Chapter Text
James "Bucky" Barnes glanced up as the door to Sam Wilson’s apartment shut with a sharp snap, the sound ricocheting off the walls like a warning shot. Ripley dumped her black leather tote by the door with the kind of careless precision that came from being angry but trying not to show it. Her movements were all too deliberate—the way she toed her sneakers off, each hit against the wall a little too sharp, the flick of her wrist as she tossed her aviators into her ball cap and set them beside the door with mechanical ease.
“Sam!” she called, her voice slicing through the quiet. “Samuel!”
“He’s out,” Bucky said dryly from the couch. He didn’t bother looking up right away—the newspaper in his hands was just a prop anyway—but the tone in her voice made him lower it. Her irritation was written clear across her face: the tight line between her brows, the sharp muscle ticking in her jaw, the restless twitch of her fingers like she was ready to fight anything that moved.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, though he already had a guess. Ripley Todd didn’t storm into rooms without a reason, he had learned that in the few months of knowing her.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she bit out automatically. The way she crossed the floor—socked feet thudding—said otherwise. The fridge door yanked open like it had personally offended her. She grabbed a Diet Coke, paused, then held up a beer in silent offering.
He nodded once. She popped the cap with a sharp psst, handed it over, and flopped onto the couch beside him in a graceless sprawl that barely masked the tension in her shoulders.
“You got your nails done,” he said after a beat, eyes flicking to the faint shine of a french manicure against the aluminum tab she was fighting with. It wasn’t teasing—just observation—but it landed more like an accusation. She kept her gaze on the can, her jaw tight, her new nails clicking uselessly against the metal.
Bucky sighed, leaned over, and plucked the can from her hand with that quiet, practiced ease of his. His fingers brushed hers—warm, rough, grounding—and the smallest current passed between them. He cracked it open in one smooth motion and handed it back. “You’re pissy.”
“You’re annoying,” she shot back without hesitation, though her tone had softened by half. She took the can, muttered a low “thanks,” and sipped—long and slow. The familiar cold burn was a small victory, something she could control.
Bucky watched her over the rim of his beer, quiet amusement tugging at his mouth. “You got your hair done too…”
Ripley turned, surprised at the lack of mockery in his voice. “Bucky, if you’re gonna point out every time I attempt to do self-care, it’s gonna make me not wanna do it.”
He smirked faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Silence settled between them, broken only by the hum of the city outside—horns, dogs, the pulse of life that never really stopped. It filled the gaps that used to feel awkward but didn’t anymore.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked finally, tone softer now.
Ripley rolled her eyes, setting the can on the table. “A wedding.” The word came out like a curse.
“Whose?”
“My cousin in D.C.” She stood, stretching like the weight of the day hung off her spine, and dug through her bag. The invitation she pulled out looked like it cost more than her rent—heavy cardstock, gold foil, the faintest whiff of privilege. She tossed it at him.
Bucky caught it one-handed, glanced it over. “When do you go?”
“Tomorrow,” she said, tugging her hair into a ponytail—trying to physically pull herself together.
“Says plus one,” he noted, voice casual but eyes sharp. “You got one?”
“If Sam would hurry the fuck up before I have to pack, then yes.” She braced one foot on the coffee table, Diet Coke in hand, glaring at the blank TV like it owed her an apology. “As long as he says yes.”
“Why him?” Bucky asked, tilting his head, brows raised.
She gave a dry laugh. “Because I don’t have a ton of friends, Bucky, and he seemed like a good idea.”
Bucky’s lips quirked. He leaned back, arm draped along the couch, posture lazy but eyes intent. “Why not me?” That pulled her attention straight to him. His tone was easy, but there was something under it—curiosity, challenge, maybe even a little hope. “Doc Raynor’s always told me I need to get out more,” he added.
“I don’t think a family wedding is what she had in mind,” Ripley said, the corners of her mouth tugging despite herself. “Would you want to?”
Bucky’s mouth curved slow, a smile that had no right being as dangerous as it was soft. “Sure. Why not?”
Ripley blinked, can halfway to her lips. “Why not?” she echoed. “Because, Barnes, family weddings are like running a social obstacle course in formal wear. You know how I survive? Tequila. And hiding in a corner.”
“I’ve done worse.” He took another sip, eyes on her over the bottle. “At least no one’ll be shooting at me this time.”
Ripley snorted, the sound bubbling up before she could stop it. “You’ve clearly never been to a Aldridge-Todd family wedding.”
“Guess I’m about to find out,” he said, settling deeper into the couch, arm stretching behind her like he owned the air between them. “C’mon, Rip. Take me. You know I clean up nice.”
She narrowed her eyes, studying him like she was trying to see through the smirk. “You’re serious?”
He didn’t blink. “Dead serious.”
Her laugh came out quieter this time, genuine. “Bucky, I don’t think you’re built for small talk and condescending aunts.”
“Sure I am,” he said easily. “I got a suit. I can smile. I can even dance.” She snorted outright. He arched a brow. “You wanna bet? I’m from a time when men were men—wasn’t that one of your drunken rants about why the 1940s were better?”
Ripley groaned into her hand. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably,” he agreed, grinning. “But think of the excitement this could bring to your life.”
Her hand dropped, and for a moment their eyes met—really met. There was something in his gaze that softened the air, something she couldn’t quite name. It sat heavy between them until she finally muttered, “Fine. You’re my plus one. Don’t make me regret this.”
Bucky lifted his beer in salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She exhaled, sank back beside him, her shoulder brushing his—fleeting, accidental—comforting. She shifted away, pretending not to notice. “Uh-huh.”
He smirked, lazy and smug. “Got one little catch for ya.”
“Over my dead body.”
Bucky chuckled into his beer. “You owe me a date.”
Ripley turned her head, brow raised. “The wedding is a date. You don’t want to take me on a date Bucky—you want something normal you can report back to your shrink.”
He laughed, real and low. “Of the two of us you should probably be the one to see a shrink.”
She smiled faintly, eyes flicking down. “I did,” she said. “He quit after two sessions.”
That broke him—he laughed, full and unguarded, the sound lighting the room for a heartbeat. She couldn’t help but grin back, just a little. For a moment, the noise of the city wrapped around them—sirens, music, life outside their small orbit—and neither seemed in a hurry to break it.
“It’s black tie, by the way,” she said finally, taking another sip.
"That mean you're gonna be in a dress?" His grin deepened when the lock clicked and the front door swung open. Sam stepped in, scanning the room like he’d walked into a live grenade. “Welcome home, sweetheart,” Bucky drawled.
Sam’s gaze flicked from Ripley’s slouch and scowl to Bucky’s grin. “What did I miss?”
“I’ll be out of state for…” Bucky glanced at Ripley.
She groaned, pressing the cold can to her forehead. “Three.”
“Three days,” he echoed, smooth as ever.
Sam blinked. “Why do I feel like I don’t wanna know?”
“We’re going to a wedding,” Bucky said, almost proud.
Sam looked between them, slow. “We?”
Ripley didn’t move. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, Wilson.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “You know what? Nope.” He shook his head. “I’m gonna shower and pretend I didn’t hear any of that.”
Bucky raised his bottle in mock thanks. “Appreciate the support.”
Sam muttered something about therapy bills as he vanished down the hall.
Ripley snorted softly, can still pressed to her forehead. “You know he’s never gonna forgive me if something happens—arrests, fires, the usual.”
Bucky smirked, settling deeper into the couch. “Are we driving or flying?”
“Driving,” she sighed, the weight of the day hanging in her tone. “The sooner I’m out of this state, the better.”
Bucky arched a brow. “What’s wrong with New York?” He sounded genuinely offended.
“As a Boston girl…” she started, letting it hang like a challenge.
“Oh, God,” he groaned, tipping his head back with a grin. “Don’t get me started.”
Ripley grinned, tapping her can lightly against his bottle. “Too late. You’re gonna be trapped in a car with me for six hours.”
Bucky gave her a sidelong look, smirk returning. “Guess I’d better pack earplugs.”
She glared, but the edges of her mouth betrayed her. “Fuck yourself.”
He chuckled low, the sound warm. She stood, walking toward the guest room, and he let his eyes follow—just long enough to appreciate the view before Sam’s voice floated from the kitchen. “Boy, I’m watching you,” Sam warned sternly. “Don't mess with Toddy...”
Bucky’s grin turned sharp. “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath, finishing his beer. “I hear ya, don't flirt with Sarah, don't flirt with Ripley.”
"I didn't say don't flirt with Ripley," Sam pointed with his beer bottle. "Definitely don't flirt with my sister."
At 0600 hours Ripley leaned against the side of her black Ford Bronco, arms folded against the bite of the early New York chill. The air still carried the ghost of night—damp concrete, burnt coffee, exhaust. The city was only just waking, yawning itself alive: horns starting up, a garbage truck rattling somewhere down the block, the faint shuffle of commuters half-awake and already late.
A man passing by slowed, eyes dragging over her with that all-too-familiar, entitled interest.
“Take a picture—it’ll last longer,” she called, tone sharp enough to slice through the morning haze.
He grinned, not missing a step. “You offerin’, sweetheart?”
“For a thousand bucks,” she shot back, dry as dust.
“Jesus, Ripley, charge more than that,” Bucky muttered as he hauled open the Bronco’s back door and tossed in his duffel. His voice was still thick with sleep and disapproval. “It’s too early for this.”
“Tell him that,” she said, pushing off the car, chin lifting like she dared the stranger to look twice.
Bucky slammed the door shut with a solid thud and a stare that made the man think better of approaching Ripley again. “You want me to drive?”
“No.” She rounded the hood and slid behind the wheel, voice clipped, controlled. “Rules of the road: you’re absolutely silent for the first hour. We stop for food at zero-seven-hundred.”
He gave a lazy salute as he buckled in. “Fine by me.”
Ripley plugged her phone into CarPlay, thumb flicking through playlists until the soft brass and velvet croon of It’s Been a Long, Long Time filled the Bronco. The song carried ghosts—warm, aching, impossible to ignore.
Bucky didn’t comment. But when she glanced sideways, she caught the flicker of recognition in his profile—the way his shoulders eased slightly, like the sound had brushed against some long-buried part of him. His hand rested on his knee, metal fingers catching the thin wash of dawn light through the windshield. He looked out at the city fading in the rearview mirror, quiet but nowhere near still.
Ripley exhaled, a small smile ghosting her lips as she eased into traffic. “Six hours,” she murmured under her breath. “Let’s see if we survive it.”
She kept to her rule for the first hour. Bucky didn’t speak, didn’t fidget, didn’t so much as look at his phone—just sat there, still as stone, the window cracked so the wind could ruffle his hair. The kind of quiet that should’ve been peaceful but wasn’t. By the time they’d hit Jersey, she cracked first.
“Okay,” she said suddenly, eyes still on the road. “What’s your road-trip snack of choice?”
Bucky turned his head, brow arched. “You said silence for the first hour.”
“It’s been fifty-five minutes.”
He checked the clock, lips twitching. “You couldn’t wait five more?”
“I was starting to worry you’d fallen asleep,” she said. “And I need my co-pilot.”
He smirked. “Super Soldier, remember? I don't get tired easily.”
“Right,” she muttered. “So I’d be the one dying in a fireball. Got it.”
That earned her a quiet laugh—low, warm, real. “Beef jerky,” he said after a moment. “And sunflower seeds.”
Ripley squinted at him. “You seem more like a Slim Jim guy.”
Bucky shot her a look. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.” She smirked, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “Processed, salty, slightly suspicious—” He cut her off with a mock glare. “You asked.”
They fell into an easy silence again, punctuated by the hum of tires over asphalt. The sun broke through the gray in fractured bands, turning the highway silver and gold. Her playlist rolled on, and when Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree started, she saw the corner of his mouth tick up before he spoke.
“You did that on purpose,” he said quietly.
“Did what?”
“Played this.”
She shot him a sidelong look. “Friendly reminder that I like music from back then—it’s not for your benefit, it’s for mine.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” he murmured. But his expression softened, gaze drifting back out the window. The nostalgia that crossed his face wasn’t loud—it was the quiet kind that hurt worse.
“You miss it?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He was silent for a long beat, eyes tracing the horizon. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “The quiet parts of it. The simplicity. Not the war—just… the world before it went loud.”
Ripley hummed, low and thoughtful. “Yeah. I get that.”
He turned his head, leaning it on the leather of his seat. “You? You miss anything?”
She hesitated, knuckles whitening briefly on the steering wheel. “The part of me that used to sleep eight hours without nightmares.” She joked, but it fell flat.
Bucky studied her profile—the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the small muscle working in her jaw. “You still don’t?” he asked softly.
She shrugged, eyes fixed on the road. “Some nights. Depends how loud it gets. Depends how much tequila I’ve had.”
He didn’t push. The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was full—heavy with the kind of understanding neither of them had to voice.
When they finally pulled off for breakfast, it was at some no-name diner tucked off the interstate—the kind that hadn’t changed in decades. A hand-painted sign leaned at a crooked angle out front. Inside, the air smelled of bacon grease, burnt coffee, and old fry oil. The waitress looked like she’d been there since the Eisenhower administration, and had the voice of a long time smoker, but she called them both "baby" and to Ripley that was the mark of a good diner.
Ripley slid into a booth by the window, back to the wall out of habit, eyes on the front door. Bucky sat across from her, angling himself to see the back door. For the first time that morning, she felt her shoulders start to relax.
Ripley ordered chicken and waffles and eggs, and a diet coke. Bucky went for black coffee, eggs, bacon and toast.
“You don’t eat waffles?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him like this was a character flaw.
He arched a brow. “Are you judging my breakfast choices?”
“I am. I definitely am.” She cut into her waffles, butter and syrup pooling together on the chipped white plate. “Breakfast is the one good thing this earth’s given us. You can eat it any time of day and it’s perfect. Waffles are the epitome of that, either savory or sweet."
Bucky sipped his coffee, watching her work through her meal with single-minded focus. When she offered him a forkful, he hesitated just long enough to make her smirk—then leaned forward and took the bite. The edges were crisp, the inside soft, sweet with syrup. He couldn’t help the small smile that followed.
“They’re good,” he admitted. “I’ll give you that.”
“Damn right they are.” She grinned, satisfied.
He paid for breakfast despite her protest—ignored the glare, even. When they got back to the Bronco, the morning had stretched into sunlight, thin and gold across the asphalt. The radio, set to shuffle, landed on something newer, upbeat—like it somehow knew they were ready to talk instead of listening to music.
Ripley chattered easily now, full belly and Diet Coke in her system, one hand draped over the wheel. This was her element—her car, her music, her control. Bucky listened the way she knew he would, content in the quiet rhythm of her voice and the hum of the road beneath them.
She talked about small things: the Boston Bruins, the gym, the playlists she swore made her drive seem shorter. Every so often, she’d drop a story from her Army days—just enough to color the picture, never enough to touch the nightmares that lived underneath.
In turn, he offered up pieces of himself, carefully chosen, the kind that didn’t ache to say out loud. He’d seen her and Sam together, the camaraderie that came from shared ghosts and gallows humor. But here, with the hum of tires and the warmth of sunlight through the windshield, it felt different. Easier. Like the world, for a few hours, had stopped asking them to be anyone but human.
“Does the top on this thing come off?” Bucky asked, looking up at the white roof above them.
“Yeah. Why, you want it off?” Ripley glanced at the map on the display, shifting lanes to hit the exit for the last gas station before D.C.
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I mean—why wouldn’t you take it off?”
“Because I’ve been suffering in Brooklyn,” she said dryly, “and I don’t trust someone not to piss in my vehicle.” That earned her a laugh—low and genuine.
She pulled into the station, threw the Bronco into park, and yanked off her aviators, tossing them onto the dash. “Fine. You want airflow? Help me out.”
Her fingers moved fast, muscle memory in motion as she undid the latches and popped the first panel free. She lifted it easily, braced it against her shoulder, and nodded toward the back. “Here—put that in the back.”
Bucky climbed out, boots crunching on gravel, and took the panel from her hands. The sunlight caught the edge of the metal as he stowed it carefully in the backseat.
When he turned, she was already working on the next latch, hair falling loose from her braid, sleeves shoved to her elbows. “Are you enjoying this road trip?” he said.
“Maybe,” she admitted. “Now grab the other side before I change my mind.”
They made quick work of the roof panels, the spring air rushing in as the last latch gave way. After fueling up, Ripley grabbed her wallet and nodded toward the convenience store. “C’mon, snacks.”
Inside, the place smelled like old over done pizza, hotdog water and motor oil. Bucky trailed behind her as she stood in front of the cooler, eyeing the rows of energy drinks like she was choosing a weapon.
“You’re really gonna put that can of chemicals into your body?” he asked, tone bone-dry as she examined one.
Ripley shot him a look over her shoulder. “Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Don’t you wanna live a long and happy life?”
She huffed a quiet laugh, finally selecting one, then grabbed a bottle of water, a pack of sour Skittles, and a bag of beef jerky for good measure. “Y’know, Bucky,” she said, setting everything on the counter, “it’s a miracle I’m not dead yet. So why live like I’m not gonna die tomorrow?”
He studied her for a moment, the smallest flicker of something—respect, maybe—passing through his expression. “That’s one way to look at it.”
“It’s the only way,” she said, tossing him the jerky before heading back out into the sunlight.
He followed, shaking his head but smiling anyway, the wind catching the loosened strands of her hair as she climbed behind the wheel. With the roof off, the world felt bigger—open sky, open road, and the faint sense that they were both trying, in their own broken ways, to remember what it felt like to live in peace.
She tipped her face to the sun, smiling as the next song came on. The theme song to Top Gun. Bucky looked over at her as they took to the highway once more. One arm was sticking out of the open roof, moving to the music. She looked over at him and grinned. "Live a little, Bucky!" She called over the rush of wind. "You've earned it!"
He didn't say anything, turned his gaze back to the road ahead, but as the guitar riff kicked up again he stuck one arm up into the wind, unsmiling. It felt…nice. He realized.