Soul Stealer ~ (A Bucky Barnes Love Story)

Vulnerable

"No electronics at the table young lady." Sam reached across the kitchen island and grabbed my tablet.

"Hey! Give that back." He gave me a drool look and continued to make pancakes. "Douchebag," I mumbled into my coffee cup.

Sam whirled around, plastic spatula raised like a weapon. "Who taught you that word?"

"The internet." The Urban Dictionary was my new best friend.

"The internet is a thing, not a person," Clint corrected, casually turning the page of his newspaper.

Natasha leaned against the counter, a plate of fruit in her delicate, albeit deadly, hands. "You're going to burn through your screen time by lunch if you keep this up."

"Why am I the only one who has time limits?" I grumbled, stabbing a bite of pancakes with so much force Bucky raised an eyebrow beside me.

"You're the only addict," the former assassin deadpanned, eyes refocused on his own plate.

It was a miracle he'd spoken at all. It took me over 20-minutes this morning to convenience him eating breakfast with other people wouldn't be hazardous to his health.

Steve strolled into the kitchen, checking his watch pointedly. "You two are gonna be late."

One of the stipulations of us living in the tower and not a max security prison was we had to see a therapist regularly. Bucky hated it with every fiber of his being. Personally, I didn't think it was that bad, but then again, I refused to spill my metaphorical guts to the balding stranger with impressively long nose hair. Instead I used him like a Google search, asking all kinds of questions about the 21st century I didn't understand.

Bucky stiffened but rose to his feet, waiting for me to finish my food, and his, before we both made our way to the elevator. He crossed his gigantic arms over his gigantic chest and pouted the entire way to the 65th floor.

"I don't know what you're so pissed about. Your therapist is hot. Mine has nose hair and sweats more than can possibly be health."

I rubbed my chest, trying to ignore the strange feeling the mention of his "hot therapist" elicited. Seeing amazingly attractive people in the tower was the norm. Being a supermodel was probably a requirement to work here. Unfortunately, being hot did not extend to the male population because...Tony.

"Jealous?"

I glared at him. "Are you?"

He chuckled at my flub while I barely resisted the urge to slap myself upside the head. I made a mental note to search my tablet for better comebacks later or maybe I could ask Dr. Nose Hair for help.

"She's not my type," Bucky stated matter-of-factly.

"Gorgeous isn't your type?" He turned, walking forward slowly like a panther stalking his prey which made the hair on my arms stand up. "What the hell are you doing?"

He braced his hand casually against the elevator directly beside my head, eyes darkening as he looked down at me.

Was it me or was this elevator unusually hot?

He was so close I could smell his shampoo and a scent that was unique to him, gunpowder and metal, a surprisingly intoxicating combination.

"I like my women a little older," he purred, eyes sparkling at the joke only he understood.

Technically, he's therapist was older than us, physically anyway. He continued to stare at me like he was waiting for me to catch on, but thankfully the elevator binged signaling our arrival, and I was spared another situation I was wholly unprepared for. I ducked under his arm, practically sprinting the rest of the way to the office.