[ Even if he is incorrigible and a total menace, Daisy likes Sam, and she's grateful as hell that he's in Bucky's life. Their friendship is the type stories are written about — they've got each other's back through thick and thin. She couldn't wish for a better friend for the man she was falling for.
Dropping her hands into her lap, she gives Bucky a skeptical look complete with raised eyebrows. And because she just can't help it, she has to tease him a little. Maybe a lot. ]
It took you this long to figure that out? Wow, you must really be slipping in your old age. [ A grin takes over her expression; she's not the least bit sheepish about being found out. ] I may have broken into your apartment to decorate while I was "running late" and he kept you busy.
[ There’s a brief uncomfortable flicker for a moment — broken into your apartment, panic-inducing words any other time, Nat would’ve torn him a new one for letting his wariness slip enough that someone could even get in — but it’s there-and-gone quickly enough, his unease settling, paving the way for more bemusement instead. ]
See, this is why I should never have let the two of you meet. You’re ganging up on me. I’m outnumbered. This is unfair.
[ And what in god’s name has she been up to? Bucky considers. ]
[ In the seconds between her admission and Bucky's reply, a spike of panic rises in her chest. What if she'd miscalculated? She has a pretty good feeling that he probably shares her deep discomfort with the idea of someone else in her private space, but she'd been hoping that their friendship-turning-something-more might earn her an exception to that rule. If she'd messed up and ruined things between them...
But no, he soothes her panic in the next second, his response exactly the sort she'd been expecting. She tries not to let her relief show but she might not quite pull it off. It's just what he does to her — he strips away every protective mask she has without even trying. ]
Well, it does if you want your present. And on the way, we can discuss how you really need a security system because not everyone who might want into your place wants to hang up balloons and streamers.
[ Which isn't all she'd done, not by half, but he doesn't need to know that yet. ]
But if I’d set up booby traps and poison darts, then you might not be standing here today.
[ Bucky gathers up his things, sets his last empty on the table. Shrugs back into his jacket and waits for Daisy to get ready, to join him as they leave the patio and head to the streets, to start wandering back to his apartment, comfortably side-by-side. ]
Or, new theory: is this all just a ruse to get yourself back to my place?
[ He’s grinning, teasding. As if she hasn’t already slept over; as if she weren’t often there anyway. ]
[ Booby traps and poison darts? There's a comedic eyeroll in answer to that particular notion, which is completely ridiculous and like something out of a '40s action-adventure movie. Seriously, she needs to teach the man about the modern age of high-tech security alarms and motion sensor video cameras. Because if he insists on continuing to live in that questionable but not quite sketchy apartment building, he needs something more than the shoddy lock she'd picked in 8.5 seconds.
Taking the last swig of her drink, she takes a moment to tidy up their trash before grabbing the little paper bag she'd brought with her. Then they're off, Daisy scoffing dramatically at this theory he's presenting. ]
Please, as if I would ever be that obvious.
[ Except she would be. Absolutely. In a goddamn heartbeat, if given the chance. But that is not the point. ]
You’re welcome anytime, [ he says easily, and it might seem like such a small sentence, but it’s still significant. For a man who’s so guarded about his privacy and who usually hates the mortifying ordeal of being known — he trusts Daisy. With anything and everything. She’s welcome in his personal domestic space, and the idea of having her around doesn’t rankle him the way it might from anyone else.
The journey back is normal enough: getting on the subway, Bucky gamely standing and letting Daisy take a seat on the crowded train, his boot knocking companionably against hers, and him feeling nicely anonymous for once. A lot of things in New York have changed over the past century, but at least there’s still always the subway. When they finally get to his neighbourhood and his building and climb the stairwell to his floor and reach the apartment door, he hesitates. Wondering what he’ll find inside. ]
[ The calm, uneventful trip back to Bucky's is the best kind of boring. For two people whose lives have been anything but normal, moments like these are cherished — by Daisy, at least. She does her best to engrave in her memory the way he'd insisted she take the available seat, the movement of the train that kept them close, and the feeling of being just like everyone else for a little while. It buoys her spirits just as much as Bucky's little You're welcome anytime had. (She knows just how much it means for him to say those words.)
When they reach his door and he asks his very simple yet practical question, she takes a deep breath and tries to shove past the sudden spike of nerves that threatens to take over. ]
Maybe not a warning, exactly. Just a statement that you will not hurt my feelings if you decide you want it all gone immediately. It's your space and I only had good intentions, but it's completely up to you what stays, if anything.
[ Of course, once she starts speaking, it all comes out in a bit of a rushed ramble that betrays said nerves and just serves to make her even more nervous. Which is ridiculous, but then again, brains usually are. Hers certainly seems to delight in frequently torturing her this way. There's nothing to be done for it now, though. They're here, and as soon as he opens that door, he'll find the product of weeks of planning scattered around his personal space.
In the kitchen, there's a shiny new coffee pot in silver and black. It's a fairly simple model without too many bells and whistles, but it mimics a pour over method and makes a damn good cup of coffee. Beside it is an electric grinder and a bag of freshly roasted beans from a cafe a few blocks down the street. And to complete the setup, there's a set of four green coffee mugs, each the same style in a slightly different shade in Daisy's attempt to get close to his favorite hue.
The living room slash bedroom has had a slightly more... drastic change. Well, drastic might be an overstatement, but it is different. The bed now has a frame, one of those models that had a solid slab of wood beneath the mattress, raising it a foot off the ground. She'd considered one that had drawers but figured he would prefer (just as she would) not having something beneath him where something might be able to hide. There's a short headboard attached to the bed now too, so he'll have something to lean against while he sprawls and watches TV — the additional green and grey pillows will help with that too.
The chair is still there, but there's a dark green pillow there now, and a soft grey blanket folded across the back. They match the color scheme on the bed, adding a bit of cohesion to the space without making it feel forced or artificial. Next to the chair is the same end table as before but stacked there now is a set of faux leather-bound copies of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, the four volumes just waiting to be picked up and read. To go with the books, affixed to the wall is a map of Middle-Earth, framed without glass so it looks nice but won't have the same risk of easily breaking if something happens. (If she happens.)
On the wall above the TV is a banner of individual letters reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY, and next to the TV is a handful of colorful balloons with one boldly proclaiming OVER THE HILL. And because all birthdays require a proper wrapped gift, on the end of the bed is a smallish box covered in metallic green paper. ]
Bucky goes motionless in that doorway as he takes it all in, his head on a swivel, turning and catching more and more details the longer he looks. It’s only when Daisy fidgets in his peripheral vision that he takes a few more steps into the apartment as she closes the door behind them, and he’s silently looking at all the little personal touches. The better eye for interior decoration, which he’d never really had. The attention-to-detail for both comfort and coziness. And, more important than anything, the things she’d remembered about him and his tastes: the Tolkien books, his favourite colour.
It’s an actual, genuine housewarming, because now the apartment immediately looks and feels so much more like a home. The bedframe especially has him staring at it, flummoxed.
He blurts out his first words since they’d entered the studio: ]
How the hell did you get all this in here and you were only half an hour late?
[ Bucky doesn’t sound mad. Just— wondering, marvelling, and when he finally turns to meet her eye, she can see the smile blooming on his face. It keeps scattering back-and-forth; wanting to flourish into a grin, but something aches behind it, too, with a terrible and almost painful fondness the longer he looks at her. This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him besides, well, Steve hammering through his HYDRA programming. ]
Jesus. Daisy. Thank you. This is… this must’ve cost a fortune. You didn’t have to do this.
[ And yet there’s still more. His eyesight’s keen, and he’s hyper-attuned to anything and everything being out-of-place (a necessary trait when you were an assassin, and a chair being a few inches off could mean someone else had left an unpleasant surprise in your safehouse). He’d noticed the box on the bed. ]
[ Waiting for Bucky's reaction is one of the most anxiety-inducing things Daisy Johnson has experienced in her 35 years of existence. She never would have expected it to be quite this bad, but now every second threatens to crush her both physically and emotionally. All it would take is a single word of disappointment or one look of horror to send her straight through the floor and into the earth itself.
But, of course, she receives neither. That's not who Bucky Barnes is. So with his innocent question and achingly perfect smile, he heals another broken thing inside her — and, as always, he doesn't even know it. ]
It wasn't that much. The really expensive parts were the tips to get the delivery guys here at a very specific time. But don't worry, I'm the only one who actually came inside.
[ There's no way she would have let anyone else into his space without his permission. Everything she'd done today had been with his comfort in mind. She'd even tried her best to keep things as close to their original position as possible while she moved them around to bring in the bedframe, going so far as to set down a bit of tape for things like the bed so he wouldn't have to adjust to too much in his own space. (There's still a piece of beige masking tape still under one corner of the chair that she'd missed in her hurried cleanup.)
Fighting back her own tentative smile because she's still a bundle of nerves (mostly good now), Daisy stuffs her hands into her coat pockets and gives an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders. ]
Birthdays are important, and we have a lot of them to make up for.
[ We because he isn't the only one with a shitty past full of too many missed life events. As with so many things, they have that in common, and she understands just how much something good and happy can also hurt. ]
[ And, honest-to-god, he means to close the loop on that conversation. Follow that breadcrumb trail. Talk to her. Open that last gift box. Probably have his mind blown again over whatever’s inside, due to her conscientiousness, her attention to detail, how much she cares. And he doesn’t even have the excuse of the alcohol to explain the next twenty seconds; he’d barreled his way through more drinks than the other two, but he’s not drunk, not by a long shot.
It’s just the way it feels like his ribcage could crack right open, right here, right now, with how much he loves her in this moment. It’s probably too soon to even be thinking that word, like letting his thoughts drift and touch a hot stove— but this moment. This, just for this moment, there’s no other word that fits.
So Bucky steps closer. Finally throws caution to the wind, jumps off that cliff, prays there’ll be solid ground to catch him. He reaches out with his right hand and snares the edge of Daisy’s coat, pulls her closer to him, ducks his head, and kisses her. ]
[ You know those moments in movies where time just seems to stop? Usually, when that happens in Daisy's life, it's because of something unpleasant, like receiving the news of losing yet another person she cares about; very rarely is it because of something good. But now, as Bucky moves closer and reaches out, everything around them slows and falls away until they're the only things left in the world.
More than once, she's wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Bucky Barnes, the man who understands her better than he knows, the man who deserves every good thing life refuses to give him. She's wanted to kiss him ever since that night they saw half of a ridiculous musical together and bared part of their souls to each other, but she'd been willing to wait for him to be ready, even if that day never came. For it to be happening now, finally—
Leaning up on her toes, she presses her lips more firmly against his, tugging her hands from her pockets to anchor herself against his shoulders. There's bone and muscle under her left and hard metal under her right and she accepts both. She accepts him, all of who he is, has been and will be. He's Bucky, and even though she's too scared to say the words, she loves him. ]
[ And this thought materialises in one crystal-sharp spark of understanding, the moment Daisy kisses him back and they seem to fall into each other: why had he waited so long?
What a stupid waste of time, when they could have been doing this all along — but he had worried, he had wondered if he’d even be able to do this again. Like excavating some long-lost corner of his soul, some part of him that can remember how to use his hands for peace instead of war. For his metal hand to still grip the corner of Daisy’s jacket, while his other hand goes for the bracket of her cheek and jaw, diving into the kiss.
And here’s the thing: it isn’t rushed or hurried or desperate; it feels, in fact, like they should have been here long ago. Like they’ve just finally meandered their way across that next line in the sand.
When he next breaks for a gulp of breath, his lungs burning, he rests his forehead against hers while those words are still burning a hole in his heart too: you deserve this, Bucky. But it’s not really about birthday balloons or throw blankets or pillows. It’s about— ]
[ The kiss feels as natural as everything else has been between them. It's as if this was always meant to happen and this is the state of being they've been moving toward all their lives. When she's with Bucky, Daisy feels whole in a way she never has before. And it's not anything he's actively doing — even when he's grumpy and grumbling about something or retreating into his shell like an adorable old turtle, just being with him heals something inside her that's been broken for a long time. Finally being able to kiss him is just the next step in that.
And as many times as she'd frantically tumbled into someone's bed in her younger days, she doesn't want to rush this. Not because she's worried it might be a mistake, she knows in her soul that it's not, but because they don't need to.
With the feeling of his breath on her skin, she reaches one hand up to the back of his head. Her fingertips comb through the short strands of hair there and, after a moment, she smiles up at him, an almost sad determination in her expression. ]
Yes, you do. Because I've thought the same thing about you and I've decided I refuse to believe I don't deserve you. For once in my life, I'm letting myself accept that I deserve something good.
[ Bucky almost starts to disagree immediately, instinctive, the refusal on the tip of his tongue. I’m not sure if I’m worth all this, Steve, and that little voice in the back of his head which says he doesn’t bring much to the table for something like a romantic relationship: he’s too old, too damaged. He’s got a century’s worth of baggage and blood on his hands and relatively fresh off his deprogramming. He can’t help the feeling that he’s just going to be a metal weight around her ankle, dragging her down.
But Daisy’s looking at him and her voice is fierce and stubborn, and so maybe he ought to listen, even if he can’t fully believe it yet. They’re both too similar in this: those quiet internal voices, the insidious thought that they’re too-damaged goods. ]
I mean, all things considered, I still think I’m getting the better end of the deal.
[ He tips his head into her touch, savouring the comforting sensation of her fingers combing into his hair. It’s such a small thing, but after having spent so many years so touch-starved, it practically makes a shiver run down his spine. They’re still standing so close, his hand on her hip, their faces a hair’s breadth away from kissing again. ]
I like you a lot. Have I mentioned that enough? Because— I mean, I really, really do. Enough to not want to fuck this up.
[ It’s not the most eloquent, but then again, he never has been. Steve and Sam were the impassioned speech-makers wherever Bucky was involved. ]
You know, for an old guy, you're still pretty good at sweeping a girl off her feet.
[ Daisy doesn't need eloquent professions or grand gestures of affection. Fancy gifts are overrated and expensive getaways are more trouble than they're worth. What she needs is someone who will understand and accept her, flaws and all. And what she wants is him. It had felt like a fantasy to imagine he might ever want her back and now she's living the dream. (Here's hoping she doesn't screw it up.)
Leaning in just enough to brush her lips against his, she murmurs a confirmation that his feelings are very much reciprocated. ] I like you too, in case it wasn't obvious.
[ But then she leans back again, a playful expression tugging her lips into a smile as she looks up at him. ] And if anyone's going to fuck this up, it'll probably be me. It's kind of what I do.
[ His own lips curl into a smile. How the tables have turned: when Daisy disparages herself, then he instantly gets it, her refusal, the way she’d quickly tried to nip his low esteem in the bud. So that’s what it feels like. He doesn’t enjoy hearing Daisy kicking herself like that; wants to insist that he’s obviously the problem, but god it’s futile, so he relents: ]
Alright. So before we get stuck in a stubborn loop of both of us going no you, no, me, and insisting we’re pieces of shit— how about we both say we’re not gonna fuck this up and knock on wood that it’s gonna be fine. And we both deserve good things.
And you, Daisy Johnson, are a good thing.
[ To punctuate that, he leans in; kisses her again. ]
[ She almost retorts that stubborn loops like that can be kind of fun under the right circumstances, but then he makes this anything but humorous. For the both of them to be who they are, broken and struggling to be whole again, and to actively work to make this work... It's everything. Because they do deserve this.
But even though she'd just professed her belief that they both deserve something good, that doesn't extend to her feeling like she's a good thing herself. Hearing Bucky say those words nearly breaks her, and she returns his kiss with an almost desperate fire. In the old days, her hands would already be sliding under his jacket with the intent to remove it and every other piece of clothing on his incredible body. Today, though, when her hands slide beneath the layer of leather, it's so that when she suddenly breaks the kiss, she can move right into a hug, tucking her head against his chest so she can feel the comforting vibration of his heartbeat and wrapping her arms around his torso. ]
[ And so, then, another thing he’s learning about himself: the embrace is pretty much as good as the kiss.
They’ve hugged before, they’ve even snuggled in bed before, but as Daisy slips her arms beneath his jacket and practically worms her way into it, her face against the worn fabric of his t-shirt, Bucky settles his arms around her shoulderblades, his chin against the side of her head. They jot against each other comfortably as ever, like two jigsaw pieces; she’s short, but it actually just makes her even easier to fit against him for the hug as he savours that warm contact, the reassuring physical touch.
It really had been so long, and so it always feels a bit like he’s making up for lost time. In all his decades on ice, he’d only ever known the clinical touch of the scientists maintaining his arm, or attaching sensors to him, or putting the bit in his mouth so he wouldn’t choke on his own tongue. The preparation for that grueling jolt of electricity, near-torture. Touch had been ambivalent or terrible for years.
So. This. He focuses on this instead, anchoring himself in the here and now, focusing on five things in the room: the smell of Daisy Johnson’s perfume, the sight of the birthday banner over her shoulder, the sensation of her fingers against his spine, the spring green colour she’d chosen, the sound of traffic outside. In the end, he murmurs against her hair: ]
D’you wanna stay over again?
I mean, it can just be sleeping over. It’s just— it’s nice to have some company. And, hey, [ a glint of humour to soften that neediness, ] I owe it to you that this place is less empty, so you might as well get to enjoy it feeling like an actual apartment for once.
[ Daisy has always been a hugger. Maybe it comes from a childhood of not having enough affectionate touch; no hugs or hands to hold, no reassuring pats on the back or kisses on her forehead. It's certainly why she makes the extra effort to offer those touches to the people she cares about, so they can feel her love for them.
(Coulson's hugs are the best, though Bucky's are already moving up in the ranks and may score second place before long.)
The reassuring weight of his arms lifts an emotional weight from her shoulders, like he's physically removed some of the tension she carries daily. Her body relaxes into his and she leans against him even more. She can feel the heat seeping through his t-shirt and smell the clean scent of his detergent — it's comforting and makes her feel like she's home, a fact which at any other point in her life would have sent her running in the opposite direction. Now, though: ]
I was hoping you'd let me stay.
[ If he can't hear the smile in her voice, maybe he can feel it because suddenly she's grinning and it's all so... strange. Feeling this happy and content is so unusual for Daisy that it would normally trigger some ridiculous bout of paranoia. Perhaps it only doesn't this time because of how sure she is about Bucky, which in itself somehow defies all past precedent. ]
What, like you’d decorate and freaking furnish my entire actual apartment and then I’d kick you out into the cold? Please. What do you think of me.
[ There’s always some light humour ghosting beneath his voice. Sincerity is hard for Bucky — always has been — but it’s somehow easier around her, considering how Daisy wears her heart on her sleeve with her own earnestness. So he presses his lips to her forehead and then finally turns a little to look askance with his arms still around her, shooting a look at that innocent unwrapped box still sitting on the end of his bed. ]
Is that one gonna make me weird and emotional? You gotta warn me if the last present’s gonna make me weird and emotional.
[ A quiet chuckle is her response to that dusting of humor. This is a side of Bucky she enjoys seeing, when he can let his guard down a little and just be Bucky. Through their now many interactions, she's come to recognize when he's got his walls up, and she's just so damn grateful that she's counted among those he lets them down with. Trusting someone enough to do that is hard, she understands that better than most people ever can.
Leaning back enough to look up at his face, she wears a totally innocent and not at all mischievous expression as she considers the question. ]
Well, to be fair, you're always a little weird... [ There's no holding back the corners of a smile. ] But emotional? Nah. [ A pause. ] I mean, it might, I don't know all your triggers yet, but it's not supposed to.
[ Because he’s got a limit on how many emotions he can successfully and elegantly wrangle in a day, and he’s already gotten overwhelmed and choked up enough over the effort she’s put into the birthday. So Bucky disengages — a little reluctantly — and then moves over to the bed. Picks up the box and sits down in its place, making sure to leave room for Daisy beside him on the mattress as he goes about carefully ripping the present open. ]
[ Before she settles on the bed beside him, Daisy shrugs off her jacket, folding and laying it on the floor beside the bed like she does every time she visits. (Maybe she should have gotten him a coat rack too.) She faces him so she can watch the way he opens the package, every rip of the paper revealing the rigid white gift box. Suddenly, she's nervous again, hoping he likes it, hoping it doesn't make him feel old or out of touch.
Nestled inside is a little photo printer no bigger than his hand, unbranded but clearly well-made. A large green fabric pouch is tucked beside it, holding packages of small Polaroid film, a few wrapped-up cords, and a single roll of grey washi tape.
And it occurs to her as he takes in her gift that he might not actually recognize what it is since it's not being presented with a lot of visual clues. Shit. Straightening her spine, she hurries to explain, the words coming out in a rush. ]
It's a photo printer that'll work with your phone. With any phone, actually, since I programmed it myself. Proprietary software can be a pain in the ass to deal with, so I... [ Not the important part, Johnson. ] My sister has one of these and really loves it, and since you missed when Polaroids were popular, I thought maybe you—
[ The nerves are hitting Daisy and he can tell that they’re hitting her, words rambling and getting away from her in a flood, and so Bucky reaches out with his closest hand (the left, coincidentally) and sets his metal fingers gently against her knee. Just the smallest pressure, a touch, to stop her and stem that flow before she’s carried away with it. ]
It’s a great idea. You’re gonna have to show me how to use this thing, but it’s fantastic. I can’t believe you remembered— I mean, me, I’m shit at this sort of thing. Thoughtful presents.
[ Bucky had fallen out of practice. Even before going on ice, he’d always been relatively poor, and the war had meant tightened pursestrings and even fewer luxury goods. He might gather wildflowers from abandoned lots or buy a drink or try to win a girl a teddy bear at the fair, but he’d never really gotten into the habit of remembering specific things to buy.
But maybe he’s just gonna have to try to get better at it. So he flashes her a smile: ]
So I have until July to figure out something for you, right?
[ That touch to her knee is exactly what she needs, especially with his left hand. The vibranium feels different than everything else around them, absorbing the vibrations she feels in her very bones. By the time he's offering her that adorable smile, she's infinitely calmer, her nerves soothed by his words and that unique metal.
Reaching out to rest her hand on his, she offers him a smile of her own. ]
Yeah, July 2nd. But you know, you don't have to. If we're still... I mean, if we've managed to still make this work by then, you don't have to get me anything. It's not some cryptic girlfriend psychology thing when I say that just being with someone that day would be enough.
[ Nevermind that she jumped straight in on describing herself as his girlfriend, her self-consciousness is entirely focused on her admission that: ]
I've never had that before.
[ A 35-year-old woman who's never shared a birthday with a significant other. Hell, she's barely shared a birthday with anyone, period. The team had done little things to acknowledge the date, cupcakes or a pancake breakfast, the odd present from Coulson or Simmons, but inevitably a mission would come up that scrapped any bigger plans. And, really, she was always okay with that, because even the smallest celebration of the day she was born was more than she'd ever had growing up.
But with Lincoln, the timing just hadn't worked out. She learned her real birthdate before they were together and he died before the day could actually roll around. And she hasn't been with anyone else since. The priority has always been the job and it's taken a long time to get herself together enough to even try being with someone else.
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Dropping her hands into her lap, she gives Bucky a skeptical look complete with raised eyebrows. And because she just can't help it, she has to tease him a little. Maybe a lot. ]
It took you this long to figure that out? Wow, you must really be slipping in your old age. [ A grin takes over her expression; she's not the least bit sheepish about being found out. ] I may have broken into your apartment to decorate while I was "running late" and he kept you busy.
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See, this is why I should never have let the two of you meet. You’re ganging up on me. I’m outnumbered. This is unfair.
[ And what in god’s name has she been up to? Bucky considers. ]
Does this mean we need to head back to my place?
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But no, he soothes her panic in the next second, his response exactly the sort she'd been expecting. She tries not to let her relief show but she might not quite pull it off. It's just what he does to her — he strips away every protective mask she has without even trying. ]
Well, it does if you want your present. And on the way, we can discuss how you really need a security system because not everyone who might want into your place wants to hang up balloons and streamers.
[ Which isn't all she'd done, not by half, but he doesn't need to know that yet. ]
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[ Bucky gathers up his things, sets his last empty on the table. Shrugs back into his jacket and waits for Daisy to get ready, to join him as they leave the patio and head to the streets, to start wandering back to his apartment, comfortably side-by-side. ]
Or, new theory: is this all just a ruse to get yourself back to my place?
[ He’s grinning, teasding. As if she hasn’t already slept over; as if she weren’t often there anyway. ]
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Taking the last swig of her drink, she takes a moment to tidy up their trash before grabbing the little paper bag she'd brought with her. Then they're off, Daisy scoffing dramatically at this theory he's presenting. ]
Please, as if I would ever be that obvious.
[ Except she would be. Absolutely. In a goddamn heartbeat, if given the chance. But that is not the point. ]
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The journey back is normal enough: getting on the subway, Bucky gamely standing and letting Daisy take a seat on the crowded train, his boot knocking companionably against hers, and him feeling nicely anonymous for once. A lot of things in New York have changed over the past century, but at least there’s still always the subway. When they finally get to his neighbourhood and his building and climb the stairwell to his floor and reach the apartment door, he hesitates. Wondering what he’ll find inside. ]
Do I need any warnings beforehand?
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When they reach his door and he asks his very simple yet practical question, she takes a deep breath and tries to shove past the sudden spike of nerves that threatens to take over. ]
Maybe not a warning, exactly. Just a statement that you will not hurt my feelings if you decide you want it all gone immediately. It's your space and I only had good intentions, but it's completely up to you what stays, if anything.
[ Of course, once she starts speaking, it all comes out in a bit of a rushed ramble that betrays said nerves and just serves to make her even more nervous. Which is ridiculous, but then again, brains usually are. Hers certainly seems to delight in frequently torturing her this way. There's nothing to be done for it now, though. They're here, and as soon as he opens that door, he'll find the product of weeks of planning scattered around his personal space.
In the kitchen, there's a shiny new coffee pot in silver and black. It's a fairly simple model without too many bells and whistles, but it mimics a pour over method and makes a damn good cup of coffee. Beside it is an electric grinder and a bag of freshly roasted beans from a cafe a few blocks down the street. And to complete the setup, there's a set of four green coffee mugs, each the same style in a slightly different shade in Daisy's attempt to get close to his favorite hue.
The living room slash bedroom has had a slightly more... drastic change. Well, drastic might be an overstatement, but it is different. The bed now has a frame, one of those models that had a solid slab of wood beneath the mattress, raising it a foot off the ground. She'd considered one that had drawers but figured he would prefer (just as she would) not having something beneath him where something might be able to hide. There's a short headboard attached to the bed now too, so he'll have something to lean against while he sprawls and watches TV — the additional green and grey pillows will help with that too.
The chair is still there, but there's a dark green pillow there now, and a soft grey blanket folded across the back. They match the color scheme on the bed, adding a bit of cohesion to the space without making it feel forced or artificial. Next to the chair is the same end table as before but stacked there now is a set of faux leather-bound copies of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, the four volumes just waiting to be picked up and read. To go with the books, affixed to the wall is a map of Middle-Earth, framed without glass so it looks nice but won't have the same risk of easily breaking if something happens. (If she happens.)
On the wall above the TV is a banner of individual letters reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY, and next to the TV is a handful of colorful balloons with one boldly proclaiming OVER THE HILL. And because all birthdays require a proper wrapped gift, on the end of the bed is a smallish box covered in metallic green paper. ]
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Bucky goes motionless in that doorway as he takes it all in, his head on a swivel, turning and catching more and more details the longer he looks. It’s only when Daisy fidgets in his peripheral vision that he takes a few more steps into the apartment as she closes the door behind them, and he’s silently looking at all the little personal touches. The better eye for interior decoration, which he’d never really had. The attention-to-detail for both comfort and coziness. And, more important than anything, the things she’d remembered about him and his tastes: the Tolkien books, his favourite colour.
It’s an actual, genuine housewarming, because now the apartment immediately looks and feels so much more like a home. The bedframe especially has him staring at it, flummoxed.
He blurts out his first words since they’d entered the studio: ]
How the hell did you get all this in here and you were only half an hour late?
[ Bucky doesn’t sound mad. Just— wondering, marvelling, and when he finally turns to meet her eye, she can see the smile blooming on his face. It keeps scattering back-and-forth; wanting to flourish into a grin, but something aches behind it, too, with a terrible and almost painful fondness the longer he looks at her. This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him besides, well, Steve hammering through his HYDRA programming. ]
Jesus. Daisy. Thank you. This is… this must’ve cost a fortune. You didn’t have to do this.
[ And yet there’s still more. His eyesight’s keen, and he’s hyper-attuned to anything and everything being out-of-place (a necessary trait when you were an assassin, and a chair being a few inches off could mean someone else had left an unpleasant surprise in your safehouse). He’d noticed the box on the bed. ]
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But, of course, she receives neither. That's not who Bucky Barnes is. So with his innocent question and achingly perfect smile, he heals another broken thing inside her — and, as always, he doesn't even know it. ]
It wasn't that much. The really expensive parts were the tips to get the delivery guys here at a very specific time. But don't worry, I'm the only one who actually came inside.
[ There's no way she would have let anyone else into his space without his permission. Everything she'd done today had been with his comfort in mind. She'd even tried her best to keep things as close to their original position as possible while she moved them around to bring in the bedframe, going so far as to set down a bit of tape for things like the bed so he wouldn't have to adjust to too much in his own space. (There's still a piece of beige masking tape still under one corner of the chair that she'd missed in her hurried cleanup.)
Fighting back her own tentative smile because she's still a bundle of nerves (mostly good now), Daisy stuffs her hands into her coat pockets and gives an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders. ]
Birthdays are important, and we have a lot of them to make up for.
[ We because he isn't the only one with a shitty past full of too many missed life events. As with so many things, they have that in common, and she understands just how much something good and happy can also hurt. ]
You deserve this Bucky.
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It’s just the way it feels like his ribcage could crack right open, right here, right now, with how much he loves her in this moment. It’s probably too soon to even be thinking that word, like letting his thoughts drift and touch a hot stove— but this moment. This, just for this moment, there’s no other word that fits.
So Bucky steps closer. Finally throws caution to the wind, jumps off that cliff, prays there’ll be solid ground to catch him. He reaches out with his right hand and snares the edge of Daisy’s coat, pulls her closer to him, ducks his head, and kisses her. ]
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More than once, she's wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Bucky Barnes, the man who understands her better than he knows, the man who deserves every good thing life refuses to give him. She's wanted to kiss him ever since that night they saw half of a ridiculous musical together and bared part of their souls to each other, but she'd been willing to wait for him to be ready, even if that day never came. For it to be happening now, finally—
Leaning up on her toes, she presses her lips more firmly against his, tugging her hands from her pockets to anchor herself against his shoulders. There's bone and muscle under her left and hard metal under her right and she accepts both. She accepts him, all of who he is, has been and will be. He's Bucky, and even though she's too scared to say the words, she loves him. ]
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What a stupid waste of time, when they could have been doing this all along — but he had worried, he had wondered if he’d even be able to do this again. Like excavating some long-lost corner of his soul, some part of him that can remember how to use his hands for peace instead of war. For his metal hand to still grip the corner of Daisy’s jacket, while his other hand goes for the bracket of her cheek and jaw, diving into the kiss.
And here’s the thing: it isn’t rushed or hurried or desperate; it feels, in fact, like they should have been here long ago. Like they’ve just finally meandered their way across that next line in the sand.
When he next breaks for a gulp of breath, his lungs burning, he rests his forehead against hers while those words are still burning a hole in his heart too: you deserve this, Bucky. But it’s not really about birthday balloons or throw blankets or pillows. It’s about— ]
Y’know, I really don’t deserve you.
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And as many times as she'd frantically tumbled into someone's bed in her younger days, she doesn't want to rush this. Not because she's worried it might be a mistake, she knows in her soul that it's not, but because they don't need to.
With the feeling of his breath on her skin, she reaches one hand up to the back of his head. Her fingertips comb through the short strands of hair there and, after a moment, she smiles up at him, an almost sad determination in her expression. ]
Yes, you do. Because I've thought the same thing about you and I've decided I refuse to believe I don't deserve you. For once in my life, I'm letting myself accept that I deserve something good.
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But Daisy’s looking at him and her voice is fierce and stubborn, and so maybe he ought to listen, even if he can’t fully believe it yet. They’re both too similar in this: those quiet internal voices, the insidious thought that they’re too-damaged goods. ]
I mean, all things considered, I still think I’m getting the better end of the deal.
[ He tips his head into her touch, savouring the comforting sensation of her fingers combing into his hair. It’s such a small thing, but after having spent so many years so touch-starved, it practically makes a shiver run down his spine. They’re still standing so close, his hand on her hip, their faces a hair’s breadth away from kissing again. ]
I like you a lot. Have I mentioned that enough? Because— I mean, I really, really do. Enough to not want to fuck this up.
[ It’s not the most eloquent, but then again, he never has been. Steve and Sam were the impassioned speech-makers wherever Bucky was involved. ]
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[ Daisy doesn't need eloquent professions or grand gestures of affection. Fancy gifts are overrated and expensive getaways are more trouble than they're worth. What she needs is someone who will understand and accept her, flaws and all. And what she wants is him. It had felt like a fantasy to imagine he might ever want her back and now she's living the dream. (Here's hoping she doesn't screw it up.)
Leaning in just enough to brush her lips against his, she murmurs a confirmation that his feelings are very much reciprocated. ] I like you too, in case it wasn't obvious.
[ But then she leans back again, a playful expression tugging her lips into a smile as she looks up at him. ] And if anyone's going to fuck this up, it'll probably be me. It's kind of what I do.
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Alright. So before we get stuck in a stubborn loop of both of us going no you, no, me, and insisting we’re pieces of shit— how about we both say we’re not gonna fuck this up and knock on wood that it’s gonna be fine. And we both deserve good things.
And you, Daisy Johnson, are a good thing.
[ To punctuate that, he leans in; kisses her again. ]
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But even though she'd just professed her belief that they both deserve something good, that doesn't extend to her feeling like she's a good thing herself. Hearing Bucky say those words nearly breaks her, and she returns his kiss with an almost desperate fire. In the old days, her hands would already be sliding under his jacket with the intent to remove it and every other piece of clothing on his incredible body. Today, though, when her hands slide beneath the layer of leather, it's so that when she suddenly breaks the kiss, she can move right into a hug, tucking her head against his chest so she can feel the comforting vibration of his heartbeat and wrapping her arms around his torso. ]
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They’ve hugged before, they’ve even snuggled in bed before, but as Daisy slips her arms beneath his jacket and practically worms her way into it, her face against the worn fabric of his t-shirt, Bucky settles his arms around her shoulderblades, his chin against the side of her head. They jot against each other comfortably as ever, like two jigsaw pieces; she’s short, but it actually just makes her even easier to fit against him for the hug as he savours that warm contact, the reassuring physical touch.
It really had been so long, and so it always feels a bit like he’s making up for lost time. In all his decades on ice, he’d only ever known the clinical touch of the scientists maintaining his arm, or attaching sensors to him, or putting the bit in his mouth so he wouldn’t choke on his own tongue. The preparation for that grueling jolt of electricity, near-torture. Touch had been ambivalent or terrible for years.
So. This. He focuses on this instead, anchoring himself in the here and now, focusing on five things in the room: the smell of Daisy Johnson’s perfume, the sight of the birthday banner over her shoulder, the sensation of her fingers against his spine, the spring green colour she’d chosen, the sound of traffic outside. In the end, he murmurs against her hair: ]
D’you wanna stay over again?
I mean, it can just be sleeping over. It’s just— it’s nice to have some company. And, hey, [ a glint of humour to soften that neediness, ] I owe it to you that this place is less empty, so you might as well get to enjoy it feeling like an actual apartment for once.
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(Coulson's hugs are the best, though Bucky's are already moving up in the ranks and may score second place before long.)
The reassuring weight of his arms lifts an emotional weight from her shoulders, like he's physically removed some of the tension she carries daily. Her body relaxes into his and she leans against him even more. She can feel the heat seeping through his t-shirt and smell the clean scent of his detergent — it's comforting and makes her feel like she's home, a fact which at any other point in her life would have sent her running in the opposite direction. Now, though: ]
I was hoping you'd let me stay.
[ If he can't hear the smile in her voice, maybe he can feel it because suddenly she's grinning and it's all so... strange. Feeling this happy and content is so unusual for Daisy that it would normally trigger some ridiculous bout of paranoia. Perhaps it only doesn't this time because of how sure she is about Bucky, which in itself somehow defies all past precedent. ]
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[ There’s always some light humour ghosting beneath his voice. Sincerity is hard for Bucky — always has been — but it’s somehow easier around her, considering how Daisy wears her heart on her sleeve with her own earnestness. So he presses his lips to her forehead and then finally turns a little to look askance with his arms still around her, shooting a look at that innocent unwrapped box still sitting on the end of his bed. ]
Is that one gonna make me weird and emotional? You gotta warn me if the last present’s gonna make me weird and emotional.
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Leaning back enough to look up at his face, she wears a totally innocent and not at all mischievous expression as she considers the question. ]
Well, to be fair, you're always a little weird... [ There's no holding back the corners of a smile. ] But emotional? Nah. [ A pause. ] I mean, it might, I don't know all your triggers yet, but it's not supposed to.
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[ Because he’s got a limit on how many emotions he can successfully and elegantly wrangle in a day, and he’s already gotten overwhelmed and choked up enough over the effort she’s put into the birthday. So Bucky disengages — a little reluctantly — and then moves over to the bed. Picks up the box and sits down in its place, making sure to leave room for Daisy beside him on the mattress as he goes about carefully ripping the present open. ]
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Nestled inside is a little photo printer no bigger than his hand, unbranded but clearly well-made. A large green fabric pouch is tucked beside it, holding packages of small Polaroid film, a few wrapped-up cords, and a single roll of grey washi tape.
And it occurs to her as he takes in her gift that he might not actually recognize what it is since it's not being presented with a lot of visual clues. Shit. Straightening her spine, she hurries to explain, the words coming out in a rush. ]
It's a photo printer that'll work with your phone. With any phone, actually, since I programmed it myself. Proprietary software can be a pain in the ass to deal with, so I... [ Not the important part, Johnson. ] My sister has one of these and really loves it, and since you missed when Polaroids were popular, I thought maybe you—
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It’s a great idea. You’re gonna have to show me how to use this thing, but it’s fantastic. I can’t believe you remembered— I mean, me, I’m shit at this sort of thing. Thoughtful presents.
[ Bucky had fallen out of practice. Even before going on ice, he’d always been relatively poor, and the war had meant tightened pursestrings and even fewer luxury goods. He might gather wildflowers from abandoned lots or buy a drink or try to win a girl a teddy bear at the fair, but he’d never really gotten into the habit of remembering specific things to buy.
But maybe he’s just gonna have to try to get better at it. So he flashes her a smile: ]
So I have until July to figure out something for you, right?
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Reaching out to rest her hand on his, she offers him a smile of her own. ]
Yeah, July 2nd. But you know, you don't have to. If we're still... I mean, if we've managed to still make this work by then, you don't have to get me anything. It's not some cryptic girlfriend psychology thing when I say that just being with someone that day would be enough.
[ Nevermind that she jumped straight in on describing herself as his girlfriend, her self-consciousness is entirely focused on her admission that: ]
I've never had that before.
[ A 35-year-old woman who's never shared a birthday with a significant other. Hell, she's barely shared a birthday with anyone, period. The team had done little things to acknowledge the date, cupcakes or a pancake breakfast, the odd present from Coulson or Simmons, but inevitably a mission would come up that scrapped any bigger plans. And, really, she was always okay with that, because even the smallest celebration of the day she was born was more than she'd ever had growing up.
But with Lincoln, the timing just hadn't worked out. She learned her real birthdate before they were together and he died before the day could actually roll around. And she hasn't been with anyone else since. The priority has always been the job and it's taken a long time to get herself together enough to even try being with someone else.
And now there's Bucky. ]
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thaaaat’s a wrap