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You always felt Bucky’s presence moments before he walked into the diner. A quiet hush would fall over the customers and the other waitresses’ would check their appearance in whatever reflective surface they could find. And sure enough, seconds later, the bell would ring and a six foot, handsome super soldier would walk in.
You weren't sure why he kept coming back here. The coffee was terrible and you weren't entirely sure that the diner met food health and safety standards. But he came here every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday at exactly 10:15pm.
And today was Friday and it was 10:14pm. You pretended not to notice the way the customers sat by the windows had fallen quiet. How Vanessa was already reapplying her lipstick while glancing at a serving spoon. You pretended that your heart didn't beat a little quicker the moment that you heard that bell ring.
Bucky Barnes paid no attention to the other customers. He was used to people staring by now. Used to them whispering. He used to hate it. Eight months ago, he would have walked straight back out the diner and not looked back. Hell, he wouldn't have even left his apartment to begin with. But he was trying to adjust to the modern world and having a routine that actively placed him in a busy diner on a Friday night was helping.
Despite Vanessa batting her lashes and putting on a fresh coat of MAC ruby woo lipstick, Bucky chooses to sit in your area. He makes it look like an accident. Like he wanted to be closer to the radio, despite the fact he hated modern music.
He picks up a menu. Pretends to look at it. You bite back a smile as you pass by him to drop off an order to the kitchen.
"I'll be with you in a minute," you tell him. He grunts, eyes on the sandwich options, his mind on how socially acceptable it would be to throw the radio at the wall. Maybe crush it with his vibranium hand.
When you do return to him, he looks up instantly. You knew it was his enhanced senses from the super soldier serum but still, it made your face flush. Five months he had been coming here and you thought you would be used to it. You weren’t.
"Hey stranger," you say as you pull out your pen and notepad from your apron pocket, "thinking of branching out and trying a BLT?"
Bucky doesn't laugh but his face does shift for a moment.
"Nah, I think I'll have the usual," he says finally, putting the menu down. Bucky's usual was a black coffee. No milk, no sugar, no creamer and certainly no fancy syrup.
"Are you sure?" You ask, though you're already reaching towards the coffee pot (which you may have made fresh only five minutes prior) and grabbing him a mug.
Bucky looks over at someone drinking a latte a few stools down from him and frowns.
"Positive."
You may not know why Bucky kept coming back to this shitty diner but to the other customers, to your colleagues, it was pretty obvious. Bucky was falling for the pretty waitress who was currently pouring him a mug of coffee.
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"Have you thought of asking her out?"
"No Sam, I haven't."
"What about asking for her number?"
"No, Sam."
"Have you asked if she's single?"
"No."
"Man, do you want to die alone?"
Bucky makes sure to smack the punching bag a little harder at that.
He didn't know why he had decided to tell Sam Wilson, of all people, about you. But he certainly didn't have a lot of people to seek advice from. Not after Steve had left him. He was still trying not to be angry about that.
Sam looks over at Bucky, exasperated as the super soldier continuously hits the punching bag that hung in the middle of the gym. Even with the bag full of heavy sand, Sam could hear how even the sturdy hook Shuri had fitted was struggling due to the power behind Bucky's punches.
"Okay Buckaroo—let's not take our anger out on the punching bag," Sam says gently and Bucky finally takes a few steps back, his bare chest heaving. Sweat glistening off his hardened muscles. Vibranium arm whirring as he tries to relax. But it's difficult when he's so wound up.
He couldn't help it. If it was the 40s, he would have no problem asking you out. Would have done it the first time he had stumbled into the diner after a rough mission. But it wasn't the 40s anymore and Bucky was not the same charming and easy going guy. He had been through too much. Seen too much. Been the (unwilling) cause of so much harm that the thought of you—someone who he imagined had never so much as hurt a fly—getting close to him? Well, he just didn't believe he was worthy as such a thing as your time, let alone anything more.
"Come on, Barnes," Sam says encouragingly. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Bucky looks at Sam, a grumpy expression on his face because honestly? Bucky had a lot of answers to that question. To him, he couldn't imagine a world where asking you out ended in anything but disaster.
"She could say no," Bucky states finally. "And then laugh in my face."
"Dude, she's not going to do that. First of all, you're kind of terrifying so she will not laugh at you."
Bucky looks at Sam with an expression that plainly told him to shut up. Sam raises his hands in surrender.
"Alright—I'll stop teasing," Sam declares. "But seriously man, ask her out. I want you to be happy—”
"—I am happy," Bucky interjects, hoping he sounds convincing. Forcing a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes.
"Finally learning how to use DoorDash does not count as being happy," Sam quips.
Bucky looks at Sam for a long, long moment. He knew Sam meant it. Knew Sam genuinely did want him to be happy. To have some semblance of a normal life. Bucky just—he felt like a fish out of water here.
"Just ask her," Sam says finally, understanding Bucky's silence meaning that this particular conversation being over. "Before someone else does."
Bucky stiffens at that and looks over at his begrudging friend with a clenched jaw. He had considered that. Hell, you could be married with three children for all he knew (though he had made note of your lack of a wedding ring).
"Maybe," Bucky mutters, turning back to the punching bag and raising his fists.
"What's her name?" Sam asks. "This elusive waitress?"
"(y/n)."
When he says your name, he can't help but smile. Sam Wilson can't help but notice.
"Pretty name," Sam notes.
"Yeah. Pretty."
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It was a Tuesday at 8:55pm when Captain American walked into the diner.
Thankfully, Tuesday's were pretty quiet but even so, Sam Wilson was immediately inundated with people asking for selfies, for autographs, for his number.
People were not afraid to approach him like they were Bucky Barnes, apparently. And Sam, well, he's more than happy to entertain.
You watch, in the middle of wiping down a table that a group of teenagers had managed to spill not one but two milkshakes on, as this man single-handedly handles a crowd of admirers like it was nothing. Like he did this on the daily. Perhaps he did.
Your boss and a few other waitresses handle the crowd, asking that customers return to their tables so that 'Cap can enjoy his hearty meal in peace'. You almost laugh at your boss’ words. He had never treated Bucky with such care and attention. And a hearty meal? That was a stretch. You return your attention back to the messy table, frowning in disgust as you note the smears of mustard the teens had left on the tabletop. You were just about to go and grab some extra cleaning products when someone taps your shoulder.
You turn and—come face to face with Captain America.
You blink. Stunned. Should you bow? Curtsey? Pledge allegiance to the flag? You weren't sure.
Before you could do anything however, Sam smiles at you like you were old friends.
"(y/n), right?" He asks and you nod numbly as he extends his hand to you. "I'm Sam. Bucky's friend."
"Oh," you exclaim, taking Sam's hand and shaking it. "Yeah. Bucky. Right. I know Bucky."
Sam smiles at that. You're still shaking his hand. He doesn't pull away until you do.
"Are you—are you here to meet Bucky?" You ask. "Because he's not usually here until after ten—"
"No," Sam cuts across you with a shake of his head. "I'm here to see you."
"Me?" You ask, still in a state of astonishment. When Sam nods, you're just even more bewildered but you don't have time to question it when you catch your boss' eye over Sam's shoulder. Clearly, your boss wasn't going to let you just talk to the most famous person who had ever walked into this diner. "Sure—um, yeah. We can talk," you say as you gesture to the half cleaned table (your boss makes a noise as though fatally wounded) but Sam doesn't mind. Just sits down. Doesn't even make a face at the mustard smear. "I'll just—clean that up."
"Great," Sam replies kindly with an easy smile. "Take your time. I'm in no rush".
You practically race to the cleaning cupboard. What the actual fuck was going on? Why was Captain American here in, quite possibly, the worst diner in New York City asking to talk to you? You imagined it had something to do with Bucky. That had to be it. You couldn't imagine any other reason why Sam Wilson would be wanting to talk to you. You were a law abiding without even a blemish on your record.
You grab the supplies you needed before your boss could follow you in the closet and scold you for letting Captain America sit at such a dirty table. You return to said table barely thirty seconds later, Sam now perusing a menu and chatting easily to Vanessa.
"—so, is Thor still in the gang?" She asks in that flirty tone of hers, twirling her red, silky hair around her finger as she leans back against the table like she had all the time in the world and didn't have customers waiting on her (which she absolutely did). "Does he have a phone—"
"Hey Ness. Sorry but I gotta clean the table," you tell her, not missing the small huff of frustration as she stands up straight. She walks away but not before casting you an envious look over her shoulder. Without a word, you clean the table as Sam watches you over his menu.
"So, how long has Robo-cop been coming here?" Sam questions.
"Who?"
"Barnes. Bucky. That moron with the metal arm."
"Oh," you say, spraying some disinfectant before giving the table a final wipe down. "Um, he's been coming here for about... five months?"
"Five months?" Sam repeats in an incredulous tone. "Three days a week for five months?"
You nod. You glance back briefly at your boss who was still watching you from behind the counter.
"Are you going to order something or are you just here to talk to me? Because—I have a feeling my boss might burst into flames if I don't do my job."
Sam laughs easily, head thrown back and the sound bursting out of him.
"Hell no," Sam chortles. "Bucky told me this place is one health visit away from being bulldozed down. But—just to get your boss off your back, I'll have—whatever the most expensive thing is on the menu."
And so, Sam ends up with a surf and turf and you sat in the booth across from him. Your boss finally off your back.
"Do you know why I'm here?" Sam asks you, hesitantly poking at the severely overcooked steak. "Besides from having a death wish. Apparently."
You fiddle with the corner of a napkin nervously. Bottom lip between your teeth. Eyes darting towards the clock. Subconsciously checking the time because it was a Tuesday and it was 9:25pm. Bucky would be here in less than an hour.
"Is it to do with Bucky?" You offer, eyes flickering up to meet Sam's. He smiles.
"Bingo."
You can't help it. You flush. Because the thought of Bucky? Well, it made your heart beat a little faster. Your stomach feels as though it was doing a loop-de-loop on a damn rollercoaster.
"You like him," Sam says then. Not a question, but a statement. One which you don't deny.
"He—he's nice," you murmur finally. Looking down at that incredibly interesting napkin in your hand.
"Just nice?"
"He—he's polite too," you add. "And—he always tips really well and—and he's a good listener—"
"—god, you're perfect for him," Sam chuckles. "You know, he's just as in denial. If not worse."
"About—?"
"He likes you," Sam states, as though he was stating a simple, undisputed fact. "Like—really likes you."
You blink. Your face feels hot and you swear you momentarily forget how to breathe properly.
"And judging by the fact you're not running for the hills, I'm going to guess that you like him too," Sam observes quietly.
You look up at Sam then and after a few moments, you nod.
"He—you just don't meet a lot of guys like him," you declare finally.
Sam laughs again, "because he's like a hundred and seven years old."
You laugh at that—you can't help it.
"He told me you had a great laugh too."
"He did?" You ask, trying not to sound hopeful. Trying not to sound flustered.
"Yeah—he threatened to put my body in a blender if I ever repeated it but, I figured if telling you means that Mr Cyborg gets a chance of happiness then hell, I'll take the risk."
Sam leaves twenty minutes later with a takeaway box full of inedible steak and seafood after leaving a generous tip and your mind reeling. Because Bucky liked you. He liked you enough to tell Sam about. Liked you enough that Sam was teasing him.
You still couldn't quite believe it.
And so, when 10:15pm came, you waited with bated breath. But the other customers didn't quite. The bell above the door didn't ring.
For the first time in five months, Bucky Barnes didn't show up to the diner on a Tuesday night.
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In fact, Bucky didn't show up all week. And the next.
You felt his absence. You hated that you still looked up when the bell rang, even if it was the middle of the day. You hated that you had even checked latest news stories about him just to check that he was okay. And you hated that you had spent time on your hair and makeup before your shift just in case. After that conversation with Sam, you were sure that the next time you saw Bucky would have been...well, you weren't entirely sure but you had felt hopeful. Excited, even.
And now, you wondered if you would ever see him again.
It had been two Fridays since Bucky had last been at the diner and you finished your shift around 2am—since you were covering Vanessa (who had conveniently fallen ill on the day she was meant to be doing the late shift). You felt the cold before you even left the diner—the air nipping at any bit of exposed skin it could find. You pulled on a hat, scarf, gloves and your biggest coat but your teeth still chattered as you locked up the diner.
Thankfully, you only lived a few blocks away and so you didn’t have far to walk.
What you didn’t account for however was how dark it would be. Most of the streetlights were off and so, you started to walk with the metal of your house keys between your knuckles.
“I can walk you back.”
You nearly scream.
Your key clatters onto the asphalt.
You scramble to pick it up so you could punch the guy who—
“Hey, it—it’s just me. I—I’m sorry, I—I didn’t meant to scare you.”
You look up then, still kneeling on the frozen concrete with your hand clamped around your house key as you see—Bucky.
You hadn’t forgot how handsome he was but it still took you by surprise. Made you feel a little breathless. Made you forget how to speak.
You don’t say anything. You just look at him. Trying to work out if he was really there or if this was some sort of hallucination you were having.
Bucky, of course, doesn’t take your silence too well.
“I’m—fuck—” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “You—you don’t have to talk to me. I just—I need you safe.”
Your breath hitches. You slowly stand up straight, ignoring just how cold your knees were now. Key feeling like ice against your palm.
“I’ll even walk like five feet behind you,” Bucky continues, “whatever you want if that—”
“No,” you say quickly with a shake of your head. “That’s—that’s not I want. You—you can walk with me.”
Bucky barely reacts. He just nods. Lets you lead the way.
Despite it being two in the morning, the city was alive with noise as you and Bucky walked. Him keeping a cautious distance from you and you looking down at your shoes.
You wanted to ask him where he had been the past two weeks. You wanted to ask why he was hanging around the diner at two in the morning. Most of all, you wanted to know why. Why he had stopped coming to the diner in the first place. Was he busy? Did Sam get food poisoning and die from the damn surf and turf? Did—
"You look like you're thinking really hard," Bucky comments and it's then you realise that he had been watching you. The thought makes your face grow hot.
"I—yeah," you mumble quietly. "I'm just—I haven't seen you in like...two weeks and all of a sudden, you're outside the diner at two in the morning? I'm—yeah, I'm confused."
Bucky tightens his jaw. He clenches and unclenches his fists. Like he’s holding back. Like he wants to say or do something but isn’t quite sure how to.
“I—look—I was by the diner at this time because I—I wanted to come in, okay but—but I didn’t know what to say to you so I—I was waiting for you to finish because I figured maybe when I was stood in front of you the words would just…come to me.”
“But—you didn’t finish at your usual time,” he continues sheepishly, because he was admittedly embarrassed by how long he had waited for you. Self awareness was creeping in and he was realising how insane he looked.
“I was covering for Vanessa,” you explain quickly as you watch his face for a few moments, trying to read and understand every expression. “She called in sick.”
He can’t help it. Bucky laughs at that.
“Oh. I find that hard to believe.”
You laugh, the corners of his mouth twitch.
“Listen, (y/n),” Bucky says in a tone that makes you stop walking to look at him fully. He mirrors you, standing a few steps away from you and somehow taking your breath away by doing nothing at all, “I—I don’t know how to do this. I don’t—I’m a hundred and seven years old for god sake. I don’t get a lot of things—like phones, online dating, hell bubble tea—fucking wireless hoovers. I don’t—I feel like I don’t belong here.”
Your shoulders sag a little, your expression softening because you didn't get it—of course you didn't. You would never experience what Bucky had and you certainly couldn't imagine adjusting to modern life while doing so. You open your mouth to try and reassure him, but he's already talking again. And the words that next come out of his mouth? Floor you.
“But when I met you? Fuck. I realised that I maybe could.”
You blink. Swallow. Try to remember how to breathe.
"R-really?" You ask him tentatively, your eyes flickering up to meet his deep blue ones.
Bucky nods, hands shoved in his pockets as he holds himself back from doing something reckless. He didn't know what he was doing. He hadn't been this attracted to someone since the 40s and fuck, he wanted to touch you. Wanted to see if your skin was smooth. Wanted to see how it felt to pull you in his arms and—
He shoved those thoughts aside. Not the time or the place.
"Yeah. Really," he says finally. "I—I don't what I'm doing but—what I do know is—I look forward to the days I get to see you. And I—talking to you makes every sip of that god awful coffee worth it."
You let out a laugh at that, unable to stop yourself. You see the corners of Bucky's lips twitch.
"It is terrible," you accept with a soft smile. "There's better diners out there, you know?"
"Yeah but—you're not at those diners," he murmurs, his eyes meeting yours. Your breath hitches. Everything around you slows. It just feels like you, Bucky and the cold.
He pulls his hands out of his pockets. Flexes his fingers. Wordlessly holds out his flesh hand. You take it without hesitation. It's warm and envelopes yours easily.
"Still okay if I walk you home?" He asks gently, his eyes gentle. His thumb brushing over the skin of your hand like fire.
"Yeah," you say softly, "it's okay."
The walk is quiet, aside the buzz of the city. And despite the cold, his hand in yours felt like a damn personal heater. You assumed it was the serum, perhaps it made him run warm. It would explain why he wasn't shivering from the bitter cold right now like you were. You wanted to ask about it but didn't want to overstep. One day perhaps he would tell you.
When you eventually arrive at your apartment block, Bucky's eyes are already scanning your building. Looking for anything that could jeopardise your safety. You catch him doing so and try not to smile.
"There's a security guard job going if you're interested," you say teasingly.
For a moment, you know he is tempted.
"No," he says finally, looking back at you. "Below my pay grade, that."
That made you laugh and when you laughed at something he said? Bucky felt lighter. Like the dark chasm in his chest after all he had been through wasn't so heavy. And your hand in his? He felt something softer, warmer there.
"Thank you for walking me back," you thank him quietly. "You didn't have to."
Bucky shakes his head, a look you couldn't quite read on his face. Like maybe he felt a little sorry for you that modern men seemed to treat women with so little respect and human decency that being walked home was something you felt like you had to thank him for.
"My ma raised me to always walk a woman home," he says simply.
You smile a little at that. It was the first time he had talked about his mother in front of you. You didn't press him for anymore. He appreciated that. One day, maybe.
"I want—" he begins, stopping as he looks at you, almost like he was finding strength in your eyes to continue. "—I want to take you out on Saturday."
You start to smile and fuck, he swear he's never seen something as beautiful as you. Not the cherry blossoms in spring, not the national parks in Canada or the great barrier reef. Just you. You, you, you.
"Okay," you say softly. "Saturday it—”
"—Actually, no," Bucky interjects with a shake of his head. "I can't wait. Tomorrow. I want to take you out. Tomorrow."
You look up at him, heart hammering in your chest as you nod. "Tomorrow."
He almost smiles. Almost.
He releases your hand. You feel the cold instantly or perhaps it was the lack of his warmth. Whatever it was, you missed his touch already.
"I'll be here for seven," he tells you, lifting his hand to gently—ever so gently—swipe his thumb across your cold cheek. The subtle touch was enough and too much at the same time. "Now get inside and warm up."
You nod as he pulls his hand away. His touch leaving your face burning. He was so gentle. Touching you like you were something precious. Something sacred.
"Goodnight, (y/n)."
"Night, Bucky."
Bucky takes a few steps back and you watch him as he turns around. Walking away from you as you think of tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
And though tomorrow—technically today since it was two in the morning—was not that far away. You couldn't wait.
"Bucky!" You call after him.
He turns around—seeing you running towards him, slipping a little on the frozen ground.
"Hey, be careful! You don't want to—"
But before he could scold you for risking breaking your neck, you're grabbing him by the front of his leather jacket, tugging him down and pressing your lips to his.
Bucky Barnes freezes. His brain short circuits. He wonders if he was imagining things.
But when his hands automatically find your waist, he realises that this was real. That he wasn't imagining things. That you were really kissing him. And so, he kisses you back. Presses his lips back against yours softly. So softly. He hadn't kissed someone since—well, he really didn't want to think about that right now. Just pulled you closer to him and tried to memorise the way you tasted.
It's him who pulls away first—because he knew if he kissed you for a second longer, it would become embarrassing for him (because a woman hadn't touched him in a long, long time).
"Couldn't wait?" he murmurs, ducking his head down to meet your eyes.
"Something like that," you reply with a faint smile.
And Bucky? Well, Bucky was just thankful that he had stumbled into your diner because it led him to the pretty waitress who kissed him like he was worth something. And that? That made the terrible coffees and borderline inedible food worth it. So damn worth it.