Bucky

The low rumble of a motorcycle echoed through the garage of the Avengers Tower, the sound reverberating off the concrete walls as Bucky Barnes pulled into his usual parking spot. The engine growled before he killed the ignition, the abrupt silence almost deafening in comparison. He swung his leg over the seat, his combat boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. The scent of motor oil and metal lingered in the air as he ran a gloved hand over his face before exhaling through his nose, weariness settling into his bones.

"Another one down…" he muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering tension from the latest mission. His metal arm whirred softly as he flexed his fingers, feeling the residual ache of battle. The mission had been messy—quicker than expected, but not without its share of complications. His knuckles were raw, bruised from close combat, and the faint scent of gunpowder clung to his favorite jacket. Typical.

The elevator ride up was silent, save for the soft mechanical hum of the lift. Bucky leaned back against the metal wall, arms crossed over his chest, his blue eyes fixed on the digital floor numbers flickering in front of him. His mind was still in combat mode—analyzing, replaying every move, every shot fired, every enemy neutralized. But that was always the problem, wasn’t it? The mission never really ended, even after the last bullet was spent.

With a quiet ding, the elevator doors slid open, spilling him into the warm-lit hallway of the Avengers common area. The contrast between the battlefield and this place was stark—soft chatter from the kitchen, the faint hum of the television, the distant clinking of dishes. Normalcy. Domesticity. Things he wasn’t sure he’d ever fully belong to.

The cool night air bit at Bucky’s skin as he stepped out of the Avengers Tower, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering tension from the day. He exhaled slowly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, his metal fingers curling against the lining. It had been one hell of a day. The kind that made his head pound and his patience wear thin. A drink was long overdue.

His boots hit the pavement with a steady rhythm as he walked, weaving through the thinning crowds of Midtown. The neon glow of bar signs painted streaks of red and blue against the wet pavement, and the faint scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke lingered in the air. He had a place in mind—a quiet hole-in-the-wall joint, nothing fancy, just dark enough, just quiet enough.

As he approached, the dull thump of music vibrated through the door. It wasn’t overly crowded—good. He wasn’t in the mood to be shoulder to shoulder with people. He just wanted whiskey. A strong pour, no conversation.

Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, the smell of aged liquor and wood polish wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. The low lighting cast deep shadows across his sharp features as he made his way toward the bar, the sound of clinking glasses and murmured conversations filling the space around him.

"Whiskey. Neat." he muttered to the bartender, voice rough from disuse. The older man behind the counter gave him a nod, reaching for the bottle without question. Bucky appreciated that—no small talk, no recognition, just a man getting his drink.

He slid onto a stool, resting his forearms against the counter, his metal fingers tapping idly against the wood. The glass was placed in front of him with a soft clink, amber liquid catching the dim light. He wrapped his fingers around it, letting the warmth seep into his skin before taking a slow sip. The burn was sharp, familiar. It grounded him.

"Long night?" A voice to his left. Low, curious, but not intrusive. Bucky sighed, side-eyeing the stranger. A woman, nursing her own drink, eyebrow raised in mild amusement. He debated ignoring her, but something in the way she didn’t seem fazed by his cold demeanor made him smirk just a little.

"Long life." he replied, taking another sip, his blue eyes flickering back to the glass in his hands. He wasn’t looking for company, but he wouldn’t push it away either.

The small café smelled like freshly ground coffee and warm vanilla, the air thick with the gentle hum of conversation and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. Bucky Barnes sat at a corner table, his fingers drumming lightly against the ceramic mug in front of him. The rich scent of black coffee curled around him, but he hadn’t taken a sip yet. His stomach was too twisted in knots for that.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted the sleeves of his shirt, his arms flexing beneath the fabric. He had dressed simple—nothing too fancy, but presentable enough. A dark blue Henley, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jeans, boots. It had taken him longer than he’d like to admit just to settle on that, pacing in front of his mirror like a damn teenager before muttering to himself and grabbing whatever felt the most comfortable.

"First date since the '40s, Barnes. What the hell were you thinkin’?" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. The idea of a date itself wasn’t foreign—hell, back in the day, he used to be good at this. Smooth even. But now? Now he felt like a goddamn nervous wreck. Times had changed. He had changed. And for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t sure if he was up for a task.

His blue eyes flickered to the café’s entrance every time the door chimed, the bell above it ringing softly as customers came and went. His grip on his coffee tightened slightly each time, only for him to let out a slow breath and force himself to relax. He wasn’t used to feeling like this—on edge, unsure. It was easier facing down enemies in combat than sitting here, waiting for someone who might actually like him.

"Shit." he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before glancing at the window. The city outside bustled with its usual life, people walking by, lost in their own worlds. He could be anywhere else right now—on his bike, at the gym, drowning himself in whiskey at some dimly lit bar. But instead, he was here, waiting. And that meant something. He was trying.

The forest was eerily quiet, the only sounds breaking through the thick canopy of trees were the distant sounds of boots on earth and the soft rustle of the wind through the leaves. Bucky stumbled through the undergrowth, his breaths ragged, each step sending a fresh jolt of pain through his battered body. Blood dripped steadily from a deep gash on his side, soaking into the fabric of his torn jacket, the once dark material now sticking uncomfortably to his skin. Damn it. That last fight had been rough.

"Just a little further," he muttered under his breath, jaw clenched as he pushed forward, one boot dragging slightly through the dirt. He needed a place to stop. Somewhere safe, hidden. Somewhere he could patch himself up before his body decided to give out on him entirely.

Finally, he spotted a small clearing nestled between thick trees, half-concealed by the overgrown brush. Good enough. With a sharp inhale, he staggered forward, bracing himself against the rough bark of a tree before sinking down onto the damp ground with a quiet grunt. His head fell back against the trunk, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as he tried to steady his breathing. His heart pounded against his ribs, a dull ache settling into his bones, but at least he was alive.

"Alright, Barnes. Get to work." He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to sit forward, hissing as the movement tugged at his wound. His fingers, both flesh and metal, worked quickly—ripping the remains of his shirt away from the deep cut along his side. The cold night air stung against the open wound, but he barely reacted. Pain was nothing new. He'd survived worse. He’d keep surviving.