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scifrey · 3 months

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NINE-TENTHS

Part Six

I get all of the gear flicked on, checking water levels and pulling the wands out of the sanitizer, then grind the first pot for the perc. As the espresso machine chugs its way to wakefulness, I peer into garbage cans and inspect tables. The till is all counted out neatly, with a post-it note reminding me to buy a roll of quarters stuck to the crisp purple stack of tens.

Obviously Min-soo closed last night, ‘cause she always kills it.

In the dark kitchen, I crank the industrial oven up as high as it will go to pre-warm, scoop dough from the huge bowl Min-soo made last night onto trays, and climb the ladder to dump a burlap sack of fresh beans into the massive stainless steel bean roaster in pride of place in the corner of the kitchen.

In my back pocket, my phone starts playing a punk version of You're the Cream in My Coffee. Shit. That's my alarm to start the second batch of scones. Dammit. I don't have time to let the oven preheat properly. I shove the tray in.

Then it’s back out to the front, where he is sitting primly in his corner, eyes on his newspaper.

Yeah, I'm a basic bitch and prefer coffee that's more sugar and froth than bean juice, but there’s something so good about fresh-brewed black coffee first thing in the morning. That's art in its own right, my loves. I interrupt the drip machine to pour myself a mug, and I take one selfish minute to revel in a perfect sip.

But what is usually a soft symphony of my mornings is instead a self-inflicted agony. The plink of coffee into the carafe, the hiss of the espresso machine, the hum and clunk of the bean-roster in action, all punctuated by the crisp rustle of his newspaper? Agony.

A year ago, I would use this quiet time to work on my thesis. Before that, it would have been an essay, or a lab, or something else I’d procrastinated. Now, I have nothing to work on. Nothing to do but this. Nowhere to go but here. No career, no demand, no drive, just…

Me.

And him.

And the stretching, hissing, clunking, dripping silence.

"Ugh, get your ass in gear, you embarrassment," I mutter to myself.

"Beg pardon?" he asks, voice raised politely.

Shit.

"I said, uh, the espresso machine is warmed up. Caffe tobio?"

"Please." He crosses his legs. There's a flash of turquoise at his ankle. I only catch it for a second, but it looks like he's wearing socks with cartoon dragons on them. Huh, okay… that’s more playful than I expected him to be.

"Coming right up."

"I appreciate it. And you are well?" he says, which is the longest string of words I've ever heard out of him. Shame.

"Yeah." I turn to the machine, tapping out a careful twenty-seven seconds with the toe of my chucks, timing as the espresso fills the demitasse. So I'm completely in my head, and totally not expecting it when his voice comes from somewhere much too close, just over my left shoulder.

"Oversleeping could be the sympto—"

"Gah!" I shout, and Christ no, the wand in my hand goes flying up, up, sprinkling boiling-hot grounds like freaking pixie dust.

He ducks and snaps the newspaper over his head as they rain down. The sharp clatter of the wand hitting the tile makes us both wince. We stare across the counter at one another, eyes wide, with what I assume are matching shocked expressions.

"Are you—" he starts again and I hold out a hand to stop him.

"I'm fine."

"I've never known you to—"

"Shit, you're chatty today," Maybe that came out cattier than it should have. He flinches, stung. A glob of espresso grounds plops off his shoulder and splats on the tile floor. "Sorry, sorry! That came out wrong. I'm not… I'm not having a good morning."

"My apologies," he murmurs mournfully, and aw, no.

"I'll make you another one," I say quickly. "On the house. Just… sit, and I'll—"

"Perhaps I should go." He lowers his paper and flicks grounds off the toe of his shoe. Oh, shit, are they expensive? Am I going to have to pay for, I dunno, shoe dry cleaning?

"No, please." That lurch in my stomach again, and it's only because a morning that has started terribly (and has only gotten worse) would really become awful if he wasn’t sitting in the sunlight, glimmering and reading.

It would be just wrong.

"If you are ill, you ought to be taking care of yourself first. Don't you have a colleague who could cover—"

"I got a new alarm clock, I didn't wake up, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter."

"It does to me." He crunches the ruined paper in his hands, flexing and twisting. "In fact, I, er, perhaps it is time I confessed that… I smell something burning."

"You smell burning?" I swig another mouthful of coffee from the mug I'd left by the till, and take a deep breath to calm myself. Wait. "I smell it, too."

His eyes flick to the door behind me, slit pupils dilating. "The kitchen."

"The scones!" I squawk and spin on the spot. I slip in spilled espresso, toppling sideways. Before I can hit the ground, he lunges across the countertop, catching my arm in a grip that's stronger than I think he realizes. It also prickles.

Trying to get my stupid feet under me, I catch the barest flash of red scale and black, long-tipped nails. Then his hand is back to perfectly pale peach, fussily manicured, and human.

I shrug him off and push through the door. I shouldn't have gasped, that was a stupid thing to do when the air is heavy with smoke. But I do, and jerk to a stop, folding double, coughing. He runs into me. I nearly topple. That prickling grip pulls me upright again.

"What can I do to—" he starts, but the fire alarm cuts him off.

"I forgot to turn down the goddamn oven!"

"I'll get it." He reaches out with his free hand. It's covered in deep red scales, his fingertips ending in delicately curved claws.

Holy crap.

He's dexterous, able to work the knob, then swing down the oven door. Black smoke, oily with burning fats, cascades into our faces. I cover my mouth and nose with the edge of my Henley, eyes burning.

"Oven mitts!" I warn.

"Not necessary!" He's got the tray balanced in his claws. "Where should I—?"

And that's when the fire suppression system kicks in.

It lets out a sharp, high whistle that startles him so badly the claws of the hand holding my arm spasm. They go right through my shirt and into flesh.

I holler.

Five things happen at once.

First, he drops the tray of scones. It clatters off the tile, sending burnt pucks of dough into the air. One smacks into my leg, and two pelt him as we dance away.

Second, he yanks his claws out of my arm, blood on the tips, and freaking hell, it stings.

Third, white foam pours from the pipes that ring the kitchen ceiling, coating every surface in a bitter-tasting cloud. Including us.

Fourth, the guy makes a sort of gurgling belch noise, then a sharp bony click accompanied by a spark that looks exactly like the kind you get from a lighter.

Fifth, he spits fire.

Right into the corner. Where the giant custom bean roaster is. The drum is perforated, and the beans inside it immediately go up in flames. They're so hot they burn blue. The steel drum starts to goddamn melt.

"Coc y gath," he gasps in horror, dithering on the spot.

"Holy shit," I say, clamping my hand down over the punctures in my arm.

"I'm terribly sorry!" he shouts over the sound of the alarm and the hiss of the foam deflating around us. "I didn't mean to—I was startled!"

The urgency of the situation suddenly hits home, fire crawling up the wall toward the ceiling, and I scream: "Put it out!"

"What do you want me to do? Suck it back up?" he shouts back, all his cool calm evaporating in the heat of the inferno. "I'm a dragon, not a fire extinguisher!"

Well.

Fuck this meet-cute straight to hell, then.

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slut4supersoldiers · 3 years

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Happy And Sad

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Bucky Barnes

Summary: A world where Thanos has been defeated and everyone is still alive. Things are normal. Steve and Bucky are still pining over each other. But maybe Tony’s party might bring them a little closer to admitting their feelings.

Happiness is fleeting and so is sadness. And bucky is aware of that. But for once he just wants to be happy. Even without the promise of permanency.

Based on Kacey Musgraves: Happy and Sad.

Warning: If you don’t ship Stucky then don’t read this! Also: Alcohol consumption, self doubt slight mention of ptsd and nightmares, maybe a bard word? major pining.

Rating: F for fluff, A for (slight angst)

A/n: i think this is my second time posting this. The first time it didn’t do so well but I had a surge of confidence so I reposted. Please be kind and please leave some feedback. It means a lot x

Tony has thrown yet another party. A ball room dolled up with expensive decorations, lights, chandeliers and happy faces. Pristine marble floors and a fountain with crystal clear water (or is that champagne?) right in the centre of the room. Guests; superheroes, agents, family and friends all dressed to the nines, black tie of course. And Bucky is standing in the corner of the room.

A forlorn expression; a thousand yard stare. He is fidgeting nervously. Left hand covered completely (in spite of the disapproving look from Shuri). His long hair is conditioned and tied in a low man bun, although stubborn strands still fall on his face. He is nursing a glass of whiskey. Nothing gets him drunk because of the damning super soldier serum but he loves the burn from the amber liquid. Imagines himself getting inebriated enough, just enough to forget the pain that the horrid of his past inflicts upon him mercilessly. He deserves it, he thinks. Before he could let the thoughts consume him he consumes the alcohol.

He can hear music being played but he doesn’t recognise it. Doesn’t recognise anyone. Yes he knows everyone but doesn’t really know anyone. Do they know him? No one does.

He is about to take another sip willing himself to push the pain away but his breath gets caught in his throat.

It's not you, it's the glow of the party

The way that you've got me lit up inside

It's the song that they're playin', the words that you're sayin'

It's never felt so right

There in the throng of the guests he sees a familiar face. A very familiar face. A very familiar person. His person. His Stevie.

Dressed in a velvet blue tuxedo, blonde hair gelled back, a very light scattering of stubble adoring his sharp jaw and high cheekbones. Bucky thinks he rather likes the look. And by the look of it so do all the women who suddenly gravitate towards America’s golden boy. Bucky doesn’t blame them. Instead he breathes a sigh and chugs the drink along with the harsh truth, that it’s not his Steve anymore. Probably never was…

Sulking, he is about to turn and walk towards the guest room (that Tony hesitantly offered him for the night) when he hears someone call his name and that familiar feeling of his world coming to a halt takes over him. Steve.

And I'm the kind of person who starts getting kinda nervous

When I'm having the time of my life

“Buck, where are you going? Join us?” Almost hesitantly Steve asks.

And Bucky turns around. The soft voice leaving Steve’s lips calling out to him like a siren to a sailor sailing through troubled waters. Calming and alluring.

He looks at Steve, really looks at him. He is still that scrawny little punk from Brooklyn, he thinks. Charming, stubborn and god damn beautiful.

“Buck?” Steve raises his eyebrows in concern.

Is there a word for the way that I'm feeling tonight?

Happy and sad at the same time

You got me smiling with tears in my eyes

And Bucky gives in.

Joins the former captain and mingles with everyone. Or as any bystander would’ve said, spends the night making heart eyes at the Adonis like blond man who refused to leave the former Sergeant’s side the whole night.

As the clock nears midnight, the party begins to lose its swing. New agents, and other guests having already left it’s only the avengers and their new comrades relaxing and talking, appreciating being reunited. No one addresses the lost time, the tragedies; the nightmares that will come later are reminder enough so everyone enjoys the company instead.

So does Bucky. With Sam by his side and Nat, his Natalia, sitting beside him, chugging a bottle of vodka like water, Bucky feels comfortable but he is still on the edge. Almost as if he knows that this will be taken away from him someday. That’s his life. Nothing good ever lasts. Nothing good is ever permanent. A forlorn look. A thousand yard stare.

I never felt so high

No, I've never been this far off of the ground

And they say everything that goes up must come down

But I don't wanna come down

“You’re doing it again.” Nat says.

“What?” Bucky asks.

“That lost puppy look. We won Barnes. It’s time to celebrate. We can sulk later.” She raises a well groomed eyebrow at her.

Natalia, always the snarky one. He chuckles and shakes his head as she offers him the bottle.

“10 o clock, sarge! Lover boy is closing in on us.” Nat nudges Bucky. And he is suddenly alert. Doesn’t notice Sam and Nat slowly sneaking away. Doesn’t notice the red covering his cheeks. Doesn’t notice the way Steve’s eyes take him in; adoration, love, lust, longing.

“What is this? The famous James Buchanan Barnes, not dancing?” Steve jokes. Tries to make the situation lighter.

And Bucky feels lighter. Like he is floating on air but that might have to do with how close Steve is standing to him. Shoulders touching, hands brushing against each other.

“You got the wrong guy!” Bucky shrugs half heartedly.

“No. I’ve got the right one.” Steve looks at Bucky. Cerulean eyes stare into each other. Lips parted, slightly. Awaiting.

So is there a way to stop all this thinkin', just keep on drinkin'?

'Cause I don't wanna wake up

When they're turnin' the lights on and it turns out the joke's on me

'Cause it feels so right

Suddenly Steve pulls Bucky away from the wall and to the dance floor. The floor now almost vacant.

“What’re ya doin?” Bucky scratches the back of his neck.

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how you taught me dancing back in the days?” Steve suggests the red of his cheeks matches Bucky’s.

“You were smaller then. Now you’re...big.” Bucky averts his gaze. Steve bends down a little, a tiny, teasing smile plays on his lips. Cautiously, he grabs Bucky’s hand. The metal hand. Brings it to his lips. A soft, shy brush of lips against the gloved surface. Puts it on his shoulder. A weapon, a burden, an appendage, an embarrassment now an object of admiration. Bucky feels his heart beat getting erratic but the gradual mingling of Steve's heart beats with his own makes it sound like a symphony. Mingles with the music softly playing in the background. Bucky notices how his hand fits right on Steve’s shoulder. Steve places a hand on Bucky’s waist. Pulls him closer, just a little bit. And then a little bit more.

“I am still that kid.“ Steve smiles. Eyes filled with love for the broken but brave man before him. His friend. His love. His Bucky.

“Punk.” Bucky whispers.

“Jerk.” Steve chuckles.

I don't mind at all, no, I'm used to fallin'

I'm comfortable when the sky is gray

But when everything is perfect, I start hidin'

'Cause I know that rain is comin' my way, my way

Bucky is still a little sad. Nothing is permanent. But for now he is happy because for now he is with his Stevie. And he is fine with that.

'Cause I'm happy and sad at the same time

You got me smilin' with tears in my eyes

I never felt so high

No, I've never been this far off of the ground

And they say everything that goes up, goes up must come down

And I don't wanna come down

No, I don't wanna come down

Tag:

@mydarlingharry

#chris evans #marvel #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers one shot #stucky #steve rogers x bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes one shot #sebastian stan #stucky x reader

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