Morning came and luckily your body woke you around 7am because you'd neglected to set an alarm. You hopped in the shower and then rummaged through your duffel for something comfortable to wear that you wouldn't mind getting dirty. Slipping on a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, and sneakers instead of your trusty sandals, you pulled your hair up away from your face and headed out the door with an apple in hand.

Arriving outside the auto shop, the garage doors were closed but a light was on in the office. You let yourself in and wandered behind the counter toward the light, finding Bucky seated at a desk piled high with papers. His hair was down, brushing the collar of his light blue work shirt which was unbuttoned to reveal a white tank top underneath. Watching him fill out a form of some sort in a hurried scrawl, you observed him unnoticed a moment before announcing yourself.

"Good morning," you finally spoke, bringing his head up.

His handsome smile instantly brightened the artificially-lit room, causing those butterflies to make an appearance once again. "Morning, Y/N."

You returned his smile, leaning against the door's entryway. "Well, it looks like this office could use a little help."

He chuckled. "You're not wrong, but quite the undertaking. I'm pretty sure some of these receipts are older than me. My uncle owns the shop, but he's basically retired now so I run the place. Organization was never his strong suit. How about some coffee and a little tour?"

You nodded, "Sounds like a plan."

Bucky kept a small coffee pot in the waiting area in front of the counter and he poured you both a cup, offering cream and sugar. You followed him around as he explained where things were and why they were kept there, although sometimes the answer was "because that's where my uncle put them", defying all logic. There was a corded phone on the wall behind the counter, but it rarely rang. According to Bucky, your call was the only one he'd had all week. Most locals just dropped by and he'd squeeze them in whenever he could.

The computer was ancient, which seemed to be a trend in this town, but most files were still on paper anyway. Bucky gave you a rundown of where tools were generally kept along with stories about the cars he was currently working on and their owners. Your favorite was Mr. Coulson's 1962 Cherry Red Chevy Corvette, which he had named Lola. For years he would hover around the car while Bucky changed the oil or any other regular servicing, but he seemed to trust the seasoned mechanic now. Bucky still advised you not to touch Lola, just to be safe.

"So? Which project would you like to tackle?" he asked you as he pulled his hair back into a bun to start his day.

You were momentarily distracted by the act once again, but made it seem like you were considering your options. "Where's the tow truck?" you finally asked.

His brow furrowed in confusion. "Uh...you want to tow something?"

"No, I mean the lift mechanism that nearly shattered my eardrums. It's bad enough when your car has to be towed, being subjected to that unholy noise is just insult to injury."

He barked out a laugh at that before gesturing to its location around the corner of the building. "You've got a point. If you want to back it into that empty stall, I'll show you how to grease it up."

Bucky tossed you the keys and you did just that. You managed to lubricate the hydraulic lift of the tow truck very carefully as to avoid pinched fingers. When it raised and lowered with no squeal, you jumped up and down, clapping your blackened hands in excitement. Bucky poked his head out from under a car's hood and grinned at you, causing that flutter in your stomach to grow.

After the tow truck, you managed to organize the tools which were now all hanging from a pegboard on the wall for easy access. Next, you washed all the dingy windows, finally letting actual sunlight in. Around mid-morning, Bucky asked for your help aiming a flashlight at a particularly tricky part of an engine. You pointed the light at the area in question from above while Bucky worked from underneath the car.

"So where are you headed specifically?" he asked, breaching the subject of your trip.

"L.A." you said simply.

"Oh? Off to Hollywood to become a big movie star, huh?" he teased lightly as you heard the clanging of a tool against the engine.

"Nope," you contradicted him. "I'm no actress. I'm actually a writer. Screenwriter, to be exact," you explained proudly.

"Really?" he asked, an impressed tone in his voice. "That's amazing. Do you write one specific genre or a variety?"

You smiled at his question, grateful that he took your confession in stride without any doubt at your ability. "Action and suspense, mostly. I did write a romantic comedy while I was in school, but it was so damn sappy I couldn't even stand to read it afterwards."

He chuckled, making you wish you could see his smiling face from where you stood beside the car. "I'm sure it wasn't that bad. We're always our own worst critic."

You let out a sigh. "Maybe. My fellow classmates said it was pretty good. I just don't feel like it's my forte."

At that last word, you heard the rolling wheels from underneath, then revealing Bucky. He sat up, catching your eye with a shrug. "Well, sometimes what we struggle with the most is how we grow as a person. Or an artist. "

You considered his words of wisdom as he stood from his crouched position, wiping his hands on a rag. Bucky had a smudge of grease on his neck and you had the strongest urge to take that rag from his hands and brush your fingers against his skin while cleaning the spot yourself. A few strands from his bun had come loose, framing his face as a light sheen of sweat clung to his skin. In this dingy, hot garage, you thought he was the most beautiful sight you'd ever seen.

Realizing you hadn't shared a response, you cleared your throat and broke eye contact, blurting out the first thought in your head. "Hey, what's that thing called? The rolling board thing?"

"Hm? Oh, it's a creeper," Bucky answered, nudging the contraption he had been lying on moments before with his booted foot.

You snorted involuntarily. "A what? A creeper? That's the best thing I've ever heard."

Bucky joined you in your laughter. "Yeah, it's a pretty unusual name."

As the laughter died down, you held his gaze for a moment longer than intended, snatched by the captivating, stormy-grey eyes meeting yours. He broke contact this time, reaching a hand out toward you and you realize he was asking for the flashlight in your grasp.

"Well, thanks for your help. I think I'll be okay going solo for the oil change next," he said with a grin, accepting the flashlight from you.

"Yeah, um...it's no problem. I'll, uh...I'll get back to it then," you replied with a nod, telling yourself the flush on your skin was from the heat of the day.

You spent the next few hours cleaning the garage's cement floor which was covered in oil splotches. Once finished, you stood back to survey your work, wiping the back of your hand against your sweaty brow.

"Wow. I don't think I've ever seen the floor back to it's original color. When you bought that can of Coke from the vending machine I thought you were just going to drink it," Bucky said, impressed as he stood beside you.

"Drink it? Ick. No. After seeing what that stuff does to a greasy oil stain, what do you think it does to your insides?" you asked in reply, wrinkling your nose in distaste.

"Clears out all the grease?" he asked in a teasing tone.

You made a disgusted noise, nudging his side with your elbow as he burst out in laughter.

"Speaking of grease, do you wanna pick up some lunch from the diner? My treat. Nattie knows my usual and you can get whatever you want," he offered, plucking a few bills from his wallet before handing them to you. "I'll finish with this car and get cleaned up."

"Sure," you replied, accepting the cash and stashing it in your pocket. You ventured into the bathroom (which was a whole other cleaning project you had yet to tackle) and washed your hands before trekking the few blocks toward the diner.

You returned half an hour later with a bag in each hand. You hollered at Bucky that food was here and as he rounded the corner, you were gifted with a lovely surprise to see the handsome mechanic in only a tank top, having shed his work shirt in the summer heat. He reached up and released his bun, brunet hair cascading down with a shake of his head. You had noticed something on the underside of his left arm, but it was only a split second so you convinced yourself it may have been a trick of the light.

Both of you settled in the empty waiting room where it was slightly cooler with a struggling air conditioner sputtering in the corner. You ate out of the to-go containers with intermittent conversation. At first bite, you suddenly realized how hungry you actually were. The apple from that morning wasn't very filling, you decided.

"So," you said with a mouth full of food, then swallowing before you went on, "Did you always want to be a mechanic?"

"No," Bucky replied with a small snort. "I'm not sure anyone truly has aspirations to become a grease monkey. Believe it or not, I thought I was gonna become a huge rockstar and make it big. I was in a band in high school and we stayed together a few years after we graduated. We actually weren't too terrible and I got pretty decent at the guitar, but when my dad left, my uncle was shorthanded so I started helping out here at the shop. Turns out I'm pretty good at fixing cars and I don't know. I just stuck with it. Plus we needed the money," he stated as fact, then shoving a forkful in his mouth.

Setting down your own fork, you took a good look at him. Even knowing him such a short time, you could tell Bucky had untapped potential. He was a young, attractive, charismatic guy. He probably could have done any number of things with his life and succeeded. The fact that he just resigned himself to this life made you a little sad. "I'm sorry," you spoke quietly. "About your dad, I mean."

Bucky shrugged. "It was rough at first, but in the end, probably for the best." He scraped the last of his food onto his fork and finished it off, then gathering up his trash. "Are you finished?" he asked you, gesturing toward the last few bites of your lunch.

You nodded and joined him in cleaning up. Following Bucky back into the garage, you both tossed your empty containers in the large trashcan. It was then that he noticed something sitting on on his workbench.

"What's this?" he asked, holding up the cash that had been left there.

"Your change," you answered simply.

He was silent a moment, probably calculating what his own meal normally cost. "This is too much. Did you pay for your own lunch?"

You nodded with a shrug, "I still owe you."

He let out an exasperated sigh as he pulled his hair into a bun again. You weren't mistaken, there was definitely a unique pattern of white lines and curves on his skin under his left arm near his bicep. "I said it was my treat, you didn't have to do that. You're paying me back already."

Offering a smile, you just shrugged again. "I think I'll tackle the office," you said bluntly, biting back curiosity as you walked through the doorway and immersed yourself in the messy back room stacked with papers.

____________

Several hours and a trip to the office supply store later with having done so much filing you felt like your fingers were more paper cuts than skin, the small back room was finally organized. You'd run it all past Bucky later and make sure he could keep up with it for his own benefit, you thought as you stretched your sore muscles. 6 o'clock had rolled around and once again you were starving. You weren't sure how late Bucky stayed open so you peeled yourself out of the vinyl chair and headed for the garage.

You didn't see Bucky at first glance one again, so you peeked around cars, walking toward the far end of the garage where you hadn't been yet. There was a small alcove just around the corner that wasn't visible unless you knew it was there. Turning the corner, you were surprised to see Bucky sitting in the back of a car with a bottle of beer in his hand. Oddly enough, the car had no roof. Or doors. Basically it was a bench seat wrapped in black leather inside a bare car frame. Bucky took a sip and then noticed you standing there.

"Hey," he greeted you with a smile. "All done?"

You nodded, stepping forward. "You?"

"Yep," he confirmed, then letting the moment fall into comfortable silence.

Feeling courageous, you climbed into the car and took a seat on the bench beside him. "How long ago did you finish?" you asked him, rubbing at a grease spot on your arm you'd just noticed.

"About 20 minutes ago. I peeked in and saw you were about done so I didn't want to interrupt. You were muttering to yourself about the necessity of last names on customer receipts, then you sang a few seconds of the Alphabet song to find the proper file. It was cute," he said with a chuckle, then offering the beer bottle to you. "I would have brought another but I wasn't sure if you were a drinker or not."

Your eyes flickered between the beer and him, cheeks enflamed from realizing he had been watching and listening earlier. You accepted the cold beer from him, hyper aware of the fact that his lips had been on it a second ago. Holding his gaze, you took a swig and then handed the bottle back to him. His eyes dropped to your lips as you licked them, then back up to meet your eyes.

"So," you finally spoke, glancing at your surroundings. "Is this a project of yours? This car?"

Clearing his throat, he nodded. "I'm hoping to restore it completely eventually, but it's a slow process. Parts on classic cars are expensive and I don't have a lot of time these days. But eventually, it's going to be a '67 Chevy Impala. Such a great car."

You nodded, trying to picture what it would be like one day. For some reason that specific make and model sounded familiar to you with an image of a shiny black car roaring down the highway flashing in your mind, maybe from a movie or tv show.

Bucky was playing with the label on his beer bottle when he spoke again. "So, I was thinking of going out to dinner at this great Italian place in town tonight. Would you like to join me?"

"Really?" you asked in shock.

"Okay, so it's the ONLY Italian place around here, but it's still pretty good," he admitted with a grin, still awaiting your response.

"Um...sure. That sounds great. Good as the diner is, I'm not sure I could handle a fourth meal in two days," you said, pulling a face.

He laughed, "Understandable. I've done it, but wouldn't recommend it."

You echoed his laughter for a moment. "I should probably get cleaned up though..." you trailed off, looking down at your sweaty, grease-covered clothes.

"Oh, yeah, me too," he agreed. "I can drop you off and then pick you up around 7:30?"

"That sounds perfect," you grinned, climbing out of the car with Bucky following you.

As you waved goodbye to Bucky and shut the door to your motel room, your mind went into panic mode. Was this a date? Did you pack anything date-worthy? How much scrubbing would it take to get the grease out of your skin and fingernails? Taking a deep breath, you let go of those worries as excitement for tonight crept in.

You had a date with Bucky Barnes. Maybe.