Captain America and Bucky Barnes Imagines

1. BUCKY: Where it All Begins

Word Count: 1K

It all starts in a safe-house in Cologne. The walls are thin and crumbling slightly, but they're enough to keep us sheltered from the enemy and the storm. Rain patters atop the leaky roof and into the brimming pans that are staggered across the wooden floors. The stairs creak eerily as I make my way downstairs for something to eat. Nat sleeps peacefully in our shared room across from the one where I assume the boys do the same.

I rub at my tired eyes and find that the kitchen lights are already on. I hesitate in the doorway when I see that it's Bucky Barnes who sits crouched over the dining room table. He's got a bowl of soggy cereal that he's pushing around with the end of a plastic spoon. His whole body is crunched over as if he's been pulled too far so that the bend has turned to a break. Dark wisps of hair fall over his eyes. I assume he's yet to see me.

"You're awake."

I nearly startle at his voice. Instead, I clear my throat and make my way to the fridge. "I'm hungry. It took until I tried to sleep to realize that none of us had supper." I try to smile at him but he's not looking. He's glaring at his cereal as if it killed his puppy. "Is, uh, everything alright?"

Bucky nods without a word.

I get myself a chipped porcelain bowl from the cabinet. I follow Bucky's lead and decide that cold cereal is my best bet for a meal. The clinking noise of the chocolate nuggets against the glass makes my lips turn up in a sort of tired smile. Then the sloshing milk is added and I'm carefully carrying it to the table. Bucky finally graces me with his gaze. He stares at me quizzically, looking very perturbed that I'd like to join him.

"Do you mind?" I question. I hesitate before sliding into the wooden chair.

Bucky shakes his head.

I smile to him gratefully, not at all surprised at his lack of communication. He hardly speaks to anyone outside of Steve. And when he does, it's usually about a mission. I don't believe that I've ever had a casual chat with the begrudgingly handsome Sargent.

I take a bite. Bucky's blue eyes, steely and distant, have dropped back to his bowl. "So we've determined why I'm awake—but what's your story?" I question. I go on, "Because if you were really hungry, you wouldn't be still staring at a bowl of soggy Cocoa Puffs."

A sigh flutters through Bucky's flared nostrils. He leans slightly back into his chair. My voice almost looks to pain him. I'm not really bothered, though. I'm not easily offended.

"Couldn't sleep?" I decide to hit him with prompts.

Bucky stares at me. Finally, after thirty seconds of pure silence, he nods.

"I can't sleep a lot of times after missions, too. Especially after I've been shooting people and hanging around dead bodies all day," I note with another swallow of chocolatey milk. "Have you tried herbal tea? It usually helps me. Or talking to someone: but I know you're not fond of that option."

Bucky's eyes drop from my eyes to his hands on the tabletop. If I'm not mistaken, I can see the smallest shadow of a maybe-smile on his left lip.

"I could always make you some tea. Or, you know, be an ear. I'm a really good listener." I take another bite before going on. "Sam says I talk too much, but I know how to shut up when I'm supposed to."

Those pretty blue eyes peer up at me through the long locks of chestnut hair. "Thanks, Y/N." He smiles a tad bit more.

I reach across the table without thought. I lay my hand atop of his, feeling his worn skin beneath my softness. I squeeze him gently to find that his reaction is to widen his eyes in shock and stare at me in absolute wonder.

It's just now that I realize that I've never touched the man before. Then I begin to wonder when the last time he'd ever been touched like this... so kindly, instead of being prodded and tortured?

I hesitate in moving my hand away. I keep it there. "Is this okay?" I check with him. He's got a lot of boundaries that are hard for me, being so overbearing, not to cross. His days in Hydra really changed him, Steve tells me.

Bucky's chin, chiseled and dimpled, dips in a low nod.

Hope thunders through me. I give him another gentle squeeze. He's watching the connection of our skin now. He seems utterly captivated by my dainty hand against the back of his. When he moves, I assume it's to get away. But instead, Bucky turns up his palm to very slowly lace our fingers together. His eyes follow the lethargic movement of our hands. I can feel his pulse. It's steady but fast.

My thumb soothingly paws at his wrist. There's a scar there.

"I like your hands."

I'm completely shocked to have heard a sentence so sweetly spoken and sincere falling from his raspberry lips. I grin at him, this he sees and in turn lets out a soft chuckle—more of a breathy laugh than anything, but it still makes my heart race.

"Well, they'll always be here for you to hold." Bucky's smile drops. His eyes search my face to find the truth. "Whenever you want."

Bucky's gaze flutters back to my fingers. Then, to the symphony of the storm and my savage heartbeat, he lifts my hand to his face. His lips shake slightly as he presses my knuckles to his mouth—the kiss lingering and long. His eyes close and he takes a deep breath of my lavender scent. And it's in this moment, beneath a leaky roof in the middle of rural Germany, where my heart first longs for James Buchanan Barnes.