#i will also accept matching paperbacks like the penguin little black classics

[chemicalico]

my evil trait is thinking diverse paperbacks look WAY better on a shelf than sets of matching hardcovers

[winterromanov]

we will grow taller together - bucky x reader

PART TWO - NO KID HATES CUPCAKES

parts: zero | one

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

extract: Before you accept his request, you hand him the box of cupcakes. He looks at you with surprise and uncertainty, mouth dropping open a little. You snort a laugh. “They’re cupcakes. Steve told me about Clover and I saw them on the way here. Couldn’t resist.”

genre: nanny x single father!au

taglist:@blindedbyyourgrace17 @verygraphicink @chubby-dumplin @igotkatiepowers @welcome-to-my-studylife (still open, reply/message to be added)

“This is so weird.”

As soon as work had finished a text had appeared in your notifications from Steve, detailing an address of a small apartment block in Brooklyn, and to meet him there. There didn’t seem an option in Steve’s world to decline the invitation. You were going to meet James Barnes and you were going to do it now. Well—within the hour, because despite having lived in New York for the last few years you were still heavily reliant on Google maps and sheer hope that you’d turn a corner and randomly appear at your destination. You’d ended up passing the same indie bakery so many times that it felt rude not to go in and buy some of the cupcakes displayed beautifully in the window. Now, you clutch a white paper box in your hand filled with a strawberry cheesecake, two Oreo and one that is peanut butter and jelly, because even if whatever is about to happen goes horribly, you figure no kid hates cupcakes.

Steve shakes his head, leaning across to press the buzzer. The apartment block is, admittedly, much nicer than your own. There is a lot of exposed brickwork in an edgy, retro way rather than a neglected way, and no drunks loiter in the stairwells. James lives in one of two apartments on the fifth (and top) floor of the complex and when you clambered into the elevator no-one was peeing in it.

It’s practically five-star luxury.

“What did you say to him about why I’m here?” you ask. You fight the urge to slap him when he looks back at you in faux-innocence. “For fuck’s sake, Steve! Have you not even told him—“

Your sentence is cut short when the lock on the door clicks and a man appears in the doorway, rubbing his left eye tiredly like he’s just woken up. His hair is a little too long, dark and dipping into his eye-line, and he’s wearing a scruffy Columbia hoodie and sweats. James Barnes. You do recognise him. Maybe not this exact version of him, but you do recognise him all the same.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve greets, a bit too brightly. James blinks, as if he’s going to reply, but the action causes him to do a double-take when he sees you standing there.

“Hey…” he says, eyebrows knitting together. You offer him an awkward smile. “Sorry—I, uh, I wasn’t expecting visitors. I thought Steve was just dropping by.”

“Yeah,” you reply, glaring pointedly at Steve. “I thought he was going to mention that I’d be tagging along.”

Steve shrugs simply, like this was his plan all along. He claps Bucky on the shoulder, but his eyes remain on you, sussing you out. “Sorry, man, completely slipped my mind. This is (Y/N), by the way.”

You offer a wave which, in hindsight, is super dorky, but Bucky’s look of suspicion softens to elusive recognition. “Yeah, yeah, of course. You knew Natasha from college.”

You’re so surprised he remembers a detail like that at all and it must show on your face, but James doesn’t react either way. “Yeah. We were roommates in freshman year.”

“Right.” Bucky nods once, before ushering off to the side. “Please come in. It’s a bit of a mess, but I didn’t—I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep for.”

You walk awkwardly into a fairly large living space, the flooring a light wood laminate other than a bright striped rug in the centre. The walls are plain but spotted with photographs and prints, the sofas a dark red fabric and positioned round a glass coffee table. A television is positioned on a cabinet on the central wall and while much bigger than yours, it’s not that catches your eye—there are books everywhere. Books stacked haphazardly on shelves along all the walls; an antique mahogany bookcase full to brimming in an alcove; books spilling off the coffee table and onto the floor. There are standard paperbacks you’d find in every single Barnes and Noble, fat black Penguin classics, leather-bound first editions that may have fallen out of Belle’s library in Beauty and the Beast. You are that blown away by the sheer volume of literature you almost forget why you’re here in the first place.

That’s when you notice a set of illustrated Harry Potter hardbacks on an armchair and tiny mismatched socks drying on a clothes horse, a stuffed Paddington Bear and Peter Rabbit chilling on top of a chest that matches the bookcase. You also notice the absence of a certain child.

“No Clover?” Steve asks, sitting down on the sofa in a naturally comfortable way that suggests he’s a consistent visitor to the Barnes household. He pulls out a cuddly kitten that must have fallen between the sofa cushions and places it gently beside him.

Bucky shakes his head. He rubs his eyes again. “No—Becca takes her on Thursdays. She’ll be back in a couple of hours or so. Gives me the chance to mark papers or, uh. Nap. Apparently.”

A laptop is also open on the coffee table, and a copy of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. “Are you a teacher?”

“No—well, kind of. I lecture in literature at Columbia.” Well, that explains the sweater, then. And the books. He gestures towards the couch. “Please, make yourself at home.”

Before you accept his request, you hand him the box of cupcakes. He looks at you with surprise and uncertainty, mouth dropping open a little. You snort a laugh. “They’re cupcakes. Steve told me about Clover and I saw them on the way here. Couldn’t resist.”

“Oh.” James says simply, looking down at the box. It’s like he doesn’t receive kindnesses from strangers very often and makes you wonder just how much he distrusts the world. You mean—from what you’ve heard, he’s got a right to be unsure. “Thank you. She’ll love these.”

“No problem. The lady in the shop said the peanut butter and jelly ones are unlike anything you’ve ever tasted. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, but she was wearing a hat shaped like a red velvet cupcake so obviously I trusted her opinion.”

His mouth cracks into a glimmer of a smile. Muted, subtle, almost reluctant. He may be one of the saddest people you’ve ever met. It burns off him like a bonfire. The ashes gather in piles round your feet.

(Gosh, you thought empathy was Steve’s thing.)

Steve suggests making coffee and James doesn’t disagree, considering he’s still got about thirty quizzes to grade by tomorrow. As they both disappear off into the kitchen, Steve gives you a pointed look and closes the door behind him. It feels all kinds of wrong to corner this hurting, confused man into whatever arrangement Steve has in his head; an arrangement you’re not even sure of yourself. But you find yourself wanting to help him anyway. James is sad. But he’s gentle, and clever, and trying to make the best of a situation nobody wishes on anybody.

As you try not to eavesdrop on the muffled voices in the kitchen, you walk the outline of the living room, pausing in front of items that catch your eye. Each of James’ photos sits in beautiful, ornate frames, winding wood engraved with flowers and leaves that you assume must be gifts. You recognise Clover immediately—most of his pictures include a tiny girl with frizzy blonde hair, varying in age from new-born to recent. One sat in front of a grey screen, showing off the gap in her front teeth. One in a swimming pool wearing flashy pink sunglasses. One where James is clutching a small white bundle, his cheeks flushed red, looking down at the baby like she’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. There’s a couple with either Steve or Natasha, another with a tall, dark-skinned guy you’ve seen on Steve’s Facebook, a few others with two unnamed brunettes—one, you think, must be his sister or at least a close relative, the same bright blue eyes and dark hair.

The other—well, it must be Connie. Petite and elegant and totally gorgeous, with a small upturned nose and big eyes like an animal in an old Disney cartoon. She grips Clover tightly and the girl is frozen in a giggle, a kiss pressed to her cheek. You can almost see James on the other side of the camera, totally unknowing that it’s one of the last times he’ll see the two of them together in the present.

You deliberately force yourself away before spiralling. Real loss stories. The last thing you need is for your heart to completely spill over. Instead, you drag yourself over to his beautiful bookcase, running your hand over the faultless dark wood. The glass inside is dusty and probably needs a once over with a cloth but you can see inside anyway, eyes skimming over titles. You see some Ford Madox Ford, Woolf, Joyce, Plath, a massive collection of Keats offset by Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. There’s no consistency to his interests. Instead, there’s a bit of everything (in the English speaking canon at least) and to your delight, even some philosophy.

(Admittedly your philosophy major hasn’t come in that useful, but at least it’s fucking interesting.)

A few minutes pass before the kitchen door opens again. Both men look flustered like they’ve just had a fraught, whispered argument, which doesn’t bode well for you—but instead of addressing it, they sit down on opposite sofas in silence. Steve’s arms are crossed, mug loudly placed on The Chamber of Secrets. James’ eyebrows are arched in a scowl. No-one has made you a drink, clearly forgotten in the process.

Well. This is fucking awkward. You don’t know whether it would more weird to sit down or to just leave. You quietly start to make your way to the couch next to Steve but he abruptly rises, muttering something about going to the bathroom. Suddenly, you’re left alone with James, the tension sitting uncomfortably in the air like storm clouds. You fold your legs over each other, mouth pressed in a thin line.

“I—“ James begins, before locking his jaw closed. He’s pensive. Choosing the right words. “I don’t know what Steve has said to you, exactly, but I’m fine. I don’t need anybody. And it wasn’t his place…”

“Oh my God, I know,” you interrupt hastily, not wanting him to think you’ve forced your way into his home with intent you had no right to have. “Trust me, James, I’m only here as a favour to Steve. He always thinks he knows what’s best and, like, I know his intentions are good but his best isn’t always everyone else’s.”

Not for the first time since you arrived, James looks surprised. The tension seems to dissipate slightly, the atmosphere less fraught. His shoulders relax. “It’s not that you don’t…I’m sure Clover would like you, but I’m still getting used to…”

“You really don’t need to explain. Like you said. It isn’t anyone’s place but yours to decide what you need.”

James’ smile is soft and tired. “Thank you for caring enough to turn up, though. That’s more than I can say for some people I actually know well.”

Ouch. His bitterness singes on his tongue, still raw and swollen. You can allow Steve to be right about one thing—maybe you could be a good friend to him, or at least someone you could get to know better. You have a distinct lack of any real relationships in your life and his ridiculous collection of books is enough to convince you he’s someone worth befriending. You reach out for a wad of neon post-it notes and a biro, scribbling down your phone number, slapping it unceremoniously onto his knee. He rips it off with bemusement, curling it into his palm.

“If you want to complain about students or laundry or how life is sometimes incredibly shitty,” you grin, “Call me. Unless it’s eight-to-six most days, because my boss is a tight-ass and won’t hire anyone else so I can have more than one day off every year. Other than that I’m totally free.”

“Wow. You have even less free time than me. At least Clover wakes up past eight on weekends.” He blinks slowly, clutching your number tightly. “And thank you. I really do appreciate it.”

Steve has been in the bathroom for an awfully long time and you’ve known him long enough to realise he’s doing it on purpose. Instead of hanging about while Steve and James chat uneasily in your presence, you take it as your cue to leave. Bucky tries to explain that you don’t need to leave so soon, but you’re genuinely worried Steve will sit on the toilet playing iPhone games for literal hours in order to leave you two to ‘talk’ if you don’t walk out the door.

“I hope Clover enjoys the cupcakes,” you say, once you’re stood back in the hall. “You should have one too. The endorphin rush you get while eating cake is unparalleled.”

James laughs, like actually laughs, his hand curled round the doorframe. “Maybe I will. See you around.”

“Yeah. See you.”

The door eases shut and you shiver now you’re out of the warmth of James’ apartment, but you can’t help but think this whole weird thing didn’t go as badly as you thought it would.