Your home in Sokovia was destroyed when Ultron decided to make it ground zero for his attempted coup of the world. Everyone had lost someone - some more than most. You? The family you'd worked for had perished - save one. The rumors were that he'd b...
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It was how much you missed Helmut and the things stirred by the letter. That's all it was, right? That warmth that flooded through you that told you to take a breath and tip your head. Kiss Bucky. It was an urge brought into being by the suddenness of what had happened and the worn down state of your patience. It was something you hadn't followed through on. You hadn't had the chance to so much as think of tilting your head in that lack of space provided to attempt to draw Bucky's mouth towards yours. He had blinked and stepped away, removed himself from the way his body framed yours – reacted before you'd really had time to process anything more than the collision that had slammed you into the kitchen appliance.
That sudden breathless moment. You challenged him to stop holding back, to stop hiding the truth of those attributes he was trying to teach you about. Without actually seeing him in action there was no benefit to learning that simple sequence. Right?
Now you know and... is there a benefit? If he's right – if it's a when and not if scenario – he'll be close enough to do damage before you realize what's happening. Knowing how to disarm him is a false comfort. It's unlikely you'll get the chance to attempt it.
But he was trying to teach you anyway.
Your feet are carrying you along, causing you to slowly trail along in Bucky's wake as he moves away from the kitchen. You're stuck staring at his back. He's trying to move away from you, reestablish space. Is he trying to get back to his launching point? Is he preparing to start again? Again. That word that had previously been jabbing and poking and twisting and prodding your nerves.
Bucky almost shifts to look over his shoulder but doesn't complete the turn. He gives his head a gentle shake as he adjusts the position of his left arm to splay his metal hand wide. He's waving you off.
Ok.
Ok. Except your legs won't listen. You haven't yet made it off the kitchen tile. Maybe if you stop looking at him that will cut the string pulling you along. He needs a little breathing room. Stop. Following. Him. Your traitorous feet won't obey commands to stall your forward progress because – nevermind because – and the bag on the counter doesn't help anchor you. You reach out to drag your fingers along the countertop, finding the ledge and adjusting the position of your hand to grab onto it. There. There? You let your attention slide back to Bucky to test the theory that you'll stay put.
He's turned, finally doesn't have his back to you anymore... and is looking down at his phone. Had it gone off? When had it gone off? Was it in his jacket pocket or had it been shoved into one of the pockets of those dark jeans he favors? Your ears are buzzing still with that residual rush making your flush linger, making your heart race, making your lips tingle even though nothing had occurred. Nothing. Had. Happened. Only an encroaching of your space that lasted a matter of seconds. That's all that happened. One minute Bucky was standing across the room and the next he was there pressing you back into stainless steel, boxing you in.
