hoped you might find a comfort in the open road with your arms wrapped tight around his stomach. He shivered at the thought.

“This one. Here.” Bucky slid his hand over the bike at the end of the line; fingertips brushing down the motor, sliding over the leathered seat and the metal structure underneath. He touched it as if it were a living beast.

Bucky watched as you slowly followed his hands, gently tracing along the bike in the same path.

“It means a lot to you.” It wasn’t a question. You knew him well enough now to know the answer.

He nodded. “Steve and I bought our bikes the day we got home from our last tour overseas. First real decision that was entirely our own, you know? No orders. No chain of command. Pretty sure I drove that thing down to the fumes a few too many times, but it was worth it.”

Bucky sighed, fond memories circling like faded images floating around his mind. “It’s seen a lot. Used to be parked out here by itself most nights back when I spent my nights fixing up the Centenarian. Over time, more came. Steve’s was the first. Bastard wouldn’t let me build my bar in peace. Then Sam’s. Natasha. Tony. Barton. Peter’s still trying to get a handle on the throttle.”

You laughed, smiling wide at him as your fingertips danced along the seams of the leather. Bucky swallowed, studying how delicately you touched it. His heart stammered inside his chest.

“We should keep going,” Bucky said reluctantly. “Don’t want to miss the show, huh?”

You reached for his hand before he had the chance to offer it and Bucky swore he’d never be able to let go again.

***

Bucky brought you to the old theater on the edge of town. It was a little run down, like most of the things around these parts, but it had character. Still had the traditional seats from the forties, even if they were stiff as all hell. Still had the old popcorn machine that left a vague burnt aftertaste, but it was home. You lit up as it came into view, excitement drawing over your features enough to allow Bucky to forget the tears you’d shed for him just moments earlier.

“My mom used to bring me here as a kid,” Bucky explained as he raised a pair of tickets from his pockets he’d purchased earlier in the day. The attendant nodded nervously at him, quickly stepping aside to let him through. The kid trembled as he passed, recognizing the head of the 107, and Bucky pretended he didn’t notice.

“It’s cute,” you remarked, drawing Bucky’s mind away from the scared teenager. “I like seeing these parts of you.”

He felt the heat flush to his face – damn skin betraying him to shades of pink again. It made you smile though as you brushed your fingers over his cheeks, easing his embarrassment in place of your tenderness. He turned his head just slightly and pressed his lips against the tips of your fingers. You sighed at that and it made Bucky wish he’d brought you just about anywhere else – longing to hear the sounds you might make if he peppered his lips further along your skin.

“You want something to eat, doll?” Bucky asked despite himself. It was all he could do to keep from whisking you off to the bathroom and locking the door behind you. Not here. Not where he couldn’t worship you properly.

You grinned, nodding quickly and muttering something about extra butter when Bucky’s blood suddenly ran cold. He froze as his gaze locked on the concession stand and the woman watching him from the distance. Arms draped out along the counter, a wicked smirk upon her red stained lips. She waved her fingers at him – slow, deliberate. A unlit cigarette hung from between her lips, the flame of a lighter dancing between her fingerips.

Dot.

“Why don’t you grab us some seats?” Bucky said quietly into your ear, lingering a kiss to your cheek. He kept a smile pressed to his lips despite the sudden rush of panic lighting like ice inside his veins. You looked back at him; brows furrowed.

“Okay,” you replied hesitantly. Even despite his attempt to shield you, you still picked up on his distress. Your hand slid along his arm, trying to soothe the tension from his muscle before you gave him a short nod and turned into the theater. It was only after you disappeared behind the door that Bucky gritted his teeth and crossed the lobby to the concession stand.

He leaned against the empty side of the counter, standing only a foot away from Dot, from the woman who sold him out to Hydra and left him for dead. The two of them stared out into the lobby as if there was no history between them, as if they hadn’t once shared a bed and she hadn’t left him to the dogs. To anyone else, they might look like strangers waiting patiently for their theater snacks. Few would be able to see the way Bucky dug his nails into his palms – the pain stinging enough to draw specks of blood to his skin.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be on this side of town now that you’re running with Hydra,” Bucky grumbled, his voice burning as if it were made of gravel.

“What are you gonna do about it, sugar? Sic Peter Parker on me?” Dot drawled in her sweet tea and honeyed accent; a voice made of charm and grace until she bared her teeth and showed off the barbed wire underneath. Her eyes flickered over to him, waiting for a reaction.

He wasn’t going to do a damned thing against her and the fact that she could still read him like a book made his stomach sick with anger.

“That’s what I thought,” she grinned, shoulders swaying confidently as she leaned into her stance. “Men like you play by a certain set of rules. Even after everything I did to you, you wouldn’t lay a hand against me. Why? Because I’m a woman?" She frowned, playing with the unlit cigarette between her fingers. "Frankly, I find that a bit demeaning.”

Bucky scoffed. “There's plenty I’d like to do to you.”

“Oh, I bet there is.” Dot winked at him, her red lips drawn between her teeth.

Bucky clenched his jaw so tight he was sure it might lock into place permanently, determined to not give her even an inch. He couldn’t allow her to see the effect she had on him – the panic she induced into his body; the pulsing of an old scar burning against his ribs. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

She’d already taken so much from him. His trust. His dignity. Nearly his life. He would not give her anything else. It had cost him too much to rebuild those pieces of himself in the wake of her betrayal. It wasn’t until he met you that he even wanted to try again – to be vulnerable enough with another person, to put fragments of his heart into your hands. You carried more of him than you realized.

“So...” Dot began, a devious grin curling her lips “the florist, huh?”

The color drained from Bucky’s face, stomach sinking through his feet and cracking into the old hardwood floors, barreling down into the depths of the dirt and concrete below. He turned to her, the steel he’d induced to his features washing away in seconds.

“Don’t, Dot. Please.” His voice wavered, his pulse rising. She rolled her eyes.

“Why? You going to beg for her?” Dot asked dismissively, a terrible laugh on her breath.

“Yes.”

A flash of surprised flickered behind her dark eyes. She hadn’t expected him to entertain the question, let alone answer so quickly, so desperately. He would have gotten onto his knees if she’d asked him to. The very thought of you being anywhere near Hydra’s radar was crippling. His nails punctured into his palms.

“What do you want, Dot?” Bucky growled, fighting to keep his anger contained. Whatever money she thought he had was attributed entirely to the rumors. But for as vindictive and cruel as Dot could be, she was just as clever. She knew who Bucky was under the mask, knew that he was not the monster the town made him out to be; couldn’t be – because the man he’d been painted as would not have bothered to cross the border to enemy territory to save a woman who clearly never loved him in the first place.

And still – she never told Rumlow. Even amongst the rumors of protection fees and swindling local businesses out of their own profits, she did not say a word to Rumlow of the man she once knew Bucky to be, a man who would stand is stark contrast to the rumors, one that rang with such dissonance it could not possibly be true.

Perhaps she was hoarding the information for herself – waiting, like a panther in the weeds, to strike when the moment suited her. Her only motive was her own advancement, her own power. She didn’t care for Rumlow any more than she had cared for Bucky. And Bucky had just handed her a weakness that could render him to his knees.

“Dot, please,” Bucky tried again when she did not respond. He turned the full of his body to face her, the hardened mask upon his features slipping as her gaze shifted to the theater where you’d disappeared inside. “What do you want?”

A smirk coated the red of her lips. “Who says I want anything from you?”

Rage coiled into Bucky’s stomach. He was going to break a cardinal rule of his own twisted moral code if she didn’t step out of his line of sight soon. His hands were itching for something to grab onto and she was hanging an anvil over his head, holding the fraying rope between her manicured fingers. It was going to crush him.

“I don’t want her caught up in Hydra shit,” Bucky warned, his voice low, threatening. “Keep her out of this, Dot. I’m serious.”

Dot pursed her lips, turning away from Bucky’s stare to face the crowd again. Something like satisfaction lifted her features, as if he’d walked into the trap she’d laid for him, his ankle suspending him high into the tree line.

“It’s a little late for that, Barnes.”

Bucky blinked; his lungs suddenly short of air. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged as her tongue coated over her lips as if she were centering on her prey. “Your pretty florist has secrets of her own. Let’s just say the 107 isn’t the only club she’s in bed with.”

Bucky stilled, his heart racing. He should have known better than to expect any straight answers from a woman like Dot. She’d traded a year of his life with her, his loyalty and affection, for power to the highest bidder. Perhaps she was just pulling his strings in an effort to put a wall between you. Maybe she was just playing games with him. All she’d ever down was play games with him.

But something about the pleased smirk upon her features told Bucky that this time, to spin a lie was less effective than the simple cruelty of the truth. And Dot aimed where it hurt, and pulled the trigger twice.

“See you around, sugar.” Dot’s fingertips grazed along Bucky’s shoulder. He flinched at the touch and it only seemed to fuel whatever ego boost she’d been after by confronting him.

Slowly, she slid the cigarette between her lips and while holding his gaze, brought the flame to the edge and drew in a steady inhale. Smoke puffed into his face as she released a breath. Then, she winked at him - as if she hadn't just dismantled the last thread of security he'd felt on this side of the border, the last ounce of comfort untouched by the danger of the mask he wore of the feared criminal.

He waited with his hands gripped into white knuckled locks against the counter as she left without another word, heels clicking on the old hardwood floors. Heads turned as she passed by, following the low sway of her lips and the flirtatious wave she sent towards the group of college boys huddled in the corner. The very moment the door closed behind her, Bucky carefully rushed into the theater in search of you.

You were waiting for him in an aisle near the door, lighting up at you caught sight of him. You gestured to the seat beside you, quickly making room for him, but as soon as Bucky stepped under the low glow of the dimmed lights, your face fell.

“What’s wrong?”

“We need to go, sweetheart,” he said quietly, offering his hand. His voice was heavy, thick. With remorse, with guilt. “I’m sorry.”

You nodded, quickly following him without hesitation. His hand squeezed yours, harder than he meant to, but he was unable to stomach the feeling that you might be pulled out of his grasp at any given moment. If Dot was confident enough to walk across the border, there was no telling what Rumlow or any of his goons might do. Bucky didn’t know whether she was sent on reconnaissance, if she was there to fulfill a purpose or send a message. Hell, he didn’t know if Rumlow even had a clue she’d planned on confronting him at all.

But he knew one thing – that Dot would take any opportunity to drag him through the mud. She’d tell Rumlow about you if it meant gaining leverage for herself. Bucky had been a fool to have shown his hand so easily, to believe that if he begged, Dot might show a glimpse of the humanity he once believed she had. Whatever mess you were in with Hydra, Dot would make it worse just to spite him.

“You’re hurting me, Buck,” you whispered, tapping against his hand. He glanced down at the white knuckled grip he held against you and quickly released your hand with a frantic apology. You shook your head, chasing him back, slipping your aching hand back into his. “Hey, I didn’t say to let go.”

You smiled at him, teasing, because you felt his distress and wanted to alleviate it. But Bucky couldn’t release the strain inside his chest until he knew the truth. He couldn’t protect you if he didn’t know what he was up against. And if it was Hydra... he’d burn them all to the ground if he had to.

He waited until you were safe inside the Centenarian before he spoke again. Holding your hand, he guided you through the near empty bar and past the cheering smiles of his family, leading you into the back office. Sam and Steve both narrowed their gaze as he passed, his head low, though they did not chase after him. Bucky closed the office door swiftly behind you, leaning his back against it. AC/DC was playing from the jukebox, the high strum of an electric guitar filtering muffled through the walls.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” There was no hint annoyance in your voice. Only concern.

Bucky swallowed as he released your hand. He rubbed his aching palm against his thigh. “The woman I told you about—the one that set me up the night I was stabbed...”

You nodded slowly, arms folding protectively across your chest. A chill swept in from the vent above your head, though the goosebumps littering your skin had been there long before the breeze ghosted over you.

“She was at the theater,” Bucky explained, his voice thick with tension.

Your arms dropped. “What? Are you okay?”

Bucky nodded, stepping away from your attempt to embrace him, to comfort him. He needed his strength about him if he was going to have this conversation. He’d fall to putty in your arms otherwise.

“She recognized you,” Bucky said slowly, watching your face for a reaction. “Made it sound like you were wrapped up in Hydra business.”

You stilled, frozen, as if caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic, paralyzed under the high beams. Then slowly, almost painfully, you sank into the chair in front of the desk as if your legs had simply given out, arms wrapped tightly around your chest, and Bucky knew Dot hadn’t been playing games with him. The weight of it was too heavy on your shoulders. You looked like you might collapse under the strain of it when your hands began to shake.

He’d recognized that before – the trembling in your body just before the tears came. His stomach lurched as he knelt in front of you, his hand settling against your knee.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispered, soothing his hand along your thigh. “Whatever it is, I promise I’ll take care of you. I’ll keep you safe. But I need you to tell me the truth, honey. Please. Let me help you.”

You were quiet for a long while; the crackling hum of the air conditioner and your muffled, shallow breaths the only sounds filtering the room. Bucky did his best to wait patiently for you to speak, his hand coaxing gentle circles on your thigh, but his heart was pounding so violently he was certain you could hear the damn thing through his chest.

“I was going to tell you. I swear I was,” you finally confessed, your voice barely a broken whimper, the heat of shame weighing on every word, and Bucky was certain in that moment he was going to wipe Brock Rumlow from the face of existence. He was going to cut that monster into pieces and live up to the stories of the feared leader of the 107.

When you looked at him again, your eyes were red – swollen and puffy. Tears tracked along your cheeks. It ruined him. Shattered him.

Bucky gingerly reached out and wiped the tears with the edge of his thumb. “It’s all right, honey. You can tell me now. I’m right here.”

You sniffled, nodding, trying to gather the courage to speak. A heavy silence passed - minutes, maybe, before you finally whispered, “I... I owe them money. A lot of money.”

It wasn't often you said the words aloud, but once you started, the rest spilled like the cracks in a floodgate splintering through frayed edges.

You told him about your mother first. Bucky listened quietly as you detailed the pile of medical bills on the kitchen table your father could not crawl out from under. Your mother had fought the cancer the best she could but sometimes the world was cruel and unjust. In a moment of weakness, your father had sold his soul to Hydra in exchange for the loan to pay off the medical bills and get your mother the experimental treatment she needed. It hadn’t worked.

Your father died a few months after your mother. His grief had taken him in the end and he’d left the store – and the mountain of debt – to you. To his daughter with the flowers in her hair and pretty, pastel dresses. The daughter who had loved her parents so fiercely she would not abandon the shop they built from the ground up, who would take on this impossible burden on her own. Such loving kindness warped and twisted by the darkness Hydra carried. His sweet girl facing demons all on her own.

Bucky sank onto his heels. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard of the Hydra club taking deals with desperate people and charging interest beyond what anyone could hope to pay. It wasn’t about the money. It was never about the money with those assholes. Hydra fed on power, on control. They got off on it.

“When do they come next?” Bucky asked his voice burning in his chest. Sandpaper in his throat. But you held your breath, looking away from him. You did not answer and Bucky could feel you closing yourself off, retreating back to the only security you’d known. Bucky slid his hands over your thighs, hoping to draw the tension straight from your bones. “Honey, please. Don’t shut me out. Not now. Don’t carry this alone.”

“This isn’t your responsibility, Bucky,” you whispered, a tear sliding down over your jaw. “You couldn’t have known when we met and—and you don’t have to take this on, okay? I’m not asking you to do that. I would never ask that of you. You have the east to protect and—”

“I don’t care about that. I only care about you.” Bucky hands fell against your sides, drawing the chair closer to him. His knees were sore from the tiny bristles in the rug, but it didn’t matter – not when you looked at him like that, like you didn’t quite believe him. He’d show his weakness for you a hundred times over if it would make you understand that he’d trade half the town to keep you safe. He’d get on his knees for you, beg for you.

A sad smile pressed on your lips, one that did not touch your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Bucky. I always am.”

You were used to that, weren’t you? You’d been alone for too long. Left behind to deal with a burden no one should ever have to bear. First your mother, then your father. You’d learned how to take on the worst this town could offer on your own. Standing strong in the face of monsters lurking in the shadows of your shop. His brave girl. His beautiful, brave girl.

“We’ll figure this out, all right?” Bucky promised. His hand slid up against your hair, holding you steady as he pressed his lips to your forehead. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re not alone in this, honey. Not anymore. Not as long as you have me. And... you have me. Okay?”

You nodded, sinking into his arms as he held them open for you. Curled up on the floor of his office, his arms wrapped tight around you. Bucky kept his lips grazed against your skin, focusing on the gentle rise and fall of your breaths until the shame and the panic left your system. He didn’t know how long he spent with you in his arms, but his legs had gone numb. Tingling like static buzzed in his muscle but he’d happily sit in the sensation for hours if you’d let him hold you like this.

“I should get home,” you murmured quietly against his chest and Bucky tightened his grip on you reflexively. You must have sensed his hesitation because you added, “I can’t make my payment if I don’t open the shop in the morning, Bucky.”

“You could stay here, if you want. With me,” Bucky offered instead, a warm flush in his cheeks. “I’ll-- I’ll take the couch. My apartment’s not much but I could keep you safe. I don’t like the idea of you being alone with Rumlow looming over your shoulder.”

You smiled sweetly at him, but it carried a heaviness within its lines. Light traces of genuine appreciation and warmth nestled into your eyes, a lingering stubbornness and pride that had once kept you from crumbling. Your hand grazed the side of his face, brushing gently over the stubble on his jaw as if to soothe him of your own fears, and he knew then what you were about to say. He readied himself, holding his breath, preparing for the anxiety he’d carry until sunrise.

“I’ve done this for years, Bucky. I’ll be all right.” You leaned into him and grazed your lips over the corner of his mouth. “I promise to call if I need you, okay?”

Bucky nodded reluctantly, swallowing his argument behind the lump in his throat. He should have known better than to expect you’d leave behind your shop and the legacy your parents had left for you. It held too much meaning, carried too many memories. You wouldn’t leave it to rot even in the face of danger – of violence and extortion and the dirty fists of vile men. Bucky was torn between his admiration for your bravery and the paralyzing dread that had taken hold of his chest.

“There’s still four days before the payment is due,” you told him, as if that might ease his worry. “There’s still time.”

It wasn’t much. Perhaps that would give him the time to dig through the Centenarian’s records to see if he could help make up the difference. He lived most of his life on fumes – content to fend for himself day by day. Spare change was few and far between and what little he had he’d already spent in your shop. He never once held regrets for the money he spent on your flowers, even less now that he knew the truth of your debt to Hydra.

“Do you trust me?” Bucky asked quietly. He brushed the hair away from your face, drawing a tender line from your temple to your jaw. The way you looked at him, it might have crushed him under the weight of such affection – grateful to be rendered to pieces by you.

“Yes,” you replied, a terrible waver of guilt etched into your tone for the week you’d believed him to be a monster despite your better instincts. Bucky turned his head and pressed his lips to the palm of your hand.

“Trust that I’ll see you through this, okay? I know you’re strong enough, honey. I know you can do this on your own,” he sighed, gently pulling your hand from his cheek and bringing your knuckles to his lips where he kissed each one by one, “but you don’t have to.”

From the clench in your jaw, Bucky knew you couldn’t allow yourself to believe him entirely – at least not yet. It was self-preservation. You were afraid to let him in enough to share the weight of this burden, only for him to pull the carpet out from under you at the last second. You were fighting against it, but it had become the thing that kept you from drowning for so many years. It would take time before your trust of him would outweigh your fears.

#Delicate Edges : series #biker au #bucky barnes x reader

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