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Some Rules are Never Meant to be Broken
Pairing: Paramedic!Bucky X Reader
Rating: Mature
Genre: Greek/Roman Gods AU, Drama and maybe some Mystery
Warnings: PTSD, Implied violence, anger control issues. Mentions of 9/11 attack and the war that follows. Otherwise mostly fluff, and some emotional therapy.
Word Count: Heckin long 12,515. It started so well and then got away from me
Summary: Reader is a Muse living life as a tour guide at a museum. Bucky is struggling with returning home from war and adjusting to civilian life. He used to be a paramedic and now works security, but what he really misses from his pre-war life is his ability to draw. Cue the reader, determined to do her job and get him back to a point where he can do what he loves most. But, spending that much time with anyone always leads to romantic feelings, which is against her laws. Will she be able to resist Bucky long enough to help him and not get her in serious trouble?
Note: This is for @after-avenging-hours August AU Writing Challenge. I hope you enjoy it, messages are greatly appreciated. This is my first time writing in this style, so hopefully I did it justice. If enough people like it and want more, then there’s more to come.
You don’t know when you switched the museum chatter to just background noise, but it’s been a while, so you didn’t really notice when it had disappeared altogether. You drone on to the group in front of you about the statue behind you, when you look around to your tour group, only to realize they have completely vanished. You glance around, fully expecting to see other museum visitors, but you are the only one in the massive room.
It happens that way, sometimes. The harder cases that require your full attention, they make everything else disappear around them when you get close to them. You feel the familiar tug in your gut and you follow it towards the Greek and Roman exhibit. A man sits on a bench, a sketch pad in his lap and a pencil in his left hand. A loud snap reverberates around the hall from the now broken pencil in his hand. Something shiny glints on his hand like a glove and it takes you a long minute to realize that it isn’t on his hand, it is his hand. His metal hand.
Oh dear.
His long-sleeved maroon shirt stretches over his muscular frame as he bends over, clearly frustrated. You think you hear him mumble something. The words ‘no point anymore’ reach you and you can feel your heart stretching towards him.
You blink and you’re back in front of your tour group again; bored faces waiting for you to keep talking. You oblige, only because it’s your job and five agonizing minutes remain on the tour. As you walk your group back to the main lobby, you pass a teenager who’s desperately looking for inspiration. The details aren’t clear, probably an art project that you will never see, but Your fingers ghost along his shoulders, just enough of your powers flowing into him to give him the edge he needed. Your stomach flutters happily at the transference of power and you smile to yourself.
Don’t forget to sacrifice to your muse, you think jokingly. Not that anyone does that anymore, but that was never what you and your sisters fed off anyway. You meander your way back towards the Greek and Roman exhibit, hoping that your next favored is still there. A chime signaling the end of your day sounds as you enter the wing to find him sitting in the exact same spot, looking even more miserable. You take a hesitant step forward, but your natural charm fails you and you’re unsure how to proceed.
He stiffens in his seat, back straightening a little and you briefly wonder what has set him on edge, but then he turns to look at you, his blue eyes hardening slightly. You almost cringe back under the intensity of it, but something tells you that would be the wrong move.
“Do you know much about this piece?” you ask, taking another step forward, trying to exude calm despite your sudden nerves.
He looks taken aback, like he isn’t expecting that to come out of your mouth. His full lips parts slightly, and his guarded expression drops. “Um, no, not really. Just that I like it.” he says, his voice is deep but velvety smooth. “Is this exhibit closing already?” He asks and you tilt your head.
“No, not at all. I just noticed you admiring her.” you say, taking another step forward. “It’s one of my personal favorites.” you continue, eyeing the statue of yourself. The face was wrong, he would never know that it is you he has been staring at so intently.
“She was very beautiful.” he says, his shoulders tensing as if he is ready to bolt at a second’s warning. Your gaze drops to his sketch pad where he has a few rough lines drawn, but not much else.
“You know, we encourage people to draw and sketch the exhibits. You never know when inspiration will strike you to create your own work of art.” you tell him, taking another step forward. he gives a derisive snort and gathers up his papers and pieces of broken pencil. The pencil is shoved into the pocket of his dark jeans, the pad tucked roughly under his right arm.
“I was actually about to leave.” he says, dropping his gaze. You tip your head to one side, trying to figure out if he’s just intimidated by you, generally trying to give you the brush off, or completely not interested. That is difficult to believe, since your powers allow you to shift your appearance to your favored’s preference. You almost can’t even remember what your original face looks like anymore, having changed so many times over the millennia.
He is dangerously handsome, with a strong chiseled jawline that can cut marble. His dark hair is longer than was fashionable these days, as if he had been too preoccupied to cut it for a long time and then just decided he liked it, but it fits him well. His tall frame is muscular and solid all over from what you can tell. He moves with an understated balance and grace that is hard to notice.
“I’m Y/N.” you introduce yourself, taking another step forward. You couldn’t let him leave yet, he’s your next recipient, you can feel that desire to create taking root in your stomach, making you hungry; and so far, you have a perfect record. He looks up at you, finally meeting your gaze for longer than a few seconds. He is silent for a long time, so long that you are afraid he’s just going to ignore you, but then he speaks again.
“James.” he said finally. You repeat his name softly, curling your mouth around it. Names have power in your world, and his name burns with it.
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