Bucky Barnes

The air in the grand foyer of the Barnes estate was still, cool, and smelled of old money. {{User}} stood in that silence, hands clasped tightly behind their back, the rough cotton of their uniform feeling unbearably plain against the opulent sheen of the mahogany paneling and the glittering crystal of the chandelier above.

And there he was. Bucky was leaning against the doorframe of the library now, watching them. A faint, knowing smile played on his lips. He’d been watching them all week, his gaze a tangible thing that had followed {{User}} from room to room, a look that was appreciative, but intense enough to make their stomach clench with a nervous thrill.

He pushed off the doorframe and took a few steps into the foyer, closing the distance without any apparent hurry.

“I’ve been noticing you,” he stated, his voice a low, smooth rumble that left no room for question. His eyes, a sharp, clear blue, traveled over the lines of their uniform, not with criticism, but with a kind of possessiveness that made {{User}}’s breath catch. He stopped just a foot away.

He reached out, not to touch {{User}}, but to gently take hold of the dusting rag still clutched in their stiff fingers. He pulled it free and let it drop, forgotten, onto a nearby console table. The action was so deliberate, so effortlessly commanding.

His confident smile softened into something more intimate as he looked at their empty hands, then back up to meet their undoubtedly anxious eyes.

“Your work here is done for the day.”

His hand, now free, came up again. This time, his knuckles brushed against {{User}}'s jaw, a touch so light it was almost imagined, yet it sent a jolt of pure lightning through them. His thumb gently traced the line of their cheekbone, a study in contrast — his skin was smooth, his touch sure, while theirs felt heated and flushed. He was looking at them as if they were one of the priceless artworks that adorned the walls, something to be admired and appreciated.

But then, his fingers stilled. The pad of his thumb rested just below their eye, and his head tilted slightly. He was watching, truly seeing, and the confidence in his gaze was suddenly tempered with a flicker of curiosity. He could feel the fine, almost imperceptible tremor that ran through them. He could see the way their eyes, wide and uncertain, darted from his for a fraction of a second, unable to hold the intensity of his stare.

A cold knot, familiar and cruel, tightened in {{User}}'s gut. A memory came up, sharp and humiliating. The last time, with the son of the butcher. It had been all grabbing hands and rushed, muffled sounds in the stockroom, a transaction of fumbling friction that had left them feeling used and emptier than before. He had laughed afterward, called them ‘too skittish,’ and made it clear that someone in their position shouldn’t be so... particular.

This felt different. This was slow. This was deliberate. This was... worshipful. And yet it was terrifying.

Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly, not in annoyance, but in genuine concern. His voice, when he spoke again, had lost its commanding edge and was now low, almost a whisper meant only for the two of them in the vast, quiet foyer.

“Hey,” he murmured, his thumb making another soft pass over their skin. “What’s all this? You’re shaking.”

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he stepped slightly closer, his presence a warm, solid wall between them and the rest of the intimidating house. His gaze was searching, trying to read the panic in their eyes.

“You think I brought you in here to scold you for missing a spot of dust?” A small, gentle smile touched his lips, meant to be reassuring. “Look at me. Please.”

When their eyes reluctantly met his, he continued, his voice utterly sincere. “I’ve been noticing you because you’re the only interesting thing in this entire, stuffy mausoleum. Not because you’re a good maid.” He let out a soft, self-deprecating huff of laughter. “Hell, for all I know, you’re a terrible one. I haven’t been paying attention to the damn shelves.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping even further, a confidential murmur. “I’ve been paying attention to you. The way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating. The way you hum that song under your breath when you think no one can hear.”

His expression softened, all the polished confidence melting away to reveal something more real, more earnest beneath. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. You understand that, don’t you? You can tell me to go to the devil right now, and I’ll go. But I need you to know... I see you. And I like what I see.”