Captain America and Bucky Barnes Imagines

37. BUCKY: Savage Suburbia

           

Words: 3.7K

Warnings: Mentions of abuse by a significant other (with a supper sappy lovey-dovey ending)

I've come to the Avenger's compound today in Upstate New York with every intention to have another regular, superhero filled day. No, I'm not a part of the league. Not in the traditional way that many would assume. My job requires me to stay within the walls of the newly constructed compound where I'm best put to use fixing all of the crazy gadgets each of the heroes has adopted as their own. Commonly I'm being called to fix weight distribution issues with Clint's bows, and to repair all of the dents Steve somehow manages to mess up his shield with—that happens to be built with the earth's strongest metal, so how he scratches it so often: I have no bloody clue.

Following routine I empty my pockets and chuck my purse onto the belt to be scanned and sorted. It's all for security reasons, of course, so I don't complain. I do whine a bit though about having to take my headphones out and send my phone through the X-Ray, too.          

"Having a good morning, Y/N?" the burly and slightly grotesque normal security guard questions me.

I hand him that extra cup of coffee I always bring in for whoever is on duty. "Tip top, it is Mr. Canners. Thank you for asking. I hope yours is well."

Mr. Canners smiles toothily into the top of the brew. "Ah, much better now. Thank you."

I nod my chin at him before gathering my things and heading upstairs into my division. I'm one of the first staff members here, so I'm not surprised when the halls and offices are nearly all empty. I am surprised though to see a very sleepy-eyed James Buchanan Barnes sitting atop one of my lab tables with his metal arm and naked chest on full display.

"Jesus Christ, Barnes. Have you ever heard of making an appointment?" I clutch my chest for another moment more, indulging myself in the pattering heartbeats of the momentary shock, before waltzing the rest of the way into my office.

"I thought it'd be rude to call so early." He doesn't speak much, but when he does, he never ceases to make my mouth dry.

"Well, yes I suppose that would've been." I set my things down in place and then make my way to stand in front of the tired super soldier. "What seems to be the problem this time?" I don't risk touching the metal arm until I know exactly what it is that's gone wrong. Last time he was accidently electrocuting people with a single touch (I, unfortunately, was one of them).

He smirks, almost as if sensing my fear. "Nothin' that should hurt ya, doll. Just lost movement in the thumb again."

"Oh." I breathe a sigh of relief. "That should be an easy fix." I walk over to my shelves of tools and continue conversing with the strangely intriguing man on my mechanical operating table. "How have you been, Sargent?"

"How many times do I have to tell ya to call me Bucky, doll," Bucky chuckles.

I smile back at him quite sheepishly. "Sorry. I've forgotten again." I clear my throat and turn back around before he can see me blushing. Blush is not very professional. "Anyway, you've been well I hope?"

"As good as can be expected I guess." He pauses a moment before going on. "And you?"

I swallow stiffly. "Yes. Yes, I've been well."

I turn back to walk towards Bucky again. It's very noticeable that he's no longer smiling now. "It sounds like you're lying," he observes in a low, rumbling hum.

"That's strange," I dance around the subject, "Because I'm not. Here—hold this for me. Thank you."

Bucky looks down to the screwdriver in his human grasp for only a millisecond before jumping back to the unbearable subject of myself. "Are you sure everything's alright?"