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captainsimagines · 3 years ago

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dreaming in june || five

Summary: At the request of an old friend who now happens to be the new Captain America, you move to a place that only vaguely feels peaceful, to secretly protect his best friend. There you meet Bucky Barnes, your next door neighbor, who has also lived countless lives, seen a lot of things, and lost the one he loved. You have more in common than you thought.

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (F) POC Enhanced Reader

Based on the Song(s): Heat Waves by Glass Animals and iann dior ; Coney Island by Taylor Swift and The National

Series / AO3 Link

(5/15)

Warnings: suicidal thoughts; angst; discussions of suicide; therapy session; strong language; plot twists!

Word Count: 4,500+

Author’s Note: hehehehehe xxMoni

“I’ve been wanting to try, too.”

The two of you talk all night.

About Steve, about Ari, about what decades and decades of history can do to a person. So many stories are shared—the happy, the heartbreaking, the painful. Granted, you don’t share the fact Sam asked you to look out for Bucky or that you’re enhanced. But everything else is spilled: Bucky now knows more about you than any other person this century, this planet.

You don’t sleep. Bucky wants to know every detail about Ari and your people. You can skip describing Ari to him—the drawing does him complete justice. Steven Grant Rogers, Bucky’s one who got away, was the one who brought Ari back to life for you. You were starting to forget the shape of Ari’s eyes and that was Hell looming too close. You don’t forget faces. You don’t forget names. But the slight slant of his eyes and the way his prominent cheekbones made them look smaller… that was starting to become a little harder to conjure from memory.

So you had put an ad out in the newspaper, completely anonymous. And this sixteen year old kid, with messy blond hair and bad knees, responded. His letter read: I would be honored to draw this requested portrait. And because this letter is private, and because I’m swallowing my pride, I want to let you know that I desperately need the money.

You met Steve at Coney Island, where everyone was allowed at the time and wouldn’t question why the two of you were seated together, sitting at some bench in front of the ferris wheel. Of all your years on Earth, you had never ridden a ferris wheel.

“Can you start with his facial shape? Bone structure, I mean,” Steve had asked, sitting criss-cross apple-sauced on the bench with a sketchbook in his lap. He was so young, so excited to make fifty dollars. You originally offered thirty but seeing Steve act so… natural about this? He didn’t accept the hundred extra you tried to slip in.

Once he was done, Steve marveled at his own creation. “He reminds me of those Indian war heroes we read about in school.”

“He wasn’t—”

“Shit, I’m sorry. Native. I’m so sorry.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “He was just Ari. He was the Chief’s son. He was my best friend.”

Steve didn’t question the past tense word usage. He didn’t dig deeper into your history or try to pry. He simply thanked you for sharing Ari with him and asked if you’d like to ride the ferris wheel. You declined. You hadn’t even looked at the drawing yet. You said your goodbyes, made it home, and turned the protective sheet over.

It was the first and last time you looked at the drawing. Until tonight.

And Bucky, feeling so fucking happy to finally speak to someone who understood time gained, time lost, and love stolen, is just happy he’s still discovering new things about Steve even after he’s been long gone.

Now, at seven in the morning and nursing two massive coffees while walking the streets of Brooklyn, you and Bucky find a sort of comfort with each other that’s rare. He’s also tired of living, but Sam makes him want to live more. You’re tired of living, and are feeling as if there might be something new to live for.

“I have to admit something to you. I’m a lot older than you think I am.”

Bucky didn’t exactly carbon-date you. When you mentioned Ari and where you came from, he didn’t think you could be older than him. No one is older than him.

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t completely honest. But I didn’t lie.”

“That’s not something a former Russian assassin likes to hear.”

A laugh bubbles from your throat and escapes your lips before the hot coffee can pass through. The streets are practically empty; a hazy fog has started to settle on the sidewalk and the sun is creeping in behind the skyscrapers. The more you walk, the farther the two of you get from the apartment. “I died.”

Bucky stops mid-step, mouth parted around a silent gasp. He shakes his head, pauses, then shakes it again. It takes you a second to see he’s not directly beside you anymore. You walk a few steps back to him.

“What do you mean ‘you died’?”

“I mean…” You fumble your fingertips around the warm cup. “I died in 1527.”

Bucky’s eyes grow three sizes. “What?” he sputters.

“Arrow through the heart. But I didn’t stay dead. I think I woke up a few hours later? Then I just…”

“Just what?”

You sigh, shrugging a shoulder. “Went back to sleep. And when I woke up again, I lost 73 years.”

It’s too much like his story. Too much. “You can’t die?”

“Trust me,” you whisper. “I’ve tried.”

You know when someone says something so goddamn powerful or astonishing your legs go a little weak and your heart pounds once, then it grows silent? Bucky feels his legs go numb, the steady vibration from all those pin-pricks clawing at the backs of his thighs. His heart beats once, startled, then everything is unnaturally silent in his chest.

‘I’ve tried.’

Bucky, who wants to drag you into the tightest hug possible, selfishly thinks, “I’ve been wanting to try, too.”

“Are you okay right now?” Something in your chest melts from his question. He didn’t ask you when you tried, how you did it, or tried to persuade you not to do it again. He just wants to know if you’re okay right now.

You nod, “Yes, James. I’m okay right now.”

He looks down the street and takes a long sip from his coffee. “This works both ways. I don’t want you washing my hair and feeding me then throwing dirt into the hole I’m digging for myself if I’m not allowed to do the same for you.”

“You want to wash my hair and cook for me?”

“If it makes you smile, then yes. You make me smile when you do it for me.”

You weigh the pros and cons of telling Bucky even more about yourself. If you showed him your powers, then you’ll for sure amaze and bewilder him more than you want to. It’s probably best to ease him into it. Since he’s woken up and became Bucky Barnes again, things have just been shoved in his face and stolen with a rather literal snap of the finger. Easing him… that could work.

“I will cook for you tonight,” you promise, looking down the same street as the crosswalk shines the miniature human figure. “If I go to work now, I’ll be home earlier. Are you doing anything today?”

Bucky doesn’t want to let you go just yet. He wants to walk by your side through every damn state in this country, talking about everything that slips from the tip of his tongue. He’s been keeping so much inside—he only tells Sam some of it as to not worry him. If Sam knew the true extent of Bucky’s boggled mind, Sam would either never leave his side or drag Bucky along everytime he went out. Plus, that’s what Bucky’s new therapist is for.

His therapist. He has a session today.

“I have therapy today.” Bucky just said that out loud. Just like that. And he’s not flooded by shame.

“Tell them hello for me.”

Tell them hello for me. That, that combination of easy words, pulls a massive smile to his face. “I will.”

“New collections!” Barbara announces, earning a few shushes from unenthusiastic college students huddled in their tight study quarters. Barbara clamps her mouth shut and whispers it this time, flashing her hands toward the massive boxes the delivery driver is stacking. “New collections.”

“Jeremy isn’t coming in today,” you say, grunting as you pick up the box on the very top of the pile. You place it on the opposite counter and find a pair of scissors to slice through the tape. “We’re going to need another set of hands to help unload all these before lunch.”

Barbara blows a raspberry, fixing her glasses from their slight tilt. “You might be right.”

You blow a similar raspberry and take off your jacket. It’s barely nine in the morning and already you’re tired. You didn’t get a wink of sleep, but it’s the sight of those boxes that’s pushing your eyeballs deeper into your skull. There’s no point in complaining further—these need to be sorted. The boxes are all labeled ‘Oxford University’. Seems like new textbooks and museum catalogs.

By ten, you and Barbara are stretching your backs when another truck drives up. You quickly run outside, holding your hands up. “Please, deliver it through the back. I can’t lug these downstairs again. Don’t do that to me.”

The delivery driver is barely detached from his seat when he registers your plea. His partner is still strapped into the passenger seat. He gives you a funny smile, lowers his clipboard, and bows his head. “Gotcha,” he says. “Making the delivery through the back, Pete.”

You fist bump the air. Rushing back in, you tell Barbara to meet you downstairs. The truck pulls up shortly after you reach the last steps. The two men quickly get to work.

“This is my least favorite type of delivery,” Barbara mutters, her arms crossed over her chest as she watches the men unload. “Too much at one time.”

You chuckle, “I see your point.”

“Do you?” She flicks her glasses down as she turns to you. “You live for this stuff. I see you reading history textbooks all the time.”

“I read them to make sure the information is right. If it’s not, I don’t display them for the kids.”

“And how would you know?”

You bite your tongue. Because I just do. “I’m a historian, remember?”

“Still,” she shrugs, fixing her glasses again. “You can’t know everything.”

“No,” you say silently. “But I know enough.”

A loud grunt sounds from behind the truck. “You ladies need help opening these?” There’s a flirtatious grin on this man’s face. You feel your stomach flip, flattered. He leans a shoulder on the truck and winks.

“Don’t you have other deliveries to make?” you challenge, cocking an eyebrow.

His tongue rests gently on his incisors. He is cute. Blond hair carefully brushed to the right, freckles on his tough nose, pouty lips, and muscular build. His eyes are a calm hazel. His name tag reads Dylan.

“I do,” he says casually. “But I have no problem going at a slower pace.” He says this so smoothly that you’d be lying if you said your knees didn’t feel like jelly.

How long has it been for you? Oh, that’s right. Nixon had been in office.

“Goddamn, Dylan,” his partner says, rounding the corner and huffing. “Stop flirting with all the clients.”

Um, ouch kid. You could have let me have this one, you think. Rolling your eyes, you turn to the intruder but freeze.

What the fuck is Spider-Man doing driving around in a delivery truck?

“I’ve said it three times today,” Peter, or Pete, groans. “When you’re late, I’m late. Don’t do that to me, man.”

Barbara laughs loudly. She waves a hand in the air like Peter just said the funniest joke ever. Dylan just rolls his eyes and holds his hands feigning offense. They’re treating Peter… like Pete. You funnel the possible outburst of his name down to the depths of your stomach.

“I’ll let you guys finish,” you interrupt, waving a tiny goodbye. You can vaguely hear Dylan grumbling a quick fuck you, dude to Peter.

Barbara jokes the entire time as you resume cataloging and filing. But your mind isn’t on her. Your mind is on Peter. And Dylan.

The first time you slept with someone after Ari, you had left in a hurry and promptly thrown up in an empty, dark alley. That was, maybe, around 1730? You waited one-hundred and thirty years since you woke up and it still wasn’t long enough. It took you five baths to wash the scent off you. A scent that wasn’t Ari’s.

The second time, somewhere around 1780 China, you had met a prince while he was hiding in the village. It was Aladdin before Aladdin was a popular children’s story. Except this one was x-rated. At least with him, you didn’t feel that overwhelming cramp of betrayal. He was lovely, and he treated you lovely. You have him to thank for helping you regain your body autonomy, and in turn your sexuality.

After that, you didn’t let it scare you anymore. But you didn’t do it often. If the person gave you the feeling, then you indulged. There was no harm in it.

But you’ve been celibate for fifty years so you’re kind of cursing Peter Parker right now.

“I got new chocolates. My kid absolutely loves these.”

Bucky glances at the jar full of Hershey’s Kisses and decides to take a handful. Chocolate has always been one of his guilty pleasures. “Thanks.”

His therapist, Berenice, smiles at him. She sits at her chair and opens her notepad to rest it on her thigh. He used to hate notepads. But after one of his first voluntary sessions with Berenice, she showed it to him. She had drawn little flowers and hearts all over the page. She wasn’t taking notes on him. And that made him sigh happily. Now, he notices she does take notes. However, they’re never critical or full of stupid, psycho-jargon. Just little notes here and there. Bucky misses Steve. Sam is very helpful. Ivy? That’s a new one. French fries.

The casualness of it all is what settles his nerves.

“So,” Berenice starts. “What do you want to talk about today?”

Bucky shrugs, looking up from his handful of Kisses at her. His face pulls down slightly.

“You know, I started this new show. Sense8, on Netflix. It’s amazing.”

“Oh?” Bucky tilts his head. “What’s it about?”

“Oh, gosh,” Berenice blows air from her mouth. “Eight people who were all born at the exact second, finding out years later that they all share one mind. They share each other’s languages, skills, visions, dreams, urges. It’s amazing. And the acting!”

Bucky smiles wide. He likes when Berenice shares snippets from her own life. It makes him feel like he’s having a regular conversation. He knows therapists aren’t supposed to divulge too much or make the session about themselves, but he’s noticed (and of course, Berenice has too) that he always feels comfortable once he knows something about the other person. Like he isn’t the only one revealing his secrets. Thus, they’re both equal human beings.

“I’ll watch it,” Bucky declares. And he will. It sounds interesting.

“I should warn you, though,” Berenice frowns. “It deals a lot with… Uh. Mind control.”

“Then why did you suggest it?” Bucky laughs. He opens one of the Kisses.

“I’m so sorry,” Berenice quickly apologizes. “I was just focused on the people part of the show.”

Bucky laughs again. It’s funny seeing her all flustered. He can joke about these things now. He’s been having a good day. He can joke about these things now. “It’s okay. Maybe I can watch it when someone else is around.”

Berenice looks as if she’s going to apologize again. She’s turning all red. “I like the Korean representation. Makes me feel important.”

Bucky finally eats the chocolate. His tongue is thankful. “Any representation for me?”

Berenice dips her head and blinks. “White representation? What do you think?”

“No, no,” Bucky chuckles, moving the chocolate from the left side of his tongue to his right. “Jewish.”

Berenice stills, then clicks her pen. She practically beams. “I didn’t know that about you!”

“Eh,” Bucky shrugs.

“No, not ‘eh’. Thank you for sharing that with me, Bucky.” He likes her calling him Bucky. His old therapist called him James, even when he asked her to stop. He only likes being called James when it comes from the right person. “I don’t remember if there’s Jewish representation. I’ll let you know.”

Shortcake.

“The only person I let call me James is Hyacinth.”

“Oh, it’s Hyacinth today? Last time it was Daisy and Ivy.”

“She likes plants.”

“I bet,” Berenice grins. She quickly scribbles the new nickname in her notepad. “Do you like when she says it?”

He does. He really does. “She has a light accent. So it doesn’t sound so bold like when everyone else says it. I like her accent. When she says it, it doesn’t sound like when my handlers would call me that. It’s like she’s giving me a brand new name.”

Berenice nods in understanding. “As long as you’re comfortable. What did she cook for you today?”

Bucky stomach twists in a pleasurable knot. “We actually stayed up all night and got breakfast in the morning.”

“Oh,” Berenice blushes. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t see it coming.”

Bucky stills as he unwraps his second Kiss. “Um. We. Um. We didn’t…”

Berenice just stares, lifting one of her small eyebrows. She’s such a little woman, but the power of that eyebrow rivals the biggest tyrants.

“We didn’t,” Bucky insists. The chocolate stains his fingers.

“Okay,” Berenice says. “I believe you.”

“Thank you,” he breathes. He re-wraps the chocolate and shoves the handful into his sweater pocket.

“Would you like to tell me what you two talked about?”

No. That’s for him only. “No, thank you. She says hello, by the way.”

“Hello, back.” Berenice writes something down then cracks some of her knuckles. “I want to swing back to you being Jewish for a second. Is that alright?”

He nods. Berenice continues, “Has your faith been affected after all this time? I understand you fought in the Second World War, so it was… somewhat personal.”

“A lot personal,” he mumbles.

“Yes.” Her lips turn down. “Anything you want to share. I’m all ears.” That could mean anything. How does that make you feel? How did the war affect you? Does it still affect you?

“I haven’t believed in God for a long time,” Bucky admits, looking down at his lap. He touches the pads of his thumbs together. “I remember believing in him when Steve rescued me and the boys. Don’t really know when I stopped.”

And that’s true. He wholeheartedly believed Steve would rescue him from Hell after he fell from that train, also. When Steve didn’t come, he lost faith a little more each day. Then one day, it just… stopped.

“But you still consider yourself to be Jewish?”

“Yes.”

“With your trauma, it’s completely understandable why you would feel abandoned by God. In fact, I believe you were abandoned by your country. We’ve discussed how the betrayal you felt by Steve not rescuing you was valid.” Bucky nods. “We’ve discussed the continual betrayal by your country by forcing you to attend court-ordered therapy and making you say sorry for things that were never in your control.” Bucky lips tremble. “We’ve discussed how all your feelings are valid. Not believing in God but still wanting to hold onto some of your faith is valid.”

“You think so?”

“We all have things that keep us sane. If religion does it for you, grasp it. If the simple, therapeutic thought about the possibility of an afterlife does it for you, grasp it. If the idea of a peaceful end with nothing on the other side does it for you, grasp it. There’s no deadline to this, Bucky. You’ll know when you know.”

He’ll know when he knows.

“The sun is set, my back is breaking, and I am absolutely done.” Barbara slams the final textbook in her pile into the shelves. She runs a fast hand through her hair and waves goodbye to you, huffing and puffing up the stairs. You giggle under your breath, still working through your pile.

Fuck, you think. I told James I would be home earlier. You pull your phone from your pocket and look at the time. Seven. Fuck.

“Anyone back here?” The voice makes you jump. You’re the only one down in the archives. You brace yourself, emptying your hands.

“Can I help you?”

A head pokes around the side of the aisle you’re in. Not just any head—Peter Parker’s head.

“Hi,” he stumbles, running a nervous hand behind his neck. “Sorry to creep you out. We forgot to drop off some boxes and it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay.” You guide him out of the aisle and point at the few boxes left. “You can leave them here with the others.”

He nods. You get back to work, shelving the last couple books in your pile, before you notice that Peter is lugging in two boxes at once. Dylan isn’t here.

You decide not to comment on it. He obviously thinks you’re not paying attention.

There’s a picture on one of the textbooks. Mesoamerican Art and Artistry. It’s a jade bracelet. It’s shown as an artifact. It’s displayed as an archaeological find. It’s displayed as ancient art.

“Hey, hey. Stay with me. Stay with me.” Did you fall over? There are hands lightly slapping your cheeks and a worried voice ringing above you. He sounds too worried. Maybe you should open your eyes. He’s hazy.

“Hey, hi. You’re back. Stay with me,” Peter repeats, helping you sit up. You groan and rub your cheek. You face-planted. How fucking embarrassing. Your cheek begins to swell.

“I’m okay,” you reassure him, pushing him away. He doesn’t budge. He helps you sit up higher.

“You just fainted. Are you anemic? Diabetic? I don’t see a bracelet. Is this normal?”

His questions hurt your head. Why did you faint? Have you ever fainted before? You know you have but recently? Your eyes travel across the floor to the book that fell with you.

The bracelet. It’s Ari’s bracelet. On display like some forgotten piece of history, without its story. Ari.

Your eyes water unexpectedly, but you swallow them down. Your throat clenches on itself, but you force yourself to reassure Peter. “I just got distracted by this.” You point at the book. He doesn’t ask. He’s confused, but he doesn’t ask.

“Do you need me to call someone? Do you live close by?”

“Peter, it’s fine. I’ll pick up where I left off tomorrow and just take a cab home.”

Sweet silence. Your head is banging. You just want to get home and make some dinner for Bucky. Sweet Bucky.

“How do you know my name?”

What?

“What do you mean? You’re Peter Parker. Everybody knows you.”

Peter takes his hands away from your shoulders, cautious. “No, they don’t. I know they don’t. How do you know my name?”

If your eyebrows furrowed any further, they would connect. Are you sure you’re the one who fell and hit their head?

“Peter Parker. Spider-Man. The Avengers. It’s okay, I live next door to Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes. So, I’m not some crazy fan.”

Peter inhales a shaky breath, his cheeks going red. His eyes water and before he can control himself, a few tears escape his waterline. Shit. What did you do?

“I’m sorry,” you stutter. “What did I do?”

Peter runs a hand through his hair. His shoulders crumble. He can’t seem to hold himself up anymore. He falls to his knees next to you and stares with a slow growing smile. “You know me.”

“I know you.”

The first sob bursts from his chest. “You know me.” Another sob. “How do you know me?”

“I—” you try, but you really don’t know what to say. You have no idea what he means by that.

“I’m Peter Parker. Tony Stark made me an Avenger. My best friends are Ned Leeds and Michelle Jones. I had an uncle. His name was Ben. I had an aunt. Her name was May. You know me.”

You search his teary eyes for answers. “I do.”

His breath falters and his face falls. Peter stands. “I have to go. I need to see someone. Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod. He steps away, eyes never leaving you. He covers his mouth as another sob tries to escape, but this time, he also hides a massive smile.

“I was just about to knock on your door, Hyacinth.”

You absolutely love his nicknames.

You twirl on the stairs and look down, finding Bucky Barnes perched at the bottom. It looks like he just entered the building right behind you.

“Guess we’re both late, huh?”

Bucky smiles sheepishly. “I’m sorry. After my session, I visited Barton. He’s in town and wanted to see how I was doing.” He stops abruptly and tilts your chin o him. The feel of his hand on your face makes you melt. “What happened to your eye?”

You wave a hand through the air. His eyebrows turn down and his eyes go impossibly sadder. You’ve seen Bucky sad, depressed. Right now, he’s devastated.

“We had a delivery today and I tripped and fell over the mountain of boxes,” you lie, laughing to cover your nerves. You start walking up, feeling Bucky catch up. “Work was… a lot.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

The sudden realization that you can finally talk to someone about this hits you, a wonderful case of whiplash that causes your heart to lurch from your chest. “Yes.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“I was thinking of making fettuccine alfr—”

You can feel it before you open the door. So can Bucky. He moves to enter your apartment first, shielding you behind him as his face contorts into that famous angry scowl. You’ve had a long day. Every emotion a human can feel is currently at the very ends of every hair on your body, at the tail ends of every single nerve ending, bursting brilliantly at your temples. Now, you’re angry.

Bucky is still shielding you.

No. Sam made you promise to protect him and if he enters first, you’re breaking that promise.

Ari shouldn’t have come back for you.

Your people shouldn’t have come back for you.

No one should have protected you.

But you’ll be goddamned if you don’t protect Bucky Barnes.

Before he can step inside, you push him out of the way and whip your hand out, summoning the plants on the left side of your apartment to stem out across the floor. As quickly as you commanded them, you do the same with the plants on the right. Ivy’s, and hyacinths, and violets, and lavenders reach the intruder at great speed, curling around their ankles and wrists, slamming them against the wall. The force causes them to grunt painfully. Vines curl around their torso and tighten, cracking the paint on the wall and snapping at awkward angles.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He can’t say anything. When you mentioned that you’re over five hundred years old, he didn’t think you had this power inside you. He honestly believed you were immortal, like those elves he read about in The Hobbit. But this… This is something else.

The breath catches in your throat. You step closer to the intruder as he struggles against your makeshift chains, all vocabulary strained and heart pumping overtime. You can’t believe your eyes.

“As I live and breathe,” Druig pauses, a shaky breath stumbling from his lips. He stares directly at you with passionate astonishment. It really is him. “Princess.”

Taglist: @natbarnes1917 @cloudyfeel @howlermonkey69 @wintersgirl1917 @aquariusbarnes @fandoms-writings @shirukitsune @goldylions @real-jane @mannien @sentimental-for-maneskin @dezthegeek @cutelittletwistedhorror @gabewerk

(I sent you a private message if Tumblr didn’t let me tag you.)

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x poc!reader #enhanced reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #dreaming in june #dreaming in june series #part five #you x bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #captainsimagines #by Moni

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