It started like any other rare night off: half the Howling Commandos stomping down the sidewalk, still in uniform, their chatter echoing off brick walls as they talked loudly of girls, booze, and the kind of trouble that helped them forget they might be dead by morning. Bucky walked with them - half a smile tugging at his face, hands stuffed into his coat pockets - until a drifting melody stopped him in his tracks.

It wasn’t just any music. It was jazz. Live jazz. A trumpet calling out like an old friend. Warm, crackling notes filtered out of a nearby club, wrapped in laughter and clinking glasses. Bucky didn’t even hesitate.

“I’ll catch up later.” He called over his shoulder. “Promise.”

“Don’t get lost in there, Barnes!” Dum Dum shouted, but Bucky was already crossing the street.

The club was dim and golden inside, like something pulled from memory. Bucky stood at the back and let it all wash over him: the sultry rise of the saxophone, the flick of piano keys, the way the singer dragged each note like she had all the time in the world.

He yearned for this - this warmth, this softness. Like the war wasn’t breathing down his neck. Like blood didn’t stain his boots. Something about this night reminded him what it was like to be just a boy from Brooklyn, wide-eyed and full of wonder, not a soldier who might not come home.

He lingered until the last encore melted into smoke. Stepping outside again, he pulled his cap lower, ready to catch up with the guys, when something else caught his eye.

A crowd had gathered just outside the club. Street magician.

Bucky slowed, drawn to the easy laughter and gasps of delight. The magician wore a crumpled hat and a velvet vest, his fingers moving like quicksilver as he made coins vanish and handkerchiefs reappear from sleeves.

Then the magician spotted him.

“You, soldier!” He called, grinning. “Step up, let’s see if I can teach a brave man a simple trick!”

Bucky chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as the crowd clapped him forward. “Alright, why not.”

“And we need a lovely assistant.” The magician added, sweeping a dramatic bow toward the onlookers. “You, miss! Perfect!”

You blinked, caught off guard as the magician beckoned. You stepped forward, nerves humming. Bucky glanced at you, then smiled. God, he had one of those faces - troublemaker dimples, blue eyes like open sky.

And then he really looked at you.

You were pretty - no, more than that. Like the war had stopped for one second and sent someone beautiful and kind-looking as an apology. As if all the ugly things Bucky had seen were suddenly balanced out just by the way you smiled, hesitant but warm. Like maybe the world still had good things in it.

The magician leaned toward Bucky, whispering instructions with exaggerated flair. Cards shuffled. He winked. “Now, soldier, if you remember what I told you...”

Bucky turned over a card.

Your full name stared up from it.

The crowd erupted into applause. You blushed, a shy smile breaking across your face. He looked so damn pleased with himself, and you... well, you couldn’t stop looking at him either.

You both stepped back into the crowd, watching the magician’s final trick in easy silence. Something warm had settled between you - an invisible thread.

Then, a voice at your ear.

“I think I owe you my name.” He said softly, close enough that it felt like a secret. “Since I know yours. Don’t you think?”

You turned. He was watching you like you were the most interesting thing in a world full of noise. You smiled - couldn’t help it.

“I think you do.”

He offered his hand. “James Barnes. But everyone calls me Bucky.”

You slipped your fingers into his. “Nice to meet you, Bucky.”