Haven [Marvel | Bucky Barnes]

Chapter 6

Nothing had changed and yet everything had. Iris still brought James food, though every now and then he'd return the favour. And as more days passed and turned into more weeks, he grew more comfortable around her still. Enough so that he was now spending a couple evenings a week in her apartment, just passing the time in her company whether it was watching some TV or writing in a small black journal while she tried her best to deal with the bills, bookkeeping and paperwork that came along with being a landlady.

But now he was especially careful not to touch her. Not that he would push her away if she reached out to him even though he would quite often flinch or tense, but he was never the one to reach out first. Looking back, Iris realized he'd always been conscious to keep his distance but it had become quite obvious to her now in the weeks since he'd nearly kissed her.

On some level, the fact that he'd pulled away should have stung a little. With anyone else, she'd have seen it as a rejection. But she just couldn't see it that way coming from James. He'd seemed so genuinely nervous, frightened even, to kiss her. At first it had confused her like crazy, to the point where she'd found herself on several occasions getting lost in her own thoughts trying to muddle through what had happened to make him hesitate. There was no denying the attraction. She'd felt the pull toward him nearly from the beginning and that had only intensified the more she'd gotten to know him, limited as that might be in reality. And she was pretty sure now that he could feel a pull toward her in much the same way. He had to. Didn't he?

There were times when she wasn't so sure. Times when he'd seem to barely react to her when she'd knock on his door with dinner. But there were yet other occasions where it seemed like he had been waiting for her, or like he could barely seem to keep from reaching out to her or keep his eyes from her. Times when smiles seemed particularly easy to pull from him. Times when he seemed at ease.

He would relax around her. And the more time she spent around him the more she came to realize that that alone was a big deal. On occasions where they would eat together or simply sit together out on the fire escape or in her apartment he would gradually relax the longer they were together.

He liked her. She just knew it. And she knew she definitely liked him. Far more than she'd ever liked anyone else at this stage of a relationship...if she could even call it that. Their conversations covered small talk, trivialities and daily observations and occurrences; nothing deep and nothing personal, really, save on her end. Starting that first night as they ate their pizza and continuing through subsequent dinners, she'd gradually opened up about her aunt, her home, living in DC her whole life, and eventually, herself.

He, meanwhile, had told her very little about himself, really, preferring to let her do most of the talking. She had learned a little, though, like that night with the pizza when he'd revealed he was from Brooklyn. Since then, the odd story about his own childhood and youth had come out; he'd been athletic in school, but had also enjoyed the challenge of academics, while after that he'd boxed for a time and had even tried to coach his best friend—with mixed results due to his friend's poor health and small stature. He'd been embarrassed to admit there were times he'd found the process immensely funny, but it was evident to Iris that he'd greatly admired his friend's determination despite it all.

Still, it wasn't much; barely enough to make the claim that she knew anything about him. There were times she wasn't even sure she could realistically call it a friendship.

But she did anyway. She considered him a friend and she considered herself his friend, even if he might not allow himself to see her as such.

And part of her wanted to be more.

But why had he kept himself from kissing her? The more she thought on it, the more Iris kept coming back to the things he'd said that night.

I can't remember—I can't—I need to remember.