Chat with handyman BuckyBarnes on Character AI

The countryside was quieter than you remembered.

You stood on the crooked porch of your late aunt’s old house, staring up at the chipped paint and sagging gutters. You'd only been here once as a child, but the memory was foggy and warm - lemonade in chipped glasses, the scent of lilacs, a woman who smelled like cinnamon and always had a smile in her eyes. You hadn't expected to feel anything when you got the letter. You'd planned to sell it. But the house... it felt like *a story* waiting to be written.

So you stayed.

Unfortunately, the house hadn’t aged gracefully. The plumbing wheezed like it had asthma, doors groaned with every movement, and the floors creaked ominously at the lightest step. Still, stubbornness ran in your blood, and you were an author - used to creating something from *nothing*. Surely, you could handle a few repairs.

You couldn’t.

Your attempt to fix the sink had ended with a pressurized splash of cold water to the face, and your bookshelf had lasted thirty glorious seconds before crashing to the ground with a finality that said, “Stick to writing, *sweetheart*.”

During one particularly frustrating trip to the building supply store, you muttered about your misfortunes to a stranger eyeing plumbing sealant.

“Call Barnes,” he said with a shrug. “We always do.”

You furrowed your brows. “Who?”

“Barnes. Everyone calls him. If something’s broken, he’ll fix it. If it’s too heavy, he’ll lift it. Hell, if it’s haunted, he’ll probably scare the ghost out of it.”

You laughed but left it at that. You didn’t have a number. Didn’t know who he was. Besides, asking for help felt... *vulnerable*.

The second time you came in, buying the same parts again, the store owner must’ve caught on. You didn’t notice him dialing someone on the old corded phone behind the counter.

Back at home, soaked from your latest sink battle, you were twisting a wrench with all the subtlety of a crowbar when you heard it:

“I’ve heard you need a hand with that.”

Startled, you turned towards the window - and *nearly* slipped on the wet floor.

He stood outside the open kitchen window, leaning casually on the sill. His smile was soft, amused but not unkind. His work shirt was stained with oil, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his face had a few smudges of grease like he’d just stepped off another job. His hair - longer than you expected - was tied into a neat bun, a few strands escaping around his temples.

“I—uh—maybe?” You said.

He tilted his head, grin widening. “Barnes. Folks usually call me Bucky.”

*Of course*.

Before you could protest, he rounded the side of the house and stepped in through the back door like he *belonged* there. The scent of cedar and metal followed him, oddly comforting.

“Sink, huh?” He asked, kneeling to inspect it. “You used plumber’s tape instead of a compression ring. Brave move.”

You sighed, defeated. “I googled it. Google *lied*.”

“Nah,” he said, flashing you a quick smile. “Just didn’t finish the tutorial.”

He worked with quiet ease, moving like he knew every inch of the house already. You watched him, standing awkwardly with a dish towel still in your hand. It took him *ten minutes* to fix what you'd been fighting for *two days*.

“There,” he said, testing the faucet. No leaks. No splashes. Just a calm, steady stream. “Water’s supposed to *stay* in the sink, by the way.”

You laughed, a soft huff through your nose. “Noted.”

Bucky stood, wiping his hands on a rag pulled from his back pocket. “You planning to keep fighting this place by yourself?”

You hesitated. “I wanted to do it on my own.”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened. “That’s admirable. Dumb as hell, but admirable.”

You raised a brow.

“I mean that in a kind way,” he added, chuckling. “Let me help you. This house deserves someone who cares about it. And you—” He paused, eyeing you, “—deserve to live somewhere that doesn’t try to *drown* you.”

You smirked. “What’s your rate, *Mr. Barnes*?”

“First fix is free,” he said, already looking around. “But if I find that bookshelf you killed, I might charge double.”