The potent scent of petrichor from the heavy rain still resonates in Bucky’s nose as he slides back into the warmth radiating all throughout the town car. The leather seats welcome him with open arms as the driver shuts the door behind him. A sigh rushes from his chest and into the open air around him. He takes his messenger bag off and stretches. Rotating his arms back and forth to get the circulation going, making sure to release the tension around the scarring on his left side. Flexing his left hand a bit, he pulls at the tips of his fingers before easing the glove off of his black and gold hand. What a day, what a long day. Deciding to splurge on a higher grade of transportation today was definitely the best choice considering the continuous pitter patter of the raindrops racing down the rear passenger windows. Loosening his tie, he sinks into the backseat. The town car pulls away from the curb, leaving the large, imposing, A.I.M. Tech office building in the rearview mirror. The sun is completely hidden behind dark grey clouds. Brisk winds beat up against the exterior, they make the windows rattle slightly as the driver smoothly joins the flow of the city traffic. He watches hustle and bustle that is the city of Manhattan, it eventually fades to the background while the interview he just had, one of many, plays over and over in his thoughts.
It feels like another failed interview the way his heart is trying its level best to make a new home in his stomach. He remembers the look on the interviewer’s face when asked what his mate thinks about him looking for work. The pitying look that caused the interviewer’s lips to purse when he said he didn’t have one, as if he isn’t already aware of what society thinks of an unmated omega at his age, still makes his nostrils flare with indignation. To have the status of his nonexistent love life practically thrown in his face during his efforts to secure a job in his field make him wonder if he should even put in more applications. Three interviews in one day is one too many, he can’t even fully process the others with the most recent one taking up space in his thoughts. He honestly didn’t even want to apply to the Research and Development Department at A.I.M. Tech. He only did it because his former professor at Shieldra University, Dr. Alexander Pierce, suggested the company to him. The old man droned on and on about how the company is part of a massive tech conglomerate, that just an entry level position there is leagues better than any other technology company in the business. Bucky knows the man is just trying to fill up the quota of base pay workers by making it sound like he will be doing something great. He truly wants to help people with his biomedical engineering degrees. He didn’t wring all the benefits out of his G.I. Bill for nothing. He just would rather not have to deal with people like Pierce anymore. There was something about the old beta that made his skin crawl while he was in grad school. Not to mention his other professors, Dr. Zola and Mr. Whitehall, just being around them made the hair on the back stand on end. Rather than dwell on the past and that little to be desired interview, he focuses back on the transparent glass shielding him from the elements.
The pitter patter of the droplets against the window catches his attention again. The sounds of the traffic mix with the rainfall, transforming the day-to-day dissonance of the city into a pleasant melody. That hustle and bustle comes back to the forefront of this thoughts just enough to send him into a sort of haze. He watches as the rain drops race across his window. One droplet in particular holds his gaze, he bets with the cosmos that his will reign supreme against all the others. When it does, a gentle smile pulls at the supple flesh that make up his lips. His eyes flutter closed, he can feel the exhaustion creeping into his body like a slow-acting poison. The honk of a horn to his immediate right jerks him out of his daze rather abruptly. A wrinkle forms between his brows, his lips purse into a small pout, at the disturbance. For all intents and purposes he’s fully conscious, his awareness is heightened now in a way that makes that haze feel like a fleeting memory. So much for a light nap.
Pulling out a book from his messenger bag, he takes in the aged spine. It’s riddled with creases and warm from being pressed up against the inside lining. The title, Over the River and Through the Woods, is written in beautiful script. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought his father wrote it. He was always adamant that excellent penmanship was one of tools in which would make him a man befitting a place within House Barnes. A chuckle slips from Bucky’s lips at the thought because who refers to their own family as a house like that anyway? George was an eccentric man, but he still looks back fondly on the memories the two of them shared.
Opening the book, the warring scents of aged parchment and dry flowers waft into his nose. He had almost forgotten about the rose he left inside as a bookmark the day before. It’s a familiar aroma, one that reminds him of time spent with his mother in the front yard of their cottage back in Siberia. His eyes focus onto the words on the page while the rain drip drops on the windows, the hood of the car, and the doors. He’s fully immersed by the time the town car comes to a slow, full stop.
“Mr. Barnes,” a voice calls out from the driver’s seat. “We’ve arrived at your destination.”
Bucky looks up from the world of faeries and lost princes and returns to the land of reality. His apartment building seems to loom ominously with the grey rainclouds in the background. He quirks his lips at the building, the blinds shielding his neighbors from the outside world blink back at him as if challenging him to make his next move.
“Thank you, Coulson. You’ve been a joy to ride with today even if I wasn’t up for much conversation.”
Bucky gathers his belongings, carefully replacing his rose into the book, before stowing it into his messenger bag. The rainfall is still ever-present but lighter here in Brooklyn than it was in the city. Jogging toward the front door of the Brownstone, a peculiar package catches his attention. It’s white, a stark contrast to the brick of the steps it lays on. His name is written on the surface. His full name, James Buchanan Stanescu Barnes. That’s odd, though. Stanescu is his mother’s maiden name and she’s been dead for years… both his parents have.
ns 15.158.61.18da2
