James Bucky Barnes, the former soldier, doesn't think he's got any gentleness left in him. But Grace Juniper Cunningham, the former child prodigy, strongly disagrees.
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"𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯."
"𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴�...
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I wasn't sure what compelled me to ask Bucky, rather than Clint, to come with me to my apartment. I didn't even need help, really. I was just packing a suitcase. But I wanted to keep talking to him, and I didn't want to be outside the Tower by myself. And I didn't think he would mind—he hadn't seemed bothered by me yet, which I took as a good sign.
He had smiled when I asked. I realized with a pang that he might like feeling needed.
He held open every door on the way to the parking garage, and every time I brushed past him, intensely conscious of my own body, I noticed that the tingly feeling he gave me had become more pleasant than distressing.
I was glad my apartment was fairly close, anticipating the drive as we reached my car. I didn't think it was long enough for him to get impatient with me. I was a passive driver by Manhattan standards, which meant that I tended to take double or triple the estimated time to reach any destination.
Bucky looked out of place as he ducked into the passenger seat of my Subaru. The reliable, self-braking, lane-adjusting car seemed too safe for someone who would survive even if I floored it off a cliff.
When he looked up from the seatbelt and saw me watching him, I tried to cover for myself: "It's really nice to see you in person," I said, pulling out. "I spent forever helping Steve look for you."
"You were looking for me? When I was in Bucharest?"
"Bucharest? Yeah, if that's where you were, like, two to three years ago."
"Yeah, doll. I had an apartment and everything. Fuck, I wish you'd found me."
"Oh my god," I muttered. "I thought you wanted me to warm up to you."
"Sorry," he said. "I do."
My stomach was full of butterflies again. I made the mistake of glancing over at him, broad shoulders angled slightly toward me so he could look at me, interested in the fact that I'd been searching for him. Flooring it off a cliff suddenly didn't seem like a bad idea.
"What were you doing, anyway?" he asked with a touch of uncertainty. "You stayed in the Tower? You weren't near anything dangerous? Right?"
"Right," I said.
"So—while I was in Bucharest, you were doing genius stuff, looking for me?" he asked. "I mean, with computers and shit?"
"Yeah. Computers and shit," I said. "But I'm not a genius."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Steve says you're a genius," he said, like that made it a fact.
"Why is Steve talking about me?" I asked. "He doesn't know anything."
