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bucky

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"Why are we here?"

Sylvie doesn't generally go shopping. Not for her clothing. It's easy enough to just cast a spell and change her clothes when she wants to, though she does have some good basics in her clothes. Expensive denim, a good pair of boots, shirts that are both functional and beautiful, as well as some t-shirts, and even one dress she'd purchased out of sheer fury when it was too warm for her to consider trousers. That's enough for her.

The boutique store they're in makes her uncomfortable. Somehow they've ended up here and she doesn't know why or how. Did he drug her to get her in here? Did he distract her somehow? It's his fault, she knows it is, because she wouldn't have come in here on her own.

The clothes are nice enough, she supposes, but that still doesn't tell her why.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" she almost demands of Bucky. Part of what she likes about him so much is that he's as functional and practical as she is. Somehow she can't imagine him in the baby blue sweater that hangs on the rack next to her, no matter how soft it looks.

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"Ow," he says when she jabs at his shoulder, turning to stare at her with a pinched expression. Her explanation takes him off guard and he lifts his eyebrows when she calls him a gentleman. It's actually kind of sweet, even if he's still vaguely insulted.

"Sylvie, did it ever occur to you that I liked the fucking sweater?" Bucky asks as he gestures at it, chuckling in disbelief. This is ridiculous. "Maybe I want my eyes to pop!"

"Well, now you're just being argumentative for the sake of it," she answers, then turns back and snatches the ugly blue sweater from the rack. "Go on then. Try it on. You'll see."

It's true Sylvie has spent most of her life in Asgardian armour, but she had plenty of years before her world was erased to learn and refine her tastes. Bucky won't look right in that sweater. Clothing is about more than just colour, it's about what feels right, what makes someone feel confident and powerful.

Baby blue is not a powerful colour. Not on this man standing before her.

"Gladly," Bucky hisses back, grabbing the sweater from Sylvie's hand and heading toward the back of the store. He didn't even care about the sweater, doesn't really care about any of this, but now he's just so damn mad.

"Excuse me, can I have a fitting room?" Bucky asks the salesgirl, who turns to look at him with big eyes and a too-wide smile, like she wishes she could run away. She also looks like she wishes that she could say no, or like she doesn't want them both back there, but she glances at Sylvie's face and then nods instead.

"Sure!" She says, knocking on a door to the room near the back and unlocking it for them. "Um, let me know if you need anything. Bye!"

The girl rushes back toward the register and Bucky steps into the little room, already pulling his shirt off before shutting the door.

"Don't make me wait to prove that I'm right," Sylvie calls, leaning against the wall as she waits for him to change. The sweater isn't right. She knows it isn't right, not for Bucky, she feels it in her bones, in her very being.

And she likes being right about things.

While she waits, Sylvie takes a dark burgundy sweater off one rack, then a navy sweater off another. Colours, she knows, will look good on Bucky.

Bucky had assumed that Sylvie would follow him into the dressing room, heedless of manners, but she doesn't. Instead she stomps back out into the main part of the store and Bucky pulls off his t-shirt to put on the sweater, smoothing it down and tugging the bottom over the waistband of his black jeans. It's lighter than something he would usually wear, but Bucky thinks that he looks nice. The sweater really is the same color as his eyes and it's very soft. Maybe that's why Sylvie doesn't like it, because it makes him look soft, like someone who likes to read a good book and snuggle. But that's who Bucky is sometimes.

Does she not like those parts of him, just like she doesn't like this sweater? It's a foolish thought, one borne of insecurity, and he tries to shove it away.

"Look," he says as he leaves the dressing room, stalking out until Sylvie can see him. "Look me in the eye and tell me that I look bad in this sweater."

"Look you in the eyes that are popping?" she asks in return, chin lifted, never one to back down. "Of course you don't look bad, nothing looks bad on you, you're ridiculously handsome. But it doesn't look like you."

It would be the same if she put on something pink and frilly. She might look beautiful in it, but she wouldn't look like herself.

"Would you choose it for yourself?" she asks. "Look me in the eye and tell me, if you walked in here and no one offered any help, that's what you would be drawn to."

Bucky honestly has no idea why either of them care so much about a goddamn sweater, but her question helps him narrow it down, at least for him. No, he probably wouldn't have gone for this sweater, because he's driven it into his own head that he can't look soft. He wears dark, solid colors that help him blend into a crowd and keep a low profile. He chooses clothing that he can move in, run and punch and jump in. He dresses like a spy, like a soldier, but that wasn't always the case.

"I would have a long time ago," he admits in a low, melancholy voice, sighing in resignation before reaching out to grab the darker sweaters from her hands. "But I had all the softness stamped out of me, so you're right. It isn't me."

He turns to head back toward the dressing room and hangs up the sweaters, leaving the door open as he pulls the soft blue sweater over his head and tosses it onto the padded bench, yanking a navy blue one off of the hanger instead.

Sylvie follows close behind and pushes Bucky further into the changing room, then shuts the door behind them. It isn't a hard shove, barely move than a tap between the two of them, and she stares at him hard.

"And I like you exactly as you are," she tells him. "Whatever happened to you, whatever was done to you, this is who you are now and I'm in love with this man. A bloody blue sweater that looks odd on you has no bearing as to whether or not you have the ability to be soft, trust me, you've been plenty soft with me. I recall all the internal squirming I've done."

Which isn't to say she doesn't like it, she does very much. She just doesn't know what to do with it some of the time, but she's trying for him.

Before Bucky can pull the sweater on, Sylvie is stomping into the changing room and pushing at him, so he turns to look at her with a hard expression that only softens more and more as she speaks. Her voice is stern but the words are sweet and, though he wouldn't tell her so, kind of romantic. She wraps up her speech and he chuckles, dropping the sweater onto the bench so he can lift his hands and cradle her jaw in them, thumbs stroking at the point of her chin.

"This is the dumbest fight anyone has ever had," he declares, but his voice is fond and he leans in to give her a kiss on the mouth and then wraps his arms around her shoulders in a hug, drawing her in against his bare chest. "I've been plenty hard with you too, if I recall correctly."

It's a terrible joke and he knows it, and he only says it because he's holding her too close for her to easily squirm away. "I love you, too. God help me, but I do."

"That's a stupid joke," she informs him as she wraps her arms around him in return, forearms against the bare skin of his waist. She doesn't say anything about whether or not the fight is stupid, because she still thinks she's right about the stupid, ugly sweater, but she also doesn't want to continue arguing about it.

She's quiet for a moment before a hesitant knock sounds at the door.

"How's it fitting?"

The saleswoman sounds as if she would rather be anywhere else, asking any other question, and Sylvie presses her lips together, trying not to laugh.

"I know, but it broke the tension, didn't it?" Bucky murmurs in a low voice, smirking as he presses a kiss to her cheek, letting his hands slide from her waist to the center of her back. The knock at the door reminds Bucky where they are and he looks at Sylvie, matching her expression as he presses their foreheads together.

"Fits perfectly," Bucky calls out as he cups Sylvie's ass in his hands and squeezes, another terrible joke. "We'll be right out, thanks."

"No worries!" The girl replies, sounding like there are many worries, but her clicking footsteps go quiet as she walks away.

"So, should I get the dark and broody red one, or the dark and broody blue one?" He asks with a fond smirk, ducking his head to give her a quick kiss on the mouth. "You pick and I'll wear it out."

"Blue, of course," Sylvie answers, her voice utterly deadpan. "It makes your eyes pop."

Terrible jokes aside, stupid argument aside, she finds herself soothed by the fact that they can argue and simply go about their day. However an idiotic fight it may have been, there are no hard feelings, no resentment being carried, just two people who love each other.

That in itself seems ridiculous, given her life, but she enjoys it all the same.

"If only we were alone right now," Bucky says with a laugh, kissing Sylvie again and squeezing at her ass, briefly lifting her a few inches from the floor and then setting her back down, bending her back a little with his kiss and then suddenly pulling away. "Okay, stop that."

He's smiling, strange little fight forgotten, and he picks up the blue sweater, yanking the tags off before pulling it over his head. After smoothing it down, he glances in the mirror and yeah, this one is better. He leaves the baby blue one behind, putting it neatly back on the hanger, and then picks up the shirt he was wearing and the red sweater as well. "I'll go ahead and get both."

Bucky leaves the dressing room and heads for the counter, where the salesgirl is waiting, looking both wary and relieved. "I'm gonna wear this one out, if that's okay."

"Sure!" She says in a chipper voice, taking the tag Bucky gave her and ringing up the sweaters. There's a rack of jewelry on the counter and Bucky's eyes catch on a silver chain with a small silver shaped like a dagger. It makes him smile and he reaches out with his metal hand to carefully remove it and set it down.

"This too," he says warmly, and then glances fondly over at Sylvie. "No need to wrap it up."

"You'd what?" she asks. "Spank me?"

Without waiting for an answer, Sylvie marches from the fitting room, making no attempt to hide that she'd been inside with the very handsome man who exits after her. Let people think whatever they want, given that what they'd really been doing was fighting.

In general, there isn't much that can make Sylvie soften, not noticeably, but her brows draw together when Bucky reaches for the necklace, almost as if she's confused. She glances at him quickly, a dart of her eyes, as if checking. Could such a thing really be for her? It's a strange idea, being given a gift.

She doesn't want to assume.

“Maybe I would,” Bucky tells her, laughing incredulously to himself as they head for the counter. He can’t help but to picture it in his head— a pink handprint on Sylvie’s round, pale ass, but he blinks the thought away as he checks out.

He catches her look as he adds the necklace, and says nothing as he finishes paying and takes his bag. It’s only once they’re back outside, away from anyone who may overhear, that he turns and lets the silver chain dangle from his metal fingers, tiny dagger glinting in the afternoon sun.

“This is for you,” he tells her as he hands it over, smiling almost sheepishly. “It was too fitting to pass up.”

A part of her wants to make a face at him, but only because she feels suddenly vulnerable, a strange position to be in following their argument. She manages not to make a face and instead presses her lips together, almost curious, before she reaches out to take the necklace.

The chain is delicate and she's almost afraid she'll break it.

"Can you put it on for me?" she asks.

Her face does something complicated, but Bucky waits patiently because he understands how strange it might feel to be given such a gift out of the blue. He might find it hard to trust, might have to take a moment to process it, and he assumes the same would be true for her.

She asks him to put it on and Bucky feels relieved, smiling warmly and nodding as he takes the chain back, carefully unclasping it as he steps behind her. As he sweeps her hair to the side and reaches around to pull the chain around her neck, he realizes how much trust she is putting in him to even allow him in this position. He moves slowly, carefully holding the chain between his metal fingers while using his good hand to open the clasp, hooking the pieces together and letting the chain fall.

He puts his hands on her shoulders and turns her around, smiling at the sight of the small dagger resting against her chest. "It suits you."

No one has given Sylvie jewelry before. Maybe when she was a child, something passed down through the family, which technically should be more meaningful, but she doesn't even remember if such a thing ever occurred.

She remembers this.

When Bucky turns her, she lets herself go, her smile tentative, almost shy. She reaches up and touches the dagger, then looks at him. "Thank you," she says and even with practice, the words still feel strange, a little stilted, though she means them sincerely.

When Bucky picked out the necklace, it hadn't occurred to him that it might be a big deal, but it probably should have. He just saw it and thought of her, imagined it hanging from her neck, and thought she might like it, so he wanted her to have it.

Had he thought about it a little longer, he might have expected this reaction. He has a very similar one whenever someone does anything nice for him. This is something intimate, something new, so it doesn't bother Bucky that she doesn't say much. Just the opposite, really. That delicate smile on her face when she thanks him makes him feel bigger than the whole sky, overwhelmed with affection for her.

"You're welcome," he tells her, smiling warmly and putting a hand on her arm as he leans in to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Think of me when you wear it."

It isn't a demand, more of a soft request, and he kisses her forehead again before lowering his head to give her a chaste for heartfelt kiss on the lips.

"I already think of you all the bloody time," she answers. "It's quite annoying."

Her words are at odds with her reaction, the press of her palms against Bucky's chest, the way she leans into the kiss. It's a sweet gesture and while she may not know how to properly thank him or tell him what it means, she thinks he might understand regardless.

They're alike. They both know they are. So often, she can see her own insecurities reflected in Bucky, which is why being with him makes her feel especially vulnerable. Seen in ways she isn't used to.

"Oh, yeah? I'm not sorry to hear it," Bucky says with a pleased chuckle, staring down at her as he curls his hands over hers where they rest against his chest. They're blocking part of the sidewalk, surely, but Bucky doesn't care. He couldn't look away from her if tried.

"Do you want to come over for a little bit?" He asks in a low murmur, leaning in to give her another soft kiss. If she comes over, she can stay as long as she'd like, but he never wants her to feel obligated to stay. "Because I really wish we weren't on a busy street right now."

He wants to be alone with her, because she's looking at him in that way that seems to be reserved for only him, and he wants to kiss her, hold her, maybe touch her in ways that he can't do in public.

"You have the libido of a much younger man," Sylvie answers, but she's smirking as she takes his head and turns them in the direction of Bucky's flat. The townhouse is probably equally as close, but he's invited her over and she knows it's likely because Bopp will need to be fed or will have to be taken on a walk soon.

And in her way, Sylvie loves that dog, too.

"I thought human men tended to max out around eighteen," she continues. "And here you are, a hundred and... what is it now? A hundred and eight? Very impressive stamina."

"A hundred and nine," Bucky replies dryly. "Practically an infant."

They start walking in the direction of his apartment, fingers threaded together, and Bucky stares at the side of her head for a few moments, opening his mouth and then closing it again.

"Is this a complaint?" He finally asks, and by his tone it's probably clear that he knows the answer, but just wants to be sure.

"Does it sound like a complaint?" she shoots back at him before she untangles her hand from his and gives him a hard swat on his ass, smiling innocently as she does. "Simply an observation."

Then she walks ahead, her hips swaying, and uses a tendril of shimmering green magic to reach back behind her, flicking against his nipple through his new sweater. She does this all without looking at him, but she wonders if he can tell from the set of her shoulders that she's laughing.

How they've gone from fighting to laughing in moments is beyond her. Maybe this is what something good is really like. Easy.

“Just checking,” Bucky says easily, startling a bit when she slaps his ass. He isn’t expecting it and he glances around even though no one’s nearby, chuckling to himself and shaking his head.

She walks ahead and Bucky is so entranced by the shape of her ass in her tight jeans that he doesn’t even notice the little green tendril of actual magic coming his way until there’s a sudden sting at his nipple, one that sends a little spark right down to his dick.

“Oh, you’re evil,” Bucky says as he surges forward and wraps his arm around her shoulders from behind, tugging her back playfully against his chest. He wants her so badly, wants to fuck away the last remnants of their fight, because he’s heard that making up is the best part. He even looks around as if some private little alcove might present itself, and then ducks his head to press a kiss behind her ear.

“It’s like you want to get spanked,” he teases in a low voice, because she makes him feel so bold sometimes. He bites at her earlobe and then moves away from her, lightly tapping her ass with his hand before walking in front of her.