[ 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.
[ There’s that instinctive urge as always, kicking like a horse — because there’s a joke here and Bucky knows exactly the joke he wants to make — but he winds up filing it away for later, instead setting the printer contraption aside on the bed and scooting so he’s sitting a little closer. Knees against hers, facing her, both hands now against Daisy’s legs. Because addressing this particular statement is more important, at this moment in time. ]
Literally never?
[ A beat, and hey he’s not completely stupid, so he jots some puzzle pieces together: ]
Because you were adopted? You didn’t know your birthday?
[ This isn't the way she intended the conversation to go but she's not going to shy away from his questions. As always, she's prepared to be an open book with him — it only seems fair when she knew so much about him even before they were friends. ]
Birthday, name, ethnicity. I didn't know any of it until I met my parents when I was 26. Everything about myself was one big mystery. [ Her hands rest on his and her tone shifts from easy and open to something slightly more sterile and stilted. ] And I was never adopted. It was orphanage to foster care and back, over and over. I actually found out one time on the fake birthday they'd given me – pack your bags, you don't belong here.
[ Taking a deep breath, she shakes her head, as if she can physically dislodge those dark thoughts. This is a day for celebration, not dwelling on her shitty childhood. ] Anyway, that's part of why I did all this. Celebrating birthdays is important: it means someone is glad you were born. Everyone deserves to know that.
[ Once Daisy explains, then he can feel his heart ache. Literally ache, twinging sharp in his chest with that new knowledge and angle. Funny, how something as simple as some words about someone else’s life can spark that sympathetic pain, can make your chest thrum with it. ]
Sorry, I’d assumed— an orphanage, you always think that’s going to be temporary—
[ Shitty assumption, Bucky. She’d lived it. Apologetic, he laces his fingers into hers. ]
For what it’s worth, so it’s said, I’m glad you were born. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad we met, even if it was because someone just thought having Sergeant Barnes on a SHIELD op sounded like a good idea. [ The corners of his eyes crinkle; a faint smile, barely touching his mouth although it’s genuine. And then comes the joke, trying to lighten the mood, although it comes with an immediate followup to not send her into a goddamn spiral of terror: ]
[ People always assume the best when it comes to someone's childhood because they don't want to have to deal with what the worst looks like. And Daisy's was only worse, not the worst it could have been — she'd never suffered the kind of abuse that runs rampant in the foster system, she'd just... been unwanted. It's the kind of pain that cuts deep, even when she's known for a decade now that it was just SHIELD trying to protect her. Some part of her will always fear being rejected and abandoned by the people she loves.
I'm glad you were born. Hearing Bucky say those words makes her want to cry with some of the most painful joy she's ever experienced. If he didn't turn to a joke when he did, he would have had a sobbing girlfriend on his hands. Instead, he gets a smiling one. ]
[ And with that confirmed — an irrepressible bubble of warmth in his chest, his heart, rising up through his throat — Bucky leans in again. Their knees and legs are in the way, so it necessitates her leaning in to meet him halfway, but she does, and he manages to catch her lips in another kiss. His hands now sliding a little closer, resting against the lines of her thighs, still just to have something to hang onto.
There’s heat to it, yes, but it’s like a comfortable fireplace at home rather than a blazing forest fire. Touching her merely because he wants to, and they’re both unaccustomed to it, and not because he necessarily needs to rip her clothes off.
It’s simply enough to be here, to be with Daisy, to have her with him on this day, and to be allowed to touch her like this at all. ]
[ It's rare for Daisy to be certain about something in her personal life. When it comes to her work, she's steady and confident, sure of where she stands and what she's capable of. With relationships, it's... harder. Friends, pseudo-parents, significant others, there's almost always some fear and doubt weighing on her in the early months, and sometimes even after years have passed. But with Bucky, for right now, she feels like she's on solid ground. She knows her own emotions and she has a pretty good idea of his. So no, this might not last, but she's at least able to savor this moment of just being with him and knowing she can finally show her affection the way she's been wanting to for months.
It's a nice kiss, not hurried or pushing for too much. She feels like each touch between them is a conversation rather than a demand for more. Leaning in to meet him feels comfortable and without expectation, and being able to reach up and gently frame his face with her hands feels like a gift. When she pulls back to catch her breath, she stays close, stroking her thumbs across the beard he keeps so neatly trimmed. ]
You're a good kisser. Can't read that in the history books. [ She's teasing, of course, her voice warm with affection. ]
Oh, jesus. Could you imagine if it was in the books? Talk about awkward.
[ Bucky ducks his face into her touch; he often seems to react like a cat, skittish about touch but then he leans into it for more once it’s there. After a moment, paring back some of his own vulnerability and honesty, he adds: ]
I’m rusty, so it’s kind of a miracle if I pulled that off. You can probably guess, but like, I haven’t done this in a while. A relationship. Not since, literally, World War II. So if I get anything wrong— because things have changed since the last time I knew how to do this, or because things haven’t changed but it’s been long enough for me— so if I fuck up— I’m just saying, please feel free to tell me. And if I’m… off, it’s not you, it’s… that.
[ A beat, and then one more card on the table: ] I kind of hadn’t really thought I’d ever get to this place again with anyone. So. Bear with me.
[ Every time she touches him, Daisy watches for some sign that Bucky isn't okay with it. For all that she knows of his past, there's so much she doesn't know about how that trauma has affected him; she can only guess at where the minefields lay. It's a relief whenever he allows it, even more so when he encourages it.
She drops her hands to his shoulders as he speaks, then slowly to his chest so she can better feel his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. Comforting. It doesn't take long at all for her to decide where this conversation needs to go. ]
We both have a lot of shit we're dealing with — the cards are kind of stacked against us in that regard. But if we both do the work to just talk to each other... We can maybe have a chance at making this work. So that goes both ways: If I say something, do something, or if I don't when I need to, then you tell me. Deal?
[ It’s surprisingly hard. It’s so fucking hard to verbalise what he wants and needs when he isn’t even certain of it himself; when, starting with the war, he’d already grown used to burying it six feet deep and simply smiling over it; and in all the decades since, he hasn’t been allowed to have an opinion. A preference. To explore what he wants. To even attempt a relationship with another person. He hadn’t existed for anyone except his masters for so long, and now that those strings have been cut, he’s trying to remember what it feels like to try.
So Bucky takes a deep, rattling breath, but then he nods. ]
[ Smiling with genuine happiness, she moves her hands to his against her thighs, loving every damn second of being able to touch him like this. To be close and know that it's okay now. She'll still always look for signs of it being too much, but now there's the hope of there being times when it's not enough. (She's looking forward to the latter.) ]
So, birthday boy. What do you want to do now? It's not that late, we could watch a movie or I could show you how to use your new toy. Or if you're hungry, we could get something that's not just alcohol and sugar — though, we are adults, so that is a perfectly acceptable dinner.
[ Is she still grinning like an idiot? Absolutely. Does she care? Not one bit. This is a feeling she could really get used to. ]
[ All of those options sound wonderful. Bucky considers it, weighing each of them in his mind, but there’s an irrepressible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It’s hard to bite it back whenever he’s around her: the warmth and light and kindness that Daisy just radiates, constantly, all the time, just by her very presence. ]
Can I say “all of the above”? Because, like, how about we order in some takeout, you show me how to use this doo-dad, [ did he really just say the words doo-dad, ] and then we can watch a movie with dinner.
Which kind of sounds like a perfect, chill night. Like, I couldn’t have asked for any better for my birthday. Thank you.
[ Steve, maybe. He misses Steve. But in lieu of that, Daisy’s still managing to help patch up those wounds. ]
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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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Literally never?
[ A beat, and hey he’s not completely stupid, so he jots some puzzle pieces together: ]
Because you were adopted? You didn’t know your birthday?
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Birthday, name, ethnicity. I didn't know any of it until I met my parents when I was 26. Everything about myself was one big mystery. [ Her hands rest on his and her tone shifts from easy and open to something slightly more sterile and stilted. ] And I was never adopted. It was orphanage to foster care and back, over and over. I actually found out one time on the fake birthday they'd given me – pack your bags, you don't belong here.
[ Taking a deep breath, she shakes her head, as if she can physically dislodge those dark thoughts. This is a day for celebration, not dwelling on her shitty childhood. ] Anyway, that's part of why I did all this. Celebrating birthdays is important: it means someone is glad you were born. Everyone deserves to know that.
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Sorry, I’d assumed— an orphanage, you always think that’s going to be temporary—
[ Shitty assumption, Bucky. She’d lived it. Apologetic, he laces his fingers into hers. ]
For what it’s worth, so it’s said, I’m glad you were born. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad we met, even if it was because someone just thought having Sergeant Barnes on a SHIELD op sounded like a good idea. [ The corners of his eyes crinkle; a faint smile, barely touching his mouth although it’s genuine. And then comes the joke, trying to lighten the mood, although it comes with an immediate followup to not send her into a goddamn spiral of terror: ]
Girlfriend, huh?
I like the sound of that.
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I'm glad you were born. Hearing Bucky say those words makes her want to cry with some of the most painful joy she's ever experienced. If he didn't turn to a joke when he did, he would have had a sobbing girlfriend on his hands. Instead, he gets a smiling one. ]
Good. I do, too.
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There’s heat to it, yes, but it’s like a comfortable fireplace at home rather than a blazing forest fire. Touching her merely because he wants to, and they’re both unaccustomed to it, and not because he necessarily needs to rip her clothes off.
It’s simply enough to be here, to be with Daisy, to have her with him on this day, and to be allowed to touch her like this at all. ]
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It's a nice kiss, not hurried or pushing for too much. She feels like each touch between them is a conversation rather than a demand for more. Leaning in to meet him feels comfortable and without expectation, and being able to reach up and gently frame his face with her hands feels like a gift. When she pulls back to catch her breath, she stays close, stroking her thumbs across the beard he keeps so neatly trimmed. ]
You're a good kisser. Can't read that in the history books. [ She's teasing, of course, her voice warm with affection. ]
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[ Bucky ducks his face into her touch; he often seems to react like a cat, skittish about touch but then he leans into it for more once it’s there. After a moment, paring back some of his own vulnerability and honesty, he adds: ]
I’m rusty, so it’s kind of a miracle if I pulled that off. You can probably guess, but like, I haven’t done this in a while. A relationship. Not since, literally, World War II. So if I get anything wrong— because things have changed since the last time I knew how to do this, or because things haven’t changed but it’s been long enough for me— so if I fuck up— I’m just saying, please feel free to tell me. And if I’m… off, it’s not you, it’s… that.
[ A beat, and then one more card on the table: ] I kind of hadn’t really thought I’d ever get to this place again with anyone. So. Bear with me.
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She drops her hands to his shoulders as he speaks, then slowly to his chest so she can better feel his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. Comforting. It doesn't take long at all for her to decide where this conversation needs to go. ]
We both have a lot of shit we're dealing with — the cards are kind of stacked against us in that regard. But if we both do the work to just talk to each other... We can maybe have a chance at making this work. So that goes both ways: If I say something, do something, or if I don't when I need to, then you tell me. Deal?
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So Bucky takes a deep, rattling breath, but then he nods. ]
I’m shitty at this but, yeah, I’ll try. Deal.
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[ Smiling with genuine happiness, she moves her hands to his against her thighs, loving every damn second of being able to touch him like this. To be close and know that it's okay now. She'll still always look for signs of it being too much, but now there's the hope of there being times when it's not enough. (She's looking forward to the latter.) ]
So, birthday boy. What do you want to do now? It's not that late, we could watch a movie or I could show you how to use your new toy. Or if you're hungry, we could get something that's not just alcohol and sugar — though, we are adults, so that is a perfectly acceptable dinner.
[ Is she still grinning like an idiot? Absolutely. Does she care? Not one bit. This is a feeling she could really get used to. ]
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Can I say “all of the above”? Because, like, how about we order in some takeout, you show me how to use this doo-dad, [ did he really just say the words doo-dad, ] and then we can watch a movie with dinner.
Which kind of sounds like a perfect, chill night. Like, I couldn’t have asked for any better for my birthday. Thank you.
[ Steve, maybe. He misses Steve. But in lieu of that, Daisy’s still managing to help patch up those wounds. ]
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thaaaat’s a wrap