Marvel Imagines

mornings with coffee and you ➳ bucky barnes

in honour of me finally watching tfatws, here's another bucky fic !!

The Starbucks is warm, almost unbearably so, as Bucky steps inside.

It's a welcome refuge from the frigid July air, tucked away from the busyness and worries of the world. Despite being an icon of American capitalism, Starbucks, this particular Starbucks, is his favourite place. Because of you.

You, the gorgeous barista who always writes his name with a flourish, who doesn't ask about his gloves or question what kind of a name is Bucky? You make his americano just the way he likes it, never charging extra for the extra shot of coffee, always smiling. He loves the sound of his name on your tongue, anticipating the sweet sound of "Bucky?" and your hand reaching out with his coffee.

It's the highlight of his day. Okay, of his week. Fine—it's the best thing he's had since Steve died, if he's honest, which he only is with Dr Raynor (if and when he feels like it).

And there you are, grande americano—with an extra shot—in hand, smiling at him as the bell chimes at the door.

"For you, Buck." You know his schedule too well, having already made the drink in preparation for his daily arrival. His name leaves your mouth with a teasing lilt, and he flashes his teeth in a too-rare smile.

"Much appreciated, y/n." Bucky reaches out a hand for the coffee, and your eyes linger for a second too long on his gloves.

He hastily covers for them with a rushed, "Poor circulation."

You nod, as if this answer is acceptable, as if it is normal for Bucky to have poor circulation with super soldier serum in his veins.

It isn't.

—

The Starbucks is still warm the next day, a familiar and welcome heat.

It's early, far too early for him, but Bucky needs to drink in your features and block out the bad dream. He knows you don't normally work Thursdays, knows 5:00 am is too early for a caffeine fix, but there you are. It's five past five in the morning, the Starbucks is all but deserted, and you're brushing a lock of hair off your face behind the counter.

His big cyborg brain of his, as Sam would say, is nothing more than a tangled mess of a fading nightmare, thirst for caffeine, and thoughts of you. It's malfunctioning, shutting down, honing all his senses to your exhausted figure.

Bucky really wants to ask you out. And before the computer can catch up with the microphone, he's said the words out loud.

"What?"

Your own mind, fringed with fatigue and slightly numbed by your vanilla frappuccino, reboots-rewinds-replays his words. I really want to ask you out. I really want to ask you out.

But it clicks, and you smile, because the ridiculously hot man with an unfairly-tight blue henley and poor circulation has just stated he wants to take you out. On a date. Really.

"You can't honestly believe I came here for the coffee, did you?" He raises an eyebrow, hoping it will come off as cool, calm, collected and definitely not panicked, and you laugh.

"No, I suppose not. But I really want you to ask me out," you reply, suddenly shy.

Boldened by your response and receding nightmare, Bucky smiles and gets the words out properly. "Will you go out with me?"

Your nod is all the confirmation he needs.

He removes his glove, leans across the counter and intertwines his fingers with yours. Marvels at the surge of warmth to his veins. It's been so long, too long since he had any real kind of human contact. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like; the kiss of heat on his skin, the gentle caress of another person's fingers. It's nice, it's so nice that his brain forgets to take a breath and he's gasping, sucking air into his lungs, drawing love into his heart.

Oh, how he's missed this. How long he had convinced himself he was unworthy of this, how much time he'd wasted. Here, now, having secured a date with a pretty girl and a cup of mediocre coffee in his hand, he curses himself for ever embracing the cold.