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Not once. The pacing finally stops and you breathe a sigh of relief. You emerge from underneath the pillow and drag yourself in front of the little vanity you share with your roommate.

Your hair tumbles down in an unruly mess. Because despite of his meddlesome ways and his sometimes thoughtless actions, you still care about Bucky. Probably more than you should, and more than he cares for you anyway, no matter how high Angie raises her eyebrows. You frown. Rubbing your cheeks one last time, you go to open the door. The disheveled look of it almost has your heart fall over itself and you inhale sharply to keep it firmly locked in your chest. Bucky clears his throat. He keeps shifting under your gaze, keeps moving, his fingers pulling at a loose thread in the hem of his sweater.

He pushes his hair back again. His eyes finally stop their constant wandering and find yours. You shake your head, ignoring the flutter. But when you move to close the door again, he holds it open with his foot. Another chip, another crack, and the puzzle pieces are starting to fall back into place. And now, from one day to the next, neither of them is going to be here anymore.

As you pass the vanity, you notice the worried flicker in your eyes. With a deep breath, you try to soothe it away. Not yet. Bucky is leaning next to the door as you lock up and straighten your back. Bewildered, you look at it for a second before you move past him and start descending. You think you hear him sigh before he follows you. You hum noncommitantly and hop over the hole in the floorboard.

The milky glow of the street lamps dimly lights your way through your empty Brooklyn neighborhood. Most shops are closed by now, bedroom windows darkened. Only once you get closer to the larger streets are there still a couple of late-night strollers dotting the alleyways. Neither of you seems to want to be the one to come out of it. Stealing a glance at Bucky, you find him already looking at you. Hastily, you avert your eyes again, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks.

Every ounce of your earlier determination seems to have vanished; you feel more unsure with each step. Bucky stuffs his hands into his pockets, coughing. You wonder what cat caught his tongue. He looks more like himself in his own street clothes. He even walks differently, back less straightened, more relaxed.

The uniform suits him well, but it makes him look younger, somehow. A bit lost in its ironed edges. You never do, though, not when he flashes that little lopsided grin at you, his eyebrows drawn together in an almost bashful expression. You just start thinking that you should have brought a cardigan when suddenly Bucky stops, muttering to himself. The gesture is so gentle, so unexpected, that for a moment the words get stuck in your throat.

Bucky smiles, and for the first time tonight, it reaches his eyes. You hate the effect it has on you. His fingers linger on the collar for another second or two before he slowly pulls back.

He inhales as if he wants to say something else, but stops himself at the last moment. His eyes flicker down your body and back to your face. You hurry to catch up with him and once again, silence envelops you both, but it feels different now. As if something in the air has changed.

And there it is. Your heart gives another nervous flutter. Bucky snorts. Your sweaty hands holding onto your laundry basket for dear life. Your breaths coming in faster with every passing second. The way your vision started to blur slightly, as if your eyes were trying to protect you from the prying eyes you felt piercing every inch of your skin. Thankfully, he keeps talking before your thoughts can go down that road.

Your lingering irritation at his earlier behavior again seems like a much safer topic, somehow. He kicks a pebble and you both watch it tumble across the empty sidewalk. He just—he got under my skin. Instead, he blushes. You follow his gaze. Cold lights and a sadly flickering sign, the windows fogged up with the humid wind blowing through from the docks. When Bucky holds the door open for you, the broken sound of the brass bell has you cringe.

You hide a laugh behind the sleeve of his jacket. The smell of him lingers in the fabric, but not enough to block out the stench of burnt eggs and stale air. Do you want coffee? Your back is to the wall, which gives you a nice view of the whole of the diner. The tables are clean, the menu is surprisingly extensive, and the only other customer is a bespectacled elderly man nursing a milkshake with a surprising amount of whipped cream at the bar.

You can hear quiet music coming from the kitchen. Bucky shrugs. His eyebrow twitches, but he keeps his eyes on his mug, swirling the contents.

The painful uncertainty makes the air seem to crackle when he looks at you, then. For once, Bucky is the first one to look away, and you hastily clear your throat and lock your heart away again. You think of the plaster on your living room floor.

Bad weeds grow tall and all that. Bucky nods slowly, that little lopsided smile making another appearance. His eyes crinkle with it. The arrival of his cake order turns the flutter in your stomach into a growl. Coffee cake with cream and steaming apple pie, jam filled vanilla sponge and cheesecake are placed in front of you, each slice about twice the size of what Angie is allowed to cut at the automat.

You have to control yourself hard to not make any obscene noises. Your hair tumbles down in an unruly mess. Because despite of his meddlesome ways and his sometimes thoughtless actions, you still care about Bucky. Probably more than you should, and more than he cares for you anyway, no matter how high Angie raises her eyebrows. You frown. Rubbing your cheeks one last time, you go to open the door. The disheveled look of it almost has your heart fall over itself and you inhale sharply to keep it firmly locked in your chest.

Bucky clears his throat. He keeps shifting under your gaze, keeps moving, his fingers pulling at a loose thread in the hem of his sweater. He pushes his hair back again. His eyes finally stop their constant wandering and find yours. You shake your head, ignoring the flutter. But when you move to close the door again, he holds it open with his foot.

Another chip, another crack, and the puzzle pieces are starting to fall back into place. And now, from one day to the next, neither of them is going to be here anymore. As you pass the vanity, you notice the worried flicker in your eyes. With a deep breath, you try to soothe it away. Not yet. Bucky is leaning next to the door as you lock up and straighten your back. Bewildered, you look at it for a second before you move past him and start descending.

You think you hear him sigh before he follows you. You hum noncommitantly and hop over the hole in the floorboard. The milky glow of the street lamps dimly lights your way through your empty Brooklyn neighborhood. Most shops are closed by now, bedroom windows darkened. Only once you get closer to the larger streets are there still a couple of late-night strollers dotting the alleyways.

Neither of you seems to want to be the one to come out of it. Stealing a glance at Bucky, you find him already looking at you. Hastily, you avert your eyes again, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks. Every ounce of your earlier determination seems to have vanished; you feel more unsure with each step. Bucky stuffs his hands into his pockets, coughing. You wonder what cat caught his tongue.

He looks more like himself in his own street clothes. He even walks differently, back less straightened, more relaxed. The uniform suits him well, but it makes him look younger, somehow. A bit lost in its ironed edges. You never do, though, not when he flashes that little lopsided grin at you, his eyebrows drawn together in an almost bashful expression.

You just start thinking that you should have brought a cardigan when suddenly Bucky stops, muttering to himself. The gesture is so gentle, so unexpected, that for a moment the words get stuck in your throat. Bucky smiles, and for the first time tonight, it reaches his eyes.

You hate the effect it has on you. His fingers linger on the collar for another second or two before he slowly pulls back. He inhales as if he wants to say something else, but stops himself at the last moment. His eyes flicker down your body and back to your face. You hurry to catch up with him and once again, silence envelops you both, but it feels different now. As if something in the air has changed. And there it is. Your heart gives another nervous flutter.

Bucky snorts. Your sweaty hands holding onto your laundry basket for dear life. Your breaths coming in faster with every passing second. The way your vision started to blur slightly, as if your eyes were trying to protect you from the prying eyes you felt piercing every inch of your skin.

Thankfully, he keeps talking before your thoughts can go down that road. Your lingering irritation at his earlier behavior again seems like a much safer topic, somehow. He kicks a pebble and you both watch it tumble across the empty sidewalk. He just—he got under my skin.

Instead, he blushes. You follow his gaze. Cold lights and a sadly flickering sign, the windows fogged up with the humid wind blowing through from the docks. When Bucky holds the door open for you, the broken sound of the brass bell has you cringe. You hide a laugh behind the sleeve of his jacket.

The smell of him lingers in the fabric, but not enough to block out the stench of burnt eggs and stale air. Do you want coffee? Your back is to the wall, which gives you a nice view of the whole of the diner.

The tables are clean, the menu is surprisingly extensive, and the only other customer is a bespectacled elderly man nursing a milkshake with a surprising amount of whipped cream at the bar. You can hear quiet music coming from the kitchen. Bucky shrugs. His eyebrow twitches, but he keeps his eyes on his mug, swirling the contents. The painful uncertainty makes the air seem to crackle when he looks at you, then. For once, Bucky is the first one to look away, and you hastily clear your throat and lock your heart away again.

You think of the plaster on your living room floor. Bad weeds grow tall and all that. Bucky nods slowly, that little lopsided smile making another appearance.

His eyes crinkle with it. The arrival of his cake order turns the flutter in your stomach into a growl. Coffee cake with cream and steaming apple pie, jam filled vanilla sponge and cheesecake are placed in front of you, each slice about twice the size of what Angie is allowed to cut at the automat.

You have to control yourself hard to not make any obscene noises. You watch him over the rim of your own mug. Your eyes flit to the untouched sugar dispenser, and it just irks you. Do you eat it raw with a spoon?