Archive of Our Own

Then the thunder followed, a loud cacophonous sound that seemed to go on forever as you flinched and stumbled a few steps into the room and closer to the bed. “Can I sleep with you?” you asked in a whispering, shaky voice.

Taking pity on your obvious discomfort, Bucky lazily patted the empty side of his queen-sized bed. “Sure, c’mon, doll,” he said in that deep, husky voice that made warmth pool low in your belly. It was overshadowed by the anxiety of the thunderstorm, though. Wasting no time, you scurried around the bed and slid beneath the thin blanket just as the rain picked up speed, growing louder. 

You and your parents had been visiting the lakeside cottage every summer since you were a child and you didn’t think you’d ever heard the rain so loud before. But as your heart pounded in your chest and your breaths came in short, ragged pants, you weren’t sure if that was true or just your anxiety getting the better of you. You tried to keep your breathing under control and stay as quiet as possible so Bucky could fall back to sleep, but you heard him shift, watching in the dark as he turned onto his side to face you, his blue eyes tracing the way your body was curled up beneath the summer blanket.

“Still afraid of thunderstorms?” he asked in a low rumble, his voice comforting you like an extra blanket around your shoulders. You wanted to ask him to keep talking, maybe it’d help distract you from the storm and the thunder that made you jump in your skin.

Then his words sunk in and you half-hid your face in a pillow. “My dad told you about that?” you asked weakly, a hint of a whine in your tone. Heat filled your cheeks at the thought of your father telling his best friend about your childhood fear of thunderstorms—a fear you hadn’t been able to shake, even though you were well into adulthood.

It didn’t help that you’d developed a massive crush on your dad’s best friend. Bucky Barnes had joined your father’s company shortly after you’d left home for college and for the better part of the decade since, your father had been mentoring the man, the two growing close in the process. Bucky was at least 15 years younger than your father, but he was still much older than you and much more established in his life. In fact, he was senior enough in the company that he had some of his own mentees.

But Bucky and your father remained close, enough so that your parents had invited him along for that summer spent at the cottage, not knowing if you’d be able to get the time off work. You’d only barely managed it, and you felt nothing but excitement over spending time with your parents as you drove to the cottage. That excitement had turned into something else when you’d skipped down to the dock and found your father and his best friend seated in a pair of lawn chairs, lazily fishing as they drank beer on the end of the dock.

You hadn’t spent much time around Bucky since you’d been away at college when he and your father met, and then you’d graduated and moved to the city to start your career. You’d met him at a barbecue or one of the other parties your parents liked to host, but hadn’t spoken much since he gravitated toward your father’s work friends while you caught up with the neighborhood kids you’d grown up with who had moved away as well.

But seeing Bucky in that lawn chair, his head tipped back in a chuckle that emphasized the laugh lines around his eyes and bracketing his mouth, had shifted something inside you. He’d always been attractive, but every time you’d seen him, he’d been surrounded by other men your father worked with and you’d always placed them in a box together—a box labeled with words like, “too old,” “gross,” and “off-limits.” But in that moment, you felt like you were seeing Bucky for the first time, and your stomach flipped, butterflies taking flight as the first roots of a crush took hold. 

In the weeks that followed, you couldn’t help yourself from trying to spend as much time with Bucky as possible, even dragging a third lawn chair down the dock and joining him and your father while they fished. It wasn’t really about the fishing, of course, and your father didn’t seem bothered when you politely declined his offer to teach you how to cast a line. You just liked being around Bucky and he seemed so at ease while relaxing in his lawn chair, his brown hair highlighted gold by the summer sun, his broad chest on display as his swim trunks hung low on his hips. 

Behind your sunglasses, you’d watch carefully as he brought his beer bottle to his mouth, the way his soft lips would curve against the cool glass as he took a swig. You’d watch as his stubbled jaw worked while he savored the taste, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Heat would start in your core and spread throughout your body until you were sweltering beneath the summer sun. You’d have to beg your father to reel in his line so you could safely dive into the lake and cool off.

Sometimes, if you weren’t mistaken, you thought you saw Bucky staring at you when you were in the lake or climbing up the ladder to the dock, his blue eyes heated and hungry on your skin. But then he’d be back to laughing and chatting with your father and you’d question if you’d seen him looking at you at all. The only evidence would be your racing heart and thrumming pulse.

In Bucky’s bed, the rain drumming a steady beat against the roof of the cottage, you felt your heart pick up speed as his eyes watched you carefully in the dark. There was a hint of a smile in his tone as he answered your question after a long moment of silence. “He mentioned it on the phone earlier,” Bucky said.

Turning your face into your pillow, you bit back a groan. Your parents had gone away for the weekend, driven a couple hours away to a town known for its many wineries where they were staying for a couple nights. You’d initially been excited to have time alone with Bucky, but he’d made himself scarce the whole first day. Asking if you could sleep in his bed was the most you’d talked since your parents had left you to fend for yourselves.

And no wonder. If your father was warning Bucky about your fear of thunderstorms, you had no doubt the man you were crushing on thought of you as nothing more than a kid. Even if you were a full-grown adult with an apartment, a job and a number of plants you’d managed to keep alive for a couple years, you didn’t know how Bucky could see you as anything more than his friend’s kid. 

With your face buried in a pillow, you couldn’t see the strike of lightning as it lit up the sky, and you couldn’t prepare yourself for what would follow. So when a thunderclap sounded overhead with a resounding boom, it startled a whimpering cry from you. The embarrassing sound was thankfully muffled by the soft pillow beneath you, but it still felt loud in your ears and you were sure Bucky heard it.

Bucky heaved a sigh, though it sounded my sympathetic than frustrated. “C’mere, doll,” he murmured, his forearm hooking around your back and dragging you across the bed into the circle of his arms, your legs tangling together beneath the thin blanket. He held you tightly, one hand smoothing up and down your spine slowly, like he was trying to soothe the tension from your muscles.

Your nose bumped his collarbone and you nuzzled against the soft warmth of his skin, breathing in the comforting scent of him. Bucky smelled like sunshine and bergamot and man, and you didn’t think you’d ever smelled anything so good in your entire life. Between his soothing hand and the comforting smell of him, you haltingly began to relax.

Then you saw the flash of lightning through your closed eyelids, your body tensing and flinching when the crash of thunder followed. You pressed your face deeper into Bucky’s chest, tucked beneath his chin and trembled in his arms. 

“Shh, babydoll, I’ve got you,” Bucky murmured into your hair, his lips grazing your temple as he brushed a sweet kiss to your skin. “I’ll protect you.” His voice, so deep and rumbling, slightly scratchy with sleep, rolled through you, his tone firm and authoritative, making it easy to believe his words. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Your hand flexed against his bare chest, wanting to cling to him. Instead, you pressed it flat, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his sternum. Humidity hung heavy in the room, and Bucky was as warm as a furnace, but you pressed even closer, the gentle breeze of the ceiling fan making it bearable enough. “Thank you, Bucky,” you murmured against the hollow of his throat, the pleasant rumble of a hum in his chest your only answer. 

Since you were so close to Bucky, his heart beating in his chest and his breaths ghosting past your ear, the rain and thunderstorm felt farther away. Far enough that you managed to finally relax in his arms. Bucky’s breathing deepened and turned even more rhythmic with sleep. You felt yourself sinking into slumber as well, lulled to sleep by his steady comfort, feeling safe and sound with his arms around you, warding off the storm.