Latest Posts by spookyreads - Page 2

ours (bucky x bob)

a hidden desire finally surfaces, and suddenly, the night isn’t just about your boyfriend anymore… but his teammate, too. (18+)

a/n: i honestly have no words other than i'm sorry for what's below the cut. idek how to describe this but uhh inspired by a spicy audio, dom!bucky, switch!bob, everyone's a freak. feel free to enjoy if that entices you!

“Put her on the bed, head facing me.”

Bucky’s request alone has you breathless with anticipation before you’re plucked from the ground and hiked into your boyfriend’s arms. Bob does as his teammate instructs without complaint or delay. Your head rests at the foot of the bed and your eyes lock with the super soldier above. His legs spread are wide on the chair, dim light casting shadows across his strong features.

God, you think, and immediately feel guilty for doing so.

This is the last thing you expect to come out of a previous, unpredictable encounter. One where Bob is handsy and you can’t stop purring - so inconsiderate of the company right beside you on the sofa. Please, his dry laugh rippled, don’t mind me. Unknowingly, those words set into motion the events that follow, igniting a chain of events that lead here.

Though, you realize, that can’t entirely be true. You and Bob knew deep down that kissing each other with so much tongue in front of him would lead to this. Both of you were aware that you spreading your legs and letting yourself to be of good use before Bucky’s hungry gaze would only end one way. In that moment, your sense of belonging shifted from him to them.

“Remember, there are no objections.” Bucky traces a thumb along your bottom lip. “You’re both gonna do exactly as I say.”

He doesn’t tell you to, but you nod. You hear Bob agree as well, the bed sinking under his weight. Bucky adds that, of course, safe words are welcome and encourages their use should there be any discomfort. He asks that you two remind him of yours, which you do.

“Very good…” The chair creaks softly as he leans back, relaxing. “Why don’t you go ahead and get started, Bob? Wanna see that face she makes when you eat her out.”

As if it’s second nature, your Bob leans in, his touch tender yet electric as he moves over you. Though his strings are in another's hands, he still tends to you with an unspoken understanding. A language rooted in desire that only the two of you know. His hands follow familiar, heated paths along your skin, coaxing shivers from you.

When Bob leans in, his lips brush your shoulder with deliberate softness. It's a whisper of warmth before he presses deeper, sparking a slow burn that makes your breath hitch and your pulse race. He slides between your legs effortlessly, his presence a certainty in the turmoil of your heightened senses. One hand gently cups your thigh while the other cradles your face, guiding you into a rhythm grounded in mutual trust.

Your lips part instinctively as his come down, melting into a kiss that feels like it’s meant to last forever. His tongue teases your mouth, muffling the trembling moans that spill from you. Your fingers instinctively graze his scalp, threading into his hair, while your teeth nudge his bottom lip, urging him into a more urgent tempo - pressing him closer, deeper into you.

Bob’s lips move down your body with practiced ease. Expectation heightens as his mouth drags over your skin, damp patches of warmth trailing in its wake. He pauses at your nipples, savoring each gentle suckle as you writhe beneath him, knees squeezing him instinctively.

Then, he travels lower, his kisses wandering to your covered mound. A gasp escapes you at the contact, every nerve tightening as he begins to kiss and lick it with unhurried worship.

“Please.” Your lower half peels from the bed, pushing into his face.

“Awfully rude of you to make her beg.” Bucky tuts, a hint of amusement in his voice while he watches your pleading face.

His presence, something of a distant memory under the touches of your lover, becomes vivid once again when he speaks. Your eyes roll up to catch him already staring back, watching with intent. He remains locked in, unflinching, while Bob slides your pants down carefully and spreads you wide open for a taste. Your vision to blurs as you gape -

“Keep those eyes open,” Bucky’s tone forces you to regain focus. “Look at how hard you’re making me.”

His throbbing cock, aches and glistens with evidence of his hunger - thick and heavy with cum. He strokes it slow and sure, eyes never once leaving yours, inviting you to witness every ragged breath falling from his parted lips. That pang of remorse from earlier, when you looked at him so carnally, flickers briefly before your gaze drifts downwards.

“S’okay, baby.” Bob slurs, already drunk off of your wetness, “Just enjoy yourself.”

He pulls your swollen clit between his lips, sucking and circling fervently. You cry out, legs clenching around his head while your body inches up involuntarily. Your head dangles from the edge of the mattress, neck in full extension.

Bucky groans at the sight, hand tightening on his length. His eyes, seemingly black, stretching from the head moving between your legs to your lips that can't seem to shut and settling on your heaving breasts.

“Bring your hand up, Bob.” Bucky bites his lip. “Tits like that shouldn’t go unheld, don’t you think?”

The man between your legs surfaces to tease, “You should see when she plays with them herself.”

A hushed moan escapes, blending with their taunting chatter - a sound that deepens the tension in the room. The heat from Bob's hand returning to your chest ignites you from within. His fingers trace velvety lines while his lingering glance promises more.

“Give them a nice slap.” Bucky commands.

Bob complies obediently, a hand coming down over your right breast and then your left. The slaps land with measured precision, teetering between playful and asserting. Your breathing frays, synchronizing with the relentless dance among pleasure and restraint, body shaking as you roll your hips deeper into Bob's tongue.

“Oh, she likes that.” His teammate raises a brow.

“Didn’t you, angel?” Bob's confirms, teeth grazing your clit.

You respond with a whine, the stimulation of it all leaving you speechless. Your heartbeat drums loudly in your ears, each inhale deeper and more uncontrollable than the last. All rational thought dissolves as you become acutely aware of how exposed and vulnerable you are before them.

Bucky's throat works with a hard swallow, “Think you can make her cum for me?”

Bob grunts in reply, the noise rippling through the charged air, vibrations that stir a deep need within you.

“Open your mouth, princess." Bucky brushes your cheek, “I want you to bite on these fingers as you get closer.”

You obey without second thought, a mix of excitement and something else you can’t quite name parting your lips to let his fingers in. Bob mutters sweet praises into your throbbing cunt - that's my girl, take his fingers - and Bucky urges you on - bite down hard, just like that.

The taste of calloused digits against your tongue and the mouth below ravaging your pussy causes a toe curling overload. Your senses and thoughts scramble into a single, intense focus.

"She's so close," Bob groans. "Fuck, baby, your legs are shaking."

He keep pushing you towards your peak, begging - let me have it, it's okay, you can cum for him. Your teeth clamp down even harder involuntarily and you ease the tension in your jaw, worried. Bucky shakes his head, keep biting, sweetheart, make a mess on that mouth.

As you surrender to the building pressure, pleasure spilling over in a shuddering climax, your eyes squeeze shut. Bob's eager tongue laps up your cum, indulging in every drop. The weight of release floods through your body, a sweet exhaustion that leaves you breathless and glowing, raw and fulfilled in the aftermath. You return to your senses just as a satisfied smirk curls at the corner of Bucky's mouth, proud at the scene before him.

It's hard to tell which one of them murmurs, "Good girl."

Bob surfaces from between your legs, licking the remnants of you from his lips, "How do you wanna fuck me, angel?" You peer at Bucky, but your boyfriend's hand pulls your chin back, "Nuh uh, look at me - not him."

"Feeling a little possessive, are we?" Bucky asks, a provocative chuckle following.

"Why don't you just shut the fuck up and watch what she can do?" Bob bites back.

You feel a thrill surge through you as the super soldier concedes to his challenge, further settling into his chair with a look that says let's see it. Your hands work to skillfully strip Bob, lips tracing along the skin you reveal.

Slowly, you descend, returning his earlier focus with an intimacy that mirrors his own attention to detail. The moment stretches between you, charged with a voltaic energy that heightens every touch as you explore each part with purpose.

He gives Bucky a smug look, "Wanna see how she makes it disappear?"

"What do you me-oh..."

Your lips trace along Bob's cock before you playfully slap it on your tongue. He shivers as you take him in and sink down, inch by inch, your mouth warm and wet against his dick. Each glide, each breath taken is unhurried and purposeful. You delight in his taste and how his shoulders sag when he feels the insides of your cheeks.

“Show him far you can take it.” Bob moans, and you do, pressing the tip to the soft spot at the back of your throat. “Yes, just like that, pretty girl.”

Bucky exhales shakily, muscles tense as his fist moves faster, driven by the visceral sight before him. His eyes glaze over, transfixed on how eagerly you accept the fellow Avengers' cock even as you gag. The smothered sounds of pleasure spilling from your lips fuel his arousal, his groans becoming more pronounced.

Soon, Bob's own noises join in the chorus that’s increasing in volume. He starts moving, hips pushing forward to drive his dick even further down your throat. His craving for more consumes him, voice rough and low as he whispers, show him what a good fucking girl you are for me.

Bucky's eyes widen as he watches you both lose control, pleasure spiraling into raw, audible rapture. Every choke and hum from you unravels him further, his frame trembling beneath his thrusting into his own palm. Bob's head drops back, a growl ripping from him as a hand comes to your head to tangle into your hair.

"I need you, I need you," He pulls you back from his length. "Put me inside you."

Bucky's brow pinches - like he's already picturing it in his mind - before he directs, “Face me, wanna see how you look when you take it.”

You turn around, a sultry promise shimmering in your eyes as you settle onto Bob's lap. Bucky takes his bottom lip between his teeth when you start to tease yourself with the cock that rests over your cunt. The sound the action makes reverberates through the room.

Bob chuckles through his gasps, "Let him see how you love to run that cock down your pretty little slit."

When you do, a wanton tone passes through Bob’s lips. Your lips curl as you let Bucky watch the way you take it - how your back arches in response to each teasing stroke, your folds opening wider with every glide, the glistening arousal that drips to Bob's thighs as you do.

Bucky toys with the head of his own cock, miming your movements, “Open her up for me.”

“Just like this?” The amusement in your boyfriend's tone is palpable.

Bob's hand curves possessively over your hip, anchoring you as spreads you nice and wide. His fingers scoop up your slick and smears it onto his length that he then taps against your clit.

You jerk and writhe, hips tilting upwards with an urgent, desperate for more. Bucky melts into a haze of craving and chaos, his focus solely between your legs. He can't even find the words to tell Bob that the shameless symphony before him is exactly what he wants.

You finally get what you want too. Bob plunges into you fully, a deep, gratifying invasion that narrows the world to the sensation of your skin meeting his. Your hips press forward, taking him deeper to revel in it all - every vein, pulse and inch stretching you out.

Your cries and shallow breaths, Bob's praises tangling in an incoherent babble, and Bucky's guttural notes blend together in a crescendo of pure need. A visceral, filthy concert of lust.

“Lean forward, hands on his thighs.” Bucky interjects. “I want you to torture him until he asks me to join.”

The latter part of that request catches Bob off guard, his moan breaking with a sharp inhale. This time, it's you that anchors him as your fingers dig into his firm thighs. The heat between your bodies grow while you drive your hips up and down with increasing force.

Bob thrusts upward as you descend, chasing the rhythm you set, aching to keep that mesmerizing connection. You look back to catch him hypnotized by the way your cunt swallows him whole, claiming him with each powerful bounce. He senses your eyes on him and his own flutter up to make contact. A silent question transmits from you, like it when I fuck you like this?

"Oh, fuck, babygirl..." Bob responds aloud.

Bucky huffs lowly, "Doesn't that look amazing?"

Bob is too lost in you, licking his lip as he pleads, "Want you on my tongue again."

"Wanna let him use it, doll?" Bucky's voice lifts, liking the thought of that. You feel the same way, endorsing the idea with a nod before he continues, "Back up on his face."

You slide off Bob's cock, positioning yourself to press your pussy into his face. His hands grab your hips firmly, spreading you open so he can indulge without restraint. You feel the eager, untamed laps of his tongue at your hold. It causes your eyes to cross and your back to arch as you press into his mouth even deeper.

“Keep you hands busy and play with his big cock.”

Bob surfaces with a moan when you do, and purrs a laugh, adding, “Almost sounds like you wanna hold it.”

“Hold that thought,” Bucky's words carry a glint of mischief. “Keep using that mouth on her.”

He doesn't need to be told twice, the lips between your slit shiver with a shaking suck. You ride Bob's face as you roll your wrist, tugging on his dick. He matches the pace of your hips rocking, a wet and frayed hum smearing his question into you, ready to take me again?

yes-

of course she is-

Your body seeks him out, aligning once more. But Bob's fingers tighten around your wrist, a quiet yet unyielding protest. He presses a kiss to the back of your neck and then move to the side, biting gently. His eyes land on the man spread out on the chair before you while he drawls, let's put on a little show for him.

"Use him exactly how you want." Bucky agrees.

With a fluid motion, you spin around to face Bob, aching to reconnect. Your hips rise and fall with purpose, the feeling of him filling you again cresting like a wave you'd forgotten you were holding your breath under - sudden, violent, and so sweet you could choke on it.

"Yes, please," Bob whimpers so high it borders on a sob. "Use me, use me..."

His lips claim yours in a fevered rush, the kiss like a brush fire consuming acres of forests in mere minutes. Bob's hands grip your waist as you give him what he needs. Each drive inward is sharper and more urgent, building into a relentless rhythm.

Words are lost as the men's voices ripple together. Bob's constant yeses come out like a trembling thread pulling taut, each one a fragile submission. Bucky's whines climb higher, thinner, pleasure tipping onto the frail edge of need and unravelling. It's an exquisite, ferocious melody to your ears as you listen to their cries - a mix of desire and desolation.

Bucky can't stand the distance any longer. He's suddenly beside you both on the bed, gasping, "Bob, open your mouth for my fingers, will you?"

Your boyfriend lets him in, gaze never straying from your own. You want to burn the sight into the back of your eyelids, to immortalize this moment so that you can relive it each time you close your eyes.

Bucky collects some spit before he brings his hand back to stroke his cock, sighing, "Good boy."

A sound so small and defenseless leaves Bob that he tries to cover it with a laugh. Ultimately, he can't betray the way he truly feels, longing swallows him whole like your cunt does his cock as the words spill out, "Fuck, don't - don't tell me that. You're gonna make me cum."

"That so?" A smug mumble curls from Bucky's mouth. He turns to you then, with a low goad, "Why don't we help him out? Choke him."

You wrap your fingers around Bob's neck, tightening enough to feel his pulse gallop beneath your grasp. His eyes flutter as he pointedly thrusts into you, his tip hitting the back of your pussy.

"Come on, harder." Bucky snarls.

“Harder,” Bob yearns. “I'll be a good.”

The pressure of your grip intensifies and he begins to gag - a wet, hiccuping sound tearing from his open mouth. It echoes in your core, the wounded and involuntary noise stirring something unknown within, making an unexpected warmth spread through your veins. Bob appears to know it though, an uneven breath hitches in his throat as he looks up at you in awe.

“That’s it, baby boy.” Bucky grunts. "How does it feel, sweetheart? Taking his big cock, letting him fill you up while your fingers squeeze his throat?"

You wish you could scream the truth that this is what you wanted from the start. That your actions in his presence were never innocent, but intentional and aiming to making this a reality. But your ability to form a sentence left the room long ago.

Bucky doesn't need to hear you say it; he sees it plainly in your eyes, the unspoken confession bubbling beneath your skin that burns with unyielding heat. It's written all over your face as your features twist with raging greed. And it's then, as if the telepathic admission is all it takes, that your vision whites out.

Your senses hone in on the throbbing pulse in your ears, the slick glide of Bob’s cock filling you, the delicious pressure of Bucky’s stare. Your free hand falls back to grab Bob's thigh, your head following the movement as you claw at him, overwhelmed, as if your bones might scatter if you don't tether yourself to him. The rhythmic clenching of your walls has his cock pulsing inside you as he nears his own end.

"I'm gonna fucking cum-" He calls out with the vocal equivalent of shaky hands.

“Pull it out." Bucky half-says, half-groans.

No, I wanna cum inside-

I said, pull it fucking out.

Hanging on the edge of release, Bob slides out of you and tenses. Your name is on his tongue like a sacrament, mixing in with slurred cries as he shoots his seed onto your stomach. His head lulls forward, forehead resting on yours before he presses a tender, lazy kiss to your lips. You trace gentle shapes along each other's trembling skin, grounding one another while your mingling breaths steady.

“You're both so good.” Bucky's breath hitches, he's not far behind. “Now clean up the mess, princess. Eyes on mine.”

You softly gather the cum trailing down your belly, feeling its warmth on your fingertips before you press them to your tongue. The thickness is a balance a savory and sweet as you indulge in the taste. Bucky's gaze is molten, his voice rasping with undisguised thirst when he urges you to take every last drop.

His final command comes out in a gravelly timbre, “Kiss his cum right back into that dirty mouth.”

It's as if he doesn't need to ask with how swiftly Bob's lips catch yours with searing ferocity. As your tongues twist, you let him taste the lingering proof of his need, melting it into the depths of his mouth. He shoots you a wicked grin, dragging your bottom lip and sucking, before his eyes drift sideways.

"You gonna cum on our faces, Bucky?" Bob asks, inflection warm and honeyed.

Bucky's curses escape light and rough, his body quivering with the shock of release as he sinks into the weight of his own climax. Between your lips and Bob's, his seed spills - warm, viscous, undeniable - melding into the kiss you share. The taste is rousing, primal, a heady reminder of tonight's events.

“Good boy.” Bob returns the compliment.

You flop down onto the plush bed, welcoming the softness beneath you. Bob's hands glide over your body with gratitude, still managing to make you shiver despite being thoroughly fucked out. You watch Bucky settle in too, his face luminous with satisfaction. Shadows dance slowly across the ceiling as your breaths tangle in the quiet aftermath of desire fulfilled.

“What do you think?” Bob turns to Bucky. "Are we your fuck toy, or are you ours?”

Bucky's laugh is genuine, “You know, I couldn’t care less - as long as we do this again."

“What about you, babe?” Your boyfriend strokes your hair.

You take a moment, considering.

Despite willingly relinquishing control, you realize that in this shared space, vulnerability has become a source of strength, and being seen and understood by them offers a profound sense of safety and protection you hadn't anticipated. The reins of trust are in your hands. With the two men here in bed with you, you're overcome with a sense of both submission and domination.

The corner of your mouth hitches upwards as you answer, "I think we could all use a shower.”

Foundations Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms. (Bucky). Smut.

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok. Let’s just pretend for a bit.

Status: Ended.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

Everything's Just Perfect

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: Yes

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: You're Bucky's ex-wife and you always seem to be there whenever he needs you.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!!

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

“So…” John groaned, slumping against a cracked brick wall. Blood trickled from a cut near his hairline, and ash streaked his jaw like war paint. He held up what was left of his shield — warped, twisted, folded . “What now? Because we just got annihilated.”

“No shit,” Ava muttered, spitting dust from her mouth and flicking a burned scrap of fabric from her sleeve. Her split lip had swollen, and she could feel bruises blooming across her ribs. “I say every man for themselves. Bob’s gone full horror movie. This was fun — goodbye.”

She turned into the lingering smoke, already half-vanished — until Yelena’s voice cut through like a knife.

“We can’t leave him.”

Ava stopped, shoulders stiff. “Leave who? That wasn’t Bob back there. That was... I don’t even know what that was.” She turned, folding her arms. “Definitely not the guy who saved us.”

“No,” Yelena said, voice tight. “But he’s still in there. Somewhere.”

“Unless one of you has a secret anti-god laser in your back pocket,” Ava snapped, “what exactly is your plan?”

“I don’t have one yet,” Yelena admitted, stepping forward anyway. “But we’re not leaving him. Not like this.”

Alexei groaned and collapsed dramatically onto a half-shattered bench, which cracked under his weight. “If we go back in there, I need... at least ten minutes. And a cortisone shot. Maybe a priest.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Let me stretch, drink some water, and then we finish him.”

“We’re not finishing him,” Yelena snapped, rounding on him. “We’re going to help him.”

“Oh sure,” Ava muttered. “We’ll just hug the powers out of him.”

“He ripped Bucky’s arm off like it was a doll’s toy,” Alexei added. “We go in like this, we die.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky muttered as he calmly snapped the vibranium prosthetic back into place with a click. “Happens more than you think.”

John held up his bent shield, his face still a mix of shock and mild heartbreak. “He folded it. I mean—folded it. Like paper. Do you know what kind of force it takes to bend this thing?”

Ava raised a brow. “So… not vibranium?”

“It’s vibranium-adjacent,” John muttered defensively.

Yelena didn’t even look at him. “Maybe if it was actual vibranium, it wouldn’t look like a gas station burrito.”

Alexei lit up. “I could go for a burrito. Or a taco. The ones with the cheese in the middle. Mmm. I want that now.”

John groaned. “Focus! We got curb-stomped by Bob! Bob! The shy nerdy one!"

“Yeah,” Ava said quietly, brushing ash from her arm. “He’s not shy or nerdy anymore.”

That shut them all up.

Bucky exhaled. They were beat to hell, and morale was tanking fast. But more than that, they were scared. And for good reason.

He looked at them — bruised, dirty, half-limping, yet still bickering like middle schoolers on a broken field trip — and made a decision he was definitely going to regret.

“There’s a place we can crash. It’s not far. We lay low, regroup. Heal. Then we figure out what the hell to do.”

Yelena eyed him suspiciously. “Where?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and started walking.

The group hesitated, then followed — slow and shuffling.

A few blocks in, Ava broke the silence again, jabbing a thumb at John’s mangled shield. “So… can’t you, like, unfold it? You’ve got super strength, right?”

“I have super strength,” John snapped. “Not unfold-a-shield-bent-by-a-living-deity strength. It’s toast.”

Alexei squinted. “Is that, like… covered under warranty? Or do you have to mail it back?”

John gave him a deadpan look. “Do I look like I kept a receipt?”

“And you—” he pointed at Ava “—Ghost. Can you even do anything right now or are you just brooding professionally?”

Ava raised her brow. “I walked through a wall and saved your sorry ass five hours ago.”

“She literally did,” Yelena added, smirking.

“I-oh. Right. I forgot,” John said, flustered. “In my defense, I was the one who cut the power so she could walk through the wall.”

“How convenient,” Ava said flatly.

Their argument began escalating again — nonsense mixed with sarcasm, interrupted only by Alexei trying to convince someone to buy him tacos — until Bucky turned sharply on his heel.

“Enough.” His voice was low, tired, and just sharp enough to cut through the noise. “We’re almost there. If you keep yelling, she’s not going to open the door.”

They all stopped short.

“She?” they echoed, suspicious in unison.

“Yes. She. No more questions.” He resumed walking, jaw clenched.

Yelena sidled up next to him, grinning like a cat. “Is this a she-she, or a capital-She situation?”

“I’m not answering that.”

Alexei leaned toward John with a conspiratorial whisper. “Is she a friend-friend or a friendly friend?”

John nodded sagely. “I bet she’s way out of his league.”

“Maybe she's his girlfriend,” Yelena offered with a shrug.

“Highly doubtful,” Ava muttered.

“She’s not my—” Bucky stopped mid-sentence, face twitching. “Just... shut up. All of you. Or I will let Bob use you as a jump rope.”

They finally quieted.

The townhouse appeared as they turned the corner. It was small, tucked between a dry cleaner and an old record shop. String lights framed the little balcony, and a warm golden glow spilled from the upstairs window. Too calm. Too normal. It looked like the kind of place where people had tea and talked about their feelings — not where half-dead super-soldiers crawled in to sleep off a cosmic ass-kicking.

Bucky stopped in front of the door, hesitating. His jaw tightened as he raised his fist, his metal fist hovering before he knocked.

He hated this.

He hated that he’d brought them here — hated the pit growing in his stomach — hated that this was the only safe place he could think of. She hadn’t seen him in almost a year. Not since they separated. And now he was dragging a human dumpster fire of a team to her doorstep.

Behind him, the others bickered in hushed tones.

“Does she cook?” “I hope she has a comfy couch.” “If she has tea, I’ll marry her.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Just for a second.

He almost turned around — almost told them it was a bad idea and they should just sleep in a sewer.

But then he heard footsteps approaching the door.

Too late.

The door creaked open slowly, and there you were.

Your eyes landed on Bucky first — bruised, dirt-streaked, arm slightly disjointed, and he was holding his ribs with one hand.

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely above a whisper. Your gaze swept across him, and the flicker of worry that crossed your face was brief, but real.

Then it was gone.

“What do you want?” you asked. Not cold exactly, but not welcoming either. Just guarded.

Bucky looked down for a moment. His voice, when it came, was low. Worn. “I know I’m the last person you wanna see right now. But we need your help.”

“I don’t play superhero anymore,” you replied, arms folding as you leaned slightly against the doorframe.

“I know,” he said quickly, “I’m not asking you to suit up or anything. We just need a place to lay low. For a night. Maybe two. We got our asses handed to us like ten minutes ago.” He gestured to the group behind him, and your eyes drifted over the chaos on your porch.

“Please, doll,” he added, quieter now. “I wouldn’t have come if I had any other option.”

The silence stretched between you. He held your gaze, waiting — wounded pride barely masked beneath the plea.

Finally, you sighed, the tension in your shoulders softening. Without a word, you stepped aside and opened the door wider.

“Come in before the neighbors start watching.”

The team shuffled in, dragging in a trail of soot, broken egos, and exhaustion. Bucky paused as he stepped through, eyes flicking to the living room. It looked exactly like he remembered — warm, soft lighting, a shelf cluttered with books and candles. Homey. Safe.

Except the framed photos of you two were gone. Replaced by art. Abstract pieces. Beautiful, distant things.

Then something soft brushed against his leg.

He glanced down and froze.

A pristine white cat was weaving through his boots, its tail flicking with recognition. His expression shifted—stunned, tender.

“Hey, Alpine,” he murmured, crouching carefully. “Hi, pretty girl. I missed you.”

She meowed softly and launched into his arms, immediately purring as she burrowed into his chest. He cradled her like porcelain, one hand smoothing over her fur.

You watched from the kitchen threshold. You and Bucky had agreed Alpine would stay with you — your life was stable, his wasn’t. It had made sense. But it hadn’t been easy.

Behind Bucky, the team just… stared.

“Are you seeing this?” John whispered to Yelena.

Ava elbowed him without even looking. “Shut up.”

It was a surreal image: The Winter Soldier, dusty and battle-worn, cuddling a white fluffball like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You took in the rest of them. They were strangers, mostly. Strangers who looked like they'd crawled out of a battlefield and onto your rug.

The blonde woman leaned against the wall like it was the only thing keeping her standing. The woman in the sleek suit by the door looked cool and dangerous in equal measure. Then there was the massive man in red. He smiled and gave a little wave when your eyes met. And then there was the guy with the folded shield and the “punch-me” face.

Bucky nodded toward the group. “Uh, yeah. That’s Yelena, Ava, Alexei, and... that’s John.”

They all gave awkward waves. Alexei’s was the most enthusiastic.

You nodded politely. “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

They all looked like they were one nudge away from collapsing.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” you offered.

“Water, please,” Yelena said quickly, her voice scratchy.

John raised his hand like a kid in class. “Same.”

Ava glanced at you, almost apologetic. “Do you have tea?”

“Sure. What kind?”

“Anything.”

You turned to Alexei.

“Do you have anything… stronger?” he asked, hopeful.

“How strong?”

“Very strong.”

You smirked. “Got it.” Then disappeared into the kitchen.

The moment you were out of sight, all heads turned to Bucky — still petting Alpine, who had zero plans to move.

“So…” Yelena drawled. “You and her?”

Bucky tensed like someone lit a fuse in his spine.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

John leaned closer to Ava. “There’s definitely history here. Did you see the way she looked at him?”

“She also looked like she wanted to slam the door,” Ava replied.

“She likes him,” Alexei declared confidently. “There is affection. And the cat approved. Cats never lie.”

Bucky glared at all of them. “If you value your limbs, you’ll stop talking.”

Yelena held up both hands, grinning. “Okay, okay. No shipping the grumpy soldier. Got it.”

A few moments later, you returned balancing a tray with glasses, a mug of tea, and a tumbler of something amber.

“Bucky, seriously?” you said, seeing them all still hovering like awkward ghosts. “You could’ve told them to sit down.”

He shrugged, still holding the cat like a teddy bear. “Didn’t want to break anything.”

You waved the team toward the couches. “Please. Make yourselves at home.”

John and Yelena nearly collapsed into opposite ends of the same couch. Ava leaned against a windowsill, blowing gently on her tea. Alexei sniffed his drink, took a sip, then sat upright.

“You, my dear, are an angel,” he declared reverently. “Is this whiskey?”

“Only the best for unexpected guests,” you replied dryly. “I was meal-prepping earlier,” you added, glancing over your shoulder. “I’ve got a big pot of soup if anyone’s hungry. Showers are down the hall. Towels are in the closet. Clean shirts in the basket.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Soup would be heavenly,” John mumbled, eyes already closing.

You gave a small smile and turned toward the kitchen again.

Bucky hesitated, gently placing Alpine down as she curled onto a throw pillow. Then he followed you, slow and quiet.

You were setting down a basket of warm dinner rolls on the table when you felt the shift in the room. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Still, you glanced over your shoulder. Bucky stood quietly near the doorway, half-shadowed by the dim kitchen light, his hands shoved in his pockets, posture stiff like he hadn’t quite decided if he should be there.

“Do you need anything?” you asked, keeping your voice steady. The soup was already simmering; your hands moved automatically to the ladle.

He offered a faint smile — the kind that didn't reach his eyes. “Thanks for letting us crash here.”

You nodded, focusing on the steam rising from the pot instead of the way your chest clenched. “You all looked like hell. Someone had to be decent.”

“Look, Y/N—”

“Bucky, don’t,” you said quickly, sharper than you meant to. You turned to face him fully, hands still holding the ladle. “You don’t have to say anything. I know why you're here. Nearest safe house. Not personal. It’s fine. Really.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening before giving a slow nod. “We’ll be out of your hair soon. Just need some rest.”

“That's fine.” You turned back to fill the bowls. “Alpine misses you.”

His voice was softer this time. “I miss her too.”

You didn't answer right away. But when the bowls were full and the bread was out, you called out toward the hallway.

“Lunch.”

A few thuds and grunts later, the rest of the group shuffled in like survivors of a disaster movie. Everyone looked slightly cleaner than when they arrived — but still bruised, bandaged, and about ten seconds from passing out.

Everyone except Bucky, who instinctively sat down in the seat next to yours.

Yelena took a spot across the table, her hands wrapped around her water. Ava perched at the end, still sipping her tea slowly. Alexei helped himself to three rolls before anyone else had time to blink.

John hovered awkwardly before finally taking a seat beside Alexei, clearly not wanting to be anywhere near Yelena again after their last round of bickering.

“And then—oh! Oh! Bob folded his shield like a freakin’ taco,” Alexei said mid-chew, nearly choking from laughter. “Just snapped it like paper!”

Yelena chuckled. Even Ava cracked a smirk.

John looked personally offended. “It’s not that funny.”

“And then—wait for it—he ripped off Bucky’s arm.” Alexei nearly doubled over at the memory.

Your spoon paused halfway to your mouth. You turned your head so fast toward Bucky, it made your hair sway.

Bucky rolled his eyes at Alexei, but when he caught your expression — real concern flickering beneath practiced calm — his demeanor softened.

“It’s fine,” he said gently, lifting the vibranium arm a little. “Reattached it without a problem.”

“Are you sure?” You were already reaching out, ignoring the way your hand trembled just slightly. You turned his arm gently, inspecting the seam where metal met flesh, eyes scanning for dents or stress damage. “Did you check everything out?”

“I’m okay,” he said, holding your gaze. You gave him a look that said you weren’t convinced. So he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He squeezed your hand. “I promise. I’m okay.”

His eyes looked at your hand, and something flickered behind them — something like a punch to the gut. It was bare. There was no ring on her finger.

Automatically, he reached up to his chest, fingers ghosting over where the chain should’ve been.

It wasn’t there.

His stomach dropped.

Bucky’s fingers frantically searched under his collar, pulling at his shirt, then dipping into his jacket pocket. Nothing.

No. No no no.

He never took it off. Ever.

His pulse spiked as he started checking every pocket.

“Bucky?” you asked, watching him unravel. “What’s wrong?”

“The chain,” he said hoarsely. “My chain. It’s gone.”

Panic etched across his face.

At the end of the table, Yelena blinked, frowning as she slipped a hand into her coat pocket. She felt the cool weight of something metallic there — something she had shoved away mid-battle and forgotten about.

When she pulled it out, her heart skipped.

It was a chain.

And dangling from it — a simple gold wedding band.

“Holy f—” she whispered, catching herself before the full curse slipped. “Holy shit.”

Everyone turned to look.

Bucky’s head snapped up.

She held the chain in her open palm like it was glowing. “This is yours.”

He surged forward before she could say another word and plucked it from her hand like it was oxygen. His breath shuddered as he slipped it back over his neck, the ring resting once again near his heart.

Relief washed over his features — raw and unfiltered.

Your eyes locked with his.

“You still have it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Your hand brushed your ring finger again, almost absentmindedly.

“I—I…” Bucky swallowed hard, words failing. His throat felt too tight.

Alexei broke the silence like a sledgehammer. “Wait—you’re married?! Congratulations!” he bellowed, raising his glass. “That’s adorable.”

Bucky flinched like he'd been shot.

The silence that followed was very loud.

He looked at you again — the weight of everything unspoken between you crashing back in all at once — then abruptly stood.

He didn’t say anything.

He just left the room, Alpine trailing after him as the others watched, stunned.

“Did I…” Alexei frowned. “Did I say something wrong? Is that not a wedding ring?”

Yelena sighed, rubbing her temple. “We’re gonna need way more soup.”

“Uh… we’re not married anymore,” you whispered, and the air in the room seemed to shift.

Everyone went quiet. You could feel the weight of their stares settle on you like a spotlight, but you didn’t look back. You just stood, heart pounding, and walked out of the room — your feet already knowing where to go.

Of course you knew where he was.

You and Bucky had lived in this house together for two years before everything fell apart. The bones of the place hadn’t changed — not the layout, not the memories buried in each room. And especially not the basement.

You made your way downstairs, the air cooler, quieter. The moment your foot hit the last step, he spoke.

“You kept everything the same,” Bucky said, his voice low but clear. He didn’t even need to turn around to know it was you.

You crossed the room and slowly sat next to him on the old couch, the one you both used to fall asleep on watching bad movies. The cushions were still slightly sunken on his side.

“Of course,” you replied, your voice gentle. “It was our home. It felt wrong moving your things…changing your designs.”

Silence filled the space between you. Not heavy — just full. The muffled sound of the team arguing upstairs drifted down: something about dishes, someone calling someone a jackass.

“They’re a good bunch,” you murmured. “Very entertaining, too.”

Bucky let out a quiet, tired laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

Your eyes drifted to the chain around his neck — barely visible, but there.

“You kept the ring,” you said softly, watching him tense just slightly.

He nodded slowly, the admission coming with a quiet sigh. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?”

He finally turned to face you, eyes tired but sincere. “It helps me. Grounds me. I didn’t have much left to fight for after Steve left. But then there was you. And that ring… it gave me comfort. Protection, in a weird way. It became my good luck charm. I couldn’t get rid of it after the divorce. I didn’t want to.”

You felt your chest tighten, but you gave him a small, sad smile. “So you’ve been wearing it around your neck this whole time?”

He nodded again, this time more slowly. “Every damn day,” he admitted, dragging a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t take it off. It’s stupid, I know. Makes me look like a fool.”

You shook your head and stood up, walking to the cabinet on the far wall. He watched you with guarded curiosity as you pulled out a small, velvet box and returned to the couch.

“You’re not a fool,” you said gently. You opened the box and held it out to him. “I couldn’t get rid of mine either. Every time I tried, it felt wrong, like throwing away something sacred."

His gaze dropped to the ring in your fingers, and his throat tightened. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours again.

“I really wanted our marriage to work,” he said, the words coming out like a confession.

“I know you did.”

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

“I know you are.” You reached for his hand and held it. It still felt the same — steady, calloused, familiar. “You needed to find yourself, Buck. I should’ve understood. Everything was changing so fast. Steve died. Sam had the shield. Walker was Captain America for a minute. And then… you got into politics. You’re actually a congressman now.”

He let out a breath that was half-scoff, half-laugh.

“I couldn’t keep up,” you continued. “And that was on me.”

“No. It was on me,” he said firmly. “I didn’t prioritize your feelings. I kept shutting you out — thinking I was protecting you. You were right to divorce me. I wasn’t a good husband.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — and shook your head.

“Bucky, no. You were an amazing husband. You just had things to work through. And I pushed myself aside instead of speaking up.”

You leaned in and wrapped your arms around him. The embrace felt effortless. Like no time had passed.

His arms went around you instantly, like they never forgot how.

“I’m also sorry,” you whispered.

Bucky’s laugh was soft and bitter. “What the hell happened to us?”

“I don’t really know,” you said, your voice muffled against his chest. “But I missed you.”

“I missed you more.” He pressed his face into your shoulder, inhaling like he needed the scent of you to survive. Alpine purred softly at your feet, curling between your legs.

And for a while, it was enough.

Peaceful. Quiet. Just the two of you and the cat you shared, back in a place that still remembered love.

And then—

CRASH.

You both jumped slightly at the loud clatter upstairs.

“Did you seriously just break their bowl?” John’s voice rang out, horrified.

“Well, if you think you can do better, then help me wash the dishes, Walker!” Ava snapped back.

You giggled, forehead still resting against Bucky’s shoulder. “We should go before they break more of our dishes.”

He smiled — a real one, one that reached his eyes. It lit up something in him when you said our. He tightened his hold. “A few more minutes. They’ll survive.”

You didn’t argue.

And without meaning to, both of you drifted off, curled into each other like no time had passed at all.

********

“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up, Alexei. You’re being too loud.”

“We should wake him up, though. We haven’t even talked strategy.”

“We can’t. Look at them.”

“They look like a cute, happy family.”

“We should take a picture.”

The shutter sound was loud in the quiet room, with the flash blinding all of them.

Bucky blinked awake, eyes adjusting slowly. There was warmth on his lap — Alpine, purring softly. And in his arms, still tucked close, was you.

For a second, he didn’t move.

This was what peace felt like. This was home.

“You woke him up,” Yelena hissed. “Seriously, Dad, turn off the flash and the sound!”

Bucky looked at them — bleary-eyed and still half-asleep — and his expression dropped into something flat and dangerous.

“I’m going to give you ten seconds to leave,” he said calmly, voice low and sharp as a blade. “And if you don’t… Bob will be the least of your problems.”

The team scrambled out of the room like they’d seen a ghost.

He sighed, then looked back down at you — just as you stirred.

You blinked yourself awake slowly, eyes meeting his. He braced himself, just for a second, wondering if you’d pull away. Regret it. Pretend none of it happened.

But you didn’t.

You just smiled sleepily, and snuggled closer.

“Is everything okay?” you murmured, reaching over to pat Alpine, who purred louder.

“Everything’s just perfect,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

And for once, maybe for the first time in forever, Bucky believed that was true.

High Water | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You’ve stopped keeping track of the bruises. Bucky hasn’t—and he doesn’t say anything, not until the patterns start looking too much like his own, and it’s almost too late to pull you back.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: self-destructive behavior, implied suicidal ideation, self-injury, trauma responses, PTSD, medical neglect, emotional suppression, therapy, recovery/healing themes, canon violence, referenced eating irregularities.

Word Count: 12.9k

Author’s Note: hi friends—this one started as a simple request, and it ended up becoming much more than i originally intended, something much bigger, heavier, darker, and more vulnerable so please take care while reading and only engage with this if and when you're in the right headspace! there are helpful links and resources on the original request here if you need them <3

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Bucky didn’t like working with new people.

It wasn’t personal. He just didn’t trust the way most of them moved—too fast, too loud, too cocky in the spaces between orders. The ones who’d never had a knife held to their gut didn’t flinch when doors slammed. The ones who hadn’t been broken thought everything could be fixed.

You were different.

You came in quiet, already carrying whatever past had earned you the clearance to stand beside him. Torres had said you burned out in intel. Too good at your job. Too bad at pretending it didn’t eat you alive.

You hadn’t confirmed or denied it, and he hadn’t asked. He didn’t need the backstory. He could read it in your shoulders—how they tensed before anyone entered a room. How you always tracked the exits. How gunfire didn’t phase you, but the clang of a dropped fork sent a shudder down your spine.

More than that, you didn’t try to fill the silence. Not the thick, awkward kind, but the heavy kind. The kind that settled after the adrenaline wore off and the ghosts came out to stretch their legs. That kind of quiet made most people talk just to drown it.

You let it sit. Let it breathe.

He respected that. Maybe too much.

Your last mission had been nothing special. Your seventeenth time working together, not that he was counting.

It was a low-stakes intel grab that went a little sideways thanks to a hot-headed contact and a busted comm. You handled yourself fine—better than fine. You moved like someone used to ducking and fought like someone who wasn’t scared of getting hurt. That last part always stuck with him. 

You never really avoided damage. You just treated it like something inevitable. Routine.

There was something about the way you took a hit—clean, mechanical, almost practiced. No wince, no curse, no flinch. You had rolled your dislocated shoulder back into place like you were brushing lint off a jacket more times than he could count. 

Bucky had seen people trained out of pain responses before, had watched entire rooms of Hydra operatives bleed without blinking, but this was different. Yours wasn’t discipline. It was something else. Something harder to look at. Something all too familiar.

You had tells. Little ones. He’d started clocking them without meaning to a few months back. How you never reacted to shallow cuts but always stared a little too long at the deeper ones.

How you’d press a palm flat against bruises when you thought no one was watching, not to soothe them—but to feel them. 

Once, he saw you slam your hand against the edge of a crate when the briefing tech locked up. No outburst. No tantrum. Just one sharp motion, knuckles first, and then a blank look like you hadn’t even done it. The sound stayed with him the rest of the day.

He told himself not to keep track. That it wasn’t his job to take inventory of other people’s ghosts. But your file was getting thin. Too thin. And the pieces you left behind were starting to take shape.

You didn’t act like someone trying to survive. You acted like someone trying to burn off whatever was left. Quietly. Efficiently. Without leaving a mess.

That unsettled him more than anything else.

He hadn’t planned to check in on you after the mission. He just conveniently happened to be passing the med bay on the way to nowhere in particular, and paused. 

He told himself it was habit—old soldier instinct, routine perimeter checks, whatever excuse came easy. But then he saw the door ajar, the flicker of movement just beyond the frame. 

You never used the damn step stool.

That was the first thing Bucky thought when he found you half-balanced on the edge of the supply cabinet on the counter, rifling through gauze packs with your unwrapped wrist pressed tight against your chest like it wasn’t already swelling.

You didn’t look up but Bucky knew that you could sense his presence before saying a word.

“Don’t say it,” you said flatly.

He stopped just inside the door. Leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching you from beneath the heavy slope of his brow.

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“You were,” you said. “You were building to it.”

He should’ve walked away. Should’ve let the moment pass like all the others—but there was something in the way your shoulders hunched, spine curled forward like you were bracing for a blow that never came, that stopped him cold. 

The cabinet edge bit into your hip, your hand already trembling from the strain of holding yourself steady, but you stayed there like it meant something. You stood there like you knew exactly how far you'd have to lean to hit the floor from the counter. Like the fall wasn’t an accident waiting to happen, but a choice you’d already measured. He didn’t realize his jaw had locked until it ached.

“You’re gonna fall,” he said finally.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

There was no heat behind it—no bite. Just exhaustion, scraped raw and held together by whatever dry humor hadn’t abandoned you yet. 

Before Bucky could even begin to think about how to respond, you jumped down without ceremony, boots hitting the tile with a solid thunk. The movement jarred something in your side. He could tell. You didn’t flinch, but your jaw set just a little too tightly for it to be nothing.

You walked past him, dropped onto the bench without a word, and started tearing the gauze open with your teeth. Your wrist shook on the third pull. Barely. A twitch, maybe. Most people wouldn’t have noticed.

He did.

He didn’t ask before moving forward and taking the roll from your fingers—just reached out, gloved hand closing around it with quiet finality. You looked at him like you were weighing something before finally letting go.

“You're not a medic,” you said.

“You're not either.”

He sat across from you, your wrist already in his hands before you could protest. 

It was already red, swelling around the joint. He turned it gently, noting the way your knuckles twitched. You didn’t wince, but the tension in your shoulder gave you away. 

He worked in silence, measuring the wrap with muscle memory and years of being too careful. He was always too careful now. Always calculating how much pressure, how much distance, how much weight a person could take.

There was a part of him that hated how steady he was now. How easy the calm came when he needed it. He used to think that was what healing looked like—discipline, composure, control. But it felt more like taxidermy. All the danger still underneath, just frozen in place. Stuffed into the skin of a man who knew better than to be seen for what he really was.

He tightened the wrap. Your face didn’t flinch, but somewhere in the back of his mind, something scratched.

He’d seen people dissociate through pain. Seen it in the field, in trauma units, in mirrors. But the stillness in your body didn’t feel like shock. It never did.

It felt like practice.

“You didn’t log this.” His voice wasn’t accusatory—just quiet, like a loose thread he already knew would pull something loose. “You filed a full report. Debriefed like clockwork. But nothing about this.”

You didn’t answer.

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, the skin there already darkening beneath the surface.  “What was it this time?” he asked, even though he already knew it wasn’t the mission. Not really.

“Doorframe. I think.”

“You think?”

You gave a small shrug, the kind that looked more like a concession than an answer.

“I was pissed off. The contact flaked. We almost lost the drop point. I...took it out on the wall.”

He didn’t say anything else, just wrapped your wrist slowly, evenly. 

He didn’t like how familiar your skin looked under his hands. Not in a way he could name, just in the way his gut clenched when he saw your bruises lining up with places he’d struck in another life. 

And maybe that’s why he kept his gaze fixed on the wrap, not on you, because something about your quiet made his own feel louder—like if he looked too long, he’d see himself in the stillness you wore like armor.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said eventually. Not bitter. Just quiet.

He kept working. “I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the same as before. It pressed in tighter. Less like space, more like weight.

He meant it. You didn’t ask for help, not once, not even when your wrist went limp trying to remove your jacket in the quinjet. You bit down on everything, discomfort, pain, maybe even gratitude, like it owed you rent. 

He couldn’t judge you for it. He just recognized it. The same way Sam had once looked at him, eyebrows low, mouth grim. The look that said: I know what you’re doing. I just don’t know why you think you have to.

When he finished the wrist, you didn’t pull back. You stayed seated, hands in your lap, body turned slightly away from him. The back of your shirt had risen when you sat, just enough for him to see a few inches of skin beneath.

He wasn’t looking for it. He wasn’t trying to notice. But it was there.

A bruise. Faded, old enough to be from another week, maybe longer. It was large enough that it likely reached along the edge of your ribs in a sickly spread of yellow-green, the kind of mark you only get from hitting something too hard and too fast.

Or hitting it more than once.

“You’ve had that one a while,” Bucky said, and the words landed heavier than he meant them to. He almost didn't even speak.

You stiffened. Subtle, but not nothing.

You shifted your shirt down, slow and unbothered. “Yeah. Couple days ago.”

He waited. Not because he expected honesty—he wasn’t naïve—but because part of him wanted to believe you might offer it anyway. That maybe the room was quiet enough, the moment still enough, for you to meet him halfway. 

But you didn’t. You just sat there, unreadable, like the bruise meant as little to you as the silence did.

“What happened?” he asked finally, the question leaving his mouth like it had to push through something on the way out.

“Table corner. I wasn’t paying attention.”

He nearly scoffed. He had heard better lies from Hydra agents. Worse ones, too. But never so... bored. Like you’d already had this conversation a hundred times, with yourself. With anyone else who tried.

“That’s a hell of a table.”

“I hit hard.”

There was something about the way you said it. Flat, mechanical, like the pain wasn’t worth the breath it would take to lie better, that needled under his skin. He’d known people who wore their wounds like armor. You didn’t. 

You wore them like afterthoughts. Like they weren’t worth tending. Like you didn’t think you were. And that did something to him he didn’t have language for.

It wasn't pity. Never that. But something close to anger, maybe, pressed tight behind his ribs—not at you, but at whatever kept teaching you this was normal. That damage could be shrugged off, that hurt meant nothing if it was quiet. 

He knew that logic. Had lived in it for years, let it hollow him out, let it keep him moving. And still, watching you now, he wanted to shake the silence out of you. Wanted to say your name like it might make you look at him. He hated how badly he wanted you to lie better. Hated that you didn’t even flinch at being caught.

But all he could manage was: “You ever get those checked out?”

You snorted. “You think I go to a doctor every time I get a bruise?”

“No,” he said. “I think you forget half of them are there.”

He didn’t mean to say it like that. Didn’t mean to show his hand, but it was too late. You looked at him then. Eyes sharp, not surprised. Just... measuring.

He met your stare, steady.

And beneath it all, that same thought clawed at the edge of his mind again. Familiar, but unwelcome. Like recognizing a song you didn’t want to remember the lyrics to.

Because there was something about the way you looked right through him—unafraid, unbothered, half-daring him to keep pressing—that felt like a challenge. Like you’d already decided he wouldn’t.

When you finally spoke, your voice was almost calm. “You don’t get to do that thing where you try to figure me out.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Too late.”

He moved before he could think better of it. Not away from you, just far enough to breathe. The ache in his jaw told him how tight he’d been clenching it. He reached for the cabinet with the same control he used in combat: not rushed, not casual. Just exact. Like precision might hide the fact that he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.

The ice pack he grabbed crinkled in his hand as he turned and placed it in your palm, watching your fingers curl around it like they weren’t sure what to do. That hesitation again—so quick most people wouldn’t see it.

But he wasn’t most people.

It wasn’t even about the cold. It wasn’t even about the bruise. The swollen wrist. It was really giving you something to hold that wasn’t your own skin.

“Thanks,” you said, low.

He gave a single nod. “Use it this time.”

The words came out sharper than intended, but he didn’t walk them back. He just watched you press the cold to your ribs like you were trying to freeze the damage into place. Like maybe, if it stayed cold enough, it wouldn’t spread.

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Bucky had stopped leaving sharp-edged or blunt things in the briefing rooms.

Nobody noticed. Not Torres, not Sam, not any of the rotating agents who filtered through between assignments. Nobody noticed when the cracked tablet screen on the west wall stayed unrepaired so you couldn't break it again. Nobody mentioned the disappearance of the busted chair with the metal bar that dug into your side when you always sat in it too long. And if anyone wondered why the gym’s weighted slam balls had quietly replaced the old concrete-filled med balls, they didn’t say it out loud.

But Bucky noticed. Because Bucky put them there.

He never said anything about it. Never drew attention to the way he started arriving early to training rooms, or the way his eyes tracked what your hands did when you thought no one was looking. You didn’t punch walls anymore, crack your knuckles too hard, or bite your lip until it bled, not while he was in the room. Maybe because the moment you twitched toward contact, his voice was already there—level, quiet, asking a question you’d have to answer out loud.

You were smart. You knew how to pivot.

But he knew that look. The way it simmered just beneath your skin, desperate for a release you didn’t have language for. So he gave it shape. Misdirected it. Rebuilt the landscape around it until it had fewer sharp corners to cut you on.

He started stocking the freezer. First it was one extra ice pack, then five. Then ten. Lined up behind the frozen stir-fry meals. There was always one ready. Always within reach. He never said anything about those either. Just made sure the stock rotated, that the seal wasn’t broken, that there was no excuse for a bruise or injury to go untreated.

Some nights he’d catch himself lingering in the hallway near the shared kitchen after missions. Listening for the hum of the freezer door. The low click of the pack drawer sliding open. If he heard it, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. If he didn’t, he lingered longer.

There were other things too. The black coffee you always left half-finished, now poured into a travel mug with a lid you couldn’t slap against the counter, material too thick to shatter. The reinforced strap he stitched into your field bag where the weight used to strain your shoulder when you refused to wear it normally. The tiny ceramic dish on your desk that hadn’t been there before—a place to put your rings, or your tension, or whatever else you’d started taking off at the end of the day.

He didn’t watch you use any of it. But his body tracked you anyway, across rooms, across shared mission floors, across the space between not-trusting and not-sure-how-to-care. His eyes would flick to your hands before your face. Always. Noticing. Counting. Waiting.

There were a dozen things he wanted to say. None of them came out right in his head. He didn’t know how to ask Are you okay? without sounding like a lie. Didn’t know how to say Don’t do what I did. Don’t go quiet the way I did. Don’t become a locked room nobody has the key to.

There was no blueprint for this. No mission protocol for how to keep someone from unraveling. He remembered what it was like to chase sensation—sharp, fast, punishing—because the silence underneath felt worse. Because numbness made a liar of the body, and pain, at least, was something you could feel happening.

He remembered walking out of Hydra cells with blood on his hands and not knowing whether it was his. Remembered slamming his fist into concrete until something gave, praying it would be bone. Remembered the look in Sam’s eyes the first time he said You’re not fine, and how it felt like someone opening a window in a room that had long since stopped needing air.

You hadn’t let anyone open yours.

So he did what he could. He changed the layout. Softened the noise. Kept your gloves clean and your path clear and the ice always stocked, like any of it might make the difference between a bruise that faded and one that you couldn’t stop tracing.

But the past few days had felt off.

You’d started pacing again. Not the usual kind, the kind you used to work through tension with your eyes half-closed and your hands stuffed in your jacket. No—this was sharper. Jittery. Your shoulders were too tight, your hands kept flexing like they needed to do something. Like your bones itched under your skin.

It was small things at first. The way you’d stopped wrapping your fingers before training. The way you skipped debrief and lingered too long in the equipment room, too interested in the shelves labeled discard. You were sleeping less. Eating less. Drinking your coffee like it was a dare.

It was almost enough to have Bucky pull you off the next mission. But they were short on bodies. Half the roster rerouted for a border raid in Belarus, and the rest grounded from a blown cover op in Cairo. You were the only one cleared who knew the terrain, the entry points, the grid rotation by heart.

And you’d volunteered before he could suggest otherwise.

They’d landed an hour before sundown, dropped low behind the industrial strip on the edge of the city where the power grid cut off and the roads turned to gravel. Intel had said six armed guards. Maybe seven. Standard perimeter for a black-market tech handoff. Small crew. Clean location. Nothing flashy. Get in, get the drive, get out.

But Bucky’s shoulder had been twitching since you stepped off the quinjet.

You didn’t say much during the brief. Just nodded once, already pulling your gloves on, jaw set in that way that meant don’t ask. Now, crouched beside the fence line with shadows bleeding up the length of your arms, you were vibrating with tension. 

Bucky clocked the way you gripped the chain-link, tight enough for the metal to groan, like you might try to tear it down with your bare hands. You didn’t. You just released it and gave him the signal.

Two fingers. Clear.

He moved up beside you, silent, crouching just behind your left flank. He always took your left. He didn’t know why. Just felt right.

The warehouse was twenty yards ahead—low, square, the windows blown out and tarped over. Lights flickered dim behind the stained-glass haze of the plastic wrap. One truck. Engine off. Two men visible through the broken slats of the door. Voices muffled, low and sharp. One of them laughing.

“Visual on the target?” Joaquin’s voice crackled in his ear.

Bucky pressed his comm gently. “Affirmative. Two outside. Might be more inside. Moving in three.” He glanced toward you, already moving. Too early. You didn’t wait for the count.

You darted low along the wall, shadow hugging shadow, not reckless but fast. Too fast. He followed, jaw tight, senses peeled raw as you reached the first guard and struck without hesitation. Quick elbow to the solar plexus. Heel to the knee. Knife to the collarbone, pressed just hard enough to drop him with a wheeze.

The second one turned. You could’ve waited for backup. Could’ve signaled.

You didn’t.

You ran straight at him.

Bucky cursed under his breath and moved, covering ground in a blink, but you were already on the guy, shoulder slamming him into the metal siding, fists snapping in sharp, surgical strikes. Not out of control. But close.

Too close.

He reached you just as the man dropped. You turned, panting through your nose, mouth drawn tight, not winded. Not even surprised. Like you expected him to be there, already cleaning up whatever you left behind.

“You good?” he asked.

You nodded once. Too quickly. “Peachy.”

Your voice didn’t match your eyes.

He wanted to stop. To grab your wrist. To say something—but the moment passed, and you were already signaling toward the next entry point.

“North entrance,” you said. “Should be unlocked.”

You didn’t wait for his reply.

He followed you in silence, teeth gritted, pulse ticking under the metal plate in his arm. Something was off. Worse than usual. And he didn’t like the way your shoulders moved, like you were chasing something you hadn’t found yet.

The two of you reached the door. You went to breach, but Bucky caught your wrist.

“Hold,” he murmured, voice just low enough to pin you in place. “You’re running hot.”

Your eyes snapped to his. Wide. Clear. Dangerous.

“I’m focused."

You pulled your wrist back—smooth, efficient, no heat behind it, like his hand had just been another obstacle to move through. And then you were gone, slipping into the dark.

Bucky followed, jaw locked tight, breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat.

The warehouse interior swallowed everything. No lights. Just the flicker of a dying bulb swinging at the far end of the room, casting erratic, ghostly shadows across pallets stacked in half-toppled rows. Machinery sat quiet, half-stripped for parts. The air tasted like rust and mold and something chemical under the surface. He could hear your boots ahead, controlled. Calculated. Coiled.

You didn’t move like you were tracking. You moved like you’d already made contact in your mind and were just catching up to it physically. He hated that he recognized it. Hated the way it twisted under his skin.

It wasn’t enough to make him call it. You’d run hot before. Moved like that before. You were sharp, reliable, relentless. You got the job done. And he’d gotten good at giving space when you needed it. At trusting his read. At trusting you. At trusting himself to cover your six if it came to that.

He passed through the entryway and hugged the wall, scanning. Your silhouette flashed ahead—knife drawn low, footsteps absorbed in the filth-clogged concrete. 

Static cracked in his ear, then Joaquin’s voice—tight. Focused. “Got movement ahead—cluster of heat signatures just lit up. Southeast corner. Looks like a nest. You two are headed straight for it.”

Bucky stopped just short of the next pallet stack, eyes tracking your back as you kept moving. “How many?” he asked, low into comms.

“Four, maybe five. Can’t get a clean count—they’re shifting.”

You didn’t wait. Didn’t respond. No hand signal. No check back. Just straight through the gap in the machinery like it was routine. Like walking into five heat signatures wasn’t worth a breath.

“Hey, hold up,” Bucky said. To you. To no one.

A shot rang out toward where he should’ve been if he hadn’t stopped two steps too far behind to respond to Joaquin.

Suppressor. East wall. Nest above the compressor vent. High ground.

“Contact, right!” Bucky snapped into comms, already moving—

But you didn’t duck. You ran. Toward the sound.

He nearly shouted your name. Held it in. Swallowed it like bile.

You vaulted the pallet stack, caught the edge of a rusted pipe, and swung up onto the adjacent platform like you’d rehearsed it.  His eyes swept the shadows, angles and cover points burning through muscle memory, but his focus was on your back—your speed, your silence. The way you didn’t wait.

“Hey—hey, Y/N, you’re moving too fast,” Joaquin cut in over comms, voice sharper now. “Pull back, you’re ahead of your flank—”

“I’ve got it,” you said, clipped. Calm. Like you weren’t running straight into something with a heartbeat.

Another shot. Closer.

You dropped down into a side corridor without checking what was waiting.

Bucky lunged, caught sight of movement to the left just as the barrel lifted from the shadow. Timing was too tight. You were too fast. Too exposed.

No time to yell.

So he moved.

His boots hit concrete with a crack that echoed too loud, too sharp—but you didn’t turn around. Didn’t look back to see who was behind you or how close danger was pressing in. You dropped into the corridor like you knew something was waiting for you.

The muzzle flash came before the sound. Clean burst. Controlled pattern. Not panic fire.

You ducked low, barely missing the first round as it shattered a pipe inches from your head, steam hissing out in a burning rush. You didn’t flinch. You rolled beneath it, came up in a crouch, and bolted forward, fast enough to make the shooter shift his stance. It was a kill zone. Exposed, tight, bad angles, no cover.

And you kept moving.

Bucky hit the far wall and pressed himself flat, gun raised. He tracked the shooter’s position just as the man shifted his aim. Not at him. At you.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered, breath catching sharp in his throat.

But you dodged again. Not random. Not sloppy. A calculated pivot just inside the arc of fire—fast enough to look like instinct, but it wasn’t.

Bucky fired once—center mass—dropped the man before he could realign. But by the time the body hit the floor, you were already moving again.

“Shit—guys, hold up,” Joaquin cut in, static spiking. “We’ve got more heat signatures. North end—five, no, six. That wasn’t in the schematics. They're shifting fast—looks like a flanking pattern.”

“Pull back,” he said, tighter now. “That’s not containment—it’s a box.”

Bucky’s jaw locked. “Copy. Redirecting. Fall back to extraction—”

But you were already halfway down the hall.

“Could be the handoff,” you said, too steady, eyes flicking ahead like you wanted the confirmation. “We don’t want to lose the buyer.”

“This op was recon, not pursuit,” Joaquin snapped. “Pull back. Regroup and reassess—”

“Just need eyes on the target,” you replied, already rounding the corner. Another door. Another unsecured hallway.

Bucky cursed under his breath. He hesitated a second too long before pushing off the wall and following.

You kicked the door open so hard it snapped off its bottom hinge and went clattering into the dark. The echo rang through the warehouse like a dinner bell. You stepped into it like you were stepping off a ledge.

Bucky followed, pulse howling in his ears now, lungs burning. 

“Got more heat lighting up the grid,” Joaquin barked in his ear. “East quadrant, converging on your position. Fall back, now—both of you.”

Three came out of the dark fast—one close, two on the flank. Bucky dropped the first with a clean shot between the eyes, spun, caught the next with a punch that cracked his helmet and sent him sprawling. He barely registered the scream as he turned, gun raised, out of rounds, and took a blade to the arm.

Metal met muscle. Pain flashed white, but he didn’t stop. He twisted, slammed the attacker’s head into the wall hard enough to leave a dent, then drove a boot into his chest to keep him down.

Another pop of gunfire. Not at him. Ahead.

You’d already dropped one, but another was already engaging you—and you hadn’t even pulled your weapon.

The man’s fist connected with your side hard enough to stagger you, but you didn’t go down. You turned with the momentum, used it to drive your elbow into his throat, then kneed him in the gut hard enough to buckle his legs. You caught his wrist when he fell and twisted—a sick snap of bone. He screamed once, then dropped.

You stood over him, breathing hard.

And Bucky saw it.

The way you rocked slightly on your heels, like you were waiting for someone else to come. Like the blood rushing in your ears hadn’t peaked yet. Like you hadn’t gotten what you were after.

His stomach twisted.

He turned—too late. Another three coming fast, one already firing. He dropped behind the nearest crate, reloaded and returned fire, clipped a shoulder, rolled and came up behind the second. He slammed the man into a pipe, heard the breath leave his lungs, but didn’t wait to confirm. 

A boot connected with his ribs, hard, and Bucky dropped to a knee, gritted his teeth, twisted, and drove a knife into the attacker’s thigh. The man screamed. He yanked it free and threw it, end over end, into the throat of the one aiming at your blind side. Blood sprayed.

Still not enough.

Still more.

A fourth surged from the dark, and Bucky barely caught his arm in time—metal hand crushing bone, human fist swinging wide, a sickening crunch somewhere in the scuffle.

His shoulder jarred, pain sparking down the length of his arm. He took a punch to the gut, then another to the jaw, sharp and high, right where the comm was fitted in his ear. The crack of it was drowned out by the static burst that followed.

Joaquin’s voice cut in mid-command—“You’ve got two more coming in from the—”

Then nothing.

By the time he got to his feet, breath ragged and vision swimming, you were already rushing forward, still fighting, and something was wrong.

You weren’t reckless, but you weren’t guarding. You met your next opponent with clean moves, efficient strikes, but you weren’t ducking fast enough. Not checking your flanks. You were exposing yourself between each hit.

You kicked one of the attackers square in the chest, sent him flying into a stack of crates, and didn’t reach for cover. You stood upright. Open. Breathing hard but not alert. 

Bucky’s chest seized as he landed a punch of his own on another attacker, barely parrying the blade slicing toward his throat. He slammed the man’s head against the wall until he went still, vision tunneling, ears ringing.

There was a wide stretch of open space ahead, scattered crates, broken shelving, a flickering light still buzzing weakly from its hanging cable. One doorway, half-collapsed. Poor cover. Shit visibility. 

And still, you kept going.

Bucky shouted something, he didn’t know what, but his voice ripped hoarse as he blocked another strike, caught a forearm, twisted until it snapped. He shoved the attacker into a rusted beam and kept moving, kept looking. 

Kept his eyes on you.

Because he knew these moves.

Not in theory. But in muscle. In memory. In the way you angled your body just a little too far from the nearest exit. The way your hand hovered near your hip but never reached for your gun. You weren’t preparing to defend. You were giving them time to aim.

His mouth opened again—this time, nothing came out.

You didn’t see the two from the side hall. Or maybe you did and just didn’t care. One with a knife. The other with a rifle half-raised, hesitation written in the slack of his stance but not enough to stop him. 

Bucky surged forward, but something slammed into him from the left. A body, heavy and fast, barreling him into a stack of old scaffolding that cracked and collapsed under their combined weight. He grunted, drove his elbow backward, felt the attacker’s jaw snap beneath the strike. 

But another was already on him before the first one hit the ground. Fists rained down, wild and clumsy. He blocked two, absorbed the third with his shoulder, and twisted, slamming his knee into the guy’s ribs until he dropped.

He caught a glimpse of you between bodies, just a flicker of your profile in the flickering light.

You weren’t running. Weren’t crouched. You were locked with one of the last men, close range, his hand fisted in your collar as he shoved you hard into a rack of rusted shelving. But you didn’t fight like you should’ve. You weren’t trying to break the hold. Your elbow came up late. Your balance was off. And for one sick second, it looked like you were letting him keep you there.

Something twisted in Bucky’s gut, deep and hot.

Another one grabbed at him from behind, arms like steel cables, trying to lock around his throat. Bucky dropped his weight, slammed backward into the nearest wall, heard a crack, but didn’t stop. 

He ripped the man off and flung him into the others just as another attacker charged from the side. Blade raised. Aim precise.

He ducked, caught the wrist mid-swing, and drove his metal arm into the man’s chest so hard it crunched through armor. Blood hit the air. Bucky shoved the body aside and turned—

And saw the rifle level at your chest.

Something shifted in the corner of his vision, movement too close. Another attacker, sprinting toward him, blade glinting under the flicker of the overhead light. 

Bucky didn’t break stride. He turned just enough to meet him mid-charge, metal arm snapping up and crashing into the attacker’s throat so hard the cartilage gave out with a wet, crunching collapse. The man crumpled before his body even registered the hit.

Bucky was already moving past him.

Boots pounded concrete, blood roaring in his ears, breath caught between a curse and a scream.  You were still locked with the man holding you, his grip pinning your upper arm, your weight tilted wrong.

Bucky could’ve used him. Could’ve let the bastard take the shot meant for you, just one more body between you and the barrel. But the angle was too tight. The shot was already coming. And Bucky didn’t risk things he couldn’t afford to lose.

He didn’t hesitate.

He closed the distance like the air had stopped resisting him, like gravity owed him one. His hand caught the edge of your jacket, and yanked hard. Ripped you clean from the other man’s grip with force that sent you both reeling.

Hard enough to twist your body out of line—just as the round fired and punched straight into his back.

He didn’t feel it right away.

Just the force. The hot pressure. The way his knees buckled as he used his weight to drive you both behind cover, shoulder-first into the busted scaffolding that exploded into splinters around you.

The floor came up fast. His back hit harder.

Pain bloomed wide. Viscous. Familiar.

Metal met blood. His breath caught. But his arms were already around you, dragging you flat against him, shielding you from the next volley before it ever came.

────────────────────────

Bucky hadn’t seen you in fifteen days. Not properly.

There were sightings—passing flashes in corridors, your voice down the hall in conference rooms he knew you were in. But the moment you caught sight of him, you disappeared. Not subtle. Not polite. Not passive.

Sam had benched you two days after the mission. You’d barely made it out of the med bay before it happened, barely had time to snap at the nurse trying to check the stitches Bucky had bled through. The report said you’d deviated from protocol. That your “judgment in the field had been compromised.” 

Joaquin had called for backup the second you pushed deeper into the warehouse. Said he didn’t like how quiet you’d gone. That you’d shut off your comms the minute you hit the second corridor. Said Bucky’s weren’t working either, not after the jaw hit, just open static until the exfil team found them both half-conscious under the scaffolding, Bucky still bleeding, you refusing to let anyone touch him until they confirmed they were friendlies.

You said it was a misread. A gap in the heat signature intel, faulty comms, fragmented chain of command. You said you pressed forward to confirm the buyer before exfil because the window was closing and it was a judgment call. Nothing more.

You said it all too calmly. Too clean.

Like you'd practiced it. Like it was easier to call it a tactical error.

Bucky hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned. Couldn’t. Not with bruises still darkening along his back and the memory of his body nearly not moving fast enough still looping in his skull.

He remembered the weight of you beneath him. Not from the fall. From the way you’d gone still in his arms. Like you were waiting for the hit. Like you still thought it was coming anyway.

He hadn’t told Sam that part. Didn’t know how to.

Now, you spent your time down in logistics—sorting mission reports, filing armory requisitions, locking yourself in the comms tower at odd hours pretending to run diagnostics. You didn’t have to. Sam hadn’t assigned it. But you stayed at HQ, floating somewhere between idle and insubordinate, burying yourself in busywork and carving out the parts of the building Bucky wouldn’t be in.

Which wasn’t easy. But you were precise.

He’d find a fresh mug on the kitchen counter, the one only you used, still warm, and know he’d missed you by a minute. An open file drawer in the comms room with your notes, underlined sharp and angry. A single chair pulled out at the far table in the library, pages from an intake folder half-folded inside a book on tactical restraint.

You stayed busy. Stayed invisible. Stayed just far enough out of Bucky’s reach to make it clear it wasn’t an accident.

And yet he felt you in every fucking hallway anyway.

You hadn’t texted. Hadn’t acknowledged the hit he took. Not the blood. Not the fact that he couldn’t raise his arm above his shoulder for three days after. Not the way his vision had whited out for a second when your weight hit him and he thought maybe, just maybe, he’d been too late.

And maybe that’s what gutted him.

Because you had been counting on that.

You hadn’t looked surprised. Not really. When he yanked you out of the way, when the shot slammed into his back, when you landed hard and scrambled to your knees with your hands still bloody—you didn’t look horrified. 

You looked stunned. Like you’d miscalculated. Like he was the mistake.

He kept replaying it. Over and over. The angles. The timing. Your body language. The fucking stillness in you when that rifle raised and you didn’t move, didn’t fight against the body holding you there. 

It hadn’t been shock. Not like he’d wanted to believe. It had been something closer to... acceptance. Or resolve. A kind of surrender he didn’t know how to look at without remembering how it used to feel in his own bones.

But the thought wouldn’t hold still.

Because his brain refused to believe that you’d wanted that—that you’d truly been hunting pain, no—death, something irreversible. That the person he’d come to watch as closely as his own pulse had stepped into the line of fire on purpose.

And yet, It made sense. Too much sense.

Which is probably why he’d been staring at the same half-finished mission report for the last hour, pen resting idle against the table while the rest of the building went quiet around him. 

He hadn’t meant to stay late. But his thoughts had been crawling too loud in his head, and the hum of the desk lamp had felt like the only thing tethering him to the present.

He closed the file without reading the last two lines. His hands were shaking again, just slightly. Just enough that he turned off the monitor before he could watch it. It was too quiet in the office. Too still in the air.

He needed out.

The corridor was cold and empty. Most lights dimmed to nighttime security mode. His boots echoed softer than usual as he made his way through the back wing and pushed open the glass door to the side balcony overlooking the north forest.

When he opened the balcony door, he wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there.

But the second the cold hit his face, he saw movement—still, but unmistakable. Just a fraction ahead and to the left, someone already leaned against the railing. No, not leaning, exactly. Perched.

Your spine curved ever so slightly against the silver rail, one leg drawn up, boot resting on the edge, the other dangling loose over nothing. You sat like you weren’t afraid of falling. Like you didn’t even register the ten story drop. The light from the hallway behind him didn’t quite reach you. Just enough spill to catch on the edges of your boots. The rest of you was silhouette, cut sharp against the tree line.

Your head was tilted slightly back. Toward the sky. Toward the dark.

Bucky stilled.

One foot over the threshold, breath caught at the top of his throat, pulse kicking hard enough against his ribs that it almost felt like warning. His hand lingered on the doorframe longer than necessary.

The glass door clicked shut behind him.

Your shoulders jumped and your head snapped around so fast it looked like it hurt.

He hated himself for it. For coming out here. For disturbing you, even when he didn’t know you’d be out here. For being part of the reason you were like this to begin with.

For half a second, your eyes landed on him. Wide. Not surprised. Not afraid. Just sharp. Like you were deciding how fast you needed to leave.

He raised both hands a little, just enough to show they were empty. If that even mattered.

“Hey,” he said softly. Voice worn at the edges. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t look away immediately either.

Your gaze lingered on him a second longer before drifting back toward the trees. The forest stretched dark across the horizon, the sky hanging heavy and moonless above it. The only light came from the spill of windows behind him and the faint glint of your boots shifting against the metal.

Before he could psych himself out of it, he took a step forward. Careful. Intentional.

The wind pulled at the edge of his coat as he came to rest beside the railing, not close—he didn’t dare be close—but near enough that the chill coming off your body seemed to reach him before your voice ever would. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there. Let the quiet spread wide between you.

“You always come out here this late?” he asked eventually, but his voice barely carried.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t so much as tilt your head toward him. The forest below swallowed sound. Air too still. No bugs. No wind through the trees. Just silence and steel and the ache in his back where the rounds had gone in, still healing slow beneath the scar.

He folded his arms against the railing. Forearms pressed to the metal. Let his gaze drift out with yours, out over the black line of trees he couldn’t see past. He thought, stupidly, of how quiet your breathing was. How still you were. How if he hadn’t followed the wind out here, he might never have noticed you at all.

“You’re mad at me,” he said, quieter now. Not an accusation. Just a fact he’d been bleeding around for days.

You scoffed under your breath. Not loud. Just enough to let him know it wasn’t the right thing to say. But it wasn’t a no, either.

“You’re mad,” he said again. “And I get it.”

Still, no answer.

He swallowed, jaw twitching. His voice stayed low.

“You’ve barely looked at me. Haven’t said a word. Haven’t let me say one either.”

A beat passed. Another. Then your voice came, brittle and flat.

“You think there’s something to say?”

He turned his head. Not all the way. Just enough to see the line of your jaw in profile—the hollow under your cheekbone, the set of your mouth. 

“I think there’s a lot to say,” he replied.

You had barely moved since he’d come out here, but now, with the light behind you casting your face in angles, he could see it. The tiredness. Not exhaustion, not the kind that sleep fixes, but the kind that comes from being done. 

Worn out in the soul. Your eyes were dull in the way his had been once. Not empty. Just... disconnected.

There was a bruise, faint but sharp, just under your right eyebrow. Thin, purple-green. Not healing from the field. You hadn’t been on a mission in almost two weeks. 

He didn’t have to guess where it came from. The edge of a sink. A wall. The wrong angle of a door when you turned too fast and didn’t care whether you stopped. The kind of thing people brushed off with a lie they’d already rehearsed.

Bucky’s grip tightened around the railing. Not hard. Just steady. Too steady. Like the tension had nowhere else to go.

He should’ve said something. Weeks ago. Months ago. 

The first time he saw you press your palm into a bruise like you were checking it was still there. The first time you didn’t log an injury. The first time you bled without blinking and he just helped—quietly, silently—like that made him gentler, not complicit. 

He’d told himself words might push you further, that staying close without pressing was the better option. That if you didn’t flinch from him, it meant he hadn’t failed you yet. But watching you now, half-lit and barely holding yourself upright, fuck, he knew better. 

He’d waited too long. Let you burn slow beside him while pretending he wasn’t also holding the match.

His stomach turned. Something deep in his chest caved in on itself. You must’ve felt his gaze, because your fingers twitched against the railing and your jaw tightened. Then, without a word, you stepped down from your perch and turned from the edge, already moving.

His body moved before his brain did.

He reached out. Caught your wrist. Gentle. Certain.

You froze. Your spine straightened. And when you turned, your voice was sharp enough to cut through both of them.

“Don’t touch me.”

You tried to pull back. He held firm, but not rough, not controlling. Just there. Solid. Like a hand pressed against the door of a burning room.

“I can’t let you walk away.”

Your arm jerked, a reflex. He didn’t loosen his hold.

Not after the last time. Not after the image of you standing too still in that warehouse, breathless and wide open, had lodged behind his eyes like a round that never made contact.

You tried again. “You don’t get to decide—”

“You’re not okay.”

The words tasted like metal. Not because they were hard to say, but because they felt late. Like throwing water on a fire that’s already gone to ash.

You scoffed. That bitter kind of sound that pretends it’s anger, but Bucky had made that sound himself too many times not to recognize what lived underneath it.

“Jesus, Barnes, let go—”

“No.”

It came out quiet. Firmer now. Not from his throat but somewhere lower, heavier. His grip adjusted slightly, still gentle, but definite. Like he was anchoring you in place, like if he let go now, you’d drift so far he wouldn’t be able to find you again.

You didn’t look at him at first. Just breathed hard through your nose, like the air might burn less that way. He watched your throat work, the way your lashes flicked down. You always looked away when it got real. So did he.

“Why?” you said finally, voice thinner now, not quite cracking but close. “So we can have whatever conversation you’ve been rehearsing? So I can cry in the hallway and you can feel like you helped?”

The words landed harder than they should have. Harder than maybe you even meant them to. But they stuck. Sharp, sudden, true enough to hurt.

“I don’t want you to cry,” he said.

It was the only thing he could say. The only truth he had left that didn’t sound like a lie.

“Then what do you want?”

The words lashed between you, sharp enough that they left something splintered in the air. Your wrist was still in his grip, but the fight had gone out of it, not physically. Not all the way. But enough for him to feel the shift.

Something in you had already dropped. Fallen back.

He didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. His mouth was open, but the shape of the words wouldn’t come out clean. They sat there, behind his tongue, thick with everything he didn’t know how to explain. His jaw flexed, throat tight. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing. But he couldn’t leave this one unsaid.

“I want you to stop hurting.”

You flinched. Not from the grip. From the way his voice sounded—like he meant it too much.

His fingers loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go.“I want to stop watching you walk into rooms like they’re loaded. Like you want them to be.”

You looked away, eyes glassy in the low light. Jaw clenched so hard it shook your whole face.

“I want you to stop doing that thing where you ask for the quietest seat before briefings so no one will notice if you leave early. I want you to stop skipping lunch and acting like coffee makes up for it. I want you to stop tying your boots too tight.”

Your breath caught, but you masked it with a scoff. It was weak. Brittle. You tried to yank your arm away again, but he held you fast, stepping in closer, his tone still low, still quiet, but firm now. The kind of quiet you couldn’t outrun.

“I want you to look me in the eye again without checking the floor first.” He exhaled slow, barely controlled. The kind of breath that had been sitting in his lungs for days, weeks. Long enough to rot.

“I want one goddamn day where I don’t have to wonder if I missed it—if this is the time you don’t come back and it’s my fault for not saying something sooner.”

That landed. Not in your chest, but your knees. They bent just enough for him to notice the shift in your stance, like something inside you had buckled under the weight of it.

He stepped forward once more. Close enough now that he could feel the tremor in your shoulders.

“But mostly,” he murmured, “I want you to stop pretending that none of this fucking matters. That you don’t matter.”

Your head snapped back around, eyes wild. But it wasn’t anger anymore—it was panic.

“Why are you doing this,” you whispered. “Why are you saying this?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. The weight of his gaze didn’t leave yours.

“Because, you— you were standing out in the open like you wanted to be hit,” he said, voice raw. “Because I can’t stop seeing it. You, just—there. Still. Waiting.”

You made a sound. Not a word. Just air twisted into something like grief.

“You can’t—” your voice cracked hard, “—you don’t get to turn this into some kind of fucking—redemption arc for you, okay? You don’t get to drag me into your shit and—what—heal through me?”

“I’m not.”

“You are!”

“I’m not.”

“Then why the fuck did you take the hit?!”

The words exploded out of you, louder than they should’ve been. Louder than you’d probably meant. But it was out now—ripped free from wherever you’d been hiding it. Your whole body shook with it. And when Bucky didn’t say anything—couldn’t—you shoved him.

Hard.

He barely moved.

“You think I don’t know what that was?” you spat. “You think I haven’t played it over a thousand times? That I didn’t feel how fast you moved? That I didn’t see the way you looked at me after?”

Another hit landed square in his chest, open palm, not full strength, but solid. You weren’t trying to hurt him. Not physically. But your hands kept coming anyway. Another shove. Then another. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.

“What was I supposed to do, huh?” you snapped, fingers curling into fists before slamming into him again. “You think I didn’t know what that meant? You think I haven’t had to lie awake every fucking night since then hearing that gun go off—feeling it—and knowing it should’ve been me?”

His breath caught, but he didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You kept hitting him—his chest, his shoulder, the flat of your palm against the thick fabric of his jacket, no real damage but a growing tremble behind every strike. Your voice cracked on the next one.

“You don’t get to do that,” you said. “You don’t get to just throw yourself into it and look at me like that afterward. Like you knew. Like you saw me. Like you fucking understood.”

Another hit. Sloppier now. Your movements had started to lose coordination, your shoulders shaking too hard to stay steady.

“Stop it—stop just taking it,” you choked. “Say something.”

He didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t say what he really felt. That he had understood. That he had seen you. That some part of him had known, and worse, he’d recognized it.

So he let you keep going. Let you shove and strike and start to cry without saying a word. He let you unload every fractured piece onto him because he could take it. 

Because he’d done it, too. To walls, to enemies, to the people who tried to help him when he didn’t know how to ask for it. Because if this was what it took to pull some of it out of you—if this was what you needed just to keep standing—he would let you break his ribs before he told you to stop.

You stumbled forward, the last shove turning into something smaller. Your fists barely made contact before falling limp. Your arms trembled, body swaying forward like the strength had finally run out. Your knees buckled half an inch before he moved.

He caught your wrists, gently, palms firm but soft, just enough pressure to keep you from hitting him again. Not to restrain you. To hold you in place. And in the space between one breath and the next, you sagged, shoulders collapsing, forehead thudding softly against the center of his chest.

He barely had time to react before your full weight leaned into him.

His arms wrapped around you in a single movement to keep you from tumbling to the floor. One hand settled at your back, the other curling gently around your upper arm as your breath hitched against the fabric of his shirt.

You were so warm.

That was the only thing he noticed. Not your tears, not at first. But your heat. Like your body was trying to stay here. Trying to anchor itself against something even as your mind pushed to fold in and disappear.

He could feel your heart stuttering beneath the layers between you. And god, you were trying so hard not to make a sound. Like that would’ve meant surrender. Like silence still kept you safe.

His own throat burned.

“Don’t make a home out of pain.”

His voice didn’t lift, didn’t crack—it just came from somewhere low in his chest, as if it had been there waiting all along.

Your breath hitched hard.

He didn’t loosen his grip.

“I did that for years, decades,” he murmured, forehead tilted down, the words barely brushing the space above your ear. “Built a life in it. Slept beside it. Let it tell me who I was.”

Your fingers twitched against his chest. Not pulling away.

“I thought if I carried it quiet enough, no one would have to see it. That maybe I could burn it out of me piece by piece.”

You made a sound, something caught between a sob and a breath. Sharp. Shallow. Your shoulders jolted against his chest, not in protest, but because you couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“I didn’t mean for it to be you.”

It came out broken. Shattered at the center.

“I didn’t mean for you to be the one to—”

You choked on it. He felt it. The hitched inhale. The way your hands dug into the fabric of his jacket like you needed something solid to hold you here.

“I didn’t think—fuck, Bucky, I didn’t think anyone would even—”

He held you tighter, just a little. Just enough.

Your voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible against his shirt.

“If it had worked, if it had actually worked, you would’ve thought you weren’t fast enough. That you didn’t stop it in time. And I—” another sob cracked through, raw and shaking—“I almost let you carry that. I almost left you thinking that you failed. That you would’ve had to live with that.”

His jaw clenched. The ache behind his eyes lit up like static. He didn’t speak, couldn’t—not yet—but his hand slid up your back, slow and steady, palm warm between your shoulder blades. He pressed it there, like he could hold your ribs together from the outside. Like he could brace what was caving in.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was so quiet it felt like something sacred.

“I would’ve.”

You choked on another sob. He held you tighter.

“I would’ve carried it,” he murmured. “Every goddamn day. Thinking I was a second too slow. That I missed the one thing that mattered.”

You didn’t say anything.

But your breath caught sharp, and he felt your head shake once against his chest—not a no, not really. Just a movement. Something small trying to fight its way out of the wreckage.

Your voice came out raw, barely formed. “That wasn’t fair.”

He stayed still.

You pressed the words into his jacket like they might burn less if you didn’t say them to his face. “That would’ve fucked you up forever.”

He nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

“And I—I almost did that to you.”

“Yeah,” he whispered again. No blame. Just truth.

You curled tighter into him, like the sound of it hurt worse than the thought.

Your fingers curled tighter into his jacket, knuckles digging into the seams, and he could feel the tremor in your body shifting—less from rage now, more from exhaustion. From the come-down. From the weight.

It took a long time before you spoke again, voice rasped out against his chest, barely audible.

“I thought if I kept it small… it wouldn’t count.”

He didn’t move.

“I didn’t throw myself into traffic,” you murmured, like that excused it. Like that still meant something. “Didn’t slit my wrists. Didn’t take anything I couldn’t walk back from. I just…”

Your throat locked up. His hand didn’t leave your back.

“I just hit things,” you whispered. “Hard. When it got too loud in my head. Walls. Doors. Tables. Sometimes myself.”

The last two words were quiet. Not ashamed—just tired. Like they’d been buried too long under rationalizations and bullshit and had finally surfaced with nowhere else to go.

Bucky didn’t pull away.

He couldn’t.

He stayed exactly where he was and let the words live in the space between you, heavy and sharp and true.

“I wasn’t trying to die,” you added, softer still. “Not all at once. Not at first. Just… wear myself out. Bit by bit. So I couldn’t feel anything else. But lately I just…it wasn’t enough.”

That’s what broke something in him.

Not the admission. Not the method. But the logic of it. The way you described it like it made sense, like it was reasonable. Like the exhaustion had been the goal all along.

Of course you hadn’t cared about the bruises. Of course you hadn’t remembered when or how most of them happened. It was never about the moment. It was about the aftermath. About the ache in your joints the next day, the dull throb in your knuckles that reminded you you were still there, still capable of impact, even if nothing inside you felt real anymore.

He thought of your hands. How small they felt when he caught your wrists. How bruised and swollen one of them had been that day in the med bay, knuckles scraped raw and shoulders tight with something you hadn’t named.

You’d looked him dead in the eye when he saw the bruise on your side and said table corner.

And he’d let it slide.

Because he hadn’t wanted to push too hard. Because he’d been afraid of being wrong. Because some part of him had recognized it and still pretended not to.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” you said.

“I did,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “I noticed.”

You didn’t say anything. But he felt the tension spike again in your shoulders—guilt, maybe, or panic at having been seen too clearly. He tightened his grip slightly, just enough to keep you from pulling away.

“I saw every mark,” he said, voice low. “Every time you looked at a bruise too long. Every time you didn’t. Every time your hand shook when you thought no one could see.”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” he went on, slowly, steadily. “But I knew.”

His throat worked hard around the next words, like they didn’t want to come. “I know what it looks like. When someone’s trying to bleed in ways that don’t leave trails. I’ve done it. Every way there is.”

“I didn’t want you to carry it,” you said.

His answer came without hesitation.

“I’d rather carry it than bury you.”

────────────────────────

The reception area smelled like too many kinds of tea.

There were five glass jars on the counter next to a kettle, each labeled in looping penmanship—chamomile, ginger, dandelion, tulsi, lavender. The paper sign said self-serve, but Bucky hadn’t touched any of them. Not because he didn’t want to, but because his hands had been too still in his lap for the last ten minutes and he didn’t want to break the spell of it.

The room was quiet. Not library-quiet. Not hospital-quiet. Just… soft.

A low lamp in the corner spilled a yellow glow across the rug. A record player in the back hummed with something instrumental and slow. There was a magazine rack in the corner with bent spines and a potted plant beside it that Bucky was pretty sure was plastic. 

He’d kicked it once by accident, just to check. The thing didn’t even wobble.

He didn’t know what kind of office this was supposed to be the first time he’d been here, at least not from the hallway. There was no plaque on the door, no framed diplomas on the wall, no receptionist typing quietly behind a desk.

He hadn’t asked questions when Sam sent him the address a few months back. Just showed up.

And then showed up again. And again. Every week.

The first few times, he waited for you in the car. The second time, he told himself he was only walking you to the door. Third time, you’d asked him—quietly, not looking at him—if he could stay inside just in case the session went bad. 

Now, he came in without being asked.

He sat in the farthest chair from the door. Always the same one. Kept his hands on his knees, palms down, fingers loose. Let his eyes flick between the door and the lamp and the coat hook on the wall beside it. Didn’t let himself drift too long in any one thought.

He hadn’t even realized the receptionist desk didn’t have a receptionist until the fifth visit.

The door clicked behind it sometimes. There were other rooms, other people in the back, but he never saw anyone else come out. No one ever went in except you. You, and the woman Sam had somehow managed to pull from a year long waitlist.

Bucky didn’t know what strings he’d pulled. He just knew the woman never looked surprised to see you. Like she’d already known you were coming long before you ever agreed to show up.

He didn’t know what the two of you talked about. He didn’t ask. But the first time he picked you up, your eyes had been red and your hands were shaking. You said nothing. Just got in the car and stared out the window until you got back to HQ.

He remembered waiting in rooms like this—but more gray, with more clipboards and laminated signs reminding you how to breathe. He remembered counting tiles. Flinching at coughs. He remembered that shitty little notebook his court-appointed therapist had made him fill out. All the times he left lines blank on purpose. All the ways he’d perfected saying I’m fine with a voice that didn’t shake.

He remembered her—Dr. Raynor. Tough. Clinical. Not necessarily cruel, just… blunt in a way that didn’t land right. A woman trained to treat a soldier, not the man stitched together from what was left of one. She’d called it progress when he stopped glaring. Called it recovery when he stopped resisting.

But this felt different.

The air in here didn’t feel heavy. No tension thickening in the corners. No judgment waiting behind the next sentence. It just was. Steady. Balanced. Like the space had been made soft on purpose. For people learning how to exist without holding their breath.

It had been three months. Every week, same building, same chair, same flickering lamp. You didn’t ask him to stay anymore. You never told him not to.

But you always looked for him first when you came out.

The door opened just as he exhaled, slow and quiet, like his body had timed the breath for your return.

You stepped through first, hood down, jacket slung off one shoulder, a pen still tucked behind your ear like you forgot it was there. Your eyes scanned the room automatically, and then settled on him.

Not just on him.

For him.

Like they always did.

Something passed across your face—too quick for anyone else to catch, but Bucky had been studying you longer than he ever studied enemy movements. It wasn’t surprise. Wasn’t even relief. Just something softer. Something that lived in the space between I’m still here and I’m glad you are too.

And you smiled.

Small. Asymmetrical. Real.

The therapist followed behind you, her steps easy, unrushed, her voice carrying that same warm weight the room seemed to hold—like she knew how not to push, only open.

“I know I’m sending you out into the world with a lot today,” she said lightly, a touch of humor in her tone. “But you handled the heavy part already. The rest is just practice.”

You turned toward her, adjusted your jacket with one hand while the other reached out, not instinctively, not forced. Deliberately. You took her hand, pressed your fingers around hers, and squeezed.

“Thank you,” you said. Voice steady, but soft. Like you hadn’t needed to rehearse it this time. “I’ll see you next week.”

She nodded once, her smile faint but proud. “And don’t skip your check-in list this time.”

“I won’t,” you said, even though you probably would, but less often than before.

Bucky stood as you turned toward him.

Not in a rush. Not like he’d been waiting for his cue.

But like the motion itself meant something. Like it mattered to meet you upright, at eye level, the same way he had all those weeks ago when you staggered into him sobbing and shaking and wrecked from holding yourself together too long. The same way he’d stood between you and a bullet. Between you and the weight you had been carrying alone for far too long.

“You good?” he asked quietly, stepping aside so you could pass.

You shrugged one shoulder, but didn’t brush it off as the two of you exited the office. “We’re on the part where I have to start noticing what I do before I do it.”

He nodded. Not because he understood, but because you were talking. That was enough.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, fidgeted with the zipper as you headed down the stairs. “She wants me to keep a log.”

“Of what?”

“What I’m trying not to feel when I reach for something to break.” You said it without flinching. “She says if I can name it, I can sit with it. Even if it sucks.”

His chest ached in a way he didn’t have a name for.

“And if you can’t name it?” he asked.

“Then I get to ask someone else to help.” Your fingers toyed with the seam of your jacket sleeve. “That’s the part I’m supposed to practice.”

At the end of the hallway, he pushed the glass door open for you. The air outside was colder than he expected—crisp with spring, the edge of something green just starting to break through the concrete. You stepped through first, your jacket flaring slightly behind you, and he followed a step behind.

Bucky let the door ease shut behind him, the click muffled by the wind and the weight of the last few months. His boots hit pavement a second behind yours. You didn’t wait for him—but you didn’t walk too far ahead either. Close enough that he didn’t have to reach. Close enough to hear you when you said, quietly, like it might break if it was said any louder—

“I hate logging shit.”

He glanced sideways.

“I figured.”

You huffed—not a laugh, not quite—but he caught the corner of your mouth tipping up. Just for a second. Just enough.

You crossed the darkening lot in silence for a few steps, your boots scuffing over a patch of half-melted ice. Bucky’s truck sat in the far corner, the passenger-side mirror still cracked from a parking garage you’d refused to admit you couldn’t clear nearly a year ago. He never got it fixed. Neither of you mentioned it.

“You still keeping yours?” you asked as the truck came into view.

He blinked. “My what?”

“That little black notebook from your sessions.”

He squinted at you, brows raised. “You asking if I keep it, or if I use it?”

You looked at him then, really looked. And he saw it: that thing in your eyes that used to live there like a threat, like a warning sign. It wasn’t gone. Not entirely. But it wasn’t sharp anymore.

He shrugged. “It’s hidden in the bottom of a drawer somewhere.”

You smirked slightly, nodding once. “Fair.”

He reached for the handle and opened the passenger door for you—not like a reflex, but like something intentional. Like a habit he wanted to have.

You blinked once, surprised maybe, but didn’t say anything. Just climbed in with a small nod, the same way you used to shoulder through debriefs and disappear down hallways. But now, there was no rush in it. No escape. Just motion. Movement that didn’t mean retreat.

He shut the door gently once you were settled, then rounded the front of the truck, boots scuffing over the cement. The sky overhead was softening and stretched thin, all dark cloud and late-evening haze, and for a second, he just stood there, one hand braced on the hood. Watching your silhouette through the windshield. The way your fingers tapped against your thigh like they hadn’t decided what to do with the quiet yet.

Then he climbed in.

The truck creaked beneath him, the seat familiar, the steering wheel warm from the setting sun. He turned the key, and the engine came to life in one slow, coughing breath.

“You know, if you’re not doing anything,” you said, still watching the road ahead like it might turn into something new if you stared long enough, “I could uh…go for some food.”

His brow twitched. “Food?”

“Yeah. You know. That thing we’re supposed to do three times a day.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it. Just kept your gaze locked forward, like the windshield gave you more room to breathe than the air between you. But there was something in your voice, something brittle at the edges and unfinished in the middle, like you were still figuring out how to let a sentence stretch into a want.

You hadn’t said you were hungry. You hadn’t said you needed company.

But the invitation was there. Quiet. Barely dressed up. 

The kind of thing that would’ve passed him by a few months ago if he hadn’t learned your rhythms. If he hadn’t spent night after night memorizing the difference between your silence and your distance. Between the tension in your jaw when you were angry and the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were just trying not to vanish.

That landed somewhere deep in his chest. He didn’t show it.

“Anywhere in particular?”

You hesitated. Then: “Something greasy. Something you eat with your hands. Fries that are so fresh that they burn your fingers a little.”

His lips twitched. “You’ve been spending too much time around Torres.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“There’s this place he won’t shut up about. Little burger joint off 89. Says they make onion rings the size of your face.”

You tilted your head. “Onion rings the size of my face?”

“He said it like it was the highest possible compliment.”

That coaxed a breath out of you—half a scoff, half a laugh, but it stayed. Lingered in the cab like something warmer than the heater. Like something earned.

“He’s got good taste,” you said.

“He also once ate gas station sushi on a dare.”

“Okay,” you amended, “he has… passionate taste.”

Bucky didn’t look at you, not fully, but his smile lasted longer this time. Not a twitch. Not a reflex. Just the kind of slow, quiet pull that lived in the muscles only when they weren’t preparing for loss.

The truck rumbled steady beneath them, tires chewing up road like time. You adjusted your bag in your lap, then reached up and cracked the window half an inch. The wind didn’t whip in like a threat. Just drifted. Light. Sharp with spring and pine and distance.

“You sure you’re up for it?” you asked eventually. “Sitting in a booth, being perceived.”

“I’ve had much worse days.”

He let those words stretch. Let the road roll out in front of him, long and dark and a little less hollow than it had been an hour ago.

And then—soft, like it wasn’t meant to be heard—you said: “You’re the only person I’d ask.”

His grip on the wheel didn’t tighten. But his knuckles ached anyway.

He didn’t respond at first. Couldn’t. Not without handing you the whole story of what those words did to him, how many nights he’d spent convincing himself that showing up wasn’t enough. That driving you here and waiting for you to come back through that door wasn’t a kind of love, just a half-step toward pity. That whatever thread was weaving between you, slow and invisible, maybe you didn’t feel it too.

“You’ll sit across from me, right?” you asked, suddenly. The words came fast. Too fast. Like they were covering something else up.

“Why?”

You didn’t look at him. “Just… if I sit next to people, I don’t always know what to do with my hands.”

He smiled then. Not wide. Just enough for it to pull in his chest, warm and sharp.

“Across is good,” he said. “Easier to steal your fries that way.”

You huffed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

You didn’t say it like a challenge. You said it like a prayer, something that might’ve meant don’t go, if said in a different key.

And Bucky—God, he could’ve said a hundred things. 

Could’ve told you that of all the days he’s ever walked through, this one didn’t ache in the same way. Could’ve told you that your voice saying his name after weeks of silence had stitched something back together in him he hadn’t realized was still broken. Could’ve told you that when you’d said you’re the only person I’d ask, something in his chest had folded in on itself with the same brutal gentleness you’d folded into him on that balcony months ago.

There was a time he might’ve doubted that. Not because you didn’t mean it, but because he didn’t think he’d ever be the kind of man someone asked for—not when it wasn’t about intel or orders or damage control. But this was different. This wasn’t about what you needed from him.

It was about who you wanted near you when you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Don't worry, you can steal my fries too,” he said.

And maybe it landed like a joke—soft, thrown just off-center—but it didn’t feel like one. 

It felt like a door unlatched. Like a scar uncovered, not to be examined, just to be seen. The kind of offer that didn’t ask for anything in return, not even thanks. 

Just meant I’m not going anywhere. 

Just meant stay.

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The Soldier and His Mission

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1K

Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.

You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.

One second, the mission was wrapping up—just another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handler’s voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.

Bucky Barnes was gone.

The Winter Soldier stood in his place.

And yet—he didn’t hurt you.

Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.

Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.

A shield.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.

But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.

Not to eliminate.

To protect.

At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.

“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”

“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.

“Yet,” Tony shot back.

You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.

Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.

The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.

Bucky was on you instantly.

His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.

He was still in there.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.

Unless they posed a threat to you.

That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.

“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.

“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.

“No,” he replied flatly.

“Bucky—” you tried.

“The room is secure.”

“That’s not the—”

“She does not require assistance.”

“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”

Bucky didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”

That got his attention.

“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”

His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—

“…Understood.”

Progress.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.

Just a moment of quiet.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.

And then you heard it—his breath hitching.

A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.

You blinked sleepily, looking up.

Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.

His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.

“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.

You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”

His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.

He just buried his face in your neck and held on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.

“I know,” he admitted, voice rough.

“You threw Steve like a ragdoll.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

A laugh. Quiet, but real.

And just like that, Bucky Barnes was back.

Dog Tags

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> Bucky is looking for his Dog Tags, and you just so happen to have them.

Disclaimer: Mostly fluff and fun, kinda enemies/rivals to lovers vibes, open ended kinda, reader is mentioned to own a knife. Not Proof Read.

Bucky had been looking for them for weeks. 

His dog tags. His identity. His attachment to a life long forgotten. 

They’d been with him on his last mission; he was sure of it. He remembered clasping them in his hand before laying them under his uniform. And he never took them off unless…did he? 

“Buck. You’ve already looked in here. Twice.”

Sam’s eyes tracked Bucky around the room as if he was the madman’s doctor. Bucky wasn’t paying attention and nearly ran into Sam’s legs that were resting on the coffee table. 

“Dude.”

“They’ve got to be here,” Bucky kept muttering to himself. “They have to be.”

“Buck, I will get you a new set.”

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t want another set.”

Sam stood with a sigh, placing his bookmark in his book. “For all we know, they’ve been trampled into the mud on our last mission.”

“I would have noticed them. I never saw them.”

Sam watched as Bucky looked in every cupboard in the kitchen. He sighed, again. “Have you asked Y/n?”

Bucky scowled. “She doesn’t have them.”

“And you know this because…”

“I’ve already checked.”

Sam watched Bucky. “Did you ask? You know, before you ransacked her room.”

“I didn’t ransack her room.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you two recently. It’s like you’ve gone from agreed silence to sworn enemies, but maybe you should just ask her. She might know.”

“I’ll ask Wanda.”

“Y/n’s better.”

Bucky looked over his shoulder to Sam as he opened another cupboard. “But Wanda is my friend.”

Sam sighed before walking into the kitchen and shutting every door Bucky had left open. 

“Buck-“

“I’m gonna look outside.”

“Bucky!”

He wasn’t listening. But you were. 

“You know, all he’s gotta do is ask.”

Sam looked over his shoulder at you as you leaned by the main entrance. Bucky had left through the back. 

“Do you know where they are?”

You tried to hide your smile and shrugged. “I might do.”

Sam turned around. “Y/n.”

You gave in and walked inside. “Oh, come on, Sam. He kept my knife from me for, like, three months.”

That had been true. It was your favourite one. You’d lost it after being pulled away by Yelena for some ‘Kate Bishop’ emergency. Bucky had found it in the training room and kept it from you for three months. 

It wasn’t until you were both on a mission that you saw him flip it through his fingers before using it. He’d just chuckled when you called him an Ass. 

“Gotta be more careful next time, doll.”

You could have punched him in the face. 

So, when you found his dog tags on the ground, you made a decision. 

Originally, you were going to give them to him. But when you pulled your knife from your holster back on the jet, you were reminded of what he’d done. 

It was simply payback. 

“You know, he’s not gonna be happy when he finds out.”

You shrugged. “S’only fair.”

“Where are you even keeping them? He probably turned your entire room upside down.”

You nodded, “Oh, he did. But he’s never gonna find them.”

From under your clothes, you pulled out the military issued dog tags. Embossed on the metal was Bucky’s name, birthdate and blood type. On the second was his regiment. 

Sam gave you a slightly judgmental look but you could see the pride he was trying to hide. 

“You’ve gotta tell him eventually.”

“You’re not gonna tell him?”

Sam shrugged as he passed you and picked up his book. “I knew he had your knife. I didn’t help you, I’m not helping him.”

You gave a small gasp, “I knew it!”

Sam just laughed his way down the hallway. 

Meanwhile, you looked back at the dog tags with a light smile, your thumb brushing over his name. 

You’d give them back soon. But a little just desserts would do no harm to the super annoying, massive pain in the ass, super soldier. 

Bucky looked for two more weeks. His dog tags were lost forever. He had a feeling Sam know something since he’d suddenly changed his tune on issuing him some fresh dog tags. 

“Just hold out. Maybe they’ll show.”

“Who told you that?”

Sam shrugged, “I went to a psychic.”

Bucky rolled his eyes before trudging over and sitting beside his friend. He’d hold out for one more week, then he was gonna issue them himself. 

You could feel Bucky’s eyes still on you. He was practically searing a hole into the side of your face. 

He’d been like that for three days. Watching you. Staring. 

“You know something,” he said when he finally cornered you. 

You acted as if you didn’t know what he was talking about. “I know nothing.”

“Where are they?”

“Where are what?”

“Stop acting dumb,” Bucky told you. 

“Ever considered I’m not acting, Barnes.”

Bucky chuckled a little. “Every day.”

You walked into that one. 

“But I know there’s a small part of you that’s a lot smarter than you’re letting on. So, I’ll ask again. Where are they?”

“Please.”

Bucky leaned back a little. “What?”

You clasped your hands behind your back and leaned forward a little, practically bouncing on your feet. “Where are they, please?”

Bucky stared at you before groaning. “Where are they…please?”

You stood tall and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Quit lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

Bucky sighed. “Do you really enjoy this?”

“Enjoy what, Bucky?”

You could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. “You’ve been nothing but a thorn in my side from day one.”

Your gaze hardened on him as you stepped closer. “And you’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass. Look, don’t you think if I’d taken them, I’d have kept them safe? Safer than being hidden in my room? I know what they mean to you, Bucky.” 

You stepped back before you could let your mind wander to places further than just standing inches from Bucky in an empty hallway. 

“Kinda like my knife.”

Before you disappeared down the corridor, that last sentence only added fuel to Bucky’s fire. You had them. They were safe. But if they weren’t in your room, where the hell were they? 

It took him ten days to realise. And when he finally did, he hadn’t been thinking about them.

It had been just before he closed his eyes. It hit him. The safest place from him, was you. They’d been on your person the whole time. They had to be. 

And, despite the clock beside his bed telling him it was almost 23:00, he knew where you’d be. 

You hadn’t been sleeping much for the last few months. He knew because of how tired you seemed to move. A little slower, a little more distant. 

Zipping up his grey jacket, he padded his way down towards the training room. 

You hadn’t spotted Bucky standing against the wall, grey sweatshirt, white tee and darker pajama pants. If you had, you would have made some kind of comment about wearing plaid in Spring. 

“I figured it out,” Bucky called out calmly as he watched you. 

You ducked your head as if you’d just avoided a bullet. “What the- James.” You gave a huff. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Bucky just smiled casually and pushed himself from the wall. “I figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” You asked, a little breathless. You’d been in the training room, alone, for the last two hours. 

“Where you’ve been keeping my dog tags.”

“Really? Who says I have them?”

“You and I both know you’ve had them since the beginning.”

You just watched him, studied him. A slight smirk broke out on your face. “I don’t know who took them, Buck. But I’d say it’s Just Desserts, wouldn’t you?”

“For stealing your knife?”

You nodded. “I’d say so, yeah.”

“Wanna know how I figured it out?”

“I’m sure you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

Bucky shrugged. “You knew I’d find out it was you. But you also know I avoid you as much as I can. And I know you’ve done the same with me. That’s how I kept hold of your knife for so long.”

That much was true. It was just safer to avoid each other than it was to deal with the potential ramifications of being left alone together longer than ten minutes. 

You let Bucky continue as he walked closer to you. You remained fixed in place, just watching him. He looked so…domestic. Slightly bed ridden hair, freshly showered, relaxed. Cosy.

“So, the best place to keep my dog tags safe would be with you, at all times. All day. All night.”

“Really?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah.”

“And what makes you so sure I have them on me now?”

Bucky took a final step forward and looked you over. His body was in chest from you. 

“May I?”

You nodded, realising where his eyeline had fallen. Silently, his fingers reached out. Ignoring the way his touch felt against your skin, you watched as he pulled his tags from under your shirt. 

He examined them. 

“Found ‘em.”

You looked up at him with a knowing smile. “Seems we have a winner. I must say though, I can see why you get so attached. There’s something…familiar about having them with you all the time.”

Bucky nodded. But he seemed to be thinking. Then he smiled before tucking them back into your shirt. 

You were confused. “Don’t you want them back?”

He nodded. “One day. But, for now, you should keep them safe. They look good on you.”

You looked down, mostly to avoid his blue gaze.

There had been a few moments like this over the last few years. Moments where the ten minutes ran out and it was just you and Bucky, alone, barely inches from each other. All the while, comments passed between you both which made you think that, deep down, you didn’t hate him. 

And that he didn’t hate you. 

play-by-play | b.b.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

summary: you can’t stop posting live updates of the civil war

warnings: avenger!reader, fox shifter!reader, comedy, chaotic dumbass reader, grumpy bucky, the team is so done with reader’s shit, mentions of bucky’s past, swearing, civil war tension?, reader is team cap, suggestive content, fluff

a/n: guess who’s back bitches!!! this isn’t a request or anything, i just wanted to write some cw!bucky x reader. i promise i’m working on all the joaquin requests🤞🏻anyways enjoy lovelies :)

yourusername added to their story —>

[caption: sokovia accords?? ho what?!]

story replies

user1: lmao

user2: girl get over it🙄

user3: y’all need to be kept in check….

steverogers: y/n delete this

user4: you’re so real for this

jamesrhodes: 🤦🏿‍♂️🤦🏿‍♂️

liked by wandamaximoff, samwilson, mariahill, and others

yourusername: throwback to that time my future husband almost killed my friends and i

tagged: @/steverogers @/samwilson @/natasharomanoff

view comments below

user5: GIRL WHAT?!

wandamaximoff: so that’s the guy you keep bringing up👀😲

user6: ho is that the winter soldier???

user7: wait a damn min—

user8: THE WINTER SOLDIER?!?!

user9: i don’t think y/n is okay…

user10: girl we been knew

steverogers: please stop calling bucky your future husband

user11: 😭😭

user12: y/n really out here tryna date cap’s brainwashed bestie from the forties

user13: honestly bucky barnes is so hot tho

samwilson: can your future husband stop leading us on a wild goose chase🙄

yourusername: that would be nice😔

user14: lmaoooooo

steverogers: please stop encouraging her, sam

user15: i’m convinced y/n was dropped on the head as a baby

yourusername: bold of you to assume i was held

user16: i—

user17: girl are you okayyyyy????

yourusername: don’t ask stupid questions

steverogers: this is why tony and i tried to get you to go to therapy🤦🏼‍♂️

natasharomanoff: when did you even have time to take these pics??

yourusername: uhhhhhhh

yourusername: so i may or may not have had time to prevent you getting shot….

natasharomanoff: …

nastasharomanoff: i hate you

liked by samwilson, natasharomanoff, sharoncarter, and others

yourusername: rip peggy carter but sam and i are slaying

tagged: @/samwilson

view comments below

user18: HELLOOOOO?????

user19: peggy carter: slayed. sam and y/n? SLAYED

user20: 😭😭

user21: OH MY GOD😭

sharoncarter: it’s what she would have wanted😔✊

yourusername: pouring one out for a legend😔✊

user22: peggy so would have wanted this!!😭

user23: omg i’m crying

user24: THIS is how i find out?!

samwilson: i would like everyone to know that cowboy hat did wonders for me

yourusername: save a horse, ride a cowboy

yourusername: except it’s more save a horse, ride a bird?

user25: y/n what😭

steverogers: i don’t even know what to say right now…

user26: rip to a real one

yourusername added to their story —>

[caption: HUBBY NO!!!!]

story replies

steverogers: y/n…..🤦🏼‍♂️

user27: so sorry babes…..

user28: rip✊

natasharomanoff: y/n. people are dead….

user29: girl, stop simping for a literal terrorist

user30: this is not it….

liked by sharoncarter, samwilson, clintbarton, and others

yourusername: my pookie and i have been reunited🥰❤️

view comments below

samwilson: awwww…..fuck your husband

yourusername: i’m trying….

user31: 😳😭

user32: y/n😭😭

user33: why the winter soldier kinda….

user34: frfr👀

user35: he’s a literal terrorist. what is wrong with you people!

user36: still hot🤷‍♀️

user37: convinced y/n has like a dash cam on her harness or smth bc….

steverogers: why do i even bother🙄

user38: cap’s face😭😭

user39: watched the chase on the news, you hopping onto barnes’ back to get off the building was hilarious😭

user40: omg i saw thattttt

user41: and when he just tossed her to the side after by picking her up by the scruff😭😭

yourusername added to their story —>

[caption: the fucking audacity these bitches have…]

story replies

user42: awwwww

user43: why didn’t you just shift back😭😭

samwilson: deserved

yourusername: 🖕

natasharomanoff: they leashed you???

jamesrhodes: saving this for blackmail purposes

user44: why do you look so happy tho😭

yourusername: saw the love of my life

liked by jamesrhodes, natasharomanoff, tonystark, and others

yourusername: papa y papa are fighting and my love is locked up😔

view comments below

natasharomanoff: WE TOOK YOUR PHONE??

natasharomanoff: what is this sorcery

yourusername: 🤭🤗

user45: sad day to be y/n…

user46: y/n is a child of divorce😔😭

tonystark: stop posting pictures of secure government buildings

yourusername: *bugs bunny ‘no’ gif*

user47: bucky barnes committed regicide and has murdered countless people…

user47: he deserves to be locked up

user48: wrong account to say this to babes

user49: you act like the bitch cares

user50: frrrr….y/n is horrible too

user51: she should be locked up too imo

sharoncarter: king t’challa keeps looking like he’s a second away from murdering you…

yourusername: i have that effect on people

user52: 😭😭

yourusername added to their story —>

[caption: pookilicious is evil again😔😩]

story replies

tonystark: A LITTLE HELP WOULD BE NICE

natasharomanoff: GET OFF THE FUCKING PHONE

samwilson: i hate this bitch so much….

user53: those thighs tho👀😩

user54: GIRL RUN!!!

liked by wandamaximoff, scottlang, samwilson, and others

yourusername: abouta fight, kinda nervous👉🏻👈🏻

tagged: @/steverogers @/samwilson @/clintbarton @/wandamaximoff @/scottlang

view comments below

user56: we really made this girl an avenger😭

steverogers: bucky would like you to stop taking pictures of him

user57: 😭😭

yourusername: tell him to talk to me to the face then, bitch

samwilson: language!

clintbarton: language!

wandamaximoff: language!

user58: you still a criminal🤷‍♀️

user59: hope you get arrested😘

user60: team whatever team ends up with y/n and bucky barnes getting married

[liked by yourusername]

clintbarton: so this is why nat’s been complaining nonstop over text about you….

scottlang: great to meet you!

yourusername added to their story —>

[caption: weird spider kid beat these bitches asses]

story replies

samwilson: you’re insufferable🖕

user61: men doing men things: manspreading

user62: they look so done….

scottlang: oh shit, bird and scary dude are down!

user63: love how you always have time to update us😭😭

liked by scottlang, peterparker, wandamaximoff, and others

yourusername: 🎶everybody was kung fu fighting🎶

view comments below

steverogers: the least you could do is get a good pic of me….

user64: poor guy has given up trying to stop y/n😭

user65: 🎶kung fu fighting🎶

user66: 🎶those cats were fast as lightning🎶

user67: 🎶in fact it was a little bit frightening🎶

scottlang: 🎶but they fought with expert timing🎶

user68: omg hawkeye!!!

user69: why’s the spider got cap’s shield😱

user70: scarlet witch deserves to be locked up for lagos!!

natasharomanoff: i don’t know how you of all people managed to escape….

yourusername: ☺️🤗

yourusername added to their story -->

[caption: little guy can be big guy!!]

story replies

peterparker: big guy big guy big guy—

user71: omg ant-man?!

user72: holy shit….

user73: the duplicity of scott lang🤭

hopepym: well….that’s new

liked by natasharomanoff, tchallaudaku, peterparker, and others

yourusername: siberia is cold

tagged: @/steverogers @/buckybarnes

view comments below

user74: slay queen💅

natasharomanoff: d-did you make barnes an instagram???

yourusername: had a spare phone and was bored on the flight

buckybarnes: i have never met someone who can talk as much as you…

yourusername: awwww i love you too hubby!!

user75: egypt is hot

user76: usa is room temp

peterparker: man this is better than my footage!

user77: not y/n making the WINTER SOLDIER an instagram😭😭

liked by samwilson, scottlang, peterparker, and others

yourusername: my dads broke up and pookie lost his arm but it’s ok bc i got mcds😌

view comments below

user78: #rip stony 2016😔✊

user79: GIRL RIP THE AVENGERS?!

user80: avengers: 2012-2016😢

buckybarnes: i LOST my ARM

yourusername: you’d think you’d be used to it but noooooo

buckybarnes: IT WAS MY FUCKING ARM????

samwilson: the raft fucking sucks bestie

yourusername: i’m so sorry bestie

user81: i’m literally speechless rn…

user82: the winter soldier being framed WAS NOT on my 2016 bingo card😭😭

user83: frfr

user84: say sike rn

yourusername added to their story —>

[caption: damn this place is nice]

story replies

steverogers: we’re literal fugitives y/n

user85: i-is that fucking wakanda?!?

buckybarnes: i’m not getting rid of you anytime soon am i?

yourusername: nope!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~two years later~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

liked by buckybarnes, steverogers, samwilson, and others

yourusername: stuck for life🤍🥂

tagged: @/buckybarnes

view comments below

buckybarnes: wouldn’t have it any other way, doll

user86: omg omg omg!!!!!!!!

samwilson: prettiest flower girl by the way!

user87: STOP😭😭

user88: you’re literally glowing🫶🏻

user89: congrats!!!

natasharomanoff: you see, this is an appropriate post

user90: y/n is the manifester of all manifesters…

steverogers: i can’t believe i just witnessed my best friend get married….

tonystark: lovely wedding. only critique is the groom

yourusername: 🖕

user91: 😭😭

user92: oh my god😭

steverogers: tony i swear to god—

clintbarton: language!

© tea-writes19 do not repost, translate, or copy

the curse of the designated driver

eddie munson x waitress!fem!reader

Eddie is less than thrilled when you get invited to tag along to an outdoor concert with him and his friends.

WC: ~5.6k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Eddie and Reader are in their 20s, mostly Eddie’s POV, light angst, smut, swearing, reader gets harassed/groped at a concert, weed and alcohol use, brief piv sex, sunshine x grumpy, one-sided enemies to lovers

A/N: Been thinking about going to a concert with Eddie and how he’d probably find me annoying ;)

Eddie couldn’t explain it.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was about you that bothered him so much. All he knew was that life had been better before you’d shown up back in town and taken a summer job at his favorite diner.

Before then the place had been dull and quiet, staffed with only a short order cook and an ancient waitress who hardly spoke a word other than the odd grunt here and there when the boys asked for a refill of their drinks.

But just as the snow and ice began to thaw, you’d arrived as if carried on the warm spring breeze, infiltrating the drab space with your exceedingly sunny disposition.

Eddie had never been a big fan of change and your sudden appearance in the diner irked him — your presence like an invasive tendril that wrapped itself around his chest, squeezing tight until he couldn’t breathe.

Like all creatures of habit, the boys had their favorites.

Their favorite booth in the back where they could be as rowdy as they wanted without eliciting angry glares from the old men who sat at the counter reading their newspapers and nursing endless cups of coffee.

Their favorite dishes — the exact same food order every week, cooked to greasy perfection and served piping hot on sturdy white dinner plates that had seen better days.

And to Eddie’s dismay, the boys had recently discovered their new favorite waitress — one who was assigned to their preferred booth with an infuriating regularity.

Every Friday evening you greeted their group with a smile so bright that it lit up your whole face, almost as if you were genuinely happy to see them. Then you’d proceed to chat and joke around with the guys like you were all old friends, asking them questions about their lives as though you actually cared.

And every single traitorous member of the Hellfire Club bought into your cheerful facade.

Well, all except one.

Before long, Eddie stopped looking forward to the outings that had once been an enjoyable post-Hellfire tradition, dread sinking like a lead weight in his stomach every time he pulled into the diner parking lot.

Sometimes he would sit outside in his van for a few minutes and watch your silhouette in the restaurant’s front window. The outline of your body backlit by fluorescent light causing his heart to race and his palms to get sweaty — an obvious stress response to an unwanted intruder.

And you were an intruder.

He hated the sweet way you smiled down at him every time you asked him what he wanted, even though you had to know by then that he never ordered any food. Since you’d come around he barely had an appetite.

He despised how you’d stand there waiting for his answer with a teasing smirk on your perfect lips, forcing him to play your little game while your eyes twinkled and danced with mischief; pen in hand, nose crinkled in amusement.

Detested the way you said his name in a voice that was as soft as the down of a dandelion before it’s stolen by a gentle summer breeze.

“Do you want anything, Eddie?”

A loaded question. He wanted so many things in life, but most of all he wanted to be free. Free from his agony. Free from the curse of your suffocating presence.

But he couldn’t exactly say that to you, could he?

You always listed off the daily specials to the table in a pointless exercise, the soothing lilt of your voice making Eddie’s stomach twist in knots of discomfort.

“Escargot. Chef Salad. Foie gras—”

“Those aren’t on the menu,” he’d interrupted one day, glaring up in annoyance at your smiling face.

“I know.” You had grinned, eyes alight as you gave him a saucy little wink. “Just wanted to check if you were listening.”

Since he never ordered anything, you’d gotten in the habit of bringing him a tall glass of ice water and teasing that it was on the house for being the designated driver.

You giggled every damn time you set it down in front of him and he’d sigh and roll his eyes, never once giving you the satisfaction of taking a sip.

He would have rather died of thirst.

Eddie wasn’t sure who you thought you were, but you weren’t going to just waltz into his life and win him over with some cheesy jokes and mindless chit chat like you had with the rest of the Hellfire crew.

He wasn’t so easy.

The trouble with the concert had started the same way everything always did with Henderson — he just opened his mouth and the words had poured out without any forethought or consideration for their implications.

While the teen’s impulsiveness was normally seen as an endearing quality by his friends, Eddie hadn’t been impressed. Not at all.

The guys were extra wound up that night, talking non-stop about their upcoming plans — an outdoor rock concert that was taking place the following evening in a field about an hour outside town.

Eddie had organized the road trip and even though the lineup only consisted of a few metal cover bands, it still promised to be a fun way for them to kick off the beginning of summer. It wasn’t exactly Madison Square Garden, but it was enough to keep Eddie satisfied until he could afford to travel and see real metal bands in the city and beyond.

The boys had been excitedly filling you in on their plans while you took their usual food orders, and your reaction to their news had taken Eddie by surprise.

“Oh, I’m so jealous! I wish I could have gotten a ticket but they sold out before I had a chance.”

You stuck out your lower lip in what Eddie imagined might have been an adorably playful pout — if it had been anyone but you.

“No way!” Dustin had smiled, his clever mind working a mile a minute. “Our friend Steve just found out he can’t make it, so we have an extra ticket. You should come!”

Eddie’s heart pounded in his chest, pumping hard and fast as his eyes darted to his friend in a silent plea for him to shut the fuck up for the love of all that was good and holy.

You gave a quick shake of your head. “No, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

But Dustin insisted.

“The lady said she can’t,” Eddie hissed under his breath from between bared teeth. “Let it go.”

But Dustin had never let anything go in his life and he certainly wasn’t about to start when someone was in need. A damsel in distress? Forget about it.

“What about the ratio?” Dustin asked, looking over at Eddie with bright-eyed innocence.

Dustin then looked up at you to explain. “Our friend Steve always insists on a one adult to three teen ratio whenever we travel anywhere together, ever since we had an incident last summer.”

“Ratio, huh?” You held back a giggle as Eddie ran a hand down over his face in exasperation. He was finished fighting. He knew Dustin would never give it up.

“Eddie’s driving us all there in his van. He can pick you up,” Dustin offered as Eddie shot him another deathly glare that went unnoticed by the overly helpful teen.

“Well, if it’s okay with Eddie.” You glanced at the grumpy metalhead who gave a reluctant nod without meeting your eyes, his shoulders sagging under the weight of resignation.

You wrote your phone number down on your notepad and tore off a little strip of paper and handed it to Eddie. “Here’s my number. In case you need to call.”

He tucked it into his jacket pocket, not because he ever planned to use it, but because he didn’t want to toss it away right in front of you. That would have been rude.

“Gates open around eight, so we’re leaving town a a little early. Where do you live?” Eddie asked, looking down at the ice cubes floating in his glass. His mouth was suddenly much too dry, but he refused to give in and take a drink. Refused to let you have that little victory.

You told him the address to your apartment building and he nodded in recognition. “Yeah, I know where that is. We’ll be there at six-thirty. Don’t be late.”

After leaving the diner and dropping of the guys, Eddie grumbled to himself the whole drive home, hands clenched on the steering wheel as fumed about the fact that you were going to ruin everything.

Living in a small town meant he didn’t get many chances to see live metal shows and now instead of enjoying himself he was going to be stuck babysitting you, all thanks to Dustin and his big mouth.

Steve Harrington may have had his faults, but the prospect of hanging out with him for a few hours at a concert was much better than the imagined hell of being trapped with you.

Anything would have been better.

Fuck.

The next evening when Eddie pulled up outside your building at six-thirty sharp, he was surprised to see that you were already outside waiting.

You were leaning up against a lamp post looking like a vixen straight out of a heavy metal music video — your bland diner uniform replaced by a pair of frayed cutoff jean shorts, a red bustier and black leather jacket adorned with shiny silver zippers.

When you saw the van approach, you waved and bent down to grab the backpack that was sitting at your feet. As you walked towards them, Eddie couldn’t help but think you looked just like a real life rock n’ roll goddess, all legs and cleavage and blinding smile.

“Holy shit.”

One of the guys in the back let out the exclamation in wonder as they watched you approach the vehicle with their mouths hanging open, and Eddie turned his head over his shoulder to issue a stern warning.

“Shut the fuck up. Not a single word about it.”

Eddie had made the guys all sit in the back, leaving the passenger seat free for you — something that he’d told Dustin was punishment for his blabbermouth the night before. He’d never intended to make you sit in the back, but it helped him get his point across. Not wanting to piss Eddie off any further, the guys heeded his curt command.

The van was silent as you opened the passenger door and climbed inside.

“Hey, guys.” You ignored your cold reception from Eddie and turned to speak to the teens in the back, lifting your eyebrows up and down and giving them a wicked smile. “Ready to have some fun?”

They all grinned and nodded, while tossing worried glances in Eddie’s direction. You noticed how none of them looked directly at you or said a single word.

You scrunched your nose at the strange behaviour of the normally rambunctious group, then turned and fastened your seatbelt as Eddie put the van in gear and headed out onto the road.

The whole drive out of town Eddie was silent as you chatted with the younger guys. He kept an iron grip on the steering wheel while telling himself over and over not to look at you. Told himself not to steal a glance at the way your chest was pushed up in that top or at the smooth skin of your legs revealed in your cutoff shorts.

It was the worst hour and ten minutes of his life.

When you finally arrived at the gate to the venue, he pulled the van into the improvised parking lot that had been cordoned off in the field just to the side of the main road.

“We’re going to have to walk a little ways in to the concert site,” he said turning to you. “Hope you don’t mind a hike.”

“Nope, that’s why I’ve got these puppies.” You pointed to your high top sneakers. “I always dress prepared for an outdoor concert. Cute on top and functional on the bottom.”

He heaved a sigh as he opened his door. The night had barely even begun and he could already tell it was going to be unbearable.

As you walked up the dirt road that lead to the site, the younger guys started to rush ahead and mingle with the different groups of people they recognized from school.

Eddie called out to their retreating backs for them meet him back at the van after the show if they got separated. Gareth gave him a thumbs up before he and the other boys disappeared into the crowd.

So much for the ratio.

“I guess I’ll stick with you, if that’s okay?” you asked and Eddie nodded while looking straight ahead, his heart filled with the hopelessness of despair.

“So you’re a big fan of Dio, huh?” You asked gesturing to the back of his battle vest.

“Yeah.” He nodded, certain you had no idea who that was.

“He’s a better vocalist but I still prefer Ozzy with Sabbath,” you said ever so casually and Eddie had to fight hard to play it cool.

“To some that’s a controversial opinion. Not to me, but to some.”

You hummed in agreement and he let out an impressed chuckle despite himself.

As the two of you walked on, you continued to talk about music and to Eddie’s surprise your taste wasn’t completely horrible. You actually knew a lot more about metal than he’d expected.

“Metallica are my favorite, but I really like Iron Maiden and Accept,” you told him. “There's just something about a guy with a deep, raspy singing voice, you know?”

He nodded, unsure of why hearing you say that made him feel funny.

“Do you still have a band?” you continued. “ You had one back in High School. Corroded Coffin, right?”

He sucked in a harsh breath, trying to reign in his surprise that you knew about his band.

He remembered you from high school, one of the cute and friendly girls who never would have given him the time of day, or so he had assumed.

“Uh yeah, we play at the Hideout every week. You should come see us sometime.”

Instant regret curdled in his stomach as soon as the thoughtless words passed his lips. Why the fuck had he said that?

“We’re not very good or anything, so don’t get your hopes up,” he rushed to add as you giggled at his modesty.

You looked over at him with a playful grin. “I’d like to see you play. Sounds like fun.”

He breathed a deep sigh of relief even though he knew you were just being nice.

You were nice.

When you reached the concert site at the top of the hill, the field was already swarming with people. After you went through the gate and before you headed into the thick of the crowd, Eddie turned to you and held out his hand.

“Hold onto me okay? So you don’t get lost.”

You held on tight as he led you towards the front of the crowd, weaving through the writhing sea of bodies until you got to a spot to the side with a good view of the stage.

As Eddie looked around to get his bearings, he realized that he was still holding onto your hand and quickly dropped it, shoving his into the safety of his jacket pocket.

Dusk was just starting to settle on the horizon and the smell of weed and cheap beer permeated the noisy crowd.

The roadies were on stage doing a final tune up when you pulled out a joint that you’d concealed in your top, one place that the guy at the gate had the decency not to search. You held it up and your lips curled into a grin. “Care for some refreshments?”

Eddie smiled despite himself as you placed the joint between your lips. He pulled out his lighter and lit the end as you inhaled deeply. Then he watched as you exhaled a perfect smoke ring up toward the darkening sky before passing him the joint.

“Just hold it like a cigarette and no one will notice,” you instructed.

Maybe you weren’t as terrible as he’d thought.

The first act was a Metallica cover band and when you heard the opening notes of Master of Puppets you bounced up and down, then turned and grabbed onto his arm. His cock twitched when he felt your nails dig into the leather.

“I love this song!”

He gave you a knowing grin, resisting the urge to tell you that he could play the whole song from memory. Maybe someday he’d surprise you and play it for you.

He let his mind wander for just a second and thought about what it would be like to play for you in his room, with you sitting on his bed looking up at him the same way you were looking at the musicians on the stage.

It was strange how easily he could picture it.

“They’re fucking amazing,” you yelled over the noise and he smiled, bobbing his head along to the music. Glancing over every once and while during the show to watch the radiant joy on your face.

Fucking amazing.

A few hours later when the show was over, you both trudged back to the van, staying close as you moved through the throngs of people heading down the path from site, still high on the excitement of the show.

Seemingly out of nowhere an inebriated guy with a shaved head came tumbling through the crowd behind you and snaked his arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. You looked over at Eddie with a helpless expression as you struggled to wriggle free of his grasp, jamming your elbow into his side to no avail.

“What’s your name sweet thing?” You registered the scent of stale beer on his breath as it fanned over the side of your face.

“Hey, asshole! Get your hands off my fucking girl.”

Eddie’s eyes were alight with a fire you’d never seen before, his jaw set in determination as he gripped the man’s collar and shoved him backwards away from you, nearly knocking him off his feet.

The man chuckled as he backed off and threw his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, man. Thought the little lady was alone.”

Eddie moved to push him again, but you stopped him with a hand pressed to his chest and the drunk guy wandered off, patting Eddie on the shoulder with a chuckle as he passed.

“Good for you, man.”

Eddie watched him walk away with an indecipherable expression on his face before he quickly turned to you.

“Are you okay?” he asked, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. The sight of that guy grabbing you had made him feel out of control, his whole body wired like a coil under pressure.

“Yeah.” You sounded a little shook up, but you gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks. It’s not easy at these shows sometimes…too much macho energy, you know?”

He nodded, ashamed that you had to deal with bullshit like that just to enjoy live music.

The rest of the way back to the van you kept close to each other, your shoulders nearly touching as you walked.

When you got back to the parking lot the others still hadn’t arrived, so you waited outside the van together. Eddie had a smoke and you drank some water from the thermos you’d left in your bag.

“Want a drink?” You offered, and he gratefully accepted, taking a long swig and sighing with relief. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.

“Thanks, I needed that.” He handed it back to you.

You nodded as you took it from him and twisted on the cover. “Well, I kind of owe you for helping me out back there.”

He looked at your face lit only by moonlight, your eyes so soft and sweet. The way you were looking at him made him start to feel a little dizzy.

“Anytime.” His gaze lowered to the ground and he kicked at the dirt with the toe of his sneaker, unsure of why it was suddenly so hard to look at you.

“It’s funny because nobody who knows you would ever believe it, would they?”

“Huh?” He glanced up with a furrowed brow, not quite following your line of reasoning.

“That I was your girl.” You leaned back against the van, speaking with such carefree ease that your words caught him off guard. “I know you think I’m annoying. You don’t hide it very well.”

Underneath the breezy delivery Eddie detected a note of something else. Was it hurt? Fuck.

Fuck.

“I’m not—I don’t think that.” He moved a little closer, as if decreasing distance between you could somehow bridge the dejection in your voice. He caught a whiff of your perfume, a scent that had haunted him for so long but that he hated a little less in the moment.

“You don’t?” You sounded surprised.

He leaned in close enough that his battle vest brushed against your chest and you straightened up slightly, your breath coming out a bit faster as your back pressed against the cool exterior of the van.

“No.” His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip while his eyes dipped to your mouth. “I actually really—”

Before he could say anything else your head turned toward the sudden flurry of activity over his shoulder as the younger guys arrived back at the van.

“Holy shit! That was crazy, right?” Dustin slapped Eddie on the back, his voice still at top volume due to the ringing in his ears.

Eddie stepped back and in an instant the moment between the two of you was broken, shattered like the glass that shone on the surface of the parking lot.

You gave Eddie a wry grin before you turned to walk around the van, then opened the passenger door and got inside.

During the ride home in the dark you were quiet, eventually lulled to sleep by the gentle motion of the van. Eddie glanced over at you and saw that you had kicked off your muddy sneakers and curled your bare feet underneath you.

He turned down the radio and told the guys in the back to keep it quiet.

About twenty minutes outside town he stopped for gas and before he got back in the van, he took off his battle vest and gently laid it over you.

When he got back to Hawkins, he took the guys home first, making the longer trek through town to drop them off and then circled back to your place.

When he pulled up outside your building he lifted his battle vest and shook your arm to wake you, stirring you from a dream that faded as soon as you opened your eyes.

“Oh, we’re already here?” you asked fuzzily, looking around the empty van as you realized you’d slept the whole way home. “Sorry, the weed must have really knocked me out.”

He chuckled softly and told you that you had no reason to be sorry.

You slid your sneakers back on and grabbed your bag, then reached out to open the door. But you hesitated, your fingers flexing on the metal handle.

“This was really fun. Thanks for letting me tag along,” you said and he nodded, unable to find the right words to fit the moment.

You paused a little longer and he kept his eyes locked on your hand that still rested on the handle. He held his breath.

“I know it’s late, but would you like to come in? I have some beer,” you offered hopefully.

He quickly shook his head and frowned. “Nah, I’m good.”

Eddie wasn’t sure why he said what he said. He wanted to go inside with you. He’d never wanted anything so badly in all his life.

You looked a little embarrassed and he knew that he should say something to explain why he couldn’t stay. A little white lie to soothe the crinkle in your brow.

Instead he just sat there as you opened the door. You gave him a weak smile. “Ok, then. I guess I’ll see you around.”

He watched you walk inside your building, regret exploding like fireworks in his chest. You never looked back, but he waited until you were safely inside the front door before he started up the van.

He turned the stereo back up. Iron Maiden to soothe his nerves.

Then he drove out onto the street and headed towards home. He only made it a few blocks from your place before he pulled the van over to the curb and slammed on the brakes.

He dug around in his jacket pocket until he found the slip of paper that you’d given him the night before.

He turned it over in his hands, wondering how long it would take to find the nearest payphone. There was no way you’d already be asleep. It had only been a few minutes since he dropped you off.

He almost gave in to the urge to call you before self-doubt settled in like a heavy fog, clouding his thoughts and convincing him that you’d only asked him to be polite. You didn’t like him in that way. A girl like you was an impossible dream and he needed to wake up.

He shoved your number back into his pocket and pulled the van away from the curb. Heading towards home and away from the thing he really wanted.

For an entire week Eddie was tormented by that little piece of paper. He spent hours tracing your number with his fingertips and wondering if he should call.

He picked up the phone a few times and got close to dialing, but could never bring himself to go through with it. He felt like a nervous teenager at the prospect of talking to you.

It was ridiculous.

When Friday night finally rolled around and the Hellfire Club headed into the diner, Eddie had a pep in his step and felt lighter as he headed through the door. He wouldn’t have admitted it to any of the guys but he was excited to see you.

You approached their table with your usual smile, but when it came time to ask for everyone’s order, you skipped over Eddie before tucking your notepad away.

“I won’t bother you guys with the specials tonight.”

When you brought out everyone’s food, Eddie waited for your little water routine, but it never happened.

He cleared his throat as you turned to walk away and you paused, an eyebrow arched.

“Is there something else?”

He stared back at you with wide brown eyes, unsure of what to say. That he wanted you to tease him? That he wanted your attention? When he saw the slight annoyance on your face he shook his head and you walked away.

Well, that hadn’t gone as well as he’d expected.

As the guys enjoyed their food while loudly recounting the night’s campaign, Eddie was only half-listening, distracted by a sickly feeling that crept up his spine and settled in his chest. He wasn’t sure why he felt so strange. He’d finally gotten what he’d always wanted— to be left alone. For you to stop your little cheerful charade. But for some reason, it didn’t feel right.

When it came time for the bills, you handed them out to the other guys, once again avoiding Eddie’s heavy gaze.

“See you next week,” you said sweetly as you walked away.

Once outside, the guys all piled into the van, stomachs full and ready to head home for the night. Eddie sat there for a minute with his hands braced on the steering wheel, staring up at the moving shadows in restaurant’s window.

He turned his head over his shoulder and told the guys he had to run back inside for a second. Mumbled out barely coherent words about how he’d forgotten something as he slammed the driver’s side door.

When Eddie walked inside, you were still busy wiping down their table. You looked up in surprise, confusion written all over your face.

“Why are you here?”

Eddie walked up to where you stood, close enough that the denim of his vest almost touched your name tag. “I don’t think you’re annoying. That night after the concert, I just…I wanted to come in. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Your eyes grew wide but you didn’t say anything, so he kept talking to fill the silence. “I’m sure you hate me right now, but I don’t think I can live with that.”

He reached out to cup your cheek, and you didn’t flinch or turn away.

Instead, you smiled. “I don’t hate you, Eddie.”

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice as he brought his lips next to your ear so that the old men at the counter couldn’t overhear him, his warm breath raising goosebumps on the bare skin of your arms.

“Let me make it up to you. Tonight. I’ll do anything you want.”

A warm light rekindled in your eyes as you nodded. “I get off at ten.”

When Eddie followed you into your apartment his first impression was that it was cozy, with walls and shelves filled with a hodgepodge of plants and posters and art. Your home was colorful and unique, in a way that reminded him of you. Even your mismatched furniture seemed to fit together perfectly.

“I’m just going to go change out of this.” You gestured to your uniform. “Help yourself to the beer in the fridge.”

So he did. As he closed the refrigerator door, a small tabby cat came and rubbed up against his leg.

“I see you’ve met Stevie.” You giggled when you saw him holding your kitten and scratching a finger under her chin as she purred up a storm. She was such a flirt. You smiled as you watched them, radiant in just your cotton t-shirt and old sweatpants. Seeing you dressed so casual felt strangely domestic to Eddie. In a good way.

He followed you into your living room where he saw your impressive collection of records. He slipped one out of its jacket and put it on the turntable. “This one really wails.”

As you sat close together on your couch, your beers were soon forgotten as Eddie told you a little about his past, and how he’d ended up living with his uncle. You told him about how you’d left Hawkins for college right after high school, but how that didn’t quite work out. That you weren’t sure what you wanted to do with your life.

He finally had to ask the question that had been on his mind for days.

“The other night you said you remembered Corroded Coffin from high school. How?”

You shyly admitted that you’d had a bit of a crush on him back then, but he didn’t believe you.

“Nah,” he scoffed, looking anywhere but your eyes.

“Hmm, I did.” You nodded. “I thought you were really cool.”

He gave you a bashful smile, blatantly ignoring your use of past tense. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. You were older and in a band. You had long hair and you were so….out there. I figured you wouldn’t give someone like me the time of day.”

In that moment Eddie wished he could find a time machine and do it all again. He wondered how different his life would have turned out if he’d had that knowledge.

Then he thought of how he’d treated you when you started working at the diner. Knowing what he did, it made him feel even worse.

“Do you think you’ll stay in Hawkins?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual voice.

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

“I know someone who really hopes you do,” he said softly, his eyes impossibly big and brown.

You bit your bottom lip and moved ever so slightly closer on the couch. “Yeah?”

He nodded, his eyes glued to your lips. “Uh huh. Dustin’s a really big fan.”

He let out a wild, throaty laugh when you playfully slapped his arm. He grabbed your hand to stop you and leaned forward, impulsively pressing his lips to yours and then pulled back after a few seconds to give you a searching look.

“Sorry. Was that okay?”

When you nodded, he kissed you again, deeper than before, his large hand gripping the back of your neck to pull you close.

“I want to make you feel good. Can I do that?” he whispered in your ear, and you stood up and wordlessly led him by the hand to your bedroom.

And he kept good on his promise, pushing you down onto your bed, his warm body over yours like a missing piece finally falling into place.

He worshipped every inch of your body using his skilled hands and his mouth, taking his time to pull each pretty sigh from between your lips.

When he finally pushed inside you, to him, it felt like the very first time. All of his past forgotten, like nothing had existed before you.

He’d been given a second chance to make things right and he wasn’t going to waste it. He was done running from what he wanted. Was finished running away from you.

He murmured soft words of praise as his hips rolled over and over into yours, your nails running down his back, sighing with every deep thrust. You felt so good around him and the way you cried out his name was like music to his ears. Like a song written just for him.

Afterwards as you lay there wrapped together in the pale light streaming through your window, he looked over at you with heavy, half-lidded eyes and smiled.

He knew in that moment that he’d do anything he could to keep you by his side — promise you the moon and the stars if you’d say you’d be his girl.

Thank you for reading! 🖤

Eddie Taglist 🏷️: @madelynraemunson @mrsjellymunson @hippiegoth97 @princesssunderworld @kellsck @hiimjulie @theold-ultraviolence

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Super Soldier Support Group Masterlist

Summary : Sam Wilson starts a Support Group for Super Soldiers. You and Bucky sit next to each other during the sessions.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings/tags : Slow Burn. Trauma. Just a bunch of Super Soldiers who really wanna get better :) 

Notes : Hi all! I wrote 11 chapters of this. Each chapter is a different support group session talking about adjusting to the modern world as a super soldier, while Bucky develops a crush on you. All the chapters have been written and drafted, so I will post updates to this semi-frequently. let me know if you want to be tagged in this, or added to the General Bucky Taglist. Enjoy!

COMPLETED

Session One 

Session Two

Session Three

Session Four 

Session Five

Session Six

Session Seven

Session Eight 

Session Nine

Session Ten

Session Eleven

After I Was Too Late

This fic can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to Before I Could Say It.

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky saved your life, and the one time you save each other.

Word Count: 10.1k (I got carried away)

Warning(s): gn!reader (pls advise me if there's any gender-specific detail in the fic), canon typical violence, angst, fluff, near death experience(s), hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, physical injuries, it's a kinder ending this time I promise 🥺❤️ (lmk if I missed anything!!)

Author's Note: PT 2 IS FINALLY HERE Y'ALL!! I'm so sorryy for the delay, my work has been out of control lately (I legit had to go home at 9.30 PM last week 😭🙏🏼). But I've finally finished this piece, and I hope you guys like it!! I'm tagging everyone who left a comment/reblog-comment on the first part but if you prefer to keep the ending to the fic as it was, then you can just skip reading this. And if any of you want to be removed from the taglist, please just let me know!! As always, don't forget to comment, like, and reblog 💖

If someone were to ask you about the beginning, your mind would immediately go straight to that day.

Six years ago, your thread of fate wove into his, placing the two of you on polar ends in the middle of a highway shoot-out that revealed the face beneath the infamous Winter Soldier's mask. You recognized him from the sketches littered across Steve Roger's desk: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky, as Steve had called him. A shadow of the past, long presumed gone to the clutches of war and time. 

Yet, there he was.

Alive and breathing.

And he was trying to kill you.

After the events in D.C., you helped the Captain search for the man who had risen from the dead. You saw Bucky's apartment in Bucharest—a depressing little hole in the wall that was barely suitable for a human being to live in. It nicked at your chest, wrestled with a docile side of your heart that you hadn't entertained since they had dubbed you one of earth's mightiest heroes. And when you finally stood in front of the man—not the Soldat, not the merciless assassin who had sliced a dagger to your side two years prior—your chest tapered at the quiet war waging behind his eyes.

“I wasn't in Vienna,” Bucky told Steve. His eyes flickered briefly towards you as he said it, willing, perhaps, for at least one person in that room to put their trust in him; the man standing vulnerably in that apartment, not the weapon he was forced to become. 

“I don't do that anymore,” he added.

You believed him.

Steve did, too.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of chasing and being chased. After Zemo broke the Winter Soldier out of the facility in Berlin, you took Steve and Sam to an abandoned site you once neutralized where the three of you could keep Bucky safe from the authorities. You watched from the sideline as Steve interrogated Bucky for answers, listening intently while the Captain and the Falcon began rummaging their heads for a viable plan of action. 

Once Sam left to reach out to his contacts, Steve also excused himself from the room, muttering something about needing to make a phone call and leaving you alone with the burly man who was trying miserably to hide behind his curtain of hair.

Wordlessly, you walked towards the paper bag you kept on a rusty oil barrel, grabbing one of its contents before cautiously approaching the brooding man in the center of the room. Bucky looked up the moment you shoved the packaged croissant in his face, confusion shining with blue under the taut crease of dark eyebrows.

“Take it,” you said simply.

Bucky's frown deepened as he stared at your hand. 

You masked the sinking feeling in your stomach with a sigh, putting the package next to the makeshift chair Bucky was sitting on. 

“You haven't eaten since yesterday.” Your hands were buried in the pocket of your jeans as you spoke, hiding the tremble in them so the man in front of you wouldn't see just how much your heart was breaking for him. “We have a long journey ahead of us. And if Steve is anything to go by when it comes to a super soldier's calorie intake, you must be running on extreme deficit by now.”

Bucky stayed silent. 

You scraped the ground with the toe of your shoes, trying to fill in the quietness as you rambled, “I would've loved to prepare you a nice three-course meal, but considering half of the world is on our asses, I didn't think you'd mind a small downgrade. Believe me, I'd kill for a real croissant right now. There's a bakery near the Avengers’ old tower whose owner makes the best chocolate and butter croissants. They're fantastic. This one tastes like a foam board compared to them.”

Bucky continued to stay silent, only perusing you under his intense gaze. You rubbed the back of your neck and managed an awkward chuckle. “You know what? You don't have to eat that. It tastes terrible anyway. I'll just throw it out. Let me see if the pigeons would like some.”

You reached out to grab the plastic packaging, but Bucky stopped you in tracks, grabbing the croissant with a hesitant drag of his hand.

“Thank you,” he muttered curtly.

The sight in front of your eyes would have made you chortle under any other circumstances—the ludicrousness of seeing a Herculean with a metal arm grappling with the flimsy packaging of a factory-made pastry. The croissant was ridiculously small in Bucky’s hand, and you felt foolish for thinking it could offer anything close to sufficient sustenance for a man his size. He could probably devour the whole thing in a single bite and still be starving.

And yet, before he even savored a taste, Bucky tilted the croissant towards you in a silent proposition. An offer to share. To tear the pastry in two as if he didn't barely have enough for himself in the first place. The gesture lurched at something in your chest, winding down your ribs like overgrown vines.

You feigned a smile, feeling it crack around the sorrow you were desperately trying to quell. “That’s for you, Bucky,” you told him softly. “I have mine.”

The man nodded, hesitantly, as if the thought of having something to himself was stranger than fiction. He took a tentative bite, his forehead creasing as he chewed on the sad excuse of a pastry.

“Bad, huh?” You cringed sheepishly. “Told you. It's borderline inedible. You don't have to finish it if you don't want to.”

“I've had worse.”

You clenched your teeth. 

There was no room for doubt in your mind that he probably did have worse than an additive-laden confectionery.

“Yeah?” You didn't know why you were asking. “Like what?”

The metal fingers on Bucky's thigh whirred, like he was flexing, removing the stiffness in his joints if there had been flesh instead of vibranium. You waited with bated breath as he stared at a suspicious puddle on the ground.

“I was stuck in an underground cave system once,” Bucky began, pausing to take a tiny bite of the croissant. He looked defenseless that way. Almost like a child. “Spent a few days there. The only thing around me were bats.”

Your nose wrinkled. “You ate bats?”

Bucky didn't attempt to correct your assumption, just kept on munching on the artificial croissant as if he were a kid snacking on candy.

“Were they… good?”

Stupid.

What an incredibly, unbelievably stupid question.

“They were good enough to keep me alive.”

You didn't know what to say to that.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “just tell me if you change your mind on that croissant. I can get you something else. Remember those pigeons I mentioned? They're not bats, but they've got, you know… protein.”

Then, upon some kind of miracle, it happened.

Bucky smiled.

It was brief, an ephemeral thing that evaporated by the next time you blinked, but it was there. As clear as day, as real as the foul smell of rotten carcasses that surrounded you in that dismal place.

You willed for the excitement in your belly to die down—the last thing Bucky needed was for you to go deranged over a mere smile, probably one of the firsts he allowed himself to have after decades of drought—giving Bucky a short nod before turning around to reward him some privacy, but you didn't go far before a rough voice halted your footsteps.

When your gaze landed on him again, Bucky was tense. His shoulders curled inward as if struggling desperately to keep himself small, his fingers twitched where they were curled around the half-eaten pastry.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asked.

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted in a mixture of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I'm fine? Well, as fine as one can be after becoming a fugitive of the law, but otherwise—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His scrutiny roved over your figure from the distance, as though his stare could penetrate through the deepest layer of skin, lighting up a flame that licked through every inch of your bloodstream. Blue irises jerked towards the side of your abdomen, a fleeting tic, but it was enough to force the realization to dawn on you.

Bucky was talking about your wound.

The laceration wound that he—no, that the Soldat—had administered during your altercation in D.C.

Instinctively, your hand lifted, brushing against the jagged scar that you knew was seething under the cover of your shirt. The simple movement didn't escape Bucky's notice, and you chastised yourself for your lack of consideration when you saw his body fold lower towards his knees.

“Bucky—”

“I'm sorry,” he said heavily, shakily. A striking fragility from a man who was supposed to be carved out of steel.

You shook your head in urgency, crossing the distance between you and him before stopping a good six feet away from the defeated man. He didn’t even look up at your proximity, keeping his head angled to the ground, shrinking more and more with every passing second as if he wanted to disintegrate into oblivion.

With careful strides, you removed the remaining space separating you and Bucky, sinking to your knee right in front of him. You called his name softly, begging him to glance up, coaxing him out of the shell of condemnation that he had crawled himself into.

When he finally peered at you, the blue of his eyes had dimmed into a stormy gray. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward and gather this broken man into your arms.

“Bucky,” you called his name again, resolutely this time. Firm and steady, offering no room for even an ounce of doubt or a breath of protest. “It wasn't your fault.”

Bucky fleered.

“I mean it.” You searched his gaze, commanding him to stay there, to not run away from your eyes because you needed him to hear this. You needed him to believe. “I'm not gonna hold you accountable for what happened on that highway, or for anything else you might have done in the past few decades. None of that is your fault. They used you. You couldn't even remember your own name, let alone understand what HYDRA was forcing you to do. You're also a victim here, Bucky.”

He shook his head.

Your heart shattered into tiny little pieces all over the ground.

You shifted on the ball of your knee, sighing as you felt exhaustion pulling at your limbs. 

“Steve would agree,” you said quietly.

Those three words managed to snatch Bucky's attention.

“Actually, Steve does agree.” You glimpsed towards the entrance where the Captain had disappeared through earlier, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “It's the reason why he's here. The reason why we all are. He is the literal embodiment of everything good in this world, Bucky. And if Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—looks at you and sees someone worth saving, someone who deserves a second chance despite all that happened, then that says everything I need to know about the kind of man you truly are.”

You waited for something to shift, for the contempt in his eyes to dissipate, for the strain in his shoulders to melt, but nothing happened. He continued to drown, making no moves to get himself out of the murky waters that were pulling him under.

“Everything that happened while you were under HYDRA’s control—the missions, the casualties—none of it is on you, Buck,” you pressed on. “The wound on my side? That wasn't your fault either. Hell, I was shooting at you, too! I didn't know who you were back then. You didn’t know me. You didn’t even know yourself. They made sure of that.”

You took a shuddering breath, physically readying yourself to voice the next conviction out loud.

“If someone has to carry the blame, it should be HYDRA,” you determined. “Not you, Bucky. Never you.”

The silence that followed was strangulating. You watched Bucky with heart in your throat, waiting for him to react, to do something or say something. Perhaps if he had cried, it would've been better. Because then, you might have been able to help, to offer him the solace of your arms, to teach him how he could peel back the guilt that was clinging to him like a second skin. 

Yet, Bucky just sat, still as a tombstone and quiet as a graveyard. 

The eerie calm before a catastrophic storm.

When he finally looked up, Bucky's eyes were a tempest—dark and turbulent, thundering with the repercussions of a hundred lifetimes he never asked to live.

“Maybe—” Bucky's voice quivered. He ran his flesh hand across his face and started over, “Maybe you're right.

Your chest staggered.

Before you could respond, Bucky's gaze dropped, teetering towards your side, as though he could see the ridges of skin underneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. The place where flesh had once split under a blade he hadn't even known he was holding.

On his knee, Bucky's fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out, to inspect the remnant of the wound with his own flesh and skin but didn't know how to trust himself enough to do so.

His jaw tightened.

“But it was still me, wasn't it?” Bucky's breathing stammered. The words came out choked, as though the truth tasted like rust on his tongue. “I was still the one holding the knife, Sugar.”

The nickname maimed you more than one could expect. Had Bucky said it with enough cynicism, maybe you would have chalked it up to bitterness and moved on. But he hadn't said it like that—he had said it with a devastating frailness, a frayed piece of another life bleeding through the cracks. It came from a version of him that had smiled at strangers and walked dates home in the rain, a boy from Brooklyn who probably said it with a charming grin and a flirtatious warmth.

Your heart broke for him all over again.

You ransacked your brain for something to say, to convince Bucky that he was wrong, but the sound of incoming footsteps stripped you of the chance, forcing you to quickly rise to your feet just in time for Sam and Steve to enter the room. Your conversation with Bucky was shoved to the backburner as the other two apprised you of your next step, both unaware of the tension stretching taut in the air, suspended between you and Bucky like a ghost no one else could see.

The next thing you knew, your life was unraveling like a house of cards in the span of one night. It felt like you blinked, and suddenly you were standing in the middle of a tarmac, staring down faces you used to sit with during breakfast and mission briefings, others who carried the weight of loyalty you could no longer afford.

The spider-like kid who loved to crawl on things was the first one you faced. He was nimble, all limbs and chatter, a fleck of innocence to testify to his lack of experience. You tuned out his nervous jokes and wide-eyed commentary as you focused on blocking each of his strikes, breathing through the ache in your ribs, willing your body to stay sharp.

But then, your instincts faltered.

The agonized sound wasn't loud, especially compared to the surrounding chaos that had befallen the airport. Your eyes flitted towards the man anyway, as if having a mind of their own, making you lose your footing for a fraction of second as your gaze landed on him from the distance.

Bucky.

The sight of him staggering back—blood blooming across his skin like a crimson tear—rustled an unknown weight within your chest. Natasha stood just a few paces away, her favorite knife in hand, the blade gleaming in the same shade of red running in rivulets down Bucky's cheek.

The moment of distraction was fleeting. Short. But it was the only opening your opponent needed to yank you off balance and send your back straight to the ground. 

“Sorry,” the Spidey kid huffed, straddling your legs, his grip surprisingly strong for someone built like a string bean in spandex. “Big fan, though. Seriously. Hey, crazy idea. Maybe after all of this, you can sign my—”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

With a drive of your elbow to his side, coupled with a shove of your knee to his chest, Spidey was now the one pinned to the ground—winded limbs and spayed webbing as he stared up at the clouds. You rose to your feet with a heaving chest, the ground trembling beneath your boots as you stole a moment to breathe.

You didn't even notice the light shifting in the sky.

Your reflexes awakened a second too late, stirring only when a dark shadow swept over your head. There was no time to run. Whatever protective measure you could whip up, whatever direction your feet could carry you in a matter of seconds, the end result was clear—you wouldn't be able to make it out of there unscathed.

Or at least, you should not have been able to make it out of there unscathed—but you did.

Because Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man whose name was whispered between cautions of death and terror—had saved you.

He lunged from somewhere behind the smoke, arms wrapping around your frame before shoving you forward and down. The force of the blast rocked the ground as a small aircraft detonated a few yards away, radiating a heat so raging it licked at your back. Debris rained down all around you as Bucky’s body remained curled over yours, shielding you from the worst of it, lying like a fortress between you and the explosion's aftermath.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own ragged breathing. Your ears were still ringing when Bucky finally stood up, pulling you by your elbow to your slightly unsteady feet. He examined you from head to toe, his grounding touch remaining steadfast around your forearm, eliciting goosebumps.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, still in shock. Still breathless.

“Bucky.” Your fingers convulsed, moving up to clutch his jacket and stopping once you thought better of it. “You saved me.” 

He didn't answer at first, and when he did, his eyes evaded yours, jaw clenching as his gaze meandered somewhere distant. “It's the least I could do.”

Then, that same gaze moved, lowering until it settled on your side. You didn’t need him to spell it out to know exactly what he was thinking. The wound had been his doing once, delivered by a man with the same face but none of the same mercy. The shadow of a life that felt like his own but one he gravely wished to relinquish.

You felt the phantom sting of it then, not from the wound, but from the way Bucky was assessing it—like he was measuring his worth by the depth of that scar. Like saving you had been a down payment for a debt he could never repay.

Your mouth parted, already halfway to saying something, anything, that might severe the penance he had inflicted upon himself.

But before you could say a word, the world raged again, sending ripples of a faraway explosion that rattled the earth.

You swallowed hard, grounding yourself as you imparted, “We need to get to the jet.”

Bucky nodded once, his stature straightening as if his resolve had always been intact. The two of you broke into a sprint immediately, side by side, boots striking the tarmac in tandem as the smoke closed in all around you.

That was the first time Bucky Barnes saved your life.

And you knew, as you dashed across the airport grounds, that it wouldn't be the last.

After two years in Wakanda—two years since the disastrous battle on that infamous airport—you were finally bringing Bucky back home to New York.

Tony was not happy when he greeted the two of you at the compound, and you were even less thrilled to see him after everything that went down following his support for the Sokovia Accords—which, to your delight, had officially been nullified. Tony had promised he would play nice, and that included absolving Bucky—or at least, trying to—for all of the crimes that HYDRA forced him to do. It wasn't ideal, but it was a start; a show of good faith as Tony pledged to assist Bucky's recovery in every (financial) way possible.

Still, that didn't stop you from making sure that you walked in front of Bucky while the two of you were approaching the front gate, offering yourself as a human barrier should the philanthropist do anything untoward.

The first few weeks at the compound were dedicated towards ensuring a seamless transition for Bucky. From creating his daily schedule, vouching for a potential therapist, to showing him the nooks and crannies of his new home—you tackled every single task with purpose; convincing yourself that it was about structure, routine, and reintegration, but deep down, you knew better.

It was about keeping him close. Keeping him safe.

And maybe, that was exactly why you found yourself lashing out at Steve when he told you, a few weeks later, that Bucky would be sent on his first mission as an Avenger.

“This is bullshit,” you seethed, your fingers curling around the edge of the conference table in a death grip. “It's barely been two months and already they wanna send him back out there? After everything he's been through?”

The Captain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don't like this anymore than you do—”

“Then stop it.”

“I tried!” Steve's eyebrows creased, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It was a rare sight to see Captain America this upset. “The higher-ups were asking questions, and his therapist already told them that Buck is ready. I tried talking to him about it, but he's adamant to go. There's nothing else I can do.”

“There's always something,” you retorted. “Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough.”

Despite how much your words stung, Steve forced himself to move past it. He knew they hadn't come from a place of malice. Instead, it had come from a place of affection—perhaps even love—a protectiveness he also shared towards a certain super soldier with a metal arm.

“Look,” Steve began, shifting in his seat, “have you ever thought that maybe this is what Bucky needs?”

Your head snapped up.

Steve took your silence as a cue to continue, “We know he hasn't forgiven himself yet. Not fully. And that's understandable, isn't it? Maybe what he needs, right now, is the chance to make it right. Maybe going on a mission—one he actually chooses to partake in, where he knows something good will come out of it—could be Bucky's way of making his amends.”

The Captain trailed off, letting his words linger above the tense atmosphere of the conference room.

You hated how much it made sense.

With a drop of your shoulders, you pinned your stare on the faraway wall, biting the inside of your cheek before mumbling, “Fine.”

Steve smiled, ready to wrap up the conversation once and for all when your voice interrupted him, “But I'm going.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” You got up from your own chair and sauntered towards the door, flicking a firm glance towards Steve that left no room for objection. “I'm not gonna stop you from assigning Bucky to that mission. But if he's coming, then I'm coming, too. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

In the end, Steve had relented, and what was once supposed to be a three-person crew's mission became four as you, Bucky, Sam, and Maria Hill took off towards Panama City.

Interference hailed the four of you upon arrival, running you into more hostiles than the initial intel had suggested. Despite your time away in Wakanda, your instincts didn’t waver. The rhythm came back effortlessly, muscle memory filling in the gaps left by your mind without a sliver of hesitation. 

However, between every swift kick and  precise strike, your focus frayed. Not from fear, but from a certain super soldier who was never out of your sight for long. Your gaze strayed to his silhouette again and again, making you stumble more times than you cared to admit, trying desperately to stand your ground in your own fight while keeping an eye on him all at once.

It was reckless.

And it was precisely why, as you realized too late, you ended up failing to notice the grenade.

“Watch out!”

Two strong arms—one flesh and one vibranium—shoved you out of the explosion's radius, a flying shrapnel missing your head by inches as your shoulder crashed against the ground. Bucky got thrown immediately on impact, sent over the edge of the skyscraper as the ground started to crack, fragment, and disintegrate into nothing.

“No!”

Horror erupted in your stomach at the building's cession to gravity. You scampered forward, dropping to your hands and knees to lean over the skirt where floor was supposed to be. Your relief escaped in a stammered breath when you spotted Bucky a couple of stories down, still alive, dangling by his flesh arm around the corner of a deteriorating girder.

A window pane launched into the air.

Bucky's agonized scream ripped through the chaos the moment it rammed against his left shoulder.

Something in your guts twisted at the sight of artificial axons peeking out of the ripped seams of his tactical jacket. Blood soaked through the torn fabric, staining the silver beneath in unforgiving red. 

“Bucky!” Your pulse hammered. “Don't move, I'm coming to get you!”

“Don't.” Bucky's voice was stern. Final. “You gotta get outta here before the whole thing collapse.”

“I'm not leaving here without you!”

Inside your earpiece, noises began to crackle. 

“Guys?” Maria's voice emerged. The sound of punches and clatter reverberated from her end of the line. “I think I need some help over here.”

“Go help Maria,” Bucky commanded.

“But you—”

“Sugar.” 

The nickname halted you in place. Bucky was smiling as he looked up at you, although you knew that it was nothing more than a facade. Any other person would have been fooled by his performance, but you could easily pinpoint the shadow of a grimace he was trying to conceal, the exhaustion crippling his body as he struggled to hold himself up at an angle that wouldn't put additional strain to the already splintering steel beam.

Blue eyes softened. “I'm gonna be fine. You should go.”

Your throat constricted.

You crouched frozen on the ledge, the roar of distant gunfire echoing through the shattered high-rise. Fifty stories below, parts of the building's skeleton scattered on the ground. Your hand twitched towards Bucky, wanting to reach out, desperate to haul him back into your arms, but the chasm between you felt impossibly wide.

Meanwhile, Maria's grunts and struggle continued to echo in your ears as she seemed to wrestle a few assailants at once. You knew you should go to her aid. You knew this wasn’t the time for hesitation.

And yet… Bucky.

His lips were still curled into that easy smile—the same one he shared with you during clandestine moments around the compound, because this side of Bucky Barnes was one he reserved specifically for you. His knuckles had gone white from supporting his entire weight, the beam creaking under the slightest sway of his body, jerking slightly. 

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he said gently, as if he weren't hanging by one arm over nothing but air. “You save her.”

You could barely breathe. 

The seconds were ticking—Maria was calling for help, and Bucky was slipping.

You weren’t enough to save both of them.

“Sam,” you gasped, pressing your hand to the comms. Static was the only response, and you prayed to the heavens above that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could listen to your plea. “You’ve gotta get to Bucky. Now. He’s gonna—I can’t—just… please.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched longer than a lifetime.

Just when you began to think he wasn't going to answer, Sam's voice fizzled in, “On my way.” 

The comms fell silent again.

A violent wind tore through the air, hitting like a freight train.

The steel girder—the one remaining lifeline fastening Bucky to this world—buckled with a piercing screech.

In the blink of an eye, the girder snapped.

“BUCKY!”

A blur of silver and red swooped below him in the same breath, and before you could lunge forward to follow Bucky as he fell, Sam was there—arms locked securely around Bucky’s torso, wings flaring wide to steady the sudden addition of weight. Bucky’s head dropped against Sam’s shoulder, dazed but alive. Your whole limbs teetered towards the verge of liquefying as your lungs finally released the air you didn’t know you were holding.

“You okay, man?” Sam’s voice chirped through your earpiece. “Christ, what did they feed you in Wakanda?”

A sound escaped your chest—something between a strangled sob and a wry laugh.

Gathering yourself, you pressed another hand to the comms, rising to your feet and sprinting towards the server room as you announced, “Hang on tight, Maria. I'm on my way.”

By the time you and Maria went back to the safehouse over an hour later, Sam and Bucky were already there. Bucky was lying on the couch the moment you strode in, his metal arm detached and thrown almost haphazardly on the coffee table while Sam tinkered with Redwing on the kitchen counter.

From the bandage wrapped around Bucky's shoulder, you knew that the on-site medical android had taken a look at him already, but the anxiety in your mind still wasn't pacified. It dribbled all over the floor as you marched towards him, your body shaking partly from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but also from the anger and dread boiling in your blood.

“Why the hell did you do that?!”

Venom leaked from your voice the moment you approached the couch. Behind you, Sam and Maria fell silent, readying themselves for the imminent confrontation ahead. Bucky's face remained impassive as he rose to a seating position, a faint tug at the corner of his lips.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Don't fucking sweetheart me.”

Your chest rose and fell in a dizzying rythm, daggers flying from your eyes towards the man in front of you. The same one who had nearly, stupidly welcomed death into his arms due to some kind of foolish heroism embedded in his principles. The one who was currently looking at you with cerulean eyes so tender it almost made you forget that he was close to slipping from your fingers a mere hour earlier.

Bucky let out a sigh. “I'm okay.”

“Quit talking to me like I'm stupid, Bucky. We all can see your ripped metal arm on the table. Your bandaged shoulder.”

 “It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing!”

“It's nothing compared to what I've suffered before.”

An incredulous laugh tore from your larynx, sharp and sardonic. It was the only thing keeping the lump inside from choking you whole. “Just because you've survived worse doesn't mean you're fucking invincible, Buck! You could've died. You almost died. If Sam hadn't got there in time, you would've—”

The words wedged in your throat.

Your eyes fell shut as you expelled the images of Bucky dangling between life and death out of your mind. 

Gentle fingers encircled your wrist. You gasped at the sudden warmth surrounding you, opening your eyes to find that Bucky had tugged you closer to stand between his parted knees. Your palms automatically landed on the column of his neck, chest pounding at the unbearable softness shining out of Bucky’s eyes. 

This was new territory—Bucky had always treated closeness like something fleeting, something borrowed. His touches, his embraces, were often hesitant, as though affection was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But now, he held you like he had done it a thousand times before, like your body against his was the very thing chaining him to reality. His hand curled firmly around your waist, anchoring himself, grounding his entire existence to the certainty of your presence.

“Hey,” Bucky said, squeezing your side lightly. “I'm right here, Sugar. I'm alright.”

Your chest burned. “We almost lost you.”

“But you didn't.”

“But what if we had?!”

“Then you should take solace in the knowledge that I haven't gone in vain.”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of Bucky's shoulders, nails branding crescent moons into the skin. He didn't even flinch.

“You don't need to sacrifice your life for me, Bucky. I don't need that kind of thing on my conscience,” you spat.

“I wouldn't call it a sacrifice, sweetheart,” Bucky said firmly, resolutely. “If that's what it takes to keep you safe, then I'd gladly take the fall.”

Bucky's declaration propelled the tears you had been desperately trying to contain to the forefront. A strangled whimper shredded from your lips. You quickly tried to mask it with a scowl.

“That's the very definition of a ‘sacrifice’, you idiot.”

“Not in my book.” Bucky smiled. “Not when it's you.”

Before he could say another word, you removed the distance between you and threw yourself in his arms. The dam within you finally caved in, freeing the ragged sobs you had been trying to keep at bay. Your tears stained the collar of his undershirt, your arms locking around him tightly as though sheer willpower might fetter him to you, to life itself.

He staggered slightly under your weight, grunting from the pull on his wounded shoulder, but his hand—his only hand—immediately rose to your back, fingers splayed as they began tracing slow, calming patterns across your spine. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” you whispered hoarsely. “Don’t throw yourself in front of danger for me. I don't ever want to watch you fall like that again. I can’t—”

“I know,” Bucky murmured, pressing his cheek to your temple. “I know, Sugar.”

“Promise me,” you croaked out.

He stilled for a second. “I can't,” Bucky said breathlessly. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, sweetheart. I’ll always choose to save you.”

A fresh wave of tears surged behind your eyes. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his undershirt. You hated him for that. 

And you loved him even more because of it.

From behind you, someone cleared their throat. 

“I hate to interrupt the Notting Hill shit we’ve got going on here,” Sam said, “but is anyone else starving or is it only the guy who just saved Barnes’ ass?”

The evening wind bit your cheeks the moment you stepped out of the bar. In a chorus of jovial shrieks and mischievous laughter, your friends from the Academy all bid each other goodbye—some heading straight home, some scuttering after the next round of drinks and fun, but all equally giddy and tipsy—stumbling on the curb and crashing against unassuming lamp posts.

“Sure you're not coming?” one of your friends asked.

“No, told you I've got an early morning tomorrow,” you slurred slightly, shaking your head twice when the face in front of you began to blur around the edges.

“Okay. Text me when you get home!”

You waved them off with a lopsided smile, turning on your heel and starting the slow trek back to the station. The pavement felt oddly slanted under your feet, and you blamed the tequila for the fifth time that night. The wind swept down the empty street, nipping at your exposed skin, sending discarded wrappers tumbling aimlessly along the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gorgeous! You need a ride?” a voice called out.

You didn’t bother looking. The city was full of idiots, and you weren’t in the mood for petty confrontations when your balance already wavered like a tightrope walker with a death wish.

You were in the midst of stifling a yawn when your foot unexpectedly hit a shallow crack in the pavement, pitching your body forward, arms flailing wildly before you caught yourself mid-fall.

The voice spoke again, this time laced with a grin that lit a match in the back of your mind, “Careful, sweetheart. Steve's gonna be pissed if you break an ankle before the mission tomorrow.”

Your eyes snapped up.

Leaning against a dark motorcycle across the street, like some kind of B-list actor playing a bad boy in a trashy movie franchise, was none other than Bucky Barnes. He looked way too good for someone who just watched you nearly eat concrete—leather jacket unzipped, gloved hand resting on the handlebar, and an easy smile tugging at his lips. 

Your face broke into an instantaneous grin.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

You skipped across the street without looking. The squeal of tires resonated in the air, blaring horns and flashing headlights as you registered too late the oncoming car speeding your way. You stumbled in your haste to escape the street, to save yourself before your crushed skull and its content became the next headline for tomorrow's 6 A.M. news.

But before gravity could make a fool out of yourself, Bucky’s arms were already around you. He caught your body with ease, keeping your face from planting onto the curb, his broad frame shielding you from the splash of puddle as the honking car zipped past. 

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his metal fingers squeezing your hip, “you lookin’ to give an old man a heart attack?”

“Sorry,” you offered sheepishly, willing the percussion in your chest to assuage. “Thanks for saving me.”

“I'd save you anytime and anywhere, Sugar.” Bucky smiled, his gaze soft and genuine despite the flirtatious nature of his words. “But it'd be nice if I didn't have to do it all the time.”

You feigned a gasp. “And here I thought you were my personal hero on call, Buck.”

The man in front of you laughed—a carefree thing with his head thrown back, ocean blue glinting under the paltry luminance of streetlights. You stepped out of his embrace with great reluctance, shivering slightly in the absence of Bucky's warmth.

The motion didn't escape Bucky's notice. “Did you not bring a jacket?”

“I did.” You wrapped yourself with your own arms, stroking the goosebumps away with your palms. “I lent it to my friend and I guess… well, I forgot to ask for it back.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Because everyone knows how kind, selfless, and generous I am?” You grinned.

Bucky didn't say anything in return. Instead, he made quick work shedding the jacket off his back, revealing the outline of muscles under the gorgeous cover of dusty blue henley. Your throat went dry, every nerve ending lighting up in fireworks when Bucky stepped forward, draping the leather garment around your shoulders.

“There you go. That would have to do for now,” he muttered.

His fingertips brushed your neck as he tugged the leather collar closer around you. The scent of coffee, mint, and something indistinguishably Bucky attacked your senses, stealing your breath and leaving the taste of longing on your tongue. He looked at you in that same infuriating tenderness that made your insides spume, reduced to tiny bubbles filled with hope and yearning.

“Thanks,” you breathed out once he withdrew. “By the way, how come you're here? I thought you had that mission with Nat today.”

“I did,” Bucky replied, burying his hands in his jeans’ pockets. 

Your forehead creased. “No way. Did you bail?”

“Are you crazy? Steve would have my ass.”

“Then…” 

“Came straight from the jet,” he said casually, the impish quirk of his lips giving him away before his words even landed.

“You what?” You gawked. “Are you serious? Did you even debrief with Steve before you went here?  Did you even go to the medbay? At all?”

“It was just recon.” He shrugged, far too nonchalant for your liking. “Nat can handle the debrief. She did all the sneaking around anyway, I barely lifted a finger.”

“That’s not the point.” You groaned, massaging the headache that had started gnawing at your temple. “Who cares if it was just recon, Bucky? The procedure says you're to go to the medbay after every mission. The rule is there for a reason. What if you were injured but you didn't even notice? What if you were exposed to a dangerous substance while you were on the field? It's incredibly reckless, stupid, and—”

Your words dissolved the moment his hands cupped your cheeks.

Bucky studied your countenance in silence, his eyes delicate, his thumbs gentle as they skimmed along your jaw. He smiled at you as if your soul was scribbled in a script only he could decipher. An intimate secret shared between the meager spaces the two of you occupied in this infinite universe.

Your breath hitched.

Everything around you tilted on its axis, the world dulling into a distant hum to make room for the cosmic threads tethering you both to each other. His eyes were tired as they locked onto yours, but behind the muted blue, something else shone through—something steadfast and searing, like an eternal flame trapped in the most secluded heights of the Himalayan range.

“I’m okay,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’m right here, and I’m okay.”

You didn't blink—you couldn't.

Your chest deflated in the aftermath of worry, the relief sweeping through you like a tide pulling back after a storm. Bucky withdrew, his hands leaving your face in a parting goodbye, and you had to fight the urge to yank him back in, to stay in the fragile moment that had cracked open between the two of you.

“‘Sides,” he drawled, a teasing glint replacing the ferocity in his eyes, “if I didn't pick you up, you'd probably end up passed out in a dumpster somewhere. Can't have you jeopardizing the mission like that, can I?”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Ass.”

Bucky chuckled, rounding the bike before handing you a helmet. “C'mon, lightweight.”

You rolled your eyes, although the blooming smile on your face betrayed the faux irritation as you climbed onto the motorcycle. Bucky was warm in front of you, your arms finding purchase around his waist the second the engine roared to life, buildings and trees alike blurring past as the two of you sped through the streets of New York.

This time, you held Bucky a little tighter than usual, just in case he forgot how much it mattered that he made it home safely.

The pain was the first thing your brain registered.

Lights spilled through the all-encompassing darkness, rousing you awake, filling the gaps in your mind with an awareness of life. The ache traveled through your body in an unimaginable speed, a ravenous beast as it ate away your soul, and you could barely contain the pained whimper before it tumbled free out of your lips.

Something engulfed your hand.

Warmth.

“Sugar?”

You whimpered louder.

“Shit." There was a rustling by your side before the same voice sprouted again, “Hang on, sweetheart. I'll get the doctor.”

Time stumbled in and out of your grasp. You thought you could hear several voices conversing in the room not long after. One of them, unrecognizable in your ears but settled deeply within your chest, rose above all of them. It sounded desperate, broken, as if the person had attempted to barter with God using merely a mangled heart and a splintered spine.

“...please,” you caught him say, the end of a sentence blown by the breeze before you could curl your fingers around it.

“I understand, Barnes,” another voice spoke. “We'll take care of it. Just wait outside, will you?”

A pair of hands proceeded to roam over your body. You felt the pull of consciousness behind your eyelids, heaving you out of the void, an aimless ghost slipping violently back into flesh.

You gasped.

The world returned in a fragmented mosaic—white ceiling, antiseptic air, and a beeping monitor that echoed stubbornly beside your ear. Inside your body, a burning agony erupted. It sank into the deepest corners of your being, clutching around your lungs, turning you into nothing more than a wailing heap of muscles and bones.

“Hey, hey, easy now,” came a calm voice. 

The words arrived in the company of gentle hands, too cold for your liking, but they were a reprieve nonetheless. The face in front of you zoomed in and out of focus like moonlight dancing across shattered glass, the contours merging and sundering as they finally morphed into the features of a familiar friend. 

Dr. Helen Cho.

She pressed the back of her hand to your forehead before shining a penlight into your eyes. “Pupils reactive. That’s good. Welcome back.”

You blinked away the harsh light from your vision, wincing when the effort sent a jolt of pain through your neck and shoulder. Your lips parted in an attempt to speak, but your throat felt like it had been shoved with hot coals, shredding your voice into nothing more than a torn, fragile snivel.

“W-what… what happened?” you croaked out.

“You were shot,” Helen answered. “Do you remember?”

Just like that, the memory barreled into you like a sucker punch to the face.

Images of drab walls and ceilings, the sight of mold and moss co-existing with dead rodents’ remains filled your mind. The abandoned building once posed as the warehouse of an illegal bio-weaponry enterprise that had long ceased to operate. The Avengers’ presence on site was supposed to be a straightforward recon—gather the intel on the culpable syndicate, perhaps scour for names complicit in supplying the deadly goods in the first place—and it was implied as such on the case files given to the entire team.

No one could have predicted that the simple job would turn into an ambush.

Your mind began flipping through the pages of memory, recalling how it took you no time at all to neutralize the four agents sent your way. Under different circumstances, you might have felt offended by the measly number of hostiles assigned to you—had your thoughts, of course, not already been preoccupied with a certain super soldier. Still, any insolent disparagement your opponent once hurled at your combat abilities was indefinitely put on ice as you dashed across the site's west wing.

By the time you arrived, Bucky was already cornered.

Instinct, and something else akin to protectiveness, fueled your movements as you thundered into the room. Most of the assailants were already lying in stacks on the floor, the rest following suit with every deliberate strike you threw their way. Your chest rose and fell in erratic bursts, each breath scraping your throat as the last body hit the ground.

Across the room, Bucky rose from behind the makeshift fortress, aiming his gun before stopping dead in tracks. The corner of your mouth lifted when your gazes found each other.

“Hi, handsome. Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, his grip around the gun loosening. “Was wondering when you'd show up, sweetheart.”

He stood up and approached you in merely four strides, smiling so sweetly as though your presence in front of him had been God's own gift to mankind. You fought off a shudder and attempted nonchalance as your palm brushed the dust off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sarge. You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

The grin on Bucky's face expanded. He bumped his shoulder to yours, the two of you heading for the exit as Bucky started requesting for extraction through his comms.

A split second was all it took for everything to go sideways.

You didn't know what compelled you to turn around for one last glance. Had you heard something? Felt something? Had the hairs on the back of your neck sensed the imminent danger before your brain could even begin processing it? 

It was impossible to say, but something dragged your gaze over your shoulder, an invisible hook yanking you back just in time to catch the glint of metal under the scanty light. One of the bodies on the ground, presumed dead, had begun to stir. His arm trembled as he lifted his gun from the blood-slick floor, the barrel rising with all of the inevitability of a verdict carved in stone.

Your breathing caught.

Everything in your body told you to run. To take shelter behind the wooden crate in the corner of the room, call out a warning, anything. But you knew exactly where that gun was aimed, where that bullet would go if you dared to move even an inch.

Straight into Bucky.

The whole world narrowed. What happened next wasn't a choice—it was a decision your body made under direct instructions of your heart, born not from years of training but from the gentle fondness you harbored for the man beside you. It commanded you to hold your ground, freezing your limbs, your chest pounding as though wishing to somehow intercept the bullet before it could write the ending you weren’t ready to read.

Then, the shot rang out.

Everything else had transpired in a blur. You remembered certain bits and pieces through the fog in your mind—the pain on your neck, the retaliation shot Bucky had fired from his gun, the look of pure terror you saw on his face as he held your crumbling body before it could shatter against the concrete ground.

The confession.

“Bucky.” His name fled your lips before you could even think about it.

Helen's gaze softened. “He's outside. He's been here the whole time. Never left your side since the surgery.”

You swallowed, throat thick with the weight of half-formed questions. “H-How long…?”

“Thirty-eight hours,” she replied. “The bullet missed your artery by millimeters. We almost lost you a couple of times. You were extremely lucky this time, Agent.”

Your eyes closed momentarily. When they opened again, your gaze found Helen with an unshakable purpose. “Could you please send him in?”

The doctor gave you a single nod, landing a reassuring pat on your knee before leaving the room silently.

Not long after, the door opened with a quiet hiss.

The sight of Bucky standing in the doorway smashed your heart into a million little pieces.

His hair was unkempt, sticking to different directions as if his fingers had run through them too many times to count. Even from the distance, you could still see how bloodshot his eyes were, how hollow and agonized they were under the harsh lighting of the room. He looked like a man who had outrun hell only to realize that it had made a home right inside his chest.

“Bucky,” you called out, slowly, gently.

His shoulders tensed at the sound of your voice.

Bucky's movement was tedious, as though it was painful for him to move, as though lifting his head required more strength than Atlas needed to carry the world on his shoulders. The moment his eyes met yours, something inside him cracked and splintered. 

“You're awake,” he said hoarsely.

“I am,” you replied, offering a soft, shaky smile. “I'm okay.”

Bucky didn't move.

He looked like he didn't even breathe.

It was as if an intangible weight had shackled itself around his ankles, stopping him in place. Bucky didn't try to fight it, to break himself out of the phantom hold he had been cast under. He just kept standing there, motionless, like he was afraid that if he came any closer, the fragile image of you in front of him—alive, breathing, and speaking—would vanish.

Your throat tightened.

“Buck,” you tried again, a tremor in your voice now, too. “Come here.”

His fingers twitched.

“Please.”

It was that single word that finally did it—the plea that fell onto him like a torrent on scorched earth.

He took one step, then another, erasing the distance between him and the bed with a slowness that might convince someone he was walking barefoot on shards of glass. You watched every inch of him draw nearer, his pain thick in the atmosphere of the room, heavier than the oxygen nesting in your lungs.

The hesitation returned when he reached your bedside, keeping him a good six inches away from you. He hovered in the space around the bed, uncertain, both of his hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to hold you but were afraid you would completely dissipate like vapor under his touch.

You lifted your hand and reached out, tentatively, with the precision of someone trying to pet an easily-spooked cat. Eternity must have passed at least once or twice when your fingers finally brushed the inside of his wrist.

That was all it took.

The singular touch was all it took for Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man with the power of a collapsing star, who had faced death and catastrophe greater than anybody else on earth could ever imagine—to entirely crumble under your palms.

A sound escaped him—something torn and guttural and not meant for human ears to hear. He fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching your hand like it was the only echo of mercy in a world that had offered him none. His head bowed against your stomach, shoulders shaking violently with the aggressive sobs he could no longer contain in his chest.

Your own tears spilled out of you in a tide stronger than the Pacific current, staining your cheeks as you brought your other hand to cradle the back of Bucky's head, threading your fingers through the short tendrils.

“I’m okay. I'm okay, Bucky, I'm fine,” you whispered, over and over, each word a balm against the searing agony inside his bloodstream. “I’m right here, darling. I'm okay now.”

“But you weren’t,” he choked, the sound of his anguish slicing your nerves deeper than the sharpest dagger ever could. “You weren’t, a-and God, I thought I lost you, sweetheart. I was holding you, tried to stop the blood—there was so much blood—and you just… you just went still. Was so cold and still and I couldn't—I didn't know what to do.”

“Bucky.” Your voice quivered. “I'm here, baby. You didn’t lose me.”

“I almost did.” 

His head rose, and your breath halted in your throat at the sight or red in Bucky’s eyes. He was not someone who cried often—perhaps it was the archaic 40s’ notion of masculinity that was still embedded in his system—and the only time you had seen him cry was back in Wakanda, when you and Ayo stood by him in the vulnerable moment that confirmed the severance of HYDRA's control over his soul.

Somehow, this Bucky—the one kneeling in front of you—looked even more shattered than the one in your memory.

“Your heart stopped, Sugar,” Bucky continued, the weight of his words pressing and twisting your ribs until you were nothing but a mire. “You weren’t breathing. So cold and stiff, and I… Shit—I didn't know if you'd make it. Had to do CPR the whole flight. Everyone told me to stop. They said y-you were gone. But I couldn't, Sugar. I just—I couldn't.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “Darling.”

“I thought I was too late,” he rasped, voice fracturing under the weight of a requiem still resonating in his chest. “I kept thinking if I'd been faster—if I’d stood closer—if I had just noticed sooner, then you… you would've…”

You cupped his face, forcing him to stop his self-torment and look up at you. To remind him that whatever horror still clawing at his being was no longer real, because you were fine, you were alive, and you were here with him. His cheeks were wet, flushed with the remnants of grief and an exhaustion that had been postponed for far too long. The pain in his eyes had dimmed the blue in his irises to gray.

“I'm fine now, Bucky,” you murmured, misty eyes and traces of salt on the tip of your tongue. “You did it. You saved me.”

“I shouldn't have had to,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to reject the truth. “You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. You should've been safe. I was supposed to protect you.”

“You did, Bucky. You did protect me.”

“Not enough.”

“Baby, look at me.” Your voice is firm, a lighthouse cutting through a war-born fog. Bucky's forehead furrowed as his eyes locked with yours, as if he still struggled to believe that the you in front of him weren't simply a mirage. “You brought me back, Buck. You didn’t lose me. I'm here because of you.”

His breath hitched.

His lips quivered.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead gently to his, ignoring the strain it caused to your wound because this—the man you held inside your palms, this tender moment you shared after everything the universe had put you through—was far more important than any pain you could ever feel.

“You didn't lose me,” you repeated.

There was silence in the next breath, a sacred one commonly heard in the space between lightning and thunder. You could feel his every exhale, shallow and staggered, like a beast coaxed out of fight but still bristling with a proliferate instinct.

After a stuttered heartbeat, his metal arm slithered around your waist, his flesh one wrapping around your hand again, tighter this time.

“Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please.”

“You didn't lose me,” you uttered. “I'm here, I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He crushed you against him then—still careful, still gentle—but underneath the heedfulness, his desperation bled through. Gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered in this vast universe, like he wanted to fold you into himself and keep you some place where danger and death could never lurk over you again.

You felt Bucky's lips on your skin, grazing along your shoulder, moving up the curve of your neck, your jaw, and your cheek. Worshipping you with prayers shaped as a thousand reverent kisses, moving like he was searching for the evidence that you were real, like he was memorizing a miracle while time was still ticking.

And when his mouth finally found yours, the press of his lips wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy.

It was trembling.

He kissed you as if you were the divine being who granted him life, respiring your moans and gasps as if they were the instruments needed to mend his ruptured soul. Bucky tasted like every future you were always too scared to envision for yourself—the promise of companionship, affection, and happiness that had once been too surreal for your heart to believe in. But now, in this moment with him, they all suddenly became inevitable.

You kissed him back, slowly, cradling his face between your hands to hold together all of the fractured pieces that forged his being. Time slipped away in the hush where sorrow once lived, getting you lost in everything Bucky, until eventually, your lungs had to force you to part and come up for air.

“I love you,” Bucky confessed, holding onto your wrists to keep you tethered to him. To this moment. And to life itself.

Your thumb brushed the apple of his cheek, catching a silent tear, leaning in to steal another kiss from the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

A sound between a sob and relief escaped him, and Bucky buried his face in the unwounded crook of your neck, breathing you in like he had been suffocating for days and had finally resurfaced for air. His arms stayed enveloped around you as he murmured praises against your skin—thanking the Gods for listening to his prayers, thanking the universe, thanking you. Paying reverence for the mercy that fate had bestowed over a mangled man such as himself.

You stayed like that for a long time. His weight against your side, his heartbeats slowly steadying beneath your touch. The monitors beeped gently beside you, grounding the two of you to reality, an anchor in the otherwise stagnant room. But in that moment, the only sound that mattered—the only one you cared about—was the soft inhale and exhale of your breaths, a proof of life, shared within the modest spaces that felt more freeing than a hummingbird flying over an open field.

Gradually, the room began to fade into silence.

And in the safety of Bucky's embrace, you had never appreciated the quiet more.

Taglist: @steph88x @athenabarnes @sugarmummystuff6 @wintercrows @jay-jaystevebuckyloki @spideysimpossiblegirl @vainillacookie @mazzaroni-cheese @killerwendigo @s-r-reads @nydubs @rafeskai @unpeellievable @thisismyacc11 @rimunagenius @buckygirls @buckyslove1917 @defn0tonyourleft @buhangini @infinitymitten @lemonhead456 @thescooponsof @buckytheloveofmylife95 @mizukiqr @littlegreenjellybean @p3nis-parker @shortlikerdj @onlyheluvsme @theschoolbasketcase @jjulesii @jvanilly @seaskysunrise @minminswag04 @dameronspector @buckybarnesfic @nameless-ken @marie-sworld @silverwolfeyes @idkitsem @waiting-so-long @redtabularasa @buckyinluv @ghostytoasty17 @moreadsfic @chlovocaine @mcira @personal-fanfic-storage @spookyreads @eternalsams @the-sunflower-room

Powdered Sugar

Pairing: childhood best friend fuckboy!Bucky x hopeless romantic!Reader

Summary: Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesn’t affect you.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: friends to something-maybe-more tension; unrequited love (the perceived kind); heartbreak; unspoken feelings; light angst; emotional withdrawal; miscommunication; mentions of Bucky being a fuckboy and flirting with other girls

Author’s Note: I know this turned out to be a little longer than planned for these drabbles and I did want to end it at around 1.6k words but I felt like the conversation just needed a little more. Anyway, this is based on this request from my sweet, sweet mutual!!

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Everywhere around you are colors. Blinking, buzzing, glowing colors. Neon reds and golden yellows. Cotton candy blues shaping the darkening sky.

The air is dense with the smell of sugar and smoke, a little burnt, a little sweet - like fireworks melting.

A thousand voices are stitched into the dark. Booths are being crowded, laughter rings out from all around you. Something about it feels like nostalgia wrapped in noise. Summer hanging off your skin.

You walk through it all in a slow dream.

Sam is saying something funny. Steve is losing his mind over who won the water gun race with Natasha. Wanda is laughing so hard she snorts.

You are smiling, but not all the way. Only with your mouth. Your head is somewhere else. Somewhere maybe not here at all.

Wanda’s arm is looped through yours, her voice warm in your ear, but you’re not hearing a word.

Because you’re in your head again.

And in your head, there’s a boy.

There’s always a boy.

He’s got a crooked grin and impossible eyes. Hands made for trouble. And a voice that is meant to live in your name.

He’s in your head because he can’t be anywhere outside of it.

It’s safer for you if he stays in here - because when you let yourself drift, you can imagine what it would be like if things were just a little different. If he was just a little different. If he looked at you the way you look at him when he’s not paying attention. If he loved you back.

You imagine him holding your hand under the glow of cotton candy lights.

You imagine his voice soft only for you.

You imagine his heart not borrowed.

He’s been your best friend since sandbox days and scraped knees. Since secrets shared under blankets and hiding from thunder in the dark. And somewhere along the way he became the sun and you became the shadow. Orbiting. Always too close to stay safe. Always too far to be seen.

And lately, you’ve been pulling back.

Not because you want to, but because you have to. Because watching him flirt with every pretty girl who captures his attention is like slowly bleeding out from the inside. And maybe that’s dramatic. Maybe you’re just being the hopeless romantic again, building castles in clouds and crying when the rain comes.

But god, you wish you didn’t feel so much.

“Hey, where’s Barnes?” Sam asks casually, looking around.

You do too. Because you just can’t help yourself. But you shouldn’t have.

And your fantasies shatter for the thousandth time.

He’s across the way, at a booth that smells like vanilla and sugar and heartbreak. He’s leaning against the counter. Smiling that easy smile. The one he gives to girls he’ll forget tomorrow. The one he doesn’t give to you.

The girl behind the counter is giggling.

Of course, she is.

She’s pretty and pink-cheeked with her long hair fastened at the back of her head, possibly with a hair clip you can’t see. Because she’s not turning around. Not turning away from Bucky.

Bucky is saying something. It’s probably something charming, something easy. And your stomach drops as if you just stepped off the edge of the Ferris wheel.

You blink too long. Swallow too hard.

Something sharp blooms in your ribs, something that nowadays never fully heals. A bruise where no one can see it.

The group keeps chatting around you but you can’t hear them anymore. The noise of the carnival dulls. It all dulls. The lights, the heat, the movement - all of it fades to background static as you stare and think, of course.

Of course, he couldn’t even make it one night.

This was supposed to be for all of you. This was supposed to be just your night as a group - no distractions, no other girls, no stupid charm shows. Just friends, food, maybe a ride or two, laughing till your face hurt.

But Bucky Barnes cannot help himself as it looks like.

And you should have known better by now.

You look away just as he gestures for more powdered sugar - a generous heap of it on top of the funnel cake. Just the way you like it. But you don’t see that part. You don’t see anything but the girl smiling at him like she’d give him her whole world for free.

“You okay?”

It’s Wanda’s voice in your ear. It sounds knowing. And you hate it. Because she knows you are not okay. Knows you haven’t been for a while. And she knows why. Because other than Bucky, everyone can see your heartbreak so plainly.

“Yeah,” you lie tersely because what are you supposed to tell her when she already knows the answer is no?

Bucky comes walking back to your group a minute later holding the funnel cake carefully in both hands. He is grinning, all proud of himself, eyes scanning the group until they land on you.

He makes a beeline for you.

The group keeps moving.

Wanda, to give you some space perhaps, walks ahead, laughing as she tugs Sam toward the spinning teacups as though they’re not entirely designed for kids under ten. Steve is shaking his head, pretending he’s not going to join in, but you all know he will. Natasha is throwing you a subtle, knowing glance before smirking at Steve.

You don’t get far.

“Here,” Bucky says, holding the funnel cake out to you, falling in step.

But you are drifting.

Your body is here, feet touching ground, but you feel like you’re moving through molasses. Everything slow. Heavy. Your heart sticky with regret or embarrassment or whatever that fucking pain is.

You glance down at his offering. The powdered sugar is already melting into the ridges. A soft, sweet mess. It smells like childhood. Like summer. Like him, as weird as it feels.

You swallow. “I’m good.”

You feel the warmth of him. That stupid comforting heat that’s always just there. Like a fire you want to lean into but know better than to trust.

“You didn’t eat all day.”

His voice beside you comes like a tug at your sleeve.

He keeps pace beside you, his stride easy like it always is but you acknowledge that there is a difference in the way he holds himself. Less swagger. Less play. He’s not performing. Not posturing.

You glance sideways. The funnel cake is still sitting in his hands.

Still warm. Still untouched.

“I’m not hungry, Buck. You can have it.” You don’t really look at him.

He doesn’t answer for a few steps, just walks with you, his eyes on you, the crowd fading behind.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. A moth flutters through a streetlight above. The world keeps moving, but it feels like something in your chest doesn’t.

He holds the plate out again. Firmer.

“You always eat this first,” he says, and there is something like a forced charm in his voice. Great. He doesn’t even seem to try with you. “Every year.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t take it. You keep your eyes ahead. You don’t respond.

So he steps in front of you, blocking the path, just slightly. As if trying not to be obvious about it but it still is.

It makes you halt.

“Take it, doll,” he insists. Quiet. Not demanding. Rather pleading.

Slowly, you blink up at him. His eyes are darker in the carnival lights. Blue, but tired. There’s something behind them. Something like a question. Like he’s reaching out with more than his hands and hoping you’ll meet him halfway.

Sighing, you take it, your fingers brushing his. You pretend not to feel it. He pretends not to hold on for a second longer than needed.

Picking at the corner, you tear off a soft edge. You bring it to your mouth and chew slowly. It doesn’t taste as good as it is supposed to.

It’s too sweet. Or not sweet enough. You don’t know.

You nod, just a little. “Thanks.”

Bucky doesn’t smile. Not like usual. His face is silence and shadows. There is something unreadable there.

He starts walking again after simply staring at you for a while.

You follow.

For a few minutes, you’re just walking. Side by side. Like you always have. Like nothing’s changed. You don’t even bother looking where the others are going.

You hear him bite the inside of his cheek. You know that sound. He’s deep in his thoughts. He does that when he’s trying not to say something too fast.

“Something’s up with you lately. You’ve been actin’ a little different,” he then starts after some more thoughtful moments, voice careful, deep and raspy. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but-” he sighs deeply. “I miss you, doll. Feels like you’ve been pulling back.”

You swallow another bite of funnel cake as if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten. It sits wrong in your gut. Makes it turn. Makes it hate you. Makes you hate it.

You glance over to your best friend. His hands are in his pockets now. Shoulders tense. He’s not looking at you. But you can see the edge of something vulnerable in the line of his jaw.

“I don’t know,” you get out somehow. “I guess I just needed space.”

He nods. Slow. As if he understands. But you don’t think he does.

“If something’s going on, you can-” His tone is softened, but his voice is scratchy. Almost gravel. “You can talk to me, doll. You know that, right?”

You let the silence stretch.

You watch it reach between you and settle in your bones.

You think about all the words you could say and how none of them are enough.

You think about how much it hurts to want someone who never asked to be wanted.

You think about powdered sugar.

“It’s nothing.”

You watch a paper napkin flutter across the pavement. Someone laughs nearby, giddy and golden and loud. Somewhere, the Ferris wheel creaks.

You walk a little further. Past the game booths. Past the families and kids and the couple kissing against the light-up sign that says Tunnel of love. You pretend not to see it.

He watches you. Carefully. Trying to read a page you’ve scribbled over.

Bucky bumps his shoulder gently into yours, letting out a breath.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters, voice rough.

“At what?”

He shrugs, looks at the sky, then back to you. “Knowing when I’ve screwed up. With you.”

Your throat closes around nothing. You don’t want it to. But it does.

“You didn’t screw up,” you reply weakly.

“Then what did I do?”

And there is that question you can’t answer without giving yourself away.

“It’s not that simple, Buck,” is all you give him.

“It doesn’t have to be simple, doll,” Bucky presses, a little more desperately. It seems like this has been gnawing at him. “But you’re clearly keepin’ something. And I've got the feeling it’s got something to do with me.”

Your heart thuds. The lump in your throat is unendurable now.

“You’ve been weird,” he goes on, staring right at you. “For weeks. We’re makin’ plans, you cancel. I’m callin’ you, you don’t pick up. Don’t even call me back anymore. And you won’t tell me anything.” His jaw flexes. “Something’s not right. I’m even kinda surprised you joined us here.”

He looks at your profile as if ready to catch the truth as it falls out of you.

You slow down. He does too.

“Just tell me if I did something,” he begs. “If I crossed a line. If I hurt you.”

The carnival is alive around you, loud and bright and unaware. But this moment feels still.

“You didn’t, okay?” you declare. “Not really.”

“But kind of?” he asks, eyebrows pulling in.

You shake your head with a vehement sigh. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” he utters with that stubborn and desperate edge. The part of him that refuses to let go. That never has.

“I’m not mad at you.“ Your voice is getting slighter higher. “I’m just-”

He is watching you so openly and you hate that you can’t lie to him properly.

“I’m not keeping score, okay?” you say suddenly. The words come out too fast. Too bitter. “I don’t sit around counting who you talk to or who you smile at or who you fucking flirt with.”

You clamp your mouth shut.

Too much. Too much too fast.

A hand stuffs funnel cake in to keep you from saying more. Your jaw works like it’s a distraction as if sugar and dough can silence what your heart just screamed.

But Bucky already stopped walking.

You take two steps before you realize. Turn.

He’s standing there in the half-light, shadows soft under his cheekbones, carnival glow flickering behind him like bad TV static.

He’s looking at you as though you just dropped a grenade at his feet.

Terrific.

He exhales carefully. Stares at you. Quiet. Maybe a little sad. Maybe a little something else.

But you cannot stop now.

“It’s just- it’s always like this,” you continue. “Every time. We make plans as a group, we do stuff, and then you see someone pretty and you’re just gone. Like the rest of us don’t matter.”

He looks stunned. He looks everything.

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to ditch you, sweetheart,” he says almost under his breath. “I went to get you some-”

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut in. “Because you always end up talking to someone else. You always find some new girl to flirt with, even when it’s supposed to be just us.”

You tear off another bite and don’t eat it.

“I didn’t flirt with her,” he says, after a beat. His voice is low. Testing. “I swear to you, I wasn’t. I just wanted to get the cake right.” A hand drags through his hair. His voice turns even softer. Dejected in a way. “You looked- I don’t know. You just didn’t look okay. Hoped it might cheer you up.”

You don’t look at him.

Because you’d crumble if you did.

You lick sugar off your lip, suddenly furious with how gentle he’s being. How cautious. As if you are something he doesn’t know how to hold anymore.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks, same voice. “If something I was doing was bothering you - why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it wasn’t your fault,” you answer, and now your voice is breaking. “It’s mine. It’s-” You stop again. Take a breath that tastes like carnival smoke and sweetness and everything you wish you could forget. “I know who you are, Bucky. Okay? I’ve always known. You don’t owe me anything.”

He frowns. But somehow he still looks soft while doing it. “What the hell does that mean?”

You breathe in. Your fingers twitch. You stare at the funnel cake and wish it were enough to quiet the thunder in your chest.

“It means I’m not stupid,” you basically whisper. “I know you. I know who you are with people. I know what your smile does and how easy it is for you to make someone feel like they matter, even if it’s just for five minutes. And it’s fine. It’s fine, okay? I just need to stop watching it happen.”

You feel the moment your words sink into him. You can’t take them back into your mouth and swallow them down. Can’t clean them up or smooth them over.

His eyes are like the sky just before a storm.

“Is that what you think I do?” he asks incredulously. His voice isn’t accusing. Isn’t angry. But it’s pained. Tired. As if he’s been trying to piece something together for weeks and it’s only now starting to form into shape.

His voice is quiet but not soft. Not now. It’s too filled with something else that is vulnerable and profound.

“You think I go around giving pieces of myself away like candy?”

Powdered sugar sticks to your throat.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because yeah. Maybe you do.

He runs a hand over his jaw. Still not angry. Just hurt. Disappointed. Sad. And trying not to be.

You pick at the corner of the plate.

“That’s not who I am with you,” he states. And there is something different in his voice. Something wobbly. “That’s never been who I am with you.”

Your heart stops. Just a little.

He looks at you. So deeply. As though you’re not just some girl in a crowd. As though you’re not a thing he’ll forget after five minutes. As though he’s trying to memorize the way you exist in this moment - all messy silence and half-held tears.

He steps closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues after a little pause. “But doll, please don’t stand here and tell me I make people feel like they matter for five minutes. Not when I’ve been showing up for you every damn day since we were kids. Not when I’ve been-”

He stops. Swallows the rest.

Your hands are shaking. The funnel cake is barely still a thing anymore, just warm sugar on torn paper, and you think you’re falling apart.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, barely breathing. “I just- I didn’t know how else to say it without saying too much.”

His eyes soften.

He steps in closer. Looks down at you. His hand brushes your forearm, making your fingers stop fidgeting with the paper plate.

“You can say too much around me, doll,” he insists. Soft again. Certain. “You always could.”

The lights glitter in your peripheral. The night is filled with other people’s joy, but yours feels more important.

You don’t bother to think about where your friends are.

He leans down, noses almost touching. His eyebrow twitches. His throat bobs.

“Just so you know,” he murmurs, almost like he’s not sure he should say it but knowing that if he does, he won’t regret it. “You’ve never been five minutes. Not even close.”

You blink fast. Look away. The ache in your chest shifts. It’s not gone but somehow it turns gentler.

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

But you think he hears it anyway.

The hope.

Your heart.

The maybe.

And then he walks beside you again. Like he always has. Like he always will. Even when you’re a little cracked, a little afraid. Even when you’re not saying everything.

But sometimes, just saying enough is already everything.

what was older!eddies reaction to the first time reader came home from going out with friends? just drunk and clingy

this is my favorite genre and activity is getting drunk and then being clingy and silly. need to do it with my fave of all faves!!! contains silly drunk reader and sweet older!eddie. no smut. just fluff. and tw- gina.

The doorbell sounded once, twice, three times before it was going off in short, annoying successions. Eddie groaned in annoyance, standing from his recliner.

"Easy! Alright? The fuck-" He looked out the peephole, half expecting to see Gina, furious about something. He was pleased to find you there instead.

"Open the dooooorrrrrr!" You whined, half swaying, leaning against the brick. "I need to pee, Ed, hurry."

Eddie fought back a smirk, twisting the lock and opening the front door. "Hey, bunny,"

"Hi," Your face melted, oozing with a drunk smile, eyes glassy from the countess beers you'd had. "Can I come pee?"

"Of course you can." Eddie said around a laugh, holding the door open with his foot, offering his hand to you. "Watch your step, baby." He muttered, nodding towards the step under the doorframe. You crossed it dramatically, taking a big, wide legged step in.

"I didn't know you were coming over." Eddie shut the door, watching you stumble down the hall towards the guest bathroom. "I thought you were out with your friends."

"I was," You muttered, behind the cracked door of the bathroom, the room already beginning to spin as you sat. "But I wanted to come see you. I knew Brielle was gone."

"Yeah? What'd you want to come see me for?" Eddie grinned teasingly, walking down the hall towards you.

"I wanted to sleep over." You admitted, staggering against the doorway, holding the frame for balance. "I wanted you to rub my back."

Eddie barked out a laugh, your bottom lip jutting in a pout. "Rub your back?"

"Yes, Ed." You whined. "You always do it good an-and it- hic!- it always puts me right to sleep." Your words were beginning to jumble, the effects of too much alcohol starting to take over.

"Alright. I can do that for ya, I suppose." Eddie sighed dramatically, holding his arm out for you, placing an anchoring hand on your back as he guided you to his bedroom.

"Lemme get you a shirt to sleep in. I've got-" He turned around, finding you already naked. That had to be a record, he was convinced. Drunk and that coordinated?

You were already crawling into the bed, shoes and clothes kicked off, climbing under the cool sheets that smelled just like Eddie.

"Hold on, bunny, you want a shirt?" Eddie grabbed the sheet before you pulled it up, earning a huffy whine from you.

"No," You whined. "Want you to rub my back, Ed, already told you."

Eddie fought back a grin. "Demanding little thing, aren't ya?" He shook his head playfully. You didn't reply, your cheek smushed to the pillow, already beginning to drift off.

Eddie slipped beside you anyways, snorting lightly when you rolled over on him, leg hiked up over his waist, arm slapped over his chest, face in his shoulder. Still, he rubbed your back, calloused hands gliding over the bare skin, up and down your spine in small circles, the way you liked until you were snoring lightly.

He knew you'd be sick tomorrow, hungover and hurting with a headache, with the spins you always got. And he'd do the same thing then, coddling you, rubbing your head to soothe the ache away. Content in his care.

You turn approximately seven shades of red.

i wish lmao

SEVEN SHADES OF DOOMED | Eddie Munson

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader | Eddie Munson x Y/N

Summary: You, a flustered classmate, get roped into Hellfire—and Eddie Munson’s full attention—whether you're ready or not.

-

It happens in the middle of the cafeteria.

Of course it does.

You're minding your business—eating your sad excuse for a sandwich, making occasional eye contact with your best friend who’s halfway through reenacting her latest dream about marrying one of the Duffer twins (the hot one, not the weird one), when it happens.

"Eyyyyyyy, look who’s sitting all alone."

You don't even need to look up. The voice is unmistakable—equal parts gremlin and rockstar, loud enough to turn heads, dramatic enough to make your stomach drop like an elevator.

Eddie Munson, crown prince of chaos, Hellfire overlord, and undisputed reason you’re currently forgetting how to breathe.

He slides into the seat across from you like he owns the place. Hair wild, rings clinking against your table, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. He's got that look—the one that spells trouble in all caps.

"What’s up, heartbreaker?" he says, leaning forward like you're sharing secrets instead of a juice box and a bag of chips.

You blink.

Then, you turn red.

Not a little red. Not a "just jogged up the stairs" pink. You turn seven shades of red, exactly.

Like a cursed Pantone palette: bashful blush, humiliated hibiscus, mortified maroon—you name it, you’re wearing it.

And Eddie? Oh, he notices.

"Oooohhh shit," he cackles, eyes lighting up. "You are blushing. This is incredible. I didn’t know people could actually turn that color."

“Shut up,” you mutter, covering your face with your hands like that’s gonna do anything. Your fingers are on fire. Your ears are boiling. You’re fully convinced you’re going to pass away in the cafeteria.

Death by Eddie Munson.

"Don’t be shyyyy," he teases, leaning in even closer. You can smell his cologne—cheap, but somehow perfectly, utterly Eddie—and see the way his eyes crinkle when he’s laughing. "I came over here to ask if you wanted to come to Hellfire tonight. We need someone to play the elf ranger ‘cause Gareth rolled a nat 1 and got his character cursed into a tree."

You peek between your fingers.

“You’re inviting me?”

Eddie shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Why not? You’ve got elf energy. Also…” He lowers his voice to a fake whisper. “I like when you get all flustered like this. It’s very entertaining.”

Your soul leaves your body. You are now astral projecting. Floating above the cafeteria in shame.

“Eddie—”

“I mean it,” he says, interrupting your spiral. “Come by. You can sit next to me. I’ll even let you borrow one of my dice. The sparkly ones. Only for special people.”

You open your mouth to respond—something witty, something cool, something even vaguely coherent—but instead, you make a noise that sounds suspiciously like a kettle boiling over. Steam included.

Eddie just laughs again, softer this time. “You’re cute when you’re panicking, y’know that?”

He winks—winks—and before you can combust or throw yourself into the nearest trash can, he’s already on his feet.

“See you at seven, elf ranger,” he says, tossing you a grape from your fruit cup. “Don’t be late.”

You catch it, stunned. Still red. Still stupid. Still completely doomed.

You turn to your friend.

She’s already halfway across the cafeteria, speed-walking toward the table where the rest of your friends are sitting. You can hear her stage-whispering before she even gets there:

“YOU GUYS. IT HAPPENED.”

Four heads whip around to stare at you in perfect unison. One of them shrieks.

You consider crawling under the table and staying there forever.

Eddie? He just grins at you over his shoulder as he walks away, smug as hell.

And you—seven shades of red and counting—cannot wait for 7PM.

--

Since there wasn't a character included, I assumed you wanted an Eddie story. If not, feel free to DM again :)

Eddie who owns a magic 8 ball and likes to use it to annoy you.

"Hey Eds, how about date night on Saturday?" You ask.

Eddie picks up his magic 8 ball and shakes it and looks at the reply before telling you,

"My sources say no."

"Eddie." You give him a glare and he shakes it again.

"My reply is no."

"I will kill you if you don't stop it right now." You threaten, he shakes it again.

"Don't count on it?" He replies weary of your response.

You smack the magic 8 ball out of his hand.

A Seat at the Table Part 1 | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Journalism was supposed to be about the truth. Politics was supposed to be about power. Neither of you were supposed to be here. But when Bucky Barnes—former assassin, reluctant congressman—leaves you with more questions than answers, you find yourself caught in a different kind of story.

Parts: Part 2, Part 3

MCU Timeline Placement: Between The Falcon and the Winter Soldier and Captain America: Brave New World.

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 7.1k

Author’s Note: so, funny thing—i haven't written marvel fanfic in years. like, actual years. but then i saw captain america: brave new world the other day, along with the thunderbolts trailers, and suddenly I am back in it, staring at my bb bucky barnes on a screen and thinking: what the hell are they doing with you, man?

so here we are. this fic is my take on congressman!bucky, because let’s be real—the idea of the winter soldier navigating politics is insane.

welcome to my marvel era, round two. let’s do this.

───────────────────────────────

The ballroom smelled like money. That specific kind of wealth that clung to old wood paneling and overpriced cologne, where the champagne never ran dry and the canapés were just expensive air. A necessary evil, your editor had called it, but you weren’t sure if that was referring to the event itself or the man headlining it.

James Buchanan Barnes. Congressional candidate.

The podium at the front of the room bore his name in bold, sterile lettering, flanked by banners that screamed "A New Dawn for America", as if slapping a slogan over a former assassin could bleach away decades of bloodstains.

You stood at the back, notebook in hand, eyes tracking the room. The usual suspects filled the space—donors with deep pockets, political strategists sipping aged whiskey, journalists who had already drafted their headlines before the night began. You weren’t one of them. You weren’t here for soundbites or manufactured redemption arcs. You were here because none of it made sense.

You had seen a lot of men climb this kind of stage before. But Bucky Barnes wasn’t one of those men.

Your gaze found him at the edge of the room, standing near the stage but just shy of being part of the performance. He wasn’t shaking hands, wasn’t offering plastic smiles. Just watching. A wolf dropped into a herd of well-groomed sheep.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was at his side, speaking with the kind of low, clipped precision that made your skin crawl. She wasn’t here to campaign. She was here to control.

What’s your angle, lady?

The public saw a comeback story. Winter Soldier turned Congressman. A tale of redemption, carefully packaged and sold to an electorate eager for a hero. The public saw a man trying to move forward. You saw something else entirely.

The world didn’t hand men like Bucky Barnes clean slates. It repurposed them.

A tool being repurposed. A pawn moved across the board.

Your theories were running wild. Theories your editor wouldn’t print.

Was this a ploy to install someone useful in Congress? Was Bucky Barnes the distraction, while something worse lurked behind the curtain? What did Valentina get out of this?

Your thoughts were interrupted when the applause started. You turned in time to see Bucky stepping onto the stage. The microphone crackled. He looked at it like it might bite him.

He didn’t want to be here. That much was obvious. But he squared his shoulders, shoved his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored slacks—and, in true Bucky Barnes fashion, ignored every expectation of a congressional candidate by wearing a leather jacket instead of a suit. No tie. No crisp blazer.

"I won’t waste your time." He finally spoke.

A murmur of polite laughter rippled through the room. The speech in his hand—written by someone else, no doubt—remained untouched. He wasn’t even pretending to read it.

"I know what people think when they see me up here. And I don’t blame them," he continued, scanning the room. "I know the headlines. The speculation. The questions."

"I’m not a politician. I’m not a hero. I’m not gonna stand here and tell you that I can fix what’s broken, because I don’t believe one man can do that." His voice was steady, but not polished. Not rehearsed. 

"I know some of you believe in second chances. And I know some of you don’t."

That got their attention. Small shifts in posture, the kind of barely-there movements that told you when someone was really listening.

"But I know what it means to be let down by the people in charge," Bucky went on, his voice even, steady. "I know what it’s like when the system fails you. When the people making decisions don’t have to live with the weight of them. I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t have a say in your own future."

He let those words hang for a moment, measured, careful.

"What I want—what I’m standing here asking for—is the chance to make sure that no one else has to feel that way."

The shift in the room was subtle. A few nods. Some furrowed brows.

Valentina remained still. Watching. Calculating.

"I won’t stand here and make promises I can’t keep," he continued. "I won’t tell you I have all the answers. But I know that real change doesn’t come from power alone—it comes from the people willing to fight for it. And I intend to be one of those people."

A silence stretched over the room. A well-oiled campaign machine wasn’t meant to have rough edges, and Bucky Barnes was all edges, sharp and unyielding.

You saw Valentina shift slightly at his side. Not nervous. Just calculating.

The applause came a beat too late. Measured. Mechanical.

Bucky left the podium before it even died down, moving through the crowd without stopping for handshakes or fake pleasantries. He was heading for the exit when you stepped into his path.

“Barnes.”

He stopped.

Up close, he looked like a man barely keeping his ribs from caving in under the weight of the performance. He didn’t sigh, didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t bolt—but you could tell he wanted to. 

His eyes flicked over you in that sharp, assessing way of his, the kind that cataloged details too fast for most people to notice.

Then, his gaze settled, recognition slipping in like an unwanted guest.

“You’re with The Post, right?”

You blinked. That was unexpected. You had no name tag, no press badge. Nothing to mark you as anything other than another face in the room.

“Yeah,” you said slowly, watching him. “Surprised you remember.”

He shrugged, shifting his weight slightly. “You asked a question at the last panel. Something about the Sokovia Accords repeal.”

You hadn’t expected that, either. The event had been weeks ago, a polished press affair where he had been forced onto a stage with political veterans who spoke in curated soundbites. You’d been one of the only people in the room who had asked about something that wasn’t pre-approved fluff. He hadn’t answered you then. He had looked at the moderator instead, let them dismiss your question before it ever reached him.

Now, though—now he was looking at you like he remembered.

That spurred you on.

“I figured you wouldn’t answer me then,” you said, tilting your head. “Didn’t think you’d remember it, though.”

Something flickered behind his eyes—quick, unreadable. “I remember a lot of things.”

“Must be exhausting.”

He huffed something that might’ve been amusement. “You have no idea.”

Your pulse kicked up slightly, but you kept your expression even. The fact that he recognized you, that he acknowledged he remembered—it meant something. He could’ve brushed you off. Could’ve pretended not to know. But instead, he had given you that small crack in the door, and you weren’t about to let it close.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d—

“I don’t do interviews,” he said.

The frustration hit fast, like a door slamming shut in your face. “Then why are you running for office?”

That got his attention. Not in a that’s a great question way. More like a did-you-just-really-ask-me-that kind of way.

He huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh, but wasn’t entirely humorless either.

“You always lead with accusations?” he asked.

“Only when I already know the answer,” you shot back.

He held your gaze, unimpressed. “That right?”

You lifted your chin slightly, holding your ground. “You don’t talk like a politician.”

“Maybe I’m still trying to figure out what that looks like.”

“Then don’t.”

His jaw shifted, a flicker of something in his expression—annoyance? Amusement? It was hard to tell.

“Not that simple,” he muttered.

“Why not?”

He shook his head slightly, not in a frustrated way, but in a you-won’t-let-this-go-will-you way.

You tilted your head. “What’s in this for you?”

He scoffed softly. “You tell me.”

“I think you don’t care about power.”

“Good start.”

“I think you don’t really care about winning.”

The muscle in his jaw flexed slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“And I think if you were really in this because you truly wanted to be, you wouldn’t be standing here trying to figure out how fast you can get out of this room.”

Something flickered behind his eyes, something almost like recognition.

He shifted his weight slightly, exhaling through his nose. “And you figured all that out from what—watching me avoid shaking hands?”

“No,” you said. “I figured it out because I know a man being handled when I see one.”

That hit its mark.

The tension that passed over his expression was fast, but not fast enough. He turned away, heading for the exit.

You followed.

“You don’t strike me as someone who likes being told what to do,” you said, quickening your pace to keep up.

He let out a breath, not quite a sigh, but close.

“You don’t strike me as someone who knows when to quit,” he muttered.

“Not when something doesn’t add up.”

“Yeah?” He glanced at you. “And what doesn’t add up, journalist?”

You scanned his face, searching for the cracks in the armor.

“You.”

That finally made him stop.

The air between you thinned, charged with something neither of you had put a name to yet. But before either of you could break it, a new presence cut through the moment like a blade.

“James.”

Valentina.

She wasn’t impatient. She didn’t need to be.

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened just slightly. Just enough.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice smooth, effortless. She wasn’t asking.

Bucky hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see it.

Your pulse kicked up as you moved to follow him, but security was already intercepting, stepping into your path before you could get too close.

That was fine. You still had one shot.

“Is this what freedom looks like to you, Barnes?” you called after him.

He paused. Right at the SUV door.

Not long. Just enough for the moment to land.

Enough to make you think, for a fraction of a second, that he might turn back.

But Valentina was already ushering him inside. She said something under her breath—too low for you to hear. Whatever it was, he listened.

The SUV door slammed shut, sealing him away like a decision already made.

The tires rolled over damp pavement, red taillights cutting through the dark, and just like that—he was gone. Contained. Controlled. Removed from the equation before anything could spill over.

Your teeth pressed together. Something about it sat wrong. You exhaled sharply, jaw tight. It wasn’t frustration. Not entirely.

You shoved your hands into your coat pockets, fingers curling into fists before— something crinkled.

You stilled, pulse kicking up as you pulled it out, smoothing the creases with your thumb. It wasn’t a napkin. Not a business card. Just a torn scrap of something, the ink smudged like it had been written fast, in bad lighting, by someone who didn’t want to be seen doing it.

Hurriedly shoved into your pocket when? Before security cut you off? When he passed you? When you weren’t looking?

Your eyes scanned the writing—quick, small, just barely legible.

The one with the wolf in the name. 11:30. Tomorrow night. Try not to get followed.

Your pulse kicked up.

The meaning hit instantly. The Lone Wolf Hotel. A place tucked just outside the city’s main sprawl, the kind of overpriced boutique spot that catered to diplomats and corporate deals too dirty to happen in their own offices. The bar inside was upscale, quiet, not the kind of place anyone would expect him to be.

A slow exhale left you as you turned the note over between your fingers. Nothing else. No signature. No explanation. Just the bare minimum needed to make sure you’d know where to go.

And yet, it told you everything.

He couldn’t even write it down outright.

Not the full name of the hotel. Not a direct instruction. No “meet me here” or “I need to talk.” Instead, you got a riddle just obvious enough to be solved, just vague enough to pass unnoticed if the wrong person found it.

Which meant someone else might be watching.

The thought settled in the pit of your stomach, cold and unshakable. This wasn’t just hesitation. This was caution—the kind that didn’t come from paranoia but from experience, from knowing that loose ends had a habit of disappearing when they were left too visible.

A message written plainly could be intercepted. A phone call could be traced. But this? This was a test. A way to see if you were paying attention, if you were quick enough to put the pieces together.

And James Buchanan Barnes—a man who wasn’t supposed to be talking to you at all—had just handed you the first piece.

───────────────────────────────

The hotel bar smelled like old wood and burnt citrus, the kind of place where lobbyists whispered backroom deals over neat whiskey, where the ice in their glasses cracked like splintering bones. You’d spent enough nights in places like this to know the exact moment a conversation turned, the way a man’s posture shifted when he started to lie.

James Buchanan Barnes was leaning against the bar, staring into his drink like it held some answer he hadn’t found yet.

Your editor’s voice lurked at the edges of your mind—Get something real. Unfiltered. Dig into the cracks, find the angle, make him talk. That’s what they wanted. That’s what they always wanted. The headlines had painted him as a walking paradox: former assassin turned public servant, the ghost of wars past, now shaking hands with the same kind of men who once dictated his kill list. The entire campaign was a spectacle, a carefully curated image of redemption.

But you weren’t here for spectacle, weren’t here for an interview. He hadn’t even told you where to meet him outright. He’d left a riddle in your pocket, trusting you to figure it out. And that alone meant something.

You weren’t here as a journalist. Not entirely.

You sat beside him, not waiting for an invitation. He didn’t look at you right away, just exhaled slowly, like he already regretted letting you find him at all.

“You’re late,” he said.

You flagged down the bartender, ordering something simple, something forgettable. “I was giving you a chance to leave.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smirk, but close. “Generous of you.”

The bartender slid a glass across the polished wood. The condensation beaded under your fingertips, cold against warm skin. “About the fundraiser—sorry if I pushed too hard.” You paused, then added, “But you don’t exactly seem like the campaign trail type.”

Bucky let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That obvious?”

“You showed up to a political fundraiser in a leather jacket.”

He shrugged, rolling his glass between his palms. “What can I say? Old habits.”

There it was. The quiet admission, the thing lurking under the surface. You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice just enough to push the air between you into something conspiratorial. “That why you’re doing this? A habit?”

For a moment, you thought he might not answer. He was good at that—silence as a weapon, a shield. But then he sighed, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his glass. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The truth would be nice.”

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and assessing. You wondered how many journalists had tried to pry this out of him already, how many had failed.

“I made a deal.”

It wasn’t an answer. Not really. But it was more than you expected.

“With who?” you asked.

His jaw tightened. That was confirmation enough.

“So, what?” You tilted your head. “She dresses you up, parade you around, call it a second chance? A redemption arc?”

He scoffed, low and bitter. “You think she’d let me have a redemption arc? No. She needed something. Someone. And I owed her.”

“Owed her what?”

His grip on the glass went white-knuckled before he forced himself to let go. He didn’t answer. You didn’t push. Not yet.

The bartender passed by, dropping a bowl of salted almonds between you. Neither of you touched them.

“You trust her?” you asked instead.

Bucky let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t trust anyone who wants to put me in a suit.”

You glanced at him, amused. “Didn’t see you in one yesterday.”

“Exactly.”

There was something darkly funny about that, something distinctly him. The world was trying to put him into a mold he’d never fit, and he was resisting in the only ways he could. Small, insignificant rebellions. A leather jacket. A late arrival. A refusal to play along with the script they’d written for him.

“You could walk away,” you said, not as a challenge, but as a fact.

He exhaled sharply. “Could I?”

“You tell me.”

Bucky went quiet again, but this time it felt heavier, like he was weighing something, deciding how much to give you. His fingers drummed once against the bar before he spoke.

“I’ve spent most of my life being a weapon. First for the Army. Then for Hydra. Even after, I was something to be deployed when needed. Wakanda, missions, saving the world or whatever. And now this.” His eyes flicked to yours, something unreadable in them. “You think being a congressman is different?”

Your fingers curled around your glass. “No,” you admitted. “I think it’s just another kind of battlefield.”

“I don’t know how this ends,” he murmured. “Maybe I do the job. Maybe I screw it up. Maybe I disappear. Either way, it won’t matter.”

Your stomach twisted at that last part. It won’t matter. The way he said it, so certain, like he truly believed he was just another piece to be moved on the board until someone decided to remove him altogether.

“You matter,” you said before you could think better of it.

He blinked, as if surprised by the conviction in your voice. But he didn’t argue. Didn’t brush it off with sarcasm or shift the conversation. He just looked at you, really looked, like he was trying to decide if you meant it.

You held his gaze. You let him see that you did.

The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken. Then, finally, he pushed his glass away, the ice clinking against the sides. “I should go.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Your fingers twitched against your glass, but before you could stop yourself, you reached out.

Your hand caught his wrist—not tightly, not intentionally forceful, but enough. Enough that you felt the sharp contrast of cold metal beneath his jacket sleeve.

Bucky went still.

You loosened your grip, but didn’t let go.

"Why?" The word tumbled out before you could stop it, voice quieter than you intended, but steady. “Why tell me this? Why trust me at all?”

He didn’t answer.

Not at first.

His gaze flicked down to where your fingers rested against his wrist before lifting back to your face, unreadable. The pause stretched long enough that you thought he wouldn’t speak at all, but then—

“I don’t know.” A quiet admission. “Maybe I don’t.”

That should’ve been the end of it. He should’ve left. But you weren’t done.

“Then why keep me guessing?” you pressed. “Why give me just enough to chase but never enough to catch?”

He looked at you for a long moment. "Maybe I just like the way you ask questions."

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. "That's not an answer."

"No," he said softly. "It's not."

The moment stretched between you until he finally stepped back, breaking the fragile thread that had formed.

You nodded, even though you wanted him to stay.

He hesitated for half a second. Then he reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded napkin, and slid it toward you. When you unfolded it, you found another puzzle scrawled in his careful handwriting. No name. No explanation.

He was giving you another meeting.

Bucky stood, adjusting his jacket, and for the first time that night, he looked like he’d made a choice of his own.

“See you around, journalist.”

Then he was gone, leaving nothing behind but an empty glass.

─────────────────────────────── The coffee shop was barely awake.

A handful of chairs scraped lazily against the pavement as early risers settled in, the quiet hum of conversation mixing with the hiss of steaming milk. The city felt muted at this hour, still rubbing the sleep from its eyes.

You pulled your jacket tighter against the morning chill and took another sip of your cappuccino.

It was too early for this.

You weren’t a morning person—never had been—and yet here you were, fighting off exhaustion at an hour that felt like an insult to anyone with a normal sleep cycle. Bucky’s time. Bucky’s place. And Bucky?

Late.

You sighed, resisting the urge to check your watch again. It had been a few days since the bar, since he had left you with another meeting and just enough to keep you waiting.

Maybe he wasn’t coming. Maybe you’d read too much into the napkin and the hesitation behind it. Maybe—

A shape moved in your periphery.

Bucky Barnes, as subtle as a gun under a jacket, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the morning light. Sunglasses. A baseball cap pulled low, the kind of look that made him more suspicious than if he’d just walked in with his face bared to the world.

You didn’t say anything as he approached, just watched as he slid into the chair across from you.

“You’re late,” you said, voice still rough from sleep.

Bucky huffed a small breath, more acknowledgment than apology. “You look like hell.”

You took another slow sip of your coffee. “I’m not a morning person.”

He pushed his sunglasses up slightly, just enough to scan the menu on the table between you, though it didn’t seem like he was actually reading it. You waited, watching the way his jaw ticked, the slight tension in his shoulders.

Then he moved to scoot his chair forward.

And winced.

Not much. A flicker of discomfort, a small hitch in his breath. But you caught it.

Your fingers curled around your cup. “You alright?”

Bucky stilled, like he was debating whether or not to brush it off. Then, finally, he sighed, shifting slightly in his chair.

“Ran into someone who didn’t like me very much,” he muttered.

“Gonna be more specific?”

“Nope.”

You arched a brow, waiting.

He didn’t elaborate.

Instead, he adjusted his sunglasses, fingers idly tapping against the ceramic sugar holder between you. His knuckles were scraped raw, barely scabbed over. Like he hadn’t let them heal before using them again.

You exhaled slowly, eyes flicking over him—the stiffness, the tension, the careful way he was sitting.

“You sure you don’t need a doctor?” you asked.

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You offering?”

“No,” you said, setting your cup down. “But I know a guy who doesn’t ask questions.”

Bucky shook his head. “I’m good.”

He leaned back slightly, tipping his head toward the city around you, as if he were just now remembering that normal life still existed. The early commuters, the hum of traffic, the clinking of silverware. It all moved without him, without any of it touching him.

You could see it—the way he still felt like an intruder in a world that had kept going without him.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you said, watching him.

His lips twitched, almost amused, but the exhaustion beneath it was real.

“Habit.”

You took another sip of your coffee, letting the silence stretch. It was a quiet kind of waiting. Not prying. Just letting him get there on his own.

Bucky exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, like he was trying to shake something loose in his head. Then, finally—

“You ever have a moment that changes everything?”

Your fingers tightened around the ceramic of your cup.

“That’s a hell of a question for this early in the morning.”

A low huff of amusement. “Yeah.” He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, thinking. Then—"Why’d you become a journalist?"

The question caught you off guard. You blinked, fingers tightening slightly around your cup, the warmth bleeding into your skin. “That’s a hell of a pivot.”

He didn’t shrug, didn’t offer some deflective smirk like you half-expected. Just waited, watching you in that way he did—silent, assessing, giving nothing, expecting everything.

You exhaled slowly, tipping your head slightly. “I don’t know. Always wanted to. Always liked digging.”

Bucky huffed, something dry, almost amused. “Yeah, I noticed.”

You ignored that, rolling your cup between your hands. 

The ceramic was warm, grounding, something to focus on as you considered what to say next. You didn’t have to tell him anything. That wasn’t how this worked—you asked the questions, you waited for the cracks to show, you pieced the truth together whether or not they wanted to give it to you.

But that wasn’t what this was anymore, was it?

He had already given you something—a glimpse, a fraction of whatever was going on behind that careful, guarded exterior. And if you wanted more, if you wanted him to trust you enough to give you anything real, then maybe… maybe you had to give him something first.

You exhaled slowly, tilting your head. “I think I just wanted the truth to mean something. Not just what people get fed in carefully packaged press releases, not the version of the world that fits neatly into headlines.” Your fingers curled against the cup, pressing lightly against the ceramic. “I wanted to find the stories that weren’t being told. The ones that actually mattered.”

Bucky watched you, silent, unreadable.

You glanced at him, tilting your head. “The kind of truth people like you usually keep quiet.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

You exhaled sharply, shifting in your chair. This was a risk. Not a big one, not compared to the things you’d pried out of people before, but still—you were putting something on the table first. Maybe that was the only way this would work.

“I was there, you know.”

His brows pulled together slightly. “Where?”

“The GRC conference two years ago, after the Flag Smashers hit,” you said. “When Sam Wilson gave that speech.”

That got a reaction. Subtle, but it was there—the small shift in his posture, the slight tightening of his fingers. His expression didn’t change, but you saw the flicker of something behind his eyes, the quick flash of memory.

You took another sip of your coffee, remembering the way the air had felt that day—charged, raw, like the whole city was holding its breath. The sky had been overcast, thick with storm-heavy clouds that never quite broke, the wind carrying the lingering scent of fire, of rubber burned into pavement.

You had been standing behind the barricades, notebook in hand, the press section too stunned, too thrown off script to even pretend at neutrality.

You remembered the ripple of movement through the crowd when Sam Wilson had landed, when he had walked forward, the shield strapped to his back, his presence cutting through the lingering smoke like the weight of history itself.

You remembered the moment when the murmurs of confusion had sharpened into realization.

Not Walker. Not Rogers.

Captain America.

You remembered watching Bucky, too—just for a second.

Not up front. Not standing at Sam’s side. Just off to the right, past the line of cameras, near the edges of the crowd where the light didn’t quite reach. He had been watching, but not as a soldier waiting for orders, not as a man ready for another fight.

It had been something else entirely.

Not resignation.

Not relief.

Something in between.

"You were there," he repeated, voice lower now.

You nodded. “Not front row or anything. I remember thinking—” You stopped yourself, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Doesn’t matter.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly. “No. Go ahead.”

You studied him, watching the way he watched you. A strange tension stretched between you, something unspoken, unacknowledged. You sighed, looking away.

“I remember thinking that this guy—this new Captain America—was out of his mind.”

Bucky’s lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“I mean, the whole thing was messy. The GRC was scrambling, the whole city was still shaking, and here comes Sam Wilson standing in the middle of it, telling these people—these politicians—that they had to do better.” You scoffed, shaking your head slightly. “Not a war. Not a battlefield. Just a man with a microphone telling the people who actually run the world that they were screwing everything up.”

You looked at him then, something settling in your ribs. “And I remember wondering—who the hell is actually listening?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly in his chair. He didn’t speak, didn’t react right away.

But then he finally said it. “I was.”

You swallowed, heartbeat pressing against the inside of your throat. “I figured.”

Bucky’s fingers drummed lightly against the table. “And you? What, that speech change everything for you?”

You huffed, shaking your head. “No. I was already in it. Already reporting. Already writing. I just—I think that was the moment I realized that sometimes the truth actually lands.” You glanced at him. “Even if it takes a while.”

Bucky’s jaw twitched slightly, like he was chewing over something unspoken. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Even if it takes a while.”

Bucky shifted, rolling his shoulders again, like the weight of the conversation was pressing into him, setting into the spaces between his ribs. He let out a slow breath, fingers curling and uncurling against the edge of the table.

"That whole time, I kept thinking—this is the part where it’s supposed to end," he said, his voice low, measured. "Walker loses the shield. Sam takes it. I finish what I started with my list, make peace with what I can, and that’s it."

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "But then I’m standing there, watching him, listening to him say all that, and I realize—I have no fucking idea what comes next."

He tapped his fingers once against the tabletop, like it was an unconscious tic. “It was easier when there was a mission. When I had orders. Even when I was breaking them.” His jaw flexed. “Amends weren’t orders, but they were something. A list I could check off. Proof that I was trying.”

You didn’t speak.

Bucky’s fingers curled against the table, his shoulders going rigid. “And then I was done. Or at least, I was supposed to be. I’d done everything on my list. The shield wasn’t in the wrong hands anymore. Sam had it. He did the damn thing, stood there in front of the world and told them they had to do better.”

His mouth twitched slightly, but there was no humor in it. “And the worst part? I actually believed him.”

You felt something settle deep in your chest.

He ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly. "I believed him, and that scared the hell out of me. Because it meant I still cared." His voice was quieter now, like the admission cost him something. "And if I still cared, it meant I had to do something about it."

You studied him, his sharp profile, the way he was always braced for impact, even when sitting still. “So, you decided to run for office?”

He scoffed, shaking his head. "No. I didn’t decide a damn thing."

You waited.

His hand curled into a fist against his thigh, his knuckles pressing against denim. “She called me two days after that speech,” he muttered. "Valentina."

Your stomach twisted slightly.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable. "Said she was keeping an eye on me. That people were interested in what I was gonna do next." His fingers tapped once against the table, like a slow countdown. "And then she gave me a choice that wasn’t a choice at all."

You lifted your chin slightly. "Which was?"

He tilted his head slightly, watching you now, his gaze unreadable behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. "The same thing it always is with people like her. Do this or let someone worse do it instead."

A cold weight settled in your ribs.

"So, what, you took the deal?" you asked carefully.

Bucky leaned back slightly, dragging his thumb along the edge of the table. "Yeah. I did."

Your fingers curled around your cup, the warmth of the coffee suddenly too thin against the cold creeping up your spine. "Because you wanted to? Or because she backed you into a corner?"

He let out a breath, slow and even. "Maybe both."

The weight of those words hit harder than you expected.

Bucky flexed his fingers against the tabletop, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t like politics. I don’t trust them. But I know how this works. Someone like me doesn’t get to disappear. Not really. They either use me, or they take me off the board completely."

Your stomach twisted slightly. "So, you let them use you instead."

His jaw twitched slightly, like he hated hearing it out loud. "I figured if someone was gonna be in the room, it might as well be someone who actually gave a shit."

You exhaled, watching him carefully. “And do you?”

He didn’t hesitate.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I do."

You sat back slightly, watching the way his shoulders squared like he was bracing for something. “That speech,” you murmured. “It gave you a new fight.”

Bucky scoffed slightly, shaking his head. "That speech gave me a headache."

You lifted a brow.

His lips twitched, but his voice was quieter when he continued. "It also made me realize I wasn’t done yet."

You turned his words over in your head, the slow unraveling of this whole thing finally clicking into place. The amends. The shield. The war he thought he was walking away from, only to find himself pulled into a new kind of battle.

One that wasn’t fought with fists or a gun.

One that wouldn’t end with blood on his hands.

Something settled between you, heavy but not suffocating. A quiet understanding.

Bucky flexed his fingers once more before gripping the edge of the table and pushing himself to his feet. He didn’t wince this time, but you knew it was a near thing.

"Anyway," he muttered, adjusting the cap on his head. "That’s your story. You gonna print it?"

You let the question sit, rolling it over in your mind, in your gut.

Then, finally—"No."

Bucky’s head tilted slightly at your answer, something unreadable passing through his expression. A flicker of something like curiosity, or maybe just mild disbelief.

“No?” he repeated.

You shook your head. “No.”

He exhaled through his nose, adjusting the cap on his head, his gaze flicking briefly to the street beyond the café. “Guess we both wasted our time, then.”

You pushed back your chair and stood with him, the scrape of metal against pavement sharp in the quiet morning air.

“Maybe,” you said, sliding a few bills under your half-empty cup. “Or maybe it was never about getting a story.”

That made him pause.

His hands stilled where they had just shoved into his pockets, and he turned his head just slightly, like he was measuring the weight of your words.

Your lips pressed together for a moment before you huffed softly, pulling your jacket on. “I don’t think you really wanted me to print it, anyway.”

His gaze flicked to yours, assessing, sharp, like he was trying to decide if you meant that or if you were just good at lying to yourself.

A beat passed. Then another.

"You always this bad at your job?"

You huffed a quiet laugh, glancing away. "Depends on who you ask."

He rolled his shoulders slightly, shifting like he was testing the stiffness in his muscles, seeing how much pain he could move through before it caught up to him. You could feel him watching you, like he was trying to decide if this conversation was actually over, or if you had more to pull from him.

But you didn’t. Not this time.

"You keep digging like this, someone’s gonna take that shovel from you," he muttered, tugging his cap lower over his brow.

You smirked, tilting your head. "Yeah? You volunteering?"

He scoffed, but there was something like amusement in it. "Nah. I got enough problems."

You eyed him for a second, then took the last sip of your coffee, grimacing slightly when it had gone cold. “Yeah, well. Speaking of problems, you could use a better speechwriter.”

Bucky snorted, shaking his head. “That bad?”

You shrugged. “I’ve heard worse. But you’re not a politician. You don’t talk like one, and the second you try, people smell the bullshit.”

He considered that, tapping his fingers against his crossed arms. “So, what? You offering?”

You let out a short laugh. “I already have a job, Barnes.”

He hummed, adjusting his jacket, hands settling into his pockets. “Didn’t say you had to quit.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, searching his face for any indication of how serious he was. "Are you actually offering?"

Bucky scoffed, but his mouth twitched like he was fighting the urge to actually smile. “I don’t know. You got any experience making guys like me look good on paper?"

You clicked your tongue. "Not enough to work miracles, but I can fake it."

Bucky exhaled, shaking his head slightly, but there was something lighter in the motion, something that hadn’t been there before. "Think about it."

You huffed, watching him as he turned slightly, hands still shoved deep in his pockets. 

Then he hesitated. Just for a second.

And without looking at you, he pulled one hand free, fingers curled around a small scrap of paper. He held it between two fingers, loose, like it didn’t really matter if you took it or not.

"Here," he muttered, voice gruff.

You glanced at the paper before taking it, your fingers brushing against his just briefly as you unfolded it. The handwriting was small, deliberate. A phone number.

You stared at it for a beat before looking back up at him.

“What, you’re not gonna make me solve another puzzle this time?”

He huffed, something like amusement flickering across his face. “Figured I’d make it easy. Just this once.”

You rolled your eyes, tucking the paper into your pocket before you could think better of it. “Generous.”

Bucky shifted his weight slightly, watching you, and for a second, neither of you spoke.

Something settled between you—not quite trust, not quite anything defined, but something real.

"Just promise me one thing," you said, before you even realized you were saying it.

He glanced at you, waiting.

"Don’t let them use you up," you murmured.

Something shifted in his expression, something heavy but not unkind. He watched you for a long moment, then exhaled slowly, dipping his chin in something like acknowledgment.

Then he turned, disappearing into the waking city.

You stood there for a second longer, rolling his words around in your head, the offer that wasn’t really an offer, the door he had left cracked open just enough to be stepped through.

You sighed, dragging a hand through your hair before stepping away from the table, shoving your hands deep into your coat pockets. Your fingers brushed against the folded paper he’d slid into your jacket at the fundraiser days ago—the first invitation, the first test.

And now?

Now, it wasn’t a test anymore.

You weren’t naive. You knew what Bucky Barnes was, what people like Valentina wanted him to be. He wasn’t the first man in power who didn’t belong there, who had been placed on a chessboard he never asked to play on. But the difference—the thing that had been picking at the back of your brain since the moment he left that scrap of paper in your pocket—was that he wasn’t running away from it.

He wasn’t a politician. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, either. So what did that make him?

You thought of his hesitation when he spoke about Valentina. The way his jaw twitched when he admitted she had given him a “choice.” The way he still spoke about Sam Wilson’s speech, like the words had sunk in too deep to shake loose.

Maybe Bucky Barnes was trying to make the world better. Maybe he didn’t believe he could, but he was trying anyway.

And in the end, wasn’t that why you were still here, too?

You exhaled, tilting your head up toward the slow-rising sun, watching the light burn away the last of the morning mist. A journalist and a congressman. Two people who had spent their entire lives watching the world be torn apart at the hands of people who claimed they wanted to fix it.

And now, both of you had walked into a different kind of war.

You had spent years pulling apart stories, digging into the rot behind the headlines, trying to carve out something real in a world that wanted everything neatly packaged. He had spent years tearing apart governments, leaving bloodstains on the very systems he was now trying to navigate from the inside.

Neither of you were supposed to be here.

Neither of you were supposed to want to be here.

But here you were.

You didn’t know what came next. Didn’t know if his “think about it” was serious or if this was just another moment that would unravel as soon as you tried to hold onto it.

But you had his number now. Had a conversation that wasn’t just a quote in a column.

And Bucky Barnes—whether he realized it or not—had just given you a reason to keep digging.

You smiled to yourself, shaking your head as you finally stepped away from the table.

Maybe he had a point.

Maybe you weren’t done yet, either.

Read part 2 here!

Don't Touch the Tech Girl

Summary : Sam told Bucky that you, his new tech engineer, was off-limits. But that just makes Bucky want you more.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x engineer!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes, workplace power dynamics, Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant-ish. cursing. Sex is mentioned and described but nothing too graphic. Small mention that Bucky used to smoke.

Word Count : 5.7k

Notes : Hi all! I will post my series soon, but for now, I am focusing on one shots because I am in the process of moving flats! Also, some tag requests has been buried under comments, so please message me/or shoot me an ask if you'd like to be tagged! Enjoy!

You weren’t born into privilege, not handed your brilliance by name or legacy. You were forged by curiosity, tenacity, and a drive so relentless it kept you awake at night designing theoretical blueprints for machines that didn’t exist yet. While other kids were watching cartoons, you were trying to figure out how the animation worked.

You were the kind of brilliant that couldn’t be taught. The kind that made people uncomfortable. The kind that made people notice.

After the blip, Wakanda needed help to rebuild.

You were in your last year of doctoral research when Shuri found you. You'd written a paper on vibranium-adaptive circuitry— not for application, just out of scientific obsession. She read it, tracked you down and showed up in your lab without fanfare.

“You know this theory would work,” she said, scanning your schematics. “You’ve already solved a problem most people can’t even pronounce.”

You blinked, still in awe. “You’re Princess Shuri.”

The next few years were a blur. You worked in Wakanda, helping design and restore crucial systems. You helped lead the research initiative for post-Blip infrastructure. You reverse-engineered Stark-tech, collaborated with Griot before taking a lecturing gig at MIT.

There, you mentored a long list of young brilliant minds, including Riri Williams.

And yet… something felt off.

Despite everything, you felt caged. 

Then you realised, ever since Wakanda, theory wasn’t enough for you. You were a hands-on person now. You needed problems to solve. You missed the adrenaline, the mess of a work table.

You missed the smell of soldered wires, the constant whir of active prototypes, the thrill of fixing tech that was actively falling apart.

That’s when the offer came from Sam Wilson and Joaquin Torres. 

The new Captain America and his chaos-prone Falcon needed a tech engineer for their field equipment, specifically their state-of-the-art wing packs.

They asked around, and Shuri had personally recommended you.

“Trust me,” she told Sam, “she’ll do more than fix it. She’ll make it better.”

Sam finally reached out, officially.

“The government engineers hate me,” he confessed over the first video call. “You might be our only hope.”

You liked them immediately,  and the job was exactly what you’d been missing.

It felt alive, unpredictable, high-stakes, high-tech, and high-risk.

So you packed up your comfortable teaching post at MIT. Said goodbye to pristine labs and overly polite faculty meetings and stepped into a small ops base that felt more like a rich family’s garage than a government facility.

And that’s where you met him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky to his friends. 

You have heard of him before, of course. Shuri called him her second favourite white boy, just behind Everett Ross. In fact, she saw him as a brother more than anything else.

You didn’t know it yet, but he was about to become your favourite problem.

—

You were muttering curses at Redwing when you first met him.

The drone had fried its microthruster mid-flight, and of course, no one bothered to tell you until after Sam crash-landed into a water tower.

So now, it was 10:43 p.m., the base was dead quiet, and you were hunched over your workbench, coffee long cold, hair pulled back like you meant business.

“Alright, you little bastard,” you muttered, soldering iron in hand. “Spark in the wrong fuckin’ direction again and I’m rewriting your personality subroutines to a roomba.”

“That’s one hell of a threat,” a voice behind you drawled. 

Unaware of a second person in the room, you jumped slightly in shock, finishing the adjustment with a quick twist of your tool. “Either you’re good at stalking,” you said, glancing over your shoulder, “or terrible at announcing yourself.”

He shrugged. “I’m good at a lot of things.”

You clocked the metal arm— and you knew it was Bucky Barnes. The former Winter Soldier, looking every bit the part with a black shirt and dark hair tucked behind his ears. Sam must’ve called him in for some field work, maybe on-ground support for tomorrow's mission.

“You always lurk in corners?” you teased.

He tilted his head. “Do you always talk dirty to drones?”

That earned a laugh from you as you wiped your hands on a nearby rag. “Only the ones that misbehave.”

His eyes darted to your grease-streaked hands before he saw Redwing flickering online.

“Sam said you were good,” he said, whistling low. “Didn’t say you were this good. Redwing’s been dead for two weeks, and you’ve got him up again in what—a day?”

You shrugged casually. “I like working with things that don’t talk back.”

“That’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why’s that?” You narrowed your eyes. 

“Because I do.”

You didn’t look away, lips curving up into a sly smile. “I can handle it.”

That earned you a grin. He stepped closer, just across the workbench now. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.

His eyes dropped to the drone. “You re-routed the thermal sensors.”

You arched a brow. “This your idea of flirting?”

He looked up, blue eyes gleaming with excitement. “Would it work if it was?”

Your laugh came easy, but your fingers didn’t stop moving. “Depends. You as hands-on as you look?”

He didn’t answer— not right away. He just moved around the workbench until he was behind you.

Then he whispered, “Try me.”

Your heartbeat thumped out of your chest, but your hands stayed steady. Only barely.

“You really shouldn’t sneak up on someone working with high-voltage components,” you let out a small laugh, warning him of more than just the circuitry. “I might shock you.”

Before he could say something even cockier, Sam opened the door and entered the room. “See you’ve met our new tech girl, Buck.”

You flinched slightly, and Bucky moved back.

Technically, Sam was your boss. 

So technically, Bucky was your boss’ best friend.

And that was a bad idea, right?

—

It started small.

The flirting was inevitable— of course you were attracted to each other.

He was your type, you were his type. It wasn’t exactly rocket science.

But it wasn’t just… that. 

He… actually made the effort to get to know you. You became friends first. He asked about your life: What made you tick. What pissed you off. What you did when no one was watching.

You gave him pieces of yourself.

And he gave you… things. Like a Eurasian Jay trying to mate by giving nuptial gifts.

The first time, it was totally casual. He gave you a protein bar post-mission.

“Figured you skipped lunch,” he said, tossing it onto your desk without meeting your eyes too long.

You were elbows-deep in Sam’s pack diagnostics, but you looked up. You arched your brow.

“Did Sam send you to make sure I didn’t pass out?”

“Nope,” he said, already walking away. “I’m just naturally thoughtful.”

You stared after him.

Thoughtful. Right. 

That was the word we were using now.

The next week, he got you coffee, just the way you liked it. Down to the brand and milk-to-caffeine ratio.

You mentioned it off-handedly a couple days ago, and he remembered. 

“Just happened to be in the area,” he said, leaning against the doorway like it wasn’t a forty-minute drive from where he lived.

You eyed him over the rim of your cup. “The base is not on the way to anywhere.”

“I took the bike,” he shrugged, “Made good time.”

You tried not to smile, but failed.

The week after that, he gave you a tiny gear charm on a thin, silver chain— clearly handmade, probably by him. It looked crooked, but it was beautiful to you, with teeth like a puzzle piece.

“Reminded me of you,” he said, like it was nothing, all while short-circuiting your entire nervous system.

You held it up between two fingers. “Because I’m small, stubborn, and get jammed in places I don’t belong?” You offered an explanation if he wasn’t brave enough to admit it.

He grinned, not denying it. “You said it, not me.”

You should’ve told him to knock it off. Maybe set some professional boundaries. You really should’ve.

Instead, you let him put the chain around your neck and wore it under your shirt like a dirty little secret. 

The next week, he lingered longer and leaned in closer. He watched you work with that look— focused, and if not a little possessive. He had his hands in his pockets, thumb tapping against his belt like he was holding something back.

You glanced at him. “You trying to get something, Bucky?”

He tilted his head, deadpan. “Yeah. You.”

You almost dropped your wrench.

You coughed and laughed at the same time—half-flustered, half-shocked. “Fuck. Just lead with it next time.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

After that, the flirting escalated. 

But… neither you nor him would do anything about it. Not while Sam was watching, anyway.

You’d be wrist-deep in tangled circuitry, and he’d pass you a screwdriver, letting his fingers brush yours just a second too long.

He’d stand behind you, “supervising” while you calibrated Joaquin’s flight pack— and he was close enough to feel his breath to ghost your shoulder, close enough that your body went still and hyper-aware of every little movement,

By month three or four, everyone was catching on.

One morning, Joaquin stood in the break room, sipping his coffee, nodding toward the door.

“Why does Bucky come here when we don’t need him on a mission?” he asked under his breath, eyes darting toward the man near your workstation. His arms were folded, eyes glued to you in a fitted tank top that was definitely not regulation.

Sam didn’t even bother to look up from his tablet. “Because he’s trying to get laid.”

Joaquin choked on his coffee. “Dude.”

“Which is why we’re keeping an eye on him,” Sam just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like this whole situation was giving him a headache. “Because if we lose her, we’re screwed. You know how hard it is to find someone who can keep up with our gear?”

—

Fifteen minutes later, Sam found Bucky walking in the hallway. “We need to talk.”

Bucky didn’t even slow his pace. “If this is about the vibranium plate I broke—”

“It’s about you trying to rail our tech engineer.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s... direct.”

“I’m serious!” Sam glanced around, lowering his voice but not his tone. “She’s brilliant. Like—Stark-level genius with none of the god complex. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

“She is impressive,” Bucky admitted, which was code for: she’s been living rent-free in my fantasies for months.

“She’s more than impressive,” Sam snapped. “She’s irreplaceable. And if you screw this up—you’re gonna ruin the best hire I’ve made in years.”

Bucky stopped walking, folding his arms. “You think I’m gonna what, ghost her?”

“I know you,” Sam pointed, though he had to mentally compartmentalise to ask how he knew what ghosting was later. “You’re looking at her like she’s the last cigarette on the planet, and I know you haven’t smoked for like, six years.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You really sat with that one, huh?”

“You can’t unfuck someone at work, Barnes. I’ve lived this,” Sam shot back. “Base hookups never end clean. And if it goes sideways, I lose my tech lead and you lose the one person who knows how to recalibrate your arm without needing a manual.”

There was a beat of silence, and Bucky almost looked thoughtful.

“So…” he started, “You’re saying I should commit.”

“I’m saying—” Sam dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus, no. I’m saying do not touch her. She is vital to the team. To our equipment. To my sanity. She’s not just someone you can have a fling with, she’s infrastructure.”

Bucky tilted his head, amused. “You just compared her to a bridge.”

“She is a bridge! Between functioning tech and whatever disaster Joaquin brings back from the field. I swear to fuck, if you make things weird—”

“You’ll what?” Bucky asked, liking the challenge.

“I will get Shuri to reprogram your arm to slap you every time you look at her.”

“You’re really making this sound more appealing,” Bucky mumbled under his breath. 

See, Sam had made a big mistake.

Huge.

Because if there was one thing Bucky Barnes couldn’t resist, it was a challenge.

And by making you officially off-limits, he just wanted you more. 

He hadn’t even planned on catching feelings —he didn’t even know if he had the capacity for real ones anymore— until you. 

Annoyingly smart and stupidly hot. And underneath all that genius and grease-stained sarcasm was someone who actually made him want things.

So, what did he do?

Exactly what he wasn’t supposed to.

—

After the talk, Sam became a human firewall.

Every time you and Bucky were in the same room, Sam was there, supervising like he was running a daycare.

Once, you were just trying to update Redwing’s targeting algorithm.

Bucky was trying to hand you a wrench.

And Sam was standing six feet away, arms crossed, pretending to scroll through something on his tablet.

“Can I help you, Cap?” you asked, eyes flicking up.

“Nope,” Sam said. “Just observing.”

“You know you don’t need to be here right?” You chuckled. You knew he just got back from a mission, and he could use some rest. “You can take a break.”

“Bucky doesn’t need to be here, either.”

You didn’t even look at Bucky, but you felt the smile he was fighting off.

Bucky leaned in anyway, a bit too close for Sam’s liking under the guise of pointing at the display.

“Think this line’s pulling too much voltage,” he said.

You tilted your head, lowering your voice to match his, and so your boss couldn’t hear. “You just want to whisper in my ear.”

He nodded subtly. “And you like it when I do.”

“Barnes.” Sam’s voice cracked like a whip. “Step back. Let her work in peace.”

Bucky backed off with a dramatic sigh.

You… didn't notice.

Or if you did, you didn’t comment then. You just kept being you— and that was enough to do unspeakable things to Bucky's self-control.

He’d pass you a tool with his human hand on your lower back. You’d bite your lip when you were concentrating and not realise he’d stopped listening to the briefing entirely.

But every time Bucky tried to sneak in even a halfway flirtatious line, Sam was right there.

“Hey, you need help with the cooling matrix?” Bucky asked one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder just enough to smell your shampoo. “I’m pretty good with my hands.”

Before you could answer, Sam spoke up. “She’s good. She doesn’t need help. She’s very capable.”

You turned to blink at him. “I didn’t say I wasn’t.”

“Just making sure Tin Can remembers,” Sam muttered, sipping his coffee.

It only got worse from there.

Team debrief? Sam sat between you two.

Lunch break? Sam invited himself to sit directly across from you and stare Bucky down like he was a teenage boy trying to date his daughter.

Mission prep? Sam suddenly needed you for private discussions that lasted just long enough to make Bucky grit his teeth.

Bucky was seconds away from losing it.

It was fucking hard to just not… snap.

Literally and metaphorically.

And now Sam was acting like your personal chaperone. Bucky swore the next time he got in the way, he was going to launch him out the nearest window.

He was tired of being treated like a threat when all he’d done was look at you like you were made of stars.

So later that night, when he found you alone in the garage— legs crossed on the workbench, music playing while you tinkered with Redwing’s sensors— he stood in the doorway a moment too long.

You looked up, smiling without hesitation. “You got past Sam’s force field?”

“He’s out cold after training,” Bucky shrugged. “He tried to go without coffee today.”

You snorted. “That’ll do it.”

He stepped closer and hesitated. “Did you know he’s been keeping us apart?”

You didn’t look up. Not yet. “Figured something was going on.”

“He thinks we’ll mess up,” Bucky said. “Thinks we’ll make it awkward.”

You set your tool down, finally looking at him.

“Let me guess,” You gave him that smile. It was dangerous. “That makes you want me more?”

Bucky let out an incredulous laugh, running a nervous hand through his hair. “You know me so well.”

You hopped down off the bench, walking over until you were standing in front of him, your chest barely brushing his. 

“So what now?” Your head tilted just enough to be a question. “You finally gonna make your move while the warden’s asleep?”

His lips tugged into a half-smile. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d like a lot of things,” you said, letting the suggestion hang.

Bucky’s eyes darkened. 

You tilted your head, chin high. “You didn’t think I noticed?” you asked. “How you always find a reason to be close?”

He didn’t move. He couldn't. Not when you were this close. 

“And I kept wondering,” you whispered playfully, eyes on his lips now, “if you were going to keep playing the long game, or finally admit how bad you want it.”

Bucky’s breath caught. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to reach for you.

You didn’t give him the chance.

You kissed him.

And god, he melted.

It wasn’t soft. At least, not at first. 

Both your lips parted, a moan caught in your throat as he gripped your waist and pulled you into him like he’d been holding back for weeks. 

His mouth moved with yours like he needed you to survive.

It was the kind of kiss that said this has been driving me crazy and I’m done pretending it hasn’t. His metal hand slid up your neck, fingers tilting your face just right, the human one curling around your lower back.

You pressed in closer, feeling now how tightly he held you, as if he didn’t trust this wasn’t a dream.

When you finally pulled back, you pressed your forehead to his.

His eyes fluttered open.

He looked... dazed.

He looked like he’d been hit with a truck full of hormones.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled, and then blinked, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You grinned, cheeks hot.

“You’re wrecked,” you teased, amused. “I barely kissed you.”

“You call that barely?” he breathed, stunned. “Christ.”

Then, he ran the back of his fingers along your jaw. “I’ve wanted that for so long I forgot what not wanting it felt like.”

You leaned in again, brushing your nose against his. “Then take what you want, Sarge.”

His smile turned dangerous.

This little escapade ended with you pulling Bucky into the nearest supply closet and locking the door behind you.

You didn’t even give him a chance to catch his breath.

“You sure about this?” he asked, the light catching in his eyes like silver and smoke.

You just grabbed the collar of his shirt to yank him down into another kiss. 

What happened next wasn’t exactly PG.

There was heat, and hands, and the kind of breathy curses that barely made it past lips pressed together. Bucky’s dog tags clinked against the trinket necklace that he gave you. Something fell off a shelf. You didn’t notice. Bucky didn't care.

At one point, you were both breathless and laughing, pressed chest-to-chest in the cramped space, when you whispered, “This is so unprofessional.”

Bucky whispered back, “Shhhh, I’m busy,” right before he kissed you again, muttering downright filthy praises as he made his way to his knees. 

Forty minutes later, the door clicked open and you both reemerged. 

Not quite innocent, but decent enough. Bucky’s hair was slightly more tousled than usual, and you’d thrown on a hoodie over your tank top, even though you never wore your hoodie indoors. 

But now, you had to. Or else Sam would see the marks Bucky left along your neck. 

An hour later, Sam finally stirred from his coffee-deprived coma.

He shuffled into the hangar, muttering about needing espresso and a neck brace.

The first thing he saw was you and Bucky standing near your workstation. Flirting, but overall looking normal.

Almost.

But you were in your hoodie. Inside.

Sam squinted.

“Huh,” he muttered. “That’s new.”

You didn’t even blink. “It’s cold in here.”

Sam shrugged. Best not to think too much of it.

—

Hooking up with Bucky Barnes was never supposed to feel like falling in love.

But it did.

Not in a dramatic, slow-motion, hearts-eyes kind of way.

It happened steadily. Like gravity.

Sam thought the crush had run its course when the flirting died down in public. He figured the spark fizzled, and neither of you wanted to admit it. So he started easing up on the chaperoning. 

What he didn’t know was that the tension had stopped boiling over in public because you’d found an outlet to release it in each other’s bed. 

But it was never just that.

You started to notice how Bucky watched your face—not your body—when you talked about something that excited you. Like your circuitry project, or the Wakandan energy conversion systems. Or the ridiculous theory you had about quantum-linked processors and how they might someday change the world.

He listened, not out of obligation, but curiosity. He wanted to know how your mind worked, even if the words flew over his head.

He started sleeping over after your late-night hookups. At first it was just practical. After a mission, he'd stumble into your bed, and afterwards, neither of you had the energy to move.

But then it became a comfort. 

Then it was something he didn’t want to go without.

One morning, you found him installing blackout curtains in your bedroom.

“You hate waking up early,” he said with a shrug. “Thought this might help.”

And maybe that was the moment you realised it wasn’t casual anymore. Maybe that was the moment you realised you weren’t falling— you’d already fallen.

He took you out, and was a real gentleman about it, too. 

He always took you to the coffee shop you loved—the one with awful chairs and strange wall art and croissants that tasted like buttery clouds. He’d sit next to you with his sunglasses on and his hand in yours, like his body didn’t know how not to be near you. 

He let you ride on the back of his bike, with your arms wrapped around his waist.

He’d park on quiet hills overlooking the city lights, hand you a drink from a fast-food drive-thru and just… sit. 

Sometimes you’d talk. 

You talked about Wakanda. About Shuri—how much you missed her. How much he did, too. 

You talked about the things you were afraid to want. A future. Stability. 

He told you that you made him feel normal. Like a person, not a weapon.

You told him he made you feel seen. Like someone worth noticing, beyond an academic accomplishment.

And when he kissed you, sometimes it felt like it hurt. Sometimes you wondered if it scared him to fall in love.

One night, he even took the leap and whispered I love you.

You said it back, just as gently.

So yeah, technically you were dating.

Not that Sam or Joaquin knew.

—

You still tried to play it casual— at least in public.

Which brings us to one very specific Saturday afternoon.

You and Bucky had been… busy.

The kind of busy that started with you on your kitchen counter, legs wrapped around his waist and ended up with you bent over that same counter, forearms braced against the cool marble, your hoodie bunched up around your waist.

Bucky's hands gripped your hips like he was anchoring himself, hips snapping forward in a rhythm that bordered on sinful.

You moaned, biting your lip just to stay somewhat quiet, but failing miserably.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled against the back of your neck. “You were made for me.”

You tried to let out a breathless, wrecked laugh, but all that came out was a broken sigh.

You were close. So close—

And then the front door opened.

You had accidentally left it unlocked.

At first, you didn’t register it, not over the sound of your own moaning. Not over Bucky’s groans and the slap of skin on skin.

Until—

“Yo, I just came by to grab the upgrades—OH MY GOD.”

Joaquin was standing frozen in your doorway.

His eyes were wide, mouth open, and you could’ve sworn his soul was visibly leaving his body.

You screamed.

Bucky swore.

You yanked your hoodie down, cheeks burning. Bucky stepped in front of you like he could somehow block the mental trauma Joaquin had just suffered and pulled up his sweatpants.

“What the fuck? I can’t unsee that,” he sputtered, spinning around, only to walk directly into the wall.

You slapped your hand over your mouth. “Oh my god– oh my god— Is today Saturday? I told him— ARGHH!—Bucky! DO SOMETHING!”

Bucky just exhaled like a man getting hit with a tax audit and reached for his wallet on the side table.

“Torres,” he called out.

Joaquin peeked over his shoulder like Bucky was Medusa. “If you hand me cash, I swear to—”

“Apple Pay?” Bucky offered, putting down the wallet and reaching for his phone instead.

You blinked.

“…Depends how much.”

“Five hundred,” Bucky said, “You never tell Sam. You never joke about it on base. You never bring it up ever.”

Joaquin squinted. “Make it six.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. 

“Six-fifty,” Bucky countered, tapping on his phone, “and you run interference next time Sam gets nosy.”

“I’m gonna need therapy,” Joaquin demanded. “And probably bleach. So I need more.”

“Add another fifty,” you piped up from behind Bucky, “and I throw in a custom diagnostic chip for your wings.”

Joaquin considered it. “Deal.”

And that’s how the Falcon walked out of your apartment $700 richer.

—

Two months later, dragging Joaquin into your sexcapades had become standard protocol.

“Distract Sam. Ten minutes,” you hissed into the comms, already breathless, ducking into the back of a supply truck with Bucky right behind you, stripping off his tac vest.

“Again?!” Joaquin whisper-yelled through his ear piece. 

“You love us,” you cooed sweetly, right before Bucky yanked your shirt over your head and you were cut off.

So Joaquin did his part.

Sam would be looking for you, when suddenly there was Joaquin, materialising beside him like a caffeine-fueled jackrabbit.

“Yo, Cap, wanna see this new drone maneuver I coded? It does a barrel roll. In reverse.”

Sam gave him a squint. “Aren’t you on aerial patrol?”

“I am! This is, uh, supplemental. For morale. Very therapeutic. Like—watch!”

Meanwhile, four doors down, you were bent over a crate of rations in a supply closet, Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth as he fucked you like the world might end in twenty minutes and he wanted to die with your name on his lips.

You gasped around his palm. “He’s right there—oh —”

“Then shut up,” Bucky growled.

Sam, on the other hand, was not buying it.

“You good, man?” He asked, genuinely worried, “You’ve been real twitchy lately.”

Joaquin was sweating bullets: “I’m fine. Totally normal. Definitely not thinking about sex.”

Sam blinked. 

“I– I mean SUCCESS,” he stammered, stumbling over his words, “Teamwork, and all that stuff!”

Sam didn't buy it, but didn’t have a reason to question it, either.

And from there, it was chaos.

Sam wanted to call you for a debrief?

Joaquin would “accidentally” spill an entire protein shake over the mission map.

Sam headed to the hangar?

Joaquin sprinted to intercept, yelling about “mysterious engine noises” while Bucky slipped out the back with you, shirt half-buttoned and lipstick smudged across his chin.

You, Bucky, and Joaquin became a well-oiled, morally questionable unit.

But in the end, Bucky got laid.

You got your insides rearranged.

Joaquin got trauma and a couple of upgrades.

So it was a win-win for everyone.

—

You were especially reckless one Wednesday.

You remembered because it was leg day— and Bucky had already wrecked you in training so badly, you could barely walk straight. 

Sam had assigned him to sharpen your hand-to-hand skills, after all. He took that very literally.

Now you were pressed up against the wall of some dusty, half-forgotten hanger in the compound, your legs shaking for an entirely different reason. His dog tags smacked against your chest, tangling with the little charm you kept around your neck. Your grunts echoed far too loud for anyone trying to keep this a secret.

“Bucky,” you gasped. “Someone could walk in.”

He groaned into your neck, not slowing down at all. “Let them. Let ‘em see what they’ll never get.”

You dug your nails into his back, barely able to think. “Fuck, you’re so full of yourself.”

“You weren’t complaining last night when I—”

“Hey!” you cut him off playfully with a slap to the shoulder. “Focus, Sarge!”

Neither of you noticed the faint mechanical chirp overhead.

Redwing was perched on a maintenance cabinet nearby.

Recording. Because Sam had programmed it to run 24/7 in order to test the heat sensors.

—

Two days later, Sam was in the control room, analysing flight path data.

Joaquin was lounging beside him, and today, you had a day off.

“Hey,” Sam suddenly said, frowning at his screen. “Why is Redwing’s log showing heat spikes in Hangar C?”

“What?” Joaquin choked on his smoothie. He knew immediately what must’ve fucking happened, and dismissed any accusation right away. “Pfft. Probably a… malfunction.”

Sam clicked a few buttons as a projection flared to life.

“Weird,” he shook his head, leaning in. That’s… body heat. Two sources. Definitely not a test flight…”

“Must be…strays,” Joaquin blurted. “Like, uh, animals. Rats. Maybe raccoons. Having sex.”

Sam turned to look at him. “You’re telling me this is a rat orgy?”

“Big problem in Hangar C.” Joaquin nodded solemnly. “Very horny wildlife.”

But Sam wasn’t convinced. “Wait… why does the audio kick in right… here?”

Click.

Suddenly the speakers came alive with your voice.

“Oh my God—yes—right there—”

Then Bucky’s voice followed. “You like that, huh? Cryin’ for me out here like a needy little—”

“FUCK,” Joaquin screamed, lunging across the table and slamming the power button like his life depended on it.

The room went silent as the lights flickered dead. Sam blinked like he’d been hit by a truck.

“…Rat orgy,” Joaquin whispered desperately, voice cracking.

Sam turned to him. “That was Bucky, wasn’t it?”

Joaquin didn’t move. “I’m not legally required to answer that, am I?”

—

You were curled up on Bucky’s couch, one of his hoodies swallowing you whole, legs tangled with his, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on your lap. The movie—a classic noir thing he vouched for—was on, but you weren’t really paying attention.

His thumb traced lazy circles on your thigh, under the blanket, and every time he leaned in to whisper a joke, you could feel his scruff brushing against your temple. 

Everything felt right.

Then his phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again.

“Someone’s persistent,” you chuckled, not thinking much of it, and not looking away from the screen.

“Probably Torres,” Bucky sighed, reaching for it. “Or spam. Or spam from Torres.”

When he checked the messages, he looked… confused.

“What?” you asked, noticing the change in his posture. He turned the phone toward you.

A video file was labeled: Redwing_Betrayal.MOV

Below it, a message from Sam.

Do NOT fuck this up. Do NOT make this weird. Or I’ll throw you off a plane with no chute.

Bucky squinted. “Didn’t know Redwing could send files this big.”

You sat up slightly, concern creeping in. “Wait—what?”

And because Bucky had the restraint of a gnat, he tapped play without thinking twice.

Grainy thermal footage lit up the screen. Then you heard sounds that suspiciously sounded like your name. Then, the full 4K video synced in, and you saw yourself and Bucky going at it like bunnies.

You almost choked. “OH MY—.”

You lunged for the phone like it was a grenade, but Bucky held it out of reach.

“Oh,” he said, amused. “It’s that day. We looked good.”

“JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES.” You buried your face in his chest, nearly shrieking. Sam—your boss, Bucky’s best friend—knew now. Thank God this job didn’t have HR. “I—I didn’t even know Redwing was recording!”

“I need to step up my game,” he said casually, scrubbing through the clip like he was watching game tape. “See? My hip angle was off in the first minute.”

“Bucky—”

“But damn,” he added, serious. “Look at your arch, though.”

You smacked him with a pillow. “TURN IT OFF.”

He smirked, not budging, and hit save to his private album.

“You’re the worst,” you groaned, though it was playful more than anything, hitting him again with the pillow.

“I’m keeping it for science,” he said innocently. “And maybe for when you’re out of town.”

You smacked his arm, and he kissed your forehead like that made everything better. 

It kinda did.

Bucky pulled you back into his chest, still grinning like a menace, and grabbed his phone again, thumb flying over the screen.

You peeked over his shoulder to see.

To: Sam I am weird. And also look amazing doing it.

Sent.

He snorted as the typing bubble popped up.

A second later, Sam’s response came in, and it was just a line.

Jokes aside, I’m happy for you.

You both stared at it.

“Well…” you said, a little stunned, “that’s… sweet?

“Coming from Sam?” Bucky chuckled. “That’s a miracle.”

So he just leaned back against the couch, pulling you even closer as you both processed Sam’s strange acceptance. Perhaps, after all the years of seeing his friend brood alone in his apartment, Sam finally saw through the professional lens and was glad that someone was able to keep Bucky in check, even if that someone happened to be his tech girl.

With a satisfied grin, he tapped his phone a few more times, and you heard him mutter, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you still have a job.” He raised an eyebrow at the screen. “And Joaquin’s side hustle? Yeah, that’s done. No more hush money and suit upgrades from him.” 

You chuckled, knowing full well Bucky would take care of things, like he always did. 

The whole situation might’ve been ridiculous, but with him?

You didn’t have to worry about anything

Except maybe keeping government tech out of the bedroom.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003

Eddie’s the type of a boyfriend to just whip his dick out and go, "Eh? Eh?" As if asking, "Nice, right? Makes you wanna do things to me, right?"

God forbid he's wearing sweatpants at home. That's easy access to just drop trou and give you a good look. Surely if you just see his penis, you'll be like, "Yeah, I wanna suck that thing."

That's what romance has devolved into after three years together. He'll take his cock out and go, "You wanna?"

Unfortunately, it works on you, that's why he keeps doing it. You'll usually shrug like, "Yeah, why the hell not, I got nothin' else to do."

Ah, romance.

Masterlist

a blurb about clingy!eddie x reader

i’m rewatching bmw and i’m obsessed with how much of simp cory is for topanga. i have like 3 blurbs based off bmw and this is one of them.

not proofread (also another crack fic, i can’t write seriously)

𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐

He is so clingy

“Eddie,” I huff, squirming as I try to pry his arms from around my waist. “I have class in like, two minutes. You are physically holding me prisoner.”

He buries his face into the crook of my neck like a giant, dramatic baby raccoon (which he is). “Nooo,” he groans, voice muffled. “I’m cold. You’re warm. You don’t need math, I'll take care of you. Stay here forever.”

“You are literally sweating,” I point out, swatting at his hand. “You're the human equivalent of an opossum.”

“And you love it,” he says with a smirk, looking up at me with those huge, ridiculous baby cow eyes. “Don’t lie.”

I try to hold strong. I really do. But then this idiot lets out a whine

“Eddie,” I say slowly, warningly.

He drops to the floor.

“Oh my God.”

And then he wraps his arms around my leg.

Like a damn clingy raccoon.

“Noooo,” he wails, dramatically flopping as I attempt to walk, dragging his full-grown adult body like a ball and chain. “You’re mine! You belong to me! Knowledge is a scam! Don’t go!”

“Eddie, I swear to God—”

“Just skip class,” he begs, now fully horizontal on the floor, arms locked around my shin. “who needs learning when you have sir knight edward munson worshipping you hand and foot”, I scoff “more like court jester”

I glance around the hallway. A few underclassmen are staring. Mike walks by and mutters, “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” I snapped back. “He just has... attachment issues.”

Eddie looks up at me from the ground, wide-eyed and totally shameless. “I love you more than all your teachers combined.”

“Wow,” I say, deadpan. “That’s such a high bar.”

“I’d throw wheeler into the trash for you.”

“You wouldn’t even get up for me,” I say, trying to kick my leg free. “You’re just—”

He licks my knee.

I freeze. “Did you just—”

“Desperate times, baby,” he grins. “Desperate. Times.”

I sigh, defeated. “5 more minutes. That’s it.”

Eddie’s whole body lights up. He jumps up like he wasn’t just being dragged across linoleum. “Ha! Victory!”

“You are literally the worst.”

“And yet,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around me again, “you love me.”

-

my requests are open!!! send anything you write me to write-i mean anything (that’s eddie x reader at least)

Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

Devoted - bucky barnes x f!reader

Husband! Bucky Barnes can’t take his eyes or his hands off of you. He has to make the biggest effort around the kids, and honestly, it’s all you’ve ever dreamed of.

A/N: Growing up with parents who you've never seen kissing, hugging, or saying "love you" to each other, yeah, it does something to you. I recommend you listen to like real people do while reading.

warnings: domestic fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, bucky being a dream husband, vulnerable talk, parental PDA and kids being grossed out (but funny), so so so wholesome.

masterlist faq

minors dni with this story or blog. you're responsible for what you do. do not copy, translate or claim this story as your own.

Hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed (and cried) writing this!

You grew up in a house where love was... quiet. If it was there at all, it never spoke. No kisses over coffee. No lingering glances. No hands held on road trips. “I love you” was said with the same flat tone as “dinner’s ready.” It taught you that love was restraint. Conditional. Measured.

No one yelled, but no one kissed. No one fought, but no one held hands. “I love you” was something you overheard in movies — not around the dinner table.

You grew up unsure if your parents loved each other, or just… merely existed beside one another. Tolerated each other. Did they love each other? You still don’t know. Maybe they didn’t, and maybe that’s what scared you the most.

Because it made you wonder if that was all love ever was.

And then you met Bucky Barnes.

And he rewrote everything.

When Bucky Barnes came into your life, it felt like getting hit with sunlight after decades in the dark.

He's unapologetically soft for you. Hands always reaching—brushing your hair back, pulling you close, squeezing your hip as he walks by. Your kids are so over it.

“Do you have to do that now?” your oldest groans as Bucky kisses your cheek in the middle of the grocery store. “Yes,” he answers simply. “Your mom’s hot.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. Every single time.

It’s the little things Bucky does that undo you.

Like when you're driving the kids to school, and he insists on holding your hand — even when you're the one behind the wheel. His fingers slide between yours easily, resting on your thigh, warm and grounding. His thumb draws lazy circles against your skin as you maneuver turns, one hand on the wheel, one hand in his.

“You know this is wildly impractical,” you tease, eyes flicking over to him.

He grins, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, voice low and smug. “Don’t care. I gotta hold my girl.” “Can you not be in love for five minutes?” your son groans.

You and Bucky just laugh. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles like some old-timey gentleman who also happens to be a menace. And still doesn’t let go.

Bucky, who hugs you from behind while you’re cooking and whispers in your ear like a menace "Skip dinner, let’s order in and make out on the couch."

Your daughter and son groan loudly from the couch, “OH MY GOD.” “I’m gonna pour bleach in my eyes!” Bucky laughs, holding you tighter with his metal arm snug around your waist, “Love you too, buddy.”

He kisses you while you're folding laundry. He dances with you in the kitchen just because the song is good. Tells you he loves you like it’s as natural as breathing — because for him, it is.

And yeah, sometimes he says dumb things like,

"Bucky, why is the car so hot?" He throws you a wink. “Cause you got in it.” A chorus of “Daaaaaad!” erupts from the backseat.

“Oh my god.” Your son gags. “I’m gonna be ill.” Bucky glances at them through the mirror, unfazed. “Good. Builds immunity.”

But under all the dramatics, they smile when they think you’re not looking. They giggle when he slow dances with you in the kitchen, or calls you doll like it’s sacred. They see it. They know it’s real. They know it’s safe.

You didn’t grow up with love like this — but you’re raising them with it. And that matters.

That night, after the kids are asleep and the house is finally quiet, you curl up beside him on the bed, wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else. The air is warm and soft-lit, and you’re sunk so deep into the quiet you almost don’t want to break it.

But you do.

“Can I tell you something kind of dumb?” you murmur.

“Doll, you could talk nonsense for hours and I’d still nod along like it’s gospel.”

You laugh, but it fades. “Sometimes I still wait for it to stop.”

He tilts his head, confused. “Stop?”

You bite your lip. “I grew up thinking love didn't exist or wasn't meant to be shown. That it had to be quiet. Conditional. Measured. So sometimes I still catch myself waiting for the moment it… ends. That you leave. That it all disappears.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out and touches your cheek like he’s holding something fragile and precious. Because he is.

“Doll… whoever taught you that love had to be small, they were so wrong. I need to love you like this. Big. Loud. Always. I need to hold your hand while we’re driving and kiss your neck while you're stirring the pasta.” He swallows hard. “I want to love you in a way you never have to question. Ever.”

Tears prick your eyes, and he pulls you into his lap, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your mouth.

You kiss him like you’re trying to press every word you haven’t said yet into his mouth. And he lets you—hands on your waist, grounding you, holding you like he’s scared you might vanish if he lets go.

When you finally pull back, just far enough to breathe, he’s looking at you like you hung the stars in the damn sky.

“I think about it a lot,” he says softly, voice rough, “how lucky I got.”

You blink, heart thudding. “Bucky…”

“No, listen.” He brushes your hair back, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “After everything I’ve seen—everything I’ve done—I didn’t think I’d get this. I thought my story ended in blood and silence. And then there you were. Warm, loud, bossy as hell—loving me without flinching.”

You shake your head, tears building. “You don’t have to thank me—”

“I do.” His voice breaks. “I have to thank you every damn day. For seeing me when I couldn’t. For staying when it was hard. For giving me this life. The kids. You. All of it.”

You don’t say anything at first. You just kiss him again, slow and deep, a promise pressed into skin.

And as his hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer, you think— Yeah. You got lucky too.

You pull back eventually, breathless, heart full. And then you rise to your feet.

He looks up, dazed. “Where you goin’, sweetheart?”

You smirk, already halfway to the hallway. “Gotta make sure the door’s locked,” you call over your shoulder. “We don’t want to traumatize them.”

Bucky groans, laughing, throwing himself back against the pillows. “You’re killin’ me.”

“And I’ll bring you back to life, Barnes.” You wink, hovering over him, straddling his waist as his hands slide up, thumbs rubbing slow, hiking closer to the hem of your shirt.

You smirk, leaning over him, ready to take your place on top — but before you can, his hands slide around your waist. In one smooth motion, he flips you over, pinning you gently beneath him.

“Not so fast, doll,” he murmurs, grinning as he settles between your legs. “You always think you’re in charge.”

You arch a brow, breath hitching. “And you love it.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dark and soft all at once. He leans down, brushing your hair back to kiss your neck — slow and deep, with a bite that makes you shiver.

“Let me take care of you tonight.”

You exhale a laugh, heart skipping. “You always wanna take care of me.”

He smiles against your skin, lips trailing lower, worship in every movement.

“Damn right I do.”

Because loving you isn’t a duty. It’s instinct. It’s devotion.

I am a mix of emotions! 🥹💕😫🤧 I really enjoyed writing husband! Bucky and I will definitely do it again!

I hope you enjoyed reading this, feel free to leave your opinion!

Reblogs, likes and comments are encouraged as they help this story grow! ✨✨✨

Liar, Liar

Boyfriend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie is the type to lie about how you two met just for fun.

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: 18+ mdni, Eddie's a silly goose, mentions of a Christian missionary trip but reader can be any religion because I think it’s even funnier if reader is like Muslim or something and Eddie’s trying to say you two met on a Christian mission trip, Eddie’s a liar for fun lol, one use of Y/N, Wayne is the best uncle, talk of dildos, sex shops, sex talk, circumcision mention, I think that's it, oh yeah and Eddie's middle name is Jeanette-ask me more about that if you're brave enough.

A/N: quickly written so forgive any mistakes pls. Half-baked concept turned into a half-baked drabble dressed as a oneshot. Below is the song I reference in this piece.

Masterlist

Eddie loves to lie about how you two met just for fun. He comes up with a different story for every person who asks, so nobody truly knows how you guys really met. 

It doesn’t matter who he’s talking to—he’s going to lie. The elderly woman with the bright pink hair waiting your table at the diner makes the mistake of asking. She notices you and Eddie sharing the milkshake you ordered and can’t help the coo that leaves her overlined lips. “Aw, you two are so cute! How’d you kids meet? School?”

Failing to restrain your deep sigh, you know what she just triggered. Eddie excitedly sits up in the booth, a wide grin stretched across his face. You poke your straw around the large milkshake glass, giving yourself something to do so you don’t feel like an accomplice in his lies. 

“No, actually. Funny story,” he reaches across the table, trapping your hand in a vice grip that would look like sweet affection to anybody else, “we met on a mission trip in the Amazon Rainforest." He pauses to look at you wistfully, completely undeterred by your refusal to meet his eyes. "Yeah, we fell in love trying to turn Green Iguanas toward Christianity—those dirty sinners.” 

The smile never leaves his face as your poor waitress’s smile turns downward, a befuddled frown taking its place. Unfortunately—and sometimes very fortunately—Eddie is a motormouth, so he continues. You’re looking anywhere but at the confused woman or your lying boyfriend.

“I always say, truly nothing brings young adults together like the Lord and reptiles.” He lifts his free, ringed hand up in a praising manner.

The sight of your boyfriend 'praising the Lord' has you fighting not to snort out loud. Yeah, Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson—looking like that—met you on a mission trip for Christianity. He’s never even left Hawkins. 

The waitress titters, backing away from the table, “Yes, well–” 

She doesn’t even bother to make up an excuse, instead, she promptly turns around, leaving you two alone. Eddie shrugs, letting your hand go, resuming his theft of your fries. Shaking your head, you suck your teeth as you look at his scavenging.

“Eddie, why’d you do that?”

Your boyfriend looks at you with wide, innocent eyes. “Do what? She asked,” he shrugs dismissively. 

-

It doesn’t matter if it’s a stranger asking or friends—he’s going to lie. When Gareth and Jeff finally asked, about a year into your relationship, you knew it was a bad move.

“So how did you guys meet? I don’t think we ever got the story. You just always mentioned you were talking to ‘this girl’ and then boom, you had a girlfriend,” Gareth comments.

Jeff adds, looking at you, “Yeah, it’s not like there’s many people in Hawkins we don’t know, and we never saw you before Eddie brought you in.”

Opening your mouth to respond, Eddie beats you to it. “We crossed paths at a sex shop outside of town,” he starts, voice raising like he’s telling a tale as old as time. Knowing exactly what this is, you sigh and press your lips into a thin line.

Gareth and Jeff’s eyebrows are practically to their hairline at Eddie’s admission. They’re looking to you to corroborate as your boyfriend continues, you begrudgingly nod. 

“She was reaching for the double sided twelve incher, so was I…We couldn’t help but chuckle as our fingers brushed.” He’s reminiscing fondly like he’s retelling a meet-cute from a Hallmark movie and not the monstrosity he’s cooked up in that awful head of his. “And boys,” he pauses, watching the two guys lean forward in disbelief, “that night, we decided to share it.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath, rubbing a frustrated hand down your face. 

Gareth shakes his head, “Nuh unh, no way, dude.”

“Yeah, you’re so bullshitting us, you dick,” Jeff argues.

Eddie blanches at their reactions—playing up his indignation. An offended hand rests over his heart, jaw dropped as he looks at his two closest friends. “Bullshitting you? Me? I would never! I resent that accusation!” 

Gareth scoffs, “Oh yeah? Well if it’s true, then Y/N will tell us.”

All eyes land on you, causing another deep sigh to escape your lips—one that only comes with dating Edward Jeanette Munson. You lazily swing your head to meet Eddie’s imploring eyes, pursing your lips as you look back to his friends. With a deadpan expression and a monotone voice, you corroborate his story. “Yes, that night we both partook in the pleasures of a double sided dildo.” 

Curling your lips in frustration, you try not to roll your eyes at Eddie’s ‘ahem.’ Taking his cue, you finish robotically, “Lady and the Tramp style.” 

Gareth and Jeff groan, upset that they had to hear that and even more upset that you supported his obvious lie. 

“She said it, not me!”

-

Sometimes, Eddie doesn’t even bother to make things up—he’ll just plagiarize other stories. When Wayne finally asked how you two met, you were eager to see what bullshit he’d make up. Surely his uncle, of all people, isn’t going to believe him…

“Well, she was coming to the Catskills with her family, I was the dance teacher. Everybody called her ‘Baby’ that summer and she couldn’t find it in herself to care.” 

Wayne shoots you a look that says, ‘Are we believing this shit?’ You only shrug, rolling your eyes in response—it’s best to let Eddie finish. He’s like a wind-up toy, once he starts, he has to finish or he'll never shut up. 

“Now, here’s where it gets good—she had no interest in the art of dance. But when tragedy struck, and my partner fell ill with an unsuspecting pregnancy, she decided to step in.” He’s really amping up the drama for this lie, spinning a detailed yarn like he would when DM’ing. 

Watching Wayne shake his head, you finally step in. “Eddie, that’s the plot of Dirty Dancing.

Your boyfriend has the gall to look affronted at your comment, a hand over his heart in offense—his classic move. “I don’t know what movie you speak of, but if there was some kind of ‘film,’” he mocks, “that resembles our love story, then I think I’m going to have to lawyer up.” 

Wayne speaks up, “Ed, I’ve got a couple notes.”

“Yeah, shoot.”

“First of all, you know damn well you’re too poor for the Catskills. You ain’t even got enough money for the ‘Dogskills’–”

You snort at the crack and the way Wayne is going in on his nephew. Eddie shoots you a frown, muttering out a quiet, “Okay, well that was unnecessary.”

“Second of all, your story telling could use a bit o’ work. It’s–what’s that fancy word you say, hon?” 

Perking up at his question, you supply the word with a smirk, “Derivative.” 

“Yeah, that,” his uncle motions to you before looking back at your boyfriend. “You’d think six years o’ high school and that little game you play would teach you how to create an unpredictable endin’.”

Eddie scoffs at the insult, grumbling out a bitter, “I hate when you two gang up on me.”

Wayne stands from his place on the couch, pulling you up as well. A weathered arm around your waist and a rough hand in yours, he dances you around the room. “Yeah, well if you weren’t so stupid sometimes, we wouldn’t have to. Oh, won’t you stay just a little bit longer.” 

You giggle at Wayne’s attempt at a shrill voice, mocking Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs’ song from the soundtrack of Dirty Dancing. 

Eddie wishes he could be mad, but he can’t stop the grin spreading across his face as he watches his best girl and his uncle haphazardly dance around the cramped living room. 

-

When he tells Steve, he picks another movie—and he gives up on making it realistic. 

“Well, we met when I helped rescue her from this floating ship called the ‘Death Star.’ It was this whole thing—I ended up kissing her cause I was jealous of her relationship with Han–” he pauses, frozen at the slip of the very notable name, “–sel, Hansel, her German friend.” 

You chuckle at his shitty save and the unimpressed look on Steve’s face, but you both let him keep going. 

“And you know, I just told her I couldn’t contain my feelings any longer,” he shrugs, looking at the dead eyes you and Steve give him. 

Deciding to goad him, Steve asks, feigning interest, “And then what happened?”

Eddie looks up as if thinking before shrugging again with pursed lips. “Well, here we are. Been together ever since.” 

Smiling at the obvious details he’s leaving out, you meet Steve’s light eyes. “You didn’t…” shaking his head as if thinking of what to say, Steve continues probing, “I don’t know, find out any relationship-altering details?” 

“Nope! Not that I can think of,” Eddie answers plainly. 

Steve continues pushing with barely contained amusement at Eddie’s incessant denial. “You didn’t…compare family trees?”

Throwing the man a chiding look, Eddie shakes his head. “Steve, I think you’re thinking of Luke and Leia from Star Wars. That’s not us,” he motions between you and him. “That’s a movie,” he sounds out the word like Steve is stupid, clearly ruffling some feathers. “It’s not real.”

-

When Eddie tells Robin your relationship origin story, Steve happens to be there too—so he picks a different movie. 

“As you know, I’m originally from the other side of the tracks,” so far so good, “and she was a rich, mysterious woman I found utterly appealing despite my obvious chemistry with Steve—who I’ve fondly nicknamed Ducky.” Annnnd he’s lost you. 

Robin listens with a raised brow and an amused smile. You watch with a smirk as Steve shakes his head, unamused at being roped into the lie—you can’t help but feel validated after being the sole accomplice for so long. 

“Then she asked me out,” Eddie continues, gesturing to you, “It seemed almost too good to be true, then I started realizing there were some big differences in our economic and social class tendencies.”

Snorting, Robin stops his story. “Eddie, that’s literally the movie Pretty in Pink. Also, you made yourself the girl character. You could’ve chosen to be ‘suave Andrew McCarthy,’ and you chose to be a girl.” 

Indignant, Eddie holds up a correcting finger, “Okay, first of all, that’s not what I’m talking about. But if I were to choose that movie, I would totally be Andy because she’s sick as fuck, takes no bullshit, and wears cool clothes.” 

-

Bonus:

“We actually met in front of the Indiana State Capitol protesting circumcisions. She was holding a sign that said, ‘Save Our Foreskin,’ and I was like, ‘Hey, baby, you wanna see mine?’”

“And that worked?” 

“No, actually. She did move forward with getting a restraining order against me. But once the seventy days were up, I went to her house on a court mandated apology and we just got to talking about music and found that we had a lot in common.”

Tag List: @defututus @ratsematary @american-idiot-jpg @glassbxttless @justalotoffanfiction @savybabyyy @thepinkpanther83 @sorayasworld @slaytheusurper @dangerousnbeautiful @hellmastereddie @ali-r3n @lilithera0 @tlclick73 @joonbread @jesterghuleh @bellalillyrose @bigboymoozz @am0iur @pastelpoppies @lionkingshiddenmessage @girlwedontcare

Lucky | Bucky Barnes

Part:1/2

Bucky x movie star!reader

Word Count: 19k

Warnings: Angst, fluff, ect

A/N: Found this in my google docs when i was looking for my layout of Yours, Always, it was supposed to be a long one shot but Tumblr wont let me post a 35k fic lol so its broken up in two parts, Its not proofreading it or edited

Last Part

Masterpost

------

The lights are blinding.

That’s the first thing you feel, not the cold wind slipping down the back of your silk dress, not the too-tight smile tugging at your lips, not even the ache in your ribs from the corset they cinched too hard. Just the lights.

They’re white, hot and endless.

“Y/N, this way!”

“Look over your shoulder!”

“Give us that million-dollar smile!”

“Who are you wearing?”

“Are the rumors true? Are you dating anyone?”

You turn, you pose.

Left side. Chin down. Eyes wide.

You were taught this. Programmed.

Smile like it doesn’t hurt. Laugh like the world hasn’t caved in three times this week.

Behind you, flashes burst like fireworks, one after the other, click, click, click. You’re the show. The proof that beauty exists. The doll everyone wants to dress up, photograph, praise, tear apart.

“She’s glowing.”

“She looks stunning.”

“She’s so lucky.”

You’re not listening, not really. You can’t hear anything over the pulse in your ears.

You shift your weight in your heels. Smile again. Flash another glance toward the cameras. They eat it up, you give them more.

Every pose is polished. Every hair is perfectly placed. Every reaction is rehearsed. But no one asks if you’re happy. No one would believe you if you said you weren’t and maybe that’s the worst part.

Because on nights like this, under the golden lights and velvet ropes, you’re not a person. You’re a thing. A body in couture. A name they know. A face that sells and the show must go on.

Always.

So you blow a kiss toward the crowd. You laugh at a joke you didn’t hear.

----

The kitchen at the compound was unusually quiet for 8 a.m.

Steve sat at the island with a tablet, squinting at whatever article caught his interest. Next to him, Bucky flipped through the newspaper, actual paper, the only man in the building still committed to ink and print.

“…They’re remaking Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” Steve muttered.

Bucky didn’t look up. “Blasphemy.”

Footsteps, then a voice, too cocky for the hour. “Morning, grumpy,” Tony announced, striding in like he owned the place, which, technically, he did.

Bucky lowered the paper an inch. “Don’t.”

Tony stole Steve’s toast. Steve scowled. “Seriously?”

Tony dropped a thick folder onto the counter with a theatrical thud. “Got a mission for you.”

That got Bucky’s attention. He folded the paper, leaned back, arms crossed.

Steve raised a brow. “He’s not cleared.”

Tony shrugged, chewing toast. “This is different. No fieldwork, no guns. No jumping off buildings, unless she throws him off one, which… fair bet.”

Bucky opened the file. Glossy photo, sunglasses, silk scarf. Smiling like she had the world in her pocket, which he would come to learn she did.

“Who’s this?”

Tony smirked. “Y/N L/N.”

Steve squinted. “The movie star?”

Tony nodded.

Bucky blinked. “Why would a movie star need me?”

Sam entered just in time. “Wait, who’s getting you?”

“Y/N Y/L/N.” Tony pointed at Bucky. “He’s going to be her bodyguard.”

Sam nearly dropped his protein shake. “No fucking way.”

Tony grinned. “Knew you’d appreciate it.”

Sam grabbed the file, flipping through. “Dude. She’s massive. Like… stalkers, paparazzi, sold-out appearances, screaming crowds. Her life’s a circus.”

Bucky looked unimpressed. “So send a security team.”

“She asked for you,” Tony said. “Well, her team did. Wanted the best.”

Bucky scoffed. “Why me?”

Tony smirked, because of course he did. “Because you’re the best. I hate that you are, but facts are facts and I love facts.”

He dropped the folder on the counter like it weighed nothing. Bucky stared down at it like it might explode. Bucky stared back at the photo, you were beautiful there was no doubt. You looked perfect, but you were just some girl in diamonds and silk and an expression that didn’t mean anything. You looked like every other starlet in every other ad. All light, no weight.

“Why the hell would someone like her need someone like me?”

Sam plopped down at the counter, flipping through the file like it was a magazine. “Because she’s got stalkers. Serious ones. There’s one guy, I saw on this gossip site I follow, who has been sending her letters since she was sixteen. Broke into her house twice. Held her captive once, for, like, 24 hours.”

Bucky shook his head. All of it felt ridiculous, like a plotline from one of those movies you were probably in.

You were famous, beautiful. Everything he wasn’t. He was a mess of history and metal and trauma in a jacket that didn’t fit right.

“Do I have a choice?” he asked flatly.

Tony took a long sip of his coffee and turned for the hallway. “Nope.” Then he was gone, because of course he was.

Bucky looked down at the photo again. She was laughing in it. That fake, trained kind of laugh. He knew it because he’d worn the same one in his file photos. The ones they used to show he was “adjusting well.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

A hand clapped him gently on the shoulder, Steve. “It’s not gonna be that bad,” he said. “At least you’ll be out of the Tower. Doing something, something normal.”

Bucky stared at him, normal….right. He was a guy with blood on his hands and a barcode in his brain. A guy who hadn’t had a real conversation that didn’t involve tactical strategy or surveillance in… well, ever…and now he was supposed to babysit Hollywood’s favorite face?

He sighed and picked up the file. “She probably smells like perfume and entitlement,” he muttered.

Steve just smiled, too used to him by now.

Bucky didn’t smile back.

----------

Your suite smells like roses, burnt espresso, and tension. “Absolutely not,” you say, calm and clipped, as you scroll through your phone. “Get someone else.”

Your manager, Brett, sighs like he’s been holding his breath since 6 a.m. “Y/N. It’s not up for debate.”

You set your phone down slowly. “It is if you expect me to share space with a guy who used to kill people because someone said a few magic words.”

“He’s not like that anymore.”

“Right,” you mutter. “Because trauma just disappears.”

There’s a pause, another voice, one of your publicists, because apparently you need more than one, Leah, trying to sound gentle. “He’s the best we could get. Discreet, physically intimidating and he’s an Avenger.. We need you alive, you have contracts to complete..”

You glance between them. Brett’s jaw is tight. Leah’s trying too hard. You already know this is non-negotiable, nothing ever is anymore.

You pick up your phone again and say coolly, “Fine, bring in the ex-brainwashed assassin.”

They exchange a glance. “He prefers ‘Sergeant Barnes.’”

-----

When you first lay eyes on him, he walks in like he doesn’t want to be there. You don’t blame him, you don’t either. Leather jacket. Black jeans. Expression like thunderclouds. You already know who he is before anyone says a word.

He’s not what you expected. You thought he’d look more… broken or brutal. Instead, he looks like someone holding himself together with string. Sharp eyes. Quiet fury, but those blue eyes, god they were gorgeous, he was too.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t flinch. Just stands there while Brett introduces him. “Y/N, this is Sergeant Bucky Barnes.”

You glance at your manager, then at Bucky. “Do I salute, or are we skipping that part?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“Guess we’re skipping it,” you say, grabbing your coffee from the table and walking past him.

“Don’t talk to the press,” you toss over your shoulder. “Don’t talk to me unless it’s necessary and don’t fall in love with me.”

You’re joking, no one ever would

----

Bucky rides in silence. You’re pretending to be texting someone, pretending to be fake-laughing at a meme. Your assistant is reviewing your schedule: press junket, interview, table read, fitting.

You don’t look at him. He watches you through the rearview mirror. Everything about you is curated. Nails, lashes, the way you sit, like you’re always in a frame, always on camera.

He doesn’t see the appeal.

He’s not impressed by fame. He’s seen the world from the shadows. Glitter doesn’t mean safety. Glamour doesn’t mean goodness. You’re just another rich girl in a diamond cage. Still, he watches you like a soldier, like a threat.

You breeze past him into the building, sunglasses on, smile ready. He trails behind, clocking exits, cameras, fans, your security team.

Inside, it’s chaos, assistants shouting, lights flashing, everyone talking about you like you’re not standing there. You say nothing. Just nod, pose, walk where you’re told.

You’re perfect, plastic.

You sit in a chair, silent, while three people adjust your outfit. Bucky leans against the wall.

Someone says something about your last breakup. You laugh, it’s fake….empty. But they all buy it, he doesn’t

Your phone buzzes. You read it, then lock the screen without reacting. Bucky notices your hand twitch, a tiny, involuntary move. No one else does.

You glance at him once in the mirror, just once and he swears he sees something in your eyes but then the mask is back.

----

He walks you to your suite. No one talks.

Your heels click against the marble, each step echoing like punctuation. You don’t look back. You don’t slow down. Your assistant is three steps behind you, frantically unlocking the door like her job depends on it because it probably does.

You step inside the suite without acknowledging either of them.

White roses, chilled water, room temp lighting. Everything exactly the way your team demanded it. The air smells like money and tension.

You don’t even glance around. Before the door closes behind you, you pause one heel pivoting delicately on the floor and glance back over your shoulder.

He’s still standing there. Stiff and ilent. Arms folded like he’s waiting for an excuse to walk off the job.

You tilt your head. Smile.

But it’s not a sweet smile. It’s the kind that’s been sharpened over years of interviews and red carpets. Poisoned at the edges. “You always look this miserable, or is that just for me?”

He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t.

You smirk, slow and mean, a laugh without sound, and shut the door in his face.

The lock clicks and outside, Bucky exhales like he’s just made a deal with the devil.

This job is going to suck.

----

You wake up before your alarm.

You always do.

It’s not anxiety, not really. It’s… habit. You’ve trained your body like a machine. Five hours of sleep is more than enough when you’re running on caffeine and compulsion.

You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Neutral cream color. No photos on the walls. No sound except for the hum of the air conditioner.

Someone knocks, twice, precisely. That’s the cue. You don’t speak, you don’t need to. This part doesn’t require you. The door opens, and the day begins

You know Brett will want a smile today. Leah will say you look tired. Marcy will try to shove that green juice down your throat again. You’ll let them, that’s the deal. You don’t own your mornings, haven’t in years.

Somewhere between the third nomination and the second perfume line, you stopped asking for space. They never gave it, and you stopped missing it.

They take your phone before you can read any texts, not that you would have any real ones. “You don’t need distractions,” Brett says, without looking at you, you nod.

They unlock your bedroom door from the outside. You don’t react.

You sit still as they go through your day. Makeup in thirty. Car at eleven. Don’t speak to press directly. Don’t touch fans, don’t make eye contact unless it’s on a red carpet.

You sip the green juice.

You pretend it tastes good.

You don’t remember what you actually like anymore.

Bucky’s already waiting.

He watches, arms crossed, as Brett speaks to you like you’re a child. Leah adjusts your coat. Your assistant carries your bag, even though you could carry it yourself.

They swarm around you, and you don’t say a word. They move you like you’re part of the scenery. He notices your silence first. Not out of peace, out of resignation.

He notices how you never touch your phone. How you’re never the one who opens a door. How you glance at Brett before answering a question.

You don’t move unless told, you don’t exist unless activated. You’re like a prop in your own life. He’s seen prisoners act freer and the worst part is you let them do it.

------

You’re perfect.

Dress like liquid diamonds. Hair pinned like an old Hollywood starlet. Lashes long enough to cast shadows.

You smile on cue. Laugh at questions that aren’t funny. Tilt your head just slightly to the left, it photographs better that way.

Bucky watches from behind the velvet rope. Arms crossed, shoulders tight. He’s not fidgeting, but he’s bracing. Always is, around this kind of crowd. The glitz, the lights, the smiles that don’t reach the eyes.

He hears someone say you’re “effortless.” He wants to laugh. Nothing about you is effortless. You’re a war machine wrapped in satin.

Inside, you take your seat. Cameras move around the announcers, the lights dim. They’re showing the nominees now, Best Actress.

Five clips, five women, one winner. Bucky scoffs at the reality of it all, how stupid this all truly is. But he can’t stop watching thinking back to Sam’s text from earlier ‘$20 says she takes it home’ Bucky responded back with ‘$50 she doesn’t’

The first few are polished, clean. Impressive, maybe. But calculated, controlled.

The screen fades in: it’s you, 1940s costuming. Hair curled and pinned. A wool coat, buttoned wrong because your hands are shaking. You’re walking up a long stretch of dirt road in London, a telegram crumpled in your fist.

The sound design is too quiet. The only thing you can hear is your breath, shallow and shaky and the crunch of your shoes on the frostbitten earth.

A voice reads over the shot. Cold, military, detached.

“We regret to inform you…”

You don’t speak, you run.

You stumble as you sprint up the front steps of a brownstone. A woman in black opens the door like she’s been waiting for you. There are more behind her. Neighbors, wives, sisters. All of them dressed in mourning.

You don’t look at any of them.

You try to step forward, but your knees give. They hit the concrete. Hard. You fall like you’ve been shot.

Bucky sees the scrape on your knees as the camera pans in, blood smearing across grey stone. He wonders if that was real or scripted. He votes scripted, but the way your face twists in pain makes him doubt it.

Then you scream, It rips out of you like something that’s been caged.

“NO!”

The whole auditorium flinches, your voice cracks wide open.

“No, no, no—he promised! He PROMISED me—! He said he was coming back!! NO— I don’t believe you! No, no, no, no….”

You’re not crying for the camera. You’re grieving, your body is shaking, your heaving like breathing physically hurts you.

You pound your fists into the stone. You shove off the women who try to gather around you. They’re crying too now, holding each other as you come undone in the middle of the street.

You don’t sob, you wail and it’s a sound Bucky’s never heard before or maybe one he’s tried to forget.

It’s the sound he imagines came out of his mother’s chest the day a man in uniform knocked on her door. It’s the sound he hopes to god he never has to hear again.

His jaw tightens, his throat locks, his eyes sting, but he doesn’t blink. Because he can’t. He straightens his spine, just like he was taught. Tighten the muscle, stand tall, don’t feel it, not here, not now.

The screen goes black, applause follows. Loud, immediate…earned.

But Bucky doesn’t move. He looks down at his hands, balled into fists at his sides, slowly, he looks at you.

You’re sitting in the front row, smiling politely, accepting the praise like it’s just part of the job.

But he knows what he saw, that wasn’t a performance. That was grief, that was real.

The presenters open the envelope.

There’s a joke about the glue being too strong, the crowd laughs. So do you, you tilt your head just right, camera-ready.

Bucky exhales like he’s underwater.

“And the winner is…”

A pause.

“Y/N L/N!!!”

The crowd explodes, a standing ovation. Cheering like it’s the end of the world.

You stand slowly, carefully, like you’ve practiced this before. You smile like someone just told you they love you.

You make your way up the stage, dress flowing like silver water under the lights. You hug the announcers, take the heavy glass statue, and step toward the mic.

The room quiets as you speak.

“Thank you.” Your voice is calm, measured. Just the slightest crack around the edges. “This role was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.” You glance out at the crowd, eyes glassy.

“To imagine living in a time like that, being in a world where people didn’t know if the person they loved was coming home, where a letter could end everything… it shattered something in me. It really did.”

“And I’m standing here because women lived through that. Women endured that and so did the men they loved and I wanted to honor them, I’m thankful I got to.”

You swallow hard, look down at the award.

“Acting has given me so much. But more than anything, it’s given me a voice I didn’t always know how to use.”

You look up again, past the cameras, past the lights.

“To the fans, to the crew, to the people who believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself, thank you.” You blow a kiss into the air.

The room swells with applause. You smile one last time and you walk offstage, heels echoing like gunfire, shoulders slumped like you’re carrying something heavier than glass.

Backstage, Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you. Someone hands you champagne, you drink it from the bottle. You hand off the award without looking at it, your face drops and your eyes go distant.

Bucky only takes his eye’s off you when his phone buzzes.

Sam: knew she’d win. she always does, you owe me $50.

Bucky stares at the text for a while.

He wants to write back: you should’ve seen her backstage.

But he doesn’t.

---------

You’re staring out the tinted window, face unreadable, while your assistant scrolls through your calendar.

“Lunch with Vogue,” she says.

You blink slowly. “I hate the editor.”

“She loves you, though.”

You nod. Because that’s enough of a reason.

Bucky sits in the passenger seat, watching your reflection in the mirror.

You haven’t said a word since you got in. Not to him, not to anyone, unless prompted. He chalks it up to ego or moodiness.

You bite your lip to stop the shaking. You smile when the camera flashes outside the car.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Unreal.”

You hear it, you say nothing.

You’re filming a commercial. Champagne, slow-motion smiles. Music blasting. You’ve done this campaign six times. You fucking hate champagne.

“Again,” the director says. “More playful this time, Y/N.”

You do it again, you laugh on cue. You toss your head back. You hate how your earrings pull on your earlobes, but you don’t touch them. You hate the smell of the set perfume, but you don’t flinch.

From the sidelines, Bucky watches it all. Leaned against a lighting rig, arms crossed.

“She loves the spotlight,” someone says behind him.

Bucky doesn’t disagree. You stand in it like you were made for it, the way your chin tilts just enough for the cameras, the way your lips part in that rehearsed, polite smile. You seem to drink it in, all the flash and noise and attention. You look like you belong there.

But what they don’t see is that you haven’t eaten all day. That the corset is too tight, cutting into your ribs, that every breath is a performance, sometimes you wished you weren’t breathing at all. No one notices, no one asks.

They don’t know you haven’t really laughed in months. Not the kind that starts in your chest and makes your eyes water. Just the polite kind. The one they teach you for red carpets and late night interviews. The kind that photographs well.

They don’t know about the days where it all feels too quiet, even when it’s loud. When you drive up the coast alone and wonder how fast you’d have to be going for the curve to take you off the edge. Not out of sadness. Not even out of fear. Just… curiosity.

You don’t want to die. Not really. You just want to feel something that doesn’t come with a script.

After the take, you walk off set and sit in a chair by yourself. Bucky watches you hand your phone to Leah without being asked.

He watches Brett adjust your robe before you even touch it. He watches you smile at a crew member and then go completely blank the moment they pass. He thinks you’re cold, you think you’re conserving energy.

Bucky sees it from the hallway. He wasn’t meant to. Your door’s open slightly. You’re standing in front of a mirror, holding your face with both hands like you’re trying to keep it from falling apart.

You whisper to yourself, something he can’t hear and then slap a smile onto your face. You turn, open the door.

You jump when you see him standing there. “Jesus,” you mutter. “Creep much?”

He doesn’t apologize.

You brush past him, coat draped over one arm, pretending like you didn’t just rehearse a fake expression for the last two minutes.

Bucky shakes his head as you go. He still doesn’t get it.

You eventually get home and strip yourself of everything the day gave you, you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, again. The TV is on but muted. You don’t know what channel. Your phone buzzes, Leah sends a revised schedule for tomorrow. You don’t respond, you don’t cry.

You just blink, slowly, and say to the ceiling, “Get through one more day.” You don’t believe it, but you say it anyway.

-----

The trailer lot was a mess.

Lights everywhere, crew yelling, someone spilled coffee on a cable and now half the power was out. The shoot was running behind…again.

Bucky stood with his arms crossed by the production trailer, watching the chaos like it personally offended him. He didn’t do chaos unless it involved something he could punch and then came the voice.

Yours. Loud, sharp enough to cut glass. “No! Absolutely not. I said no to the green one, does no one ever listen to me?!"

You stormed out of your trailer, heels clicking like gunshots, satin robe flowing behind you like a cape.

Your hair was half done, makeup already starting to melt under the lights, and you were holding what looked like a couture dress with two fingers like it personally insulted your family.

“Do I look like I just walked out of Mamma Mia?” you snapped at your stylist, voice cutting. “No? Then why the hell would I wear this?”

People scattered. Your manager started apologizing before you even finished talking.

Bucky just watched blankly. Spoiled, he thought. Completely unhinged, an un grateful brat who probably didn't know what a hard day actually was.

You tossed the dress at some poor assistant and marched back into the trailer, muttering something about firing everyone and never working in this town again.

“She’s exhausted,” someone said nearby. “She hasn’t had a day off in months.”

Bucky didn’t even look at them. He didn’t get it. Exhausted? For what?

You stood on a stage and talked. You wore pretty clothes and smiled at cameras. He’d lived in the woods for weeks eating bugs during wartime. He’d bled out in alleyways, dug bullets out of his own thigh. That was exhausting.

This? This was pretend. This was fake, you were fake. He didn’t say it out loud. Just shook his head, turned, and kept walking. That’s when he heard it.

The trailer door, not your trailer, but the office one was cracked open just enough. He didn’t mean to stop. He didn’t mean to listen. But your name came up, and his legs rooted themselves to the ground.

“He was outside her hotel again.”

“How the hell does he keep getting this close?”

“They think he’s hacked into call sheets. He’s finding her schedule before we even approve it.”

“He’s escalating. The notes are more aggressive, more personal.”

“She doesn’t even react anymore.”

“Yeah, well, she never does.”.

“We should lock her down this weekend. No events. Nothing public. Spin it as a scheduled break.”

Bucky blinked, slowly. The air felt heavier all of a sudden.

She doesn’t even react anymore.

He didn’t know why that line stuck, just that it did. Later, Brett flagged him down near the lot exit, sunglasses on like he was someone important.

“You’re off this weekend,” he said, waving it off like a minor inconvenience. “She’ll be locked in at the house. No press, no events. All quiet.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “And the stalker?”

Brett shrugged. “She’ll be fine. We’ve got in-house security. You’ve earned the break. She’s a lot, but… nothing at all. You know what I mean?”

Bucky didn’t. He didn’t know what any of it meant. But he didn’t argue. Didn’t even know why he felt the need to argue. This was a job, you weren’t his problem, you never had been and never will be.

He took his keys without a word.

You were heading to your car at the same time, heels off now, coat thrown over your shoulders like armor, hair pinned perfectly again, mask back in place. The driver was already waiting, of course.

You stopped at the car door, glanced over. “So,” you said, voice softer now. “You’re off this week?”

“Apparently.”

You smiled. Not the one from press junkets or award shows. A smaller one, more human. It didn’t reach your eyes, but it was the closest he’d seen. “Enjoy it.”

He didn’t smile back, just grunted. “Try not to cause any more trouble.”

Your laugh was quiet. Not a performance, just something real, pushed through exhaustion. “I’ll do my best.”

You slid into the car, the door shut and just like that, you were gone.

Bucky stood there for another full minute before walking away. Still trying to figure out why he felt like he’d missed something important.

————

Two days later, Bucky was back at the Tower. The city felt quieter here, less like performance, more like breathing. Steve and Sam were already in the kitchen, post-run, towels slung over their shoulders, sweat still drying.

Sam tossed Bucky a water bottle. He caught it one-handed. “So,” Sam said, leaning against the counter, “how’s the movie star?”

Bucky scoffed. “She’s a piece of work.”

Steve glanced up from the paper he was pretending to read. “That bad?”

“She doesn’t talk unless she has to. She’s always on, like everything’s some promo tour. Even off-camera, it’s exhausting.”

Sam raised a brow. “She’s been famous since what, ten? Maybe she doesn’t know how to turn it off.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Her team treats her like a product. I watched some assistant take her phone out of her hand mid-text. She doesn’t even open her own car doors. They tell her what to eat, where to go, what to say. She just does it, doesn’t blink.”

Steve frowned. “And she just… takes it?”

“She doesn’t flinch, it’s like she’s not really there.”

Steve folded the paper and set it down. “That kind of sounds like survival.”

Bucky looked at him, scoffs. “You’ve never met her, you wouldn’t know.”

“I don’t have to,” Steve said gently.

Bucky ignored him. “I watched her snap at some poor girl the other day over the color of a dress.”

Sam snorted. “You snap when we move your knives or reorganize your ammo stash.”

Bucky turned, glaring. “That’s different.”

“If you say so,” Sam said, smirking. “Come on, movie night. You’re coming.”

“I don’t—”

“Nope,” Sam said, already walking. “You’re coming.”

The Tower’s theater room was dim, the seats stupidly plush. Steve had a bowl of popcorn bigger than Bucky’s head. Sam handed him a beer with a shit-eating grin.

“What are we watching?” Bucky asked warily.

“It’s a surprise,” Sam said.

That should’ve been the first red flag, the lights dimmed, and the screen lit up. Bucky’s face twisted the second the title card appeared. “No,” he said flatly. “Absolutely not.”

“Sit down,” Sam said, tugging him back into the seat. “Watch the art happen.”

Your name lit up the screen, In The Quiet After. The same film from the award show, Bucky sighed so hard it came out like a growl.

Of course it was that movie, the one you won for. The one everyone was still talking about in quiet tones like it was sacred. Sam smirked and passed him the popcorn, Bucky didn’t touch it.

He was already watching and he hated that he watched

The first scene opened with a wide shot, London under a grey sky, everything washed in a cold, early-morning haze. A train pulled into the station slow and quiet. Inside, you sat by the window, your cheek pressed to the foggy glass, lips parted slightly like you’d just forgotten how to breathe. You didn’t say anything, didn’t need to.

Your eyes were already telling the truth, hollow, wide, tired. Like you were mourning something you hadn’t lost yet or maybe something you’d already lost long ago, but hadn’t let yourself feel.

It wasn’t acting. Not the kind he was used to, anyway.

The story unfolded slowly, like memory. You played the fiancée of a soldier who’d been missing in action for nearly a year. The war was winding down, but hope, the kind that hurt still lived in you.

There was a scene where you folded his letters, over and over, until they were so creased the words disappeared. Another where you danced alone in your kitchen with a record playing, eyes shut, holding a sweater like it was a person. Bucky didn’t breathe through that one.

Bucky sat forward, elbows on his knees, beer forgotten. Then the telegram came, the scene they showed when you won that award. A different scene started when you didn’t cry at first. You just stood in the hallway, dress wrinkled, light slanting through a window like it was trying to reach you. Your legs gave out again. Just crumpled underneath you, the sound you made this time wasn’t a sob, it was a whimper, low and shaking, like something breaking in a place no one could see.

You stood in front of his empty closet, touching the things he left behind, a medal, a book, a shaving kit and when you pressed your face to the shirts still hanging there, Bucky had to blink fast, jaw clenched.

There was a scene, a short one where your character sat at the edge of the ocean, shoes off, staring at the water like it owes you something and you whispered, “I wasn’t afraid until they told me he was gone and now I’m afraid of everything.”

That one stayed in his chest, the last shot was you sitting at the window, hair half brushed, looking out at nothing.

Not waiting, just existing. The screen faded to black, the credits rolled. The room was quiet. Sam shifted beside him, eyes still locked on the screen. Bucky sat there, frozen, a fist pressed to his mouth and when the credits rolled, he didn’t move.

Sam leaned over. “Admit it. That was good.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He blinked, fast, and wiped a tear away so quickly it almost didn’t count but Sam saw it.

“Not you too,” Bucky muttered when he heard Steve sniff beside him.

Steve just shrugged. “She’s good.”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

He was still thinking about the look on your face in that last shot, how it wasn’t dramatic, or showy, or polished. Just tired, real. That scared him more than he’d admit. It felt real, he’s felt that feeling before himself. He swallowed hard.

The film moved him, it felt like what could have been if he found someone before he got his papers, watching you dance in the street with a man you loved, laughing like it hurt and when he died, you crumbled in silence, not tears. Just… nothing.

He was still watching the dark screen littered with white words of everyone who made the film, he couldn’t stop thinking of the scream. Not yours, but the one he never heard from his sister, or his mother, or the world that mourned him when he disappeared.

——

The silence at your house was overwhelming, it usually was.

No cameras, no crew, no voices in your ear telling you where to be. Just the soft hum of the fridge, the creak of the floorboards under your bare feet, and the muted echo of a house too big for one person.

You hadn’t turned the TV on, you didn’t want noise, not the fake kind. You sat at the piano in your sunken living room, hair pulled up, hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows. You let your fingers hover over the keys for a long time before pressing the first note.

You wrote without meaning to, it came out slow, low, soft.

They put me in diamonds, tell me I shine. Pose for the photos, say the right lines. But nobody asks if I slept last night. Nobody asks if I’m really alright.

You played the chorus over and over until the melody started to hurt.

It's quiet now, no scripts, no gold. Just me in the dark, getting tired of roles. They all say I’m lucky, but they don’t have a clue…what it’s like to be seen and never seen through. When the laughter fades to air, I’m just a girl with no one there.

Your voice cracked once, but no one was around to hear it.

You liked singing more than acting, always had. Singing felt like you, writing felt like something real. But that didn’t sell, not the way your face did, not in the way your body did.

They’d said it so many times, you’d stopped arguing. You had the kind of face that belonged on billboards. So that’s where they put you, said you were too pretty to hide behind a mic. That your voice was fine, but your face was profitable. So you shut up and smiled and gave them what they wanted, you always ended up here, playing music for a room that would never applaud.

-------

The studio was freezing. The kind of cold that crept under skin and made bones ache. Probably on purpose, keep the talent uncomfortable. Keep them alert, keep them obedient, its what they use to do for him.

Bucky stood just outside the wardrobe trailer, arms crossed, metal fingers flexing now and then just to feel something. He didn’t shiver, he didn’t feel cold like that anymore.

He was watching nothing and everything at once, lights shifting across the lot, assistants rushing like ghosts with clipboards and coffee. The hum of production noise buzzed in the background. Mostly, he ignored it.

Until your voice cut through it. “I don’t want to do this!”

It made him blink.

He’d never heard you say no to anything. Not to your team, not to the cameras. Not to the weight of your own exhaustion. Now that he thought about it, that was because no one had ever listened long enough to hear you.

“I said I don’t want to do this,” your voice rose again, cracking on the edge. “I’m not doing nudity. I told you that!”

A pause.

A sound that made Bucky’s stomach turn. That sick, sharp snap of skin on skin. A sound his body recognized faster than his brain.

A slap.

He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He just moved. The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the hinges. Cold air rushed in behind him.

You were standing in the middle of the trailer, stiff and trembling. Satin robe gripped tight around your frame like armor. Your makeup was half-finished, but your eyes were all fire and fear. A bright red handprint bloomed across your cheek like war paint.

Brett turned, visibly irritated. “This doesn’t concern—”

Bucky stepped in front of you, slow and dangerous. “Move.”

Brett straightened his spine like it might make him taller. “You don’t tell me what to do! I tell people what to do.”

Bucky’s voice was like ice. “You gonna move me?”

Brett didn’t blink, but he didn’t answer either. Because the truth was: everyone knew who Bucky was. Maybe Brett wasn’t afraid of you, but he was sure as hell afraid of the man standing between you and him now.

Brett backed away, grabbed his tablet, muttered something about schedules, about budgets, about “not being done” but he was already retreating. The door slammed shut behind him.

The air in the trailer changed, it was thick and heavy. You didn’t look at Bucky right away. Just stood there, unmoving, one hand slowly rising to your cheek, like your body couldn’t decide whether to comfort itself or feel the bruise.

“Thank you,” you said, voice soft but unsteady.

He didn’t move either. “Just doing my job,” Bucky muttered.

You nodded, but something in your face cracked when he said it. Like the words “job” hit a little too hard, because of course he was paid to protect you.

“Of course.” It came out flat and empty.

Bucky shifted, watching you. You looked small at that moment. Not weak, just… unguarded. Like someone who was running out of ways to hold themselves together. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes still on the floor. “Of course.” But the second time, your tone was different. Like you didn’t believe yourself either.

You didn’t wait for a response, you just walked out.

Chaos hit less than an hour later.

You were walking to the car, head down, wrapped in a coat you didn’t remember putting on, when the entire lot seemed to shift. Shouts rang out, radios crackled. Security scrambled to lock the gates. Flashes went off, someone screamed. The sound of feet pounding pavement.

Bucky was already moving. He didn’t wait to be told. He didn’t need clearance. He stepped between you and the sound, body tight and still, pressing close until your back touched his chest.

You didn’t flinch, of course you didn’t. Because this wasn’t new for you. None of it was, not the panic, not the threat. Not the way you had to keep walking like you weren’t being hunted. You didn’t even seem to care about your life being in danger.

Your publicist, Leah, came running, phone pressed tight to her ear.

“He’s here,” she said, breathless. “We think he followed her from the last hotel. How the hell does he keep finding her?”

Bucky’s jaw locked. His eyes scanned the crowd, already calculating exits, cover, line of sight. He reached for your hand, not hard, just firm and tucked you behind him like instinct.

Bucky was still inches from your back when Leah caught up to you both, still talking fast. “We’re not sending her to that appearance Friday. We’re leaking it anyway, we think he’ll show. In the meantime, Sergeant Barnes, you’re with her 24/7, you’re staying at the house.”

You didn’t argue, just nodded. “Why’s your cheek red?” Leah asked, barely looking up.

You adjusted your sunglasses. “Ran into a door.”

Leah rolled her eyes. “Of course. The beauty, but with no brains.”

Bucky winced at that one. He looked at you, waiting for your reaction but you didn’t have one, you didn’t respond, nothing you just kept walking.

———

You didn’t speak on the drive home.

When you unlocked the door and let him in, you didn’t say welcome. You didn’t offer a tour, you just kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag by the wall, and disappeared into the kitchen like he wasn’t there at all.

Bucky stood in the foyer for a minute, looking around. The place was immaculate, modern and well magazine-worthy. But there were no photos. No personal touches, no signs of family, no warmth. It was clean to the point of being sterile. You lived in a house that looked staged for a sale.

His footsteps echoed. You came back with a bottle of water, handed him one wordlessly, and went upstairs. The silence in the house wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating, he couldn't imagine having to live here.

Bucky sat down in one of the perfect chairs in the perfect living room and stared at the wall across from him. This wasn’t how he imagined the world's biggest movie star to live, this was how ghosts lived.

The door buzzed just after six.

Bucky had been sitting on the perfect chair, trying to figure out what the hell to do with himself in a house that didn’t feel lived in. He opened the door before the second knock. The woman standing there didn’t even blink.

“Relax,” she said, holding up a tiny keypad and some wires. “Just updating her security. Won’t take long.”

She didn’t ask for permission. Just stepped inside like she owned the place. She didn’t even take off her heels.

“Gina,” she added, like that explained anything. “I’m her publicist or one of them, technically. You probably already met Leah, she's the hands on one, no way I could deal with our little diva all day.”

Bucky followed her as she moved to the wall near the front door, unscrewing a panel and installing a new keypad. He stayed quiet, watched every move. She knew she was being watched and didn’t care. “Just showing you where you’re sleeping,” she said casually. “Couple of days, right? Guest room’s down here. Hers is right above it.”

She motioned toward a sleek white door by the front hallway.

“Help yourself to anything,” she added. “Don’t touch her piano, don’t wake her up unless there’s an emergency. Don’t ask her too many questions, she won’t answer them.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “What’s the plan for the guy?”

Gina checked something on her phone. “We leaked that she’s going to an event on Friday. We’re hoping he shows, cops will be watching.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “Has he ever tried anything violent?”

Gina paused. “There was one incident. A few years ago, but she talked her way out of it. Manipulated him, acted her way out of it, that’s what she’s good at.”

She glanced at him, eyes sharp. “That’s why she wins awards, she’s good at faking it.” She smiled, a little too smug and walked out the door without waiting for a response.

Bucky waited until she was gone, then pulled out his phone. “Steve,” he said when the line clicked on.

“You good?”

“Define good,” Bucky muttered. “She’s locked in her own house because she has this stalker. The place has high level security. Some publicists just came by to upgrade the system even further, it's crazy for just one girl.”

Steve’s voice came calm. “The stalker?”

“Name’s Elias Corrin.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Yeah okay,” Bucky said.

He hung up and leaned back against the door, staring into the quiet. He didn’t know what the hell he’d walked into. But he didn’t like how deep the hole looked from here.

That night he found you outside.

You were barefoot on the patio, legs pulled up into the chair, arms wrapped tight around your knees. The lights from the pool lit your skin in pale, blue glimmer almost otherworldly, like moonlight underwater. One empty bottle of wine sat on the table. Another was already open, half-gone.

You didn’t hear the door open. You didn’t hear his steps. It wasn’t that he was trying to be quiet. You just weren’t listening, your mind too loud.

You turned when you finally heard the soft slide of glass. Your voice was low, hoarse from the day. “You want a drink?”

“No thanks,” Bucky said. “I can’t get drunk.”

You tilted your head, like you were trying to figure out if that was sad or not. “By choice?”

“No, the serum.”

“Oh,” you murmured. “Right, super soldier.” You paused. “Weird that that stuff actually exists.”

He nodded.

You gestured toward the chair across from you. “You can sit. I’m not gonna throw anything.”

He hesitated, then sat.

You were humming something, a soft, sad thing with no real melody. Like you were just filling the silence so it didn’t swallow you. It wasn’t a song, it wasn’t for him. It was just for you, but Bucky… felt it. Low in his chest, somewhere hard to reach. Like the ache of something he hadn’t admitted yet.

You didn’t look at him when you said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

He didn’t answer, just kept his eyes on you.

“This house is cold, empty.” You took a sip. “Want to know something stupid?”

He waited.

“I used to dream about my perfect house. Not like this, not marble floors and designer furniture. I wanted a little white one. Big wraparound porch, a garden, wind chimes. Maybe photos on the walls of all the friends I’d have. A kitchen that actually smelled like something.”

You smiled at your wineglass. It didn’t reach your eyes.

“I pictured pots and pans hanging over the island. You know, the messy kind. With a coffee mug that doesn’t match the rest. Something that looked like someone lived there, oh my god, I can't forget about stained glass windows so when the sun shines, my house would be happy to.

He looked around at the manicured patio, the spotless glass, the perfect silence. “Why don’t you make it that?”

You shook your head like he didn’t understand.

“It’s never that easy,” you said. “Money buys a lot, but not silence that doesn’t feel like you’re drowning in it. Not real people, not anyone who stays.”

He watched you carefully, the way your voice dipped like a record dragging on the wrong speed.

“Aren’t you happy?” he asked.

“If there’s a camera around? Yeah,” you said, pausing briefly you took a deep breath, then softer, almost a whisper, like it wasn’t meant to be heard, “But no, not really.” The words hovered between you like smoke.

You stared out at the water, blinking slow. “I wanted to sing. That’s all I wanted. Just… write songs, play piano, maybe disappear into it.”

Bucky didn’t speak. He didn’t want to interrupt whatever this was, the first time in the weeks he’s been assigned to you that he saw you be real, and he wouldn't admit it but he was fascinated by this lifestyle that was the complete opposite to his.

“But they said my face was too pretty to waste, and said acting sold more. Said I’d be stupid not to take the offers.” You snorted into your glass. “So I did, because I didn’t know what else to do, who else to be.”

You shook your head. “Now I’m rich, alone…exhausted and everyone thinks I’m this spoiled little thing who throws tantrums about champagne or shoes or the wrong shade of lipstick…. sometimes I do it, y'know? Throw fits everyones expecting me to throw, just to feel something more than what I do.”

You turned to look at him. “But I don’t even know what I want anymore, Bucky. I just know it was never this.”

His name sounded different coming from your lips. It wasn’t flirtation or business, it was something honest. Like you were asking him to just see you, not fix you. He stayed silent. Sometimes silence was safer than saying the wrong thing, his mind was too busy reeling the you he made up in his head, the you that screamed for a different coloured dress because you were a brat, not the you that did it to give the people what they made you, to give yourself something to feel.

You took another sip, lips curling slightly. “You wanna hear something really fucked up?”

He gave you a slow nod.

“Every year, on my birthday, they throw these huge parties. Red carpet, champagne, some exclusive venue with a million fake people. The same faces, the same photos. But every year, I show up, smile, and think…” you laughed bitterly, “God, I can’t believe I made it another year.”

He frowned, finally responding. “What do you mean?”

You looked up, eyes shining with something sharp. “I mean, how does someone live this long,” you said, “without feeling anything at all?”

Just like that, the air shifted, it's like the earth felt it to become the wind picked up. Bucky felt it, the weight in your voice, the truth behind the joke. The kind of sadness that doesn’t scream or cry or beg. The kind that just exists, quiet and constant.

He didn’t know what to say, he barely did day to day with basic, easy conversations so he just stayed, like Steve did for him when he needed him to and that mattered.

You looked at him again, and this time, your voice cracked a little. “Don’t look at me like that, like I’m breakable.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m looking at you like you’re real.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I get it,” he said. It was barely more than a whisper.

You blinked. “You do?”

“Parts of it.”

You didn’t say anything back. Just stared at him for a long time, until the silence wasn’t heavy anymore, just quiet, then you just poured another glass and kept humming.

--------

The house is quiet again. Not in the eerie way it used to be, where silence felt like a scream. This kind of quiet is soft, bearable…almost warm. No one’s called for you. No cameras, no red carpet, just Bucky.

You woke up late, no alarms, no stylists, no fake lashes. Just sunlight cutting through the blinds and the faint clink of him making coffee downstairs.

He didn’t speak when you walked in, just slid a mug across the island like it was something he’d done a hundred times. You sat across from him in an old sweatshirt, knees curled under you. No makeup, no walls. He didn’t stare but he noticed. He always does.

It’s strange, how fast the noise fell away.

The city is still out there, of course. Cameras, crowds the mess of it. But here, even in this steril house it’s quiet in a way he doesn’t mind.

He watches you more now. Tries not to, but he does. You hum while you make toast, barefoot on marble floors. You read paperbacks and roll your eyes when the plot disappoints you. You talk more, not much, but more.

Yesterday, you asked about Brooklyn. About what music he liked before the war. Not as an interview, but just… because. He didn’t give you much. But you didn’t look disappointed and that scared him a little. Because this was supposed to be a job.

It’s late when it happens, hours past the point where anyone normal would be asleep. The house is dim, quiet. Bucky’s sitting in the armchair by the glass doors, a book open in his lap he’s not reading it’s just… there. Then he hears it, soft scuffling in the kitchen. A cupboard door thudding shut, another opening. A drawer slammed a little too hard.

“HA! I found ’em!” You pop up from behind the island, holding a crinkly bag of marshmallows like you just won the lottery.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches. You’re wearing flannel pajama pants and one of his sweatshirts you borrowed two days ago and never gave back.

You spin around, holding the bag in front of you like a trophy. “Come on.”

He raises an eyebrow. “No.”

You pout. “Come on, Sarge. I need you to start the fire or I’ll probably burn the house down.”

He groans but you hit him with it, the puppy dog face, not just any the best he’s ever seen, big eyes…lip jutted. That kind of ridiculous, manipulative sweetness that shouldn’t work on him but it does.

He sighs, pushes up from the chair. “Fine.”

Your whole face lights up and it’s not fake. Not for the cameras, just real and because of him and that’s when he thinks in this moment you don’t remind him of the sun. You remind him of the stars, bright, but only in the dark.

The fire pit flickers out back. You’re curled up with a blanket draped over your shoulders, holding a roasting stick like it’s some ancient tool. Bucky crouches near the flames, getting the wood just right.

“I feel like I should be paying you,” you joke.

“You are,” he says.

You laugh, really laugh, the kind that reaches your eyes. You hand him a marshmallow. “Don’t burn this one.”

He does, immediately but you make him eat it anyway.

You talk, and it’s easier now. You tell him about your first audition. How you tripped on your own heels and nearly threw up in front of three casting directors. You tell him about learning to cry on cue, about learning to smile when you wanted to scream.

You ask him about his family, not like you’re prying, but like you actually care.

He tells you about his mom. How she used to braid his sister’s hair before school, how she always left the porch light on for him, even when he came home past curfew. How his dad never said much but always made sure the heater worked. He doesn’t say much more. But it’s something.

You’re staring into the fire, the flames rising and sinking like they’re breathing. Your last marshmallow is too close, the edge catching and curling black. You don’t flinch. You let it burn a little longer before pulling it back, watching the char bubble and blister.

You pop it into your mouth anyway, ashy, sweet. You barely taste it. Softly, too softly for how heavy the words are you speak.

“I used to think I’d die young.”

It comes out like a throwaway thought. Like something you’ve said before to the ceiling at 3 a.m. But now it’s out here in the open, between you and the fire and him.

You roll your eyes at yourself, laughing once, dry and bitter. “Not in some big dramatic way. Not pills or headlines or anything that’d ruin the brand.” You shake your head. “Just… quietly. Like, one day I’d stop, fade out, a footnote.”

You glance at him, just for a second, then back to the flames.

“But yet here I am,” you murmur, “with a super soldier, roasting marshmallows, under lockdown because some guy thinks…” You don’t finish that sentence.

Bucky’s jaw ticks. His body goes still, but he doesn’t interrupt. You get the sense he knows better than to.

You keep going, because if you stop now, it’ll crush you.

“I’ve had everything they said I should want. All of it. Magazine covers, designer gowns, awards with my name etched in gold like that’s supposed to mean something.”

You laugh again, hollow this time. “I’ve been told I’m beautiful by people who don’t even make eye contact. I’ve smiled through breakdowns. I’ve clapped for co-stars who took everything I wanted and through it all, I thought eventually….eventually I’d feel full.”

You pause, let the fire crackle for you.

“But I don’t.” Your voice is lower now. “Most days, I don’t feel anything at all. Just… tired. All the time. Like I’m running on autopilot. Like I’m standing in the middle of a room full of people screaming my name and I’ve never been lonelier.”

The wind shifts and fire flickers. You don’t look at him when you say it, but it’s the truth that floors him.

“This is the most joy I’ve had in years and I’m paying you to be here.”

That quiet silence hits hard. You feel your throat tighten. So you turn to him, finally, and your eyes are glassy, not full of tears, just… worn.

“Does that make me crazy?”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. He watches you, really watches you like you’re not a headline or a paycheck or a woman wrapped in satin on someone’s magazine cover. You’re just a person now, barefoot, burned out, asking if your emptiness means you’re broken.

“No.”

You blink at him.

--------

Wednesday morning starts slow, the kind of quiet that hangs gently in the air, like the house itself is still asleep.

Bucky’s already out on the patio, sitting on the bench, coffee in hand. His hair is still damp from the shower, sticking up a little at the back, and he’s wearing the same navy t-shirt from the night before, stretched a bit at the shoulders.

The air is cool, and the sky is soft gray. He’s not thinking about much, or maybe too much. He doesn’t know the difference anymore. Just staring at the garden, at the fence line, at the leaves trembling in the breeze. He hears the creak of the sliding door.

You step outside barefoot, sleeves too long on a borrowed hoodie. You’re balancing two mismatched mugs in your hands like they’re made of glass. You don’t say anything.

You just hand one to him. He looks up, surprised. He takes it without question, and puts his other one down.

You sit beside him, folding your legs up into the chair, knees pulled to your chest, like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. Your mug disappears into your hands.

Neither of you says a word for a while. The only sound is the wind brushing the trees and the faint clink of ceramic when one of you shifts. You sip slowly, so does he. You hated the quiet but this, felt different, this quiet sounded different.

You don’t look at him when you speak. “I hate the quiet, it makes me feel like I failed.” Your voice is soft and thoughtful.

Bucky turns his head, watching you.

You’re staring at the trees like they’ve got all the answers. “I know its stupid but if it isn't loud, if people aren't clapping, I thought it meant I wasn’t enough.”

You rest your chin on your knees. “I didn’t know quiet could feel… nice."

Bucky nods, not quick, just slow. Like he’s been thinking the same thing for years and never knew how to say it.

“It’s the only time I know I’m okay,” he says quietly.

You look back at him for a second, not too long just enough to let the words settle. “Yeah,” you say.

---

You’re in the screening room. You’re the one who picked Casablanca. Bucky didn’t argue, anything to get the last movie he saw out of his head, your movie.

The lights are dim, you’ve got a blanket wrapped around you, feet tucked under your legs, and a bowl of popcorn between you that neither of you are really touching.

He’s not watching the movie, he’s watching you.

The way you mouth the lines under your breath. The way your eyes crinkle slightly during the airport scene. The way your voice is quieter when you say: “We’ll always have Paris.”

You notice him watching. “What?” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “You’ve seen this a hundred times.”

You smile. “That obvious?”

“You don’t even look at the screen during the last scene.”

You shrug. “I know how it ends.”

He leans back, watching the flickering light dance across your face.

“You ever wish you had that? The whole ‘we’ll-always-have’ moment?”

You go quiet. “No, I think I’d rather have something that stays.”

You look at him, neither of you says anything after that. The credits roll, you don’t hit pause, don’t get up.

You both sit in the low blue glow, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders, his hand resting lightly on the couch between you. Not touching. Just there and when you eventually stand, stretch, and yawn into your sleeve, you look at him and you wish he was not just someone paid to be here.

He watches you leave, he memorises the way the blanket slips off your shoulder, the way your bare feet pad across the floor, the way you glance back once but don’t say anything.

He doesn’t move, doesn't stop you. Why would he?

But something in his chest feels…off. He wishes, just for a moment, that he wasn’t just the guy on the couch, the bodyguard. He wishes you had stayed, turned around or said his name again like you meant it. Long after you disappear, he keeps staring at the empty hallway. Still warm from you, still quiet in that way that feels like something is missing.

------

The Thursday morning sun is high when you find him.

You’ve just finished lunch or at least pushed half of it around your plate while pretending to eat and you spot Bucky out in the backyard. He’s sitting under the shade of the lone tree near the edge of the property, sleeves pushed up, hair messy, working on something with his hands.

At first you think it’s a knife, but as you get closer, you realize it’s a small block of wood. He’s carving. You’re not sure what, and you don’t ask.

You just drop down into the grass beside him, not bothering with grace or performance. Just you, in worn leggings and an old band tee, barefoot, your hair a little messy from the wind.

“What are you making?” you ask, casually.

He shrugs. “Don’t know yet.”

You watch his hands move, steady and careful, everything you wish you had. You realise you're staring at his hands too long, you decide to start a conversation “Tell me about Steve.”

He raises an eyebrow without looking up. “Why?”

You shrug. “You talk about him like he’s some mythical figure.”

Bucky smirks. “To me, he kind of is.”

You pick at the grass near your ankle. “What was he like? Before he got all tall and shiny.”

That makes him laugh, not some big one but real, you realising it's the best thing you ever heard.

“He got beat up every day,” Bucky says, carving knife still moving. “Small guy, loud mouth with a heart way too big. He was always standing up for people who didn’t ask him to. Even when he didn’t have the strength to back it up.”

You nod, resting your chin on your hand. “What about Sam?”

Bucky’s mouth pulls into something softer. “He’s the best guy I know. Smart, always knows what to say. He jokes a lot but… he means well, he sees people…really sees them, he saw through me. Sees the good in people before they see it.” He pauses. “They are two sides of the same coin, they’re the best people to have on your side.”

You pause. “You love them.”

He glances at you. “Yeah,” he says. No hesitation. “They’re family.”

There’s a moment of silence, the breeze picks up, ruffling the loose strands around your face. You lean back into the grass, legs stretched out, eyes closed against the sun. You speak so quietly he almost doesn’t catch it. “I don’t think I’ve ever had that.”

He sets the carving knife down slowly.

You open your eyes but don’t look at him. “Someone who just… knows me. Without all the filters, not the version of me they pay for. Not the headline, just….me. The way you talk about them.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding that sentence in for years. “I think I’d trade everything for that.”

You’re not expecting a response. You don’t even know why you said it.

But Bucky’s voice comes low. “You're not alone as you think.”

You turn your head to look at him, eyes narrowing just slightly, you don’t believe him but then he meets your gaze without flinching and your chest loosens, just a little.

You’re both in the kitchen. The sun’s gone down, but neither of you noticed, it’s the kind of night where time slips sideways.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the marble counter in worn socks and his hoodie, picking through the fridge drawer for grapes like you live there. Bucky leans against the island, arms folded, watching you with the kind of expression that’s halfway between amused and curious.

The little bird sits on the table behind him. It’s still rough around the edges, but it’s starting to take shape, something delicate carved out of something solid, just like him you think.

The air is calm, you’re not trying to fill the silence. You just exist in it together. You toss a grape at him, he catches it.

Out of nowhere, you say something, you don’t even remember what. Something sarcastic and weird and a little too honest about celebrity facial treatments or the time someone tried to sell your bathwater online.

Bucky snorts, actually snorts. It’s sudden and unexpected you freeze, mid-chew, eyes wide…then you snort, louder, messier, completely involuntary.

It hits you both at the same time.

You start laughing, big, belly-deep laughing. The kind that catches you off guard, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, pointing at him, “you snort when you laugh!”

His ears flush, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “Apparently.”

“Who would’ve thought? Sargent Barnes, war hero….snorts.”

He shrugs. “Haven’t done it in years. Maybe not since… my sister.”

That quiets the laughter, but it doesn’t kill the warmth. You shift, leaning back against the fridge. “What was her name?”

He nods. “Rebecca, I called her Becca. She was younger, smart….tough. Used to pretend she hated me, but she’d cry if I didn’t tuck her in when Ma was working late.”

You smile softly. “You were good to her.”

“I tried to be.” He swallows, “What about you? Do you have any siblings?”

You pause, then tilt your head. “You didn’t Google me?”

Bucky chuckles, low and tired. “There was a file. Mostly about your stalker. Ellis, right?”

You nod once. “Yeah, him.”

“Didn’t say much else,” he adds. “No siblings, no school records. Nothing normal. Just interviews and promo stuff and… threat reports.”

You look at him, expression unreadable. “I guess that tracks.”

He pushes off the counter, grabbing a glass of water. “I’d rather learn the real stuff from the source anyway. The internet’s mostly crap.”

That makes you smile, you nod. “I don’t have siblings, it was just me and my parents weren’t really in the picture, oh and I was homeschooled.” You don’t elaborate, and he doesn’t push.

Your eyes drift to the little bird on the table. You nod toward it. “What’s with the bird?”

He glances back. Picks it up in one hand, brushes his thumb over the grooves. His expression goes quieter, faraway.

“Birds don’t stay anywhere long,” he says. “They don’t belong to anyone. But they always find their way back, no matter how far they go.”

—————

It's Friday morning and you’ve barely touched your toast.

It sits cold on your plate while you curl into the window seat, knees drawn to your chest, sleeves pulled over your hands. You watch the driveway like it might come to life, like your stalker might materialize out of the shadows and end this awful waiting.

The house is too quiet, even the birds outside sound cautious. Your stomach churns, but not from hunger, from dread.

You keep hearing the same line in your head, over and over: They’re supposed to catch him tonight. As if that makes it safe, as if that makes it over. It doesn’t feel over. You don’t think it ever will.

Bucky finds you just after lunch, when he notices you’re not downstairs, not in the kitchen, not anywhere.

He walks past the stairwell and sees you, still there, still staring and something in him just knots. He doesn’t say your name, he just sits down beside you. The cushion shifts under his weight.

Your voice is quiet. Barely there. “You ever sit so still, it feels like the world’s moving around you?”

He nods, eyes on the window. “Yeah.”

You take a shaky breath. “They’re supposed to catch him tonight.”

“I know.”

You don’t look at him. Your voice is soft but sharp. “He sent me a letter once. Said he watched me sleep, said I looked like an angel.”

Bucky stiffens. Every instinct in his body coils tight.

“I was sixteen. I didn’t even know what the hell that meant. I just knew it made my skin crawl.”

You laugh once, it’s not a real laugh…more of a release. Bitter and brittle. “He thinks I belong to him. He’s… quiet. Calculated, smarter than anyone gives him credit for and he always finds me. No matter how many houses I buy. No matter how many bodyguards they hire.”

His jaw tightens. He wants to say he understands but he doesn’t. Not really, he’s been the shadow before. The one who follows, he knows what that kind of obsession looks like, what it feels like.

But this is different, this is….you, unraveling slowly in front of him, all he can do is offer his presence. “You’re safe now,” he says, his voice low. “With me, you are.” He swallows, “I wouldn't, I won't let anything happen to you.”

You turn to him, eyes tired. “I feel safe…here, with you.”

He doesn’t say anything, he does something he’s never done before…he just lays his hand over yours.

It’s warm and steady, something you’ve never felt before and to his surprise you hold it tighter than you mean to.

By Friday night he can tell you’re still wound up, still stuck inside your own head, even after dinner.

You smile at him when he offers tea, but it’s automatic. Your shoulders are too tight, your eyes are too far away.

So he says it, casually, like it’s nothing. “You play piano?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “Saw it in the sitting room, you said you loved music more right?”

You raise a brow. “What, you wanna sing a duet?”

Bucky huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “No, no, I just… miss music sometimes. Real music, not the garbage they play in stores now.”

You smile for real this time. It’s small, but it’s there. “I could play for you.”

He doesn’t answer, just gestures with his hand.

You lead the way. You sit on the bench and let your fingers rest on the keys, just for a moment. You don’t speak, you don’t explain what you’re about to play. You just start..it’s soft, slow. The kind of melody that makes the walls feel like they’re holding their breath.

Bucky leans against the archway, arms crossed, eyes locked on your hands. You don’t look at him, you’re somewhere else entirely.

Your fingers glide across the keys like you’ve done it a thousand times. Like the music lives in you, just waiting for the silence.

He watches and he feels something inside him break open a little. Because this? This is….you. No press, no cameras, no posing.

Just raw, haunting beauty.

He can’t imagine what your voice would sound like and maybe he doesn’t want to. Not yet. Because this, just this is already more honest than anything he’s ever known.

You finish the last note, and it lingers in the air like a held breath. You look over at him, eyes wide. A little nervous. “Well?” you ask.

Bucky just shakes his head once. Voice barely above a whisper. “That was… beautiful.”

You smile, but your eyes are wet. You don’t cry. But he sees how badly you want to.

———

It’s Saturday morning now, you barely slept.

You kept shifting beneath the sheets, cold despite the weight of the blanket. Your mind wouldn’t stop looping: He’s going to be caught. It’s almost over. He’s going to be caught. It’s almost over.

But it didn’t feel like peace. It felt like the second before an earthquake. Like stillness before glass shatters.

Your chest aches with nerves, your skin feels too tight. So you get up just after five. The sun hasn’t even risen, the sky is that pale kind of blue that makes the world feel like it’s holding its breath.

You pad into the kitchen in thick socks. Hair messy, hoodie hanging off one shoulder. You tie your hair back lazily and open the fridge, staring like you’re waiting for it to give you purpose.

You don’t know why you start making breakfast. You just… want to do something kind, something normal.

You make everything because you don’t know what Bucky likes. Toast, eggs, bacon and coffee in that old mug he keeps using. You cut the strawberries into little perfect slices. You line them into a fan on the edge of the plate, even though no one’s going to notice.

For a second, it feels like a house, like a home even in the white marble, sterile kitchen. Not a set, not a stage. A home. .

The front door slams open, you flinch so hard the knife in your hand clatters into the sink.

Footsteps and voices echo off the walls. Brett. Leah. Two others. Storming in like they own you, which they do. You let them.

“He’s in custody,” Brett announces, breathless, already half on his phone. “He was parked a block down. Had maps, call sheets, photos…creepy shit.”

You don’t move. The strawberries still in your hand. You don’t know if you feel relief or anything at all.

Bucky wakes the second he hears the noise. He comes down the hall shirtless, tugging a tee over his head, dog tags thudding softly against his chest, eyes sharp with instinct.

“What the hell’s going on?” he says, voice gravel and steel.

Leah doesn’t look at him. “We got him, it’s handled.”

She turns to you. “You need to go make yourself presentable. Interviews start at ten. There’s a presser at the hotel. You’ll speak briefly. We’re drafting the statement now.”

“I—” you start, dazed. “I made breakfast.” You say it like it matters.

Brett looks up from his screen, scoffs. “You’re on a diet. You don’t need this. We’ll order a green smoothie or something. Go change.”

And it’s gone, everythings gone. That small, warm thing you’d tried to build. Gone. You nod, slowly, like you’re moving underwater. Everything feels muted, numb. You started to feel real, feel human over the last couple days and just like that, like your shedding skin, it’s gone.

You turn toward the stairs. Bare feet soundless on the wood, skin cold against the polished surface. Everything feels far away, your body, your voice, the day itself. Like you’re floating inside a version of yourself that isn’t quite real anymore.

“I made you breakfast.”

You barely recognize your own voice. It comes out quiet, fragile. A whisper, almost childlike in its softness. Like if you speak louder, it’ll crack.

Bucky stops mid-step, freezes. You feel him turn, feel his gaze land on you and you hate how exposed you are.

You’re standing there in a faded t-shirt, too big on your frame. Sleeves shoved up to your elbows. Your hair’s still tangled from sleep, lips dry, eyes tired but not defeated, not yet.

You look at him like you’re trying. Like you’re trying so hard to keep this one little thing from slipping through your fingers. Trying to hold on to something normal, something kind. Just one moment that’s yours, he sees it.

He steps toward you carefully, slow, cautious. Like you might shatter if he moves too fast. Like you’re a bird that’s already half-decided to fly away.

He reaches out and wraps his fingers around your wrist. Not tight, just enough to anchor you.

You both just stand there, surrounded by chaos, shouts from down the hall, footsteps thudding across tile, Leah barking about call times, Brett’s voice cutting in and out of a phone call.

But all of it fades. It’s just you and him now, suspended in the noise.

Your voice cracks when you speak. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

He opens his mouth, voice low. “You don’t have to thank me. I—”

“I know.” You nod quickly, cutting him off, eyes flickering toward the floor. “You’re just doing your job.”

He shakes his head before you even finish, like he can’t stand hearing you say it.

“No,” Bucky says, and his voice is rough now, unsteady in a way that catches you off guard. “I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.”

That silence between you swells, full of every word neither of you has the nerve to say. Something real, something dangerous.

“Let’s go! We’re already late!”

Brett’s voice cuts like glass.

You flinch, again. Shoulders twitch up like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. Eyes drop, hands pull in close to your chest like you’re retreating and you start to turn, you always do.

But Bucky doesn’t let go. Instead, he reaches into his pocket. His hand brushes yours, careful, deliberate. He slips something into your palm, small, warm from his touch. His fingers fold yours around it like a secret.

You glance up at him, brows drawn together, confused.

He doesn’t explain, doesn’t speak. Just gives you the smallest nod, like he’s handing you something he didn’t know how else to say.

And you go, you don’t look back. Not until you’re behind the door of your bedroom, alone again. Where it’s quiet. Where you’re allowed to fall apart. You sit on the edge of the bed, your hand still closed in a fist.

When you finally open it, it’s the bird. The one he carved, the one he made.

It fits perfectly in your palm, smoothed down along the wings. Made with hands that have destroyed and protected and carried too much.

It’s not just a carving. It’s a message. I see you.

You let out a small gasp when you realize that someone finally sees you.

Bucky watches you disappear up the stairs barefoot, shoulders drawn, your fist still wrapped tight around whatever he gave you.

He lingers at the bottom for a moment, listening to the storm of voices in the hallway. He turns. “Where exactly was he?”

Leah barely glances at him, arms crossed, Bluetooth earpiece flashing as she flips through a stack of printed call sheets.

“Two blocks down. Surveillance caught him in his car, windows blacked out, engine running. He had her itinerary on the passenger seat. Press stops, hair appointments. Shit even we didn’t approve yet.”

Bucky’s jaw tenses. “And?”

“And nothing,” Brett cuts in, stepping out of the dining room, already dressed like he’s about to walk a red carpet himself. “NYPD took him in. He’s being processed. PR’s drafting a statement now. We’re controlling the narrative.”

“Controlling the—” Bucky stops himself. Takes a breath. He steps closer. “What exactly did he have?”

“Maps. Photos. Schedules. Hotel room numbers. Stuff that hasn’t gone public.” Brett shrugs like it’s just another day at the office. “Creepy, sure, but nothing that’s gonna stick longer than a few news cycles. We spin it right, she’s golden.”

“She could’ve died.”

“She didn’t,” Brett says, smiling like that’s the end of it. “And now she’s trending.”

Something hot twists in Bucky’s chest. Something that used to come before violence. He shoves it down.

He looks around the room, sees assistants carrying in garment bags, stylists setting up makeup lights by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The kitchen island is already cleared for curling irons and hot tools.

“She’s not even ready yet,” Bucky says, trying to track where you went.

Leah turns, pulling a compact from her purse and flipping it open. “She won’t need to be. We’ve got wardrobe, glam, full team en route. Hair in thirty, face in forty-five. Out the door in ninety.”

Bucky frowns. “She just woke up.”

“And?” Brett says, already texting again.

“She hasn’t eaten. She—” Bucky stops, then says it quieter, rougher, “She made breakfast for us.”

That makes Leah laugh. “Oh God, was that what that was?”

“She needs—”

“What she needs is to get out the door in full glam and pretend she wasn’t almost murdered again,” Brett snaps. “We’ve got donors expecting a statement. Sponsors asking for visibility. You want to be helpful? Stay out of the way.”

Bucky looks at both of them and all he sees are people who profit from your pain. You’re not a person to them, you’re a product. He turns before he says something he’ll regret.

Bucky wants to check on you, he wants to climb up those stairs so badly. God, he wants to, wants to knock gently on your door and ask if you’re okay. Not as your hired help, not as the guy who keeps things from getting too close.

Just as Bucky, as the guy who got to see you, the real you over the last few days but he doesn’t.

Instead, he walks out to the porch, still hearing the chaos inside the team barking orders, stylists setting up, the fucking sound of a steamer heating up in the kitchen like that’s more important than the fact that you haven’t even had a bite of the breakfast you made.

He takes out his phone and calls the only person who knows how to translate the weight he’s carrying.

“Hey,” Steve answers. “You alright?”

“No,” Bucky says.

It’s quiet on the other end for a moment, like Steve’s bracing. “Talk to me Buck.”

Bucky runs a hand down his face, presses his thumb against the corner of his eye like it might keep the ache there from settling in too deep.

“They got him,” he says. “Ellis, caught him last night outside that stuoid event, he had addresses, faked credentials, hotel floor plans. Stuff not even public.”

“Shit,” Steve mutters.

“He’s been watching her. Following her, probably inside her house at some point and no one even noticed. She told me he used to write her letters when she was sixteen. Said he saw her sleep. Said she looked like an angel.”

Bucky’s throat tightens.

“She’s lived her whole life being owned by people. By this industry. By her fear. Every room she walks into, someone’s already decided who she has to be. She’s surrounded by a team who talks over her. Who hands her protein shakes like they’re medicine. Who tells her what to wear and when to smile and what parts of her body she’s allowed to hate.”

He pauses, hand curling around the edge of the porch railing.

“She made me breakfast this morning. Got up before the sun. She sliced strawberries like she thought it would matter.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He knows better than to interrupt.

“And when they came in, her team, they stormed in, started barking orders before she’d even had a chance to exist in the morning. They told her she didn’t need to eat. That she had press to do. That she had a role to play andI watched her disappear in front of me, Steve. I watched her vanish.”

There was a small moment of silence, Bucky’s voice softer, “She’s not who I thought she was.”

Bucky exhales, long and shaky, then his voice breaks a little when he continues. “She’s… funny. Quiet in the morning. Hums when she makes toast. She’s even more beautiful without the make up, and glamour and when she talks about the kind of life she wanted, just a garden and a messy kitchen and wind chimes, my chest, Steve it aches.”

He swallows hard.

“Because she doesn’t think she deserves it. She thinks the world has already decided what she’s supposed to be. She calls herself a product…a performance. But when she plays the piano, Steve…” he stops, voice catching, “it’s like hearing something alive for the first time.”

Steve’s voice comes, low and gentle. “You care about her.”

“I didn’t want to,” Bucky says. “But yeah, I do and I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do now, because I’m watching her put the mask back on. She went from crying on my shoulder to being someone I can’t reach again.”

“She’s protecting herself,” Steve says. “You gotta see that.”

“I do, that’s what makes it worse.”

Steve speaks again, carefully. “Bucky… if she feels safe with you, really safe, she’ll come back. Let her protect herself for now. But don’t let her forget she has another choice.”

Bucky nods, even though Steve can’t see it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, okay.”

He ends the call, puts the phone in his pocket, stares out into the quiet for a long time. He’s not sure if he knows how to live with it, if he can’t protect the version of you the world never bothered to notice.

---

Steve lets out a long sigh as he hangs up the phone. He leans back in the chair at the long glass conference table, pinching the bridge of his nose, the way he does when something gets under his skin.

Sam walks in holding two coffees, casual in joggers and a hoodie. “What’s up, Cap?” he asks, handing Steve a cup before dropping into the seat across from him.

Steve’s quiet for a second. Just shaking his head like he’s still trying to wrap his mind around the call. “Bucky called.”

“Oh?” Sam sips. “Everything okay?”

Steve exhales again. “He’s rattled, says they caught the stalker this morning. Ellis.”

Sam’s brows raise. “Damn. That’s good, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, slowly. “But… it’s not just that.”

Sam raises an eyebrow.

Steve looks up at him, steady. “He talked about her.”

Sam pauses. “Her her?”

Steve nods. “He said she made him breakfast. Said she plays piano barefoot and hums while she makes toast. That she hasn’t worn makeup around him in days.” He pauses. “Said she looks sad even when she smiles. And that when she talks about what she wants… it hurts.”

Sam grins into his coffee. “He likes her.”

Steve gives him a look.

“No,” Sam says, holding up a hand, “like likes her.”

“He cares about her,” Steve says quietly. “More than I think he expected.”

Sam leans back, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good. I haven’t seen him care about someone in, well, ever.”

Before Steve can respond, the doors slide open and Tony walks in mid-sentence with himself, fiddling with a StarkPad. “I swear if Rhodey sends me one more email with the subject line ‘just checking in,’ I’m—”

He stops, glancing between them. “Why do you both look like someone died?”

“Bucky called,” Steve says.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Is he still brooding around the movie stars mansion?”

“He said some things,” Steve answers. “About her.”

Tony’s mouth pulls into a small, knowing smile.

“No,” he says. “Not surprised. They’re the same side of a coin.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Tony shrugs, but there’s something in the way he does it like he’s downplaying too much. “C’mon,” he says. “Bucky’s all steel and ghosts and guilt. She’s satin and smiles and sadness. But inside?” He taps his temple. “They’re both haunted. Both performing. Just trying to survive in a world that used them up and kept asking for more.”

Steve shifts in his seat. “How would you know that?”

Tony sips his coffee, too casual.

“Do you know her?” Steve asks again, firmer this time.

Tony meets his eyes. “I knew her father. Worked with mine. That’s all.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Tony holds the stare for a beat too long before finally answering.

“I know what it’s like to be a product of something you didn’t ask for. I know what it’s like to lose control of the narrative. So… yeah. Maybe I see it in her. Maybe I’ve seen it before.”

Sam looks between them. “So you’re saying she’s more like Buck than anyone else?”

Tony nods, quiet again. “I’m saying he might be the first person in her life who doesn’t want anything from her.”

Steve furrows his brow. “Her father worked with Howard?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, walking over to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Back in the day, scientist. Biochemical and neural interface research. Smart guy. A little twitchy. Always wore vests.”

“Like lab vests?” Sam asks.

Tony smirks. “Like bulletproof vests.”

That makes Steve straighten. “What kind of work were they doing?”

Tony glances at them both. “Classified.”

Sam sighs. “Come on.”

Tony looks at Steve. “You remember how many times people tried to recreate the serum after you?”

Steve nods, slowly. “You think it was that?”

Tony shrugs, leans against the counter. “I can’t prove it. But that’s the buzz I always heard. Quiet lab work, off the books. Lotta military interest. Howard kept it off the public radar. If it was about the serum, it was buried deep.”

Sam frowns. “What happened to him?”

Tony’s face darkens for a moment. “File says ‘deceased.’ No cause of death. No investigation. Just… gone.”

Steve looks down. “And she was how old?”

“Sixteen, maybe seventeen,” Tony says. “They emancipated her within weeks. Pretty much immediately after the funeral, which—” he glances between them, “there wasn’t one.”

Sam whistles under his breath.

“And then her team took over,” Tony finishes. “Press started building her up. Face of the future, Hollywood’s miracle girl. You know the rest.”

Steve leans back in his chair, jaw set. “No one ever asked questions?”

Tony lifts a brow. “When the world wants to sell a star, it doesn’t care where the kid came from. They just needed her to be pretty, quiet, and compliant and she played the part.”

Sam rubs his jaw. “No wonder Buck’s stuck.”

Steve nods slowly. “Yeah.”

---

You’re halfway through a late-day shoot in your living room. The lighting crew is moving softboxes across the marble floor while a makeup artist powders your cheekbones between takes, and someone’s telling you to “give them glass, not warmth” whatever the hell that means.

You’re tired. Not soul-tired, not yet… just worn. You’ve been in this same room for hours, modeling outfits you didn’t pick, smiling for a lens that doesn’t know the difference between a real expression and a pretty one.

You’ve got one heel kicked off under the coffee table. Your hair is perfect. You haven’t eaten since that stupid green juice and then the door bursts open.

Your assistant stumbles in like she’s running from something, breathless, gripping a heavy ivory envelope with trembling fingers.

“It just came.”

You blink. “What just came?”

She hands you the envelope like it might explode. “They couriered it. No one gets these.”

You take it, slide your thumb under the seal, and open it slowly, half-dreading some new obligation.

You read it once, then again. Your press team all but explodes around you. “They invited her to their tower, do you understand what this does for us?”

“This is next-level exclusive.”

“Q2 branding could double if we leverage this right—”

You tune them out. You’re still staring at the invitation.

Your name, printed in silver ink. A formal invitation from Stark Industries to a private event at Avengers Tower. No cameras, no press, no red carpet. Just the inner circle.

You run your finger along the edge of the paper like it might tell you why this feels different.

Across the room, Bucky is leaning against the wall, arms folded, jaw tight. He’s been watching you all day, the same way he always does now. Not like security, like he’s studying you.

He speaks over the noise, his voice calm, quiet meant just for you. “What’s got them all worked up?”

You walk toward him, still holding the envelope. “They invited me to Avengers tower, you're home."

He raises an eyebrow, taking the envelope when you hold it out. He scans it quickly, his eyes darting across the text like he’s reading a threat or maybe a puzzle.

He lifts his gaze. “Are you gonna go?”

You shrug. “Of course.” A pause. “I want to meet your friends.”

There’s something in the way you say it, not casual, not for show. You mean it. You’ve been building this quiet thing with him all week, and now you want to see the world he comes from, a real one. Not the world with red carpets, his world.

He hesitates, his fingers flex slightly around the envelope.

“Are you coming with me?” you ask, gaze steady.

He doesn’t answer right away. “As your bodyguard?”

You smile, real this time. Soft around the edges. “No, as my date?"

His chest tightens. You don’t see it, but he feels it. A stutter-beat under his ribs.

You turn before he can answer. Just like that, pivoting back toward the set, the lights, the camera waiting to eat you alive again. “Think about it,” you call over your shoulder.

Then you’re gone, humming under your breath again, barefoot now, holding the invitation like it doesn’t weigh anything. Like you didn’t just drop a grenade in the middle of his day.

Bucky stays frozen.

He watches the lighting crew adjust your hair. Watches your team scramble over themselves to draft a statement in case photos leak. Watches your smile flash for the camera, just like always.

But all he can hear is the way you said, I want to meet your friends. All he can feel is the way the word date landed in his chest. Because now he’s not thinking about your stalker or the shoot or holding that stupid envelope in his hand.

He’s thinking about your laugh. Your humming. Your bare feet on cold floors and the way his heart hasn’t beaten steady since Tuesday.

That night, the house is too quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Not the kind that settles you, the kind that presses.

Bucky stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, half-finished cup of coffee cooling in his hand. He hasn’t touched it in ten minutes. Doesn’t even remember pouring it.

The only sound is the faint ticking of the old wall clock above the stove. Somewhere in the house, someone from your team is packing up wardrobe racks. Someone else is wheeling out lights. But here, in the kitchen, it’s just him and his spiraling thoughts.

Why would you ask him? Why would you ask him to be your date? Him? You could have anyone, ask anyone.

He’s not the guy who gets invited to towers and black-tie things. He doesn’t wear suits well. He doesn’t schmooze. He barely speaks at all some days. He never even shows up for the galas or parties even though they are held where he lives.

You, on the other hand, you move through the world like you were made for it. A camera clicks and you breathe elegance. You throw your head back when you laugh like it was choreographed and still… you asked him.

No security detail. No “you’ll be close anyway.” You asked him to go as your date and that four letter word, it feels too big, too good.

You’re a star. A world built around flashbulbs and first-name fame and he’s just a soldier trying to forget what it felt like to be a weapon. Still trying to remember how to be human.

He stares down into the dark surface of his coffee and thinks, you shouldn’t want me.

He doesn’t hear you come in. Just senses you, soft footfalls, no heels, tired socks on polished hardwood.

You move past him toward the sink, the hem of your hoodie brushing your thighs. It’s yours this time, not borrowed. Your hair’s pulled up in a loose knot, mascara smudged slightly under one eye. You look worn in the way that means you’ve finally stopped performing for the day.

You fill your water glass without looking at him.

The soft hum of the faucet fills the silence, steady and familiar. Your back is to him, shoulders slouched just enough to say you’ve stopped performing, even if you haven’t fully let go. Not yet.

He watches the way you move, it's quiet and natural. The kind of stillness that doesn’t beg to be noticed but always is. The kind that tells him you’re finally not bracing for something. Your shoulders don’t tense when you hear him step closer. Not like they did the first day.

He hears himself speak before he’s fully ready. “I’ll go… with you.” His voice is quieter than usual. Less sure. Like he’s afraid the words might float back into his throat if you turn around too fast.

You freeze, hand still on the faucet, water still running. The moment hangs there for a breath, then another. You turn— low, deliberate, like you’re giving him time to take it back if he wants to.

But he doesn’t. Your eyes lock onto his, wide and searching.

“You will?” you ask, voice light but careful. Like you don’t want to tip whatever balance has just formed.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

Just one word. But it carries more than most people say in an entire speech. You stare at him for a second.

He watches it happen, your face changes slowly. That kind of expression that can’t be faked, not even if you tried. Your smile breaks through like sunlight, hesitant at first, like it’s checking to see if it’s allowed but then it settles fully, soft and bright and open.

Not for the cameras, not for your team. Just for him. Bucky’s breath catches a little. Because that smile? That one? It reminds him of the stars. The ones he used to stare at on the long walks home after curfew. The ones that stayed bright no matter how dark everything else got.

You laugh, barely a sound, just the smallest exhale with a grin in it. “I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”

“I didn’t think I’d be someone you’d ever want to ask,” he admits, voice rough around the edges.

Your smile falters for a second not because it’s gone, but because something about that sentence hits. “You’re the only one I would’ve asked.”

It knocks the air right out of his lungs. Neither of you says anything after that.

The water in your glass is full now, long past full, but you don’t notice until it drips over your fingers and hits the floor with a soft tap.

You blink down at it, then smile again, smaller this time, almost shy. You turn the faucet off, shake the water from your hand, and start toward the stairs.

But halfway there, you stop and glance back at him.

“Don’t be late,” you say, voice quiet but warm.

He’s left in the kitchen, heart thudding against his ribs like it doesn’t know how to beat slow anymore.

-----

It’s late when Bucky finally shows up at the compound. The lights are dim in the common area, but Steve and Sam are still up, Steve nursing a cup of tea on the couch, Sam sprawled across a chair with his phone, feet kicked up like he owns the place.

Bucky drops his overnight bag by the wall with a grunt.

Sam barely looks up. “What, you get lost?”

“Traffic,” Bucky mutters.

Steve squints at him. “You’re flushed.”

“I’m not flushed.”

“You’re flushed,” Sam echoes.

Bucky rolls his eyes, crossing to the counter for a bottle of water.

“I thought you were staying at her place till Sunday?” Steve asks.

“Had to come back,” Bucky says casually, twisting the cap. “Tony invited her to that party tomorrow.”

Steve sits up straighter. “He did?”

Bucky nods once, sipping. “Whole team lost their damn minds.”

He hesitates, for a moment. Steve and Sam both notice.

They lock onto him like bloodhounds. Sam leans forward slowly. “And?”

Bucky shrugs, too casual. Way too casual for how it makes him truly feel. “She asked me to go with her.”

Sam bolts upright like he got shocked. “No fucking way.”

He looks like Christmas came early. Actually, like it broke through the window.

Bucky winces as Sam jumps to his feet. “You’re her date? Her date-date?! Like plus-one, wear-a-suit, maybe-dance-if-there’s-music date?”

“Calm down,” Bucky mutters.

“I will not!” Sam’s practically vibrating. “I get to meet her. I get to breathe the same air as her. I’ve seen every movie, even the one with the horse!”

Steve is laughing now, shaking his head.

“She asked you?” he says.

Bucky shrugs again, trying hard not to smile and he fails.

Steve grins wider. “Get up.”

Bucky frowns. “Why?”

“We’re raiding your closet,” Steve says. “Party’s tomorrow. We’re not letting you embarrass her.”

“Embarrass her?” Bucky echoes, affronted.

Sam’s already halfway to the hallway. “Oh, I know you own that funeral jacket you wear every time we go out, don’t even try it.”

Steve claps him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The floor is littered with jacket options, half-buttoned shirts, and three separate pairs of boots.

Bucky is standing in front of the mirror, arms crossed, wearing his good jacket, the one he doesn’t wear because it makes him feel like he’s trying too hard. His sleeves are rolled just enough. So he doesn’t look like a bodyguard tomorrow night. He looks like a man trying not to hope for too much.

“You’re wearing the good jacket,” Sam says, eyeing him.

“You never wear the good jacket,” Steve adds, leaning against the doorframe.

Bucky shifts uncomfortably. “It’s just a party.”

“A party,” Sam echoes, eyes twinkling, “with her.”

Bucky doesn’t answer, not right away.

He looks at himself in the mirror. At the way his face looks less harsh when he’s not frowning. At the way his shoulders aren’t so tight tonight.

“She’s not what I made her out to be,” he says quietly. “ Just so you both know, It was all a front.”

Steve looks at him, steady. “Yeah, we know.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

Because it’s all over his face, Sam just grins and says, “He’s so in trouble.”

-----

Bucky waits in the hall down the stairs from your bedroom, leaned casually against the wall like it’s just another day. He checks his watch once, twice. Runs a hand through his hair. He tries not to think too hard about what you might look like when you step out.

He hears voices downstairs, They’re not loud, not urgent but sharp.

“…she said she’d do that nude scene—”

He frowns, body stilling.

“She agreed to it?”

“Only on the condition that he go with her as her date tonight after we objected.”

His jaw tightens.

“She really played that one well.”

“She always does. That’s why she’s where she is.”

“She really wanted to go with him.”

He doesn’t catch every word, just those.

But it’s enough, enough to make something cold bloom in his chest. He’s not angry. Not exactly. He doesn’t even know what he feels just that it hits harder than he expected. Like someone just knocked the wind out of something he didn’t realize he’d been building.

Then the door at the top of the stairs creaks open and everything else drops, you step out slowly, one hand on the banister.

The overhead light hits the fabric of your dress and it glides across your figure like liquid. Black satin, off-shoulder. Cinched perfectly at the waist. Classic, timeless. Your hair’s swept back into soft waves. Your lips are a perfect, understated red. Diamond studs, no necklace. You don’t need one.

You look like you stepped out of one of Bucky’s memories from a reel that played in sepia tone, the kind he saw on leave, when the war felt far away and beauty felt possible.

He forgets how to breathe, under his breath, meant only for you “You…” You stop on the top step. He meets your eyes. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Your lips part, not in shock, but like you’re about to say something, something real but your team swoops in like a wave, rushing around you.

“Okay, here’s what you’re saying tonight—”

“If anyone asks about the film, keep it vague—”

“No direct quotes unless we wrote them—”

“Give me your phone, you can have it back before the party.”

“You need to take photos for socials.”

You don’t flinch, you hand it over without hesitation, because you’ve done it a hundred times, it’s like a reflex.

That’s what hits Bucky hardest, not the dress, not the cameras, not the reveal. But the way you hand over your freedom like it’s just part of the outfit.

Still, right before you’re ushered out the front door, you glance back at him. Just once before you speak slowly, “You look beautiful too Bucky Barnes.”

The car ride over is quiet. But not the tense kind of quiet. Just a mutual, steady kind.

You scroll through your phone, half-listening to the muffled chaos of your team barking orders in the seats behind you. Your body is still, perfectly poised, but your thumb moves across the screen like you’re somewhere else entirely.

Bucky sits beside you, elbow resting against the door, tie slightly loose. He doesn’t say much but he doesn’t have to.

Halfway to the Tower, he pulls out his phone.

Bucky: Don’t let her team into the party. Names are Brett, Leah, Gina.

A few seconds pass.

Steve: Got it.

You glance over at him once, he pockets the phone without comment.

The car slows as it approaches the private entrance to the Tower. Security lights sweep across the windows before the gate lifts. The building looms above, sleek and cold from the outside, its glass glinting under the night sky.

You’re quietly staring out at the lights, legs crossed, hands resting in your lap. Your dress shifts as the car stops, the fabric pooling slightly at your ankles.

You don’t move right away, you glance toward Bucky. “So this is where you live?” you ask softly.

He nods, looking out the window with you. “This is where I live.”

You tilt your head. “Hmm, only a little bigger than my place.” You joke.

That makes him laugh, it's low and warm in his chest, like you caught him off guard in the best way.

“It’s Stark’s,” he says. “We all just stay here.”

The driver gets out, walking around to open the door, but Bucky beats him to it. He steps out first, straightening his jacket, and then leans down to offer you a hand.

You take it. His metal fingers wrap around yours, cool at first, but steady. He helps you out gently, careful of your dress. You rise with practiced grace, heels clicking softly on the stone.

He goes to let go, like he always does. But you don’t let him. Your fingers tighten around his, just enough to say not yet. He doesn’t pull away.

He looks down at your hand in his, then up at you. You’re watching the entrance, chin high, eyes calm but he sees the faintest tension in your jaw, so he holds on.

You walk together, hand in hand, toward the entrance past the glowing glass, the red velvet ropes, the security guards who already know your names.

You lean in just slightly, voice low. “Don’t let go, okay?”

His grip tightens. “I won’t.”

Inside, the marble foyer glows under warm golden lights. Everything sleek, everything Stark.

You and Bucky walk hand-in-hand toward the elevator, calm, in sync, effortless. People look, of course they do. But no one says anything.

You feel it the way the world shifts when you enter a room with him. Not just because of who you are. But because of who he is to you right now.

Your team isn’t so lucky.

“Y/N!”

Brett’s voice echoes through the glass and stone.

You glance back just in time to see all three of them, Brett, Leah, and Gina stopped firmly at the front door.

“We just need to confirm authorization—” Someone says.

Then the security guard doesn’t flinch. “Sorry. You’re not on the list.”

“What? Are you serious? We’re her team!”

“Exactly,” the guard says. “She’s inside. You’re not.”

You glance up at Bucky. He’s already looking at you, smiling small, smug, and satisfied. You smile back because you’re free even if it's just for a night.

Your fingers tighten around his metal hand. The one that he thought would scare you, that should scare you. But you don’t even think about it.

“Lead the way, Sarge,” you whisper.

The elevator doors opened onto the 33rd floor, and for the first time in weeks, you weren’t met with flashing cameras or screaming fans. No paparazzi pressed behind barricades, no handlers whispering cues in your ear.

Just warmth.

The party was already underway, not loud or flashy, but intimate in the way only real people make a space feel. Low jazz drifted through the air, the soft clink of glasses echoing gently against polished marble floors. Laughter, shoulder squeezes, familiarity.

Bucky walked slightly in front of you, your hand still in his not as security, not as a shield, but as something closer to a tether. You felt it. The way his hand adjusted to yours. Like he didn’t want to let go either.

“Well, well, well.” Tony Stark, of course, found you first. Drink in hand, half-smile already forming.

He stepped forward with that signature Stark ease, the kind that made everyone either lean in or want to slap him.

“Look who it is,” he said. “Good to see you again, Y/N.”

You smiled, not for show.. Small, but present. “You too, Tony.”

Bucky blinked, caught off guard. His brow creased slightly as he looked between the two of you.

“You know him?” he asked.

You nodded, still smiling, joking mostly. “Popular people have to stick together, right?”

Tony barked a laugh. “God, I love her. Go have a drink. Say it’s on me, even though it's an open bar, just sounds more generous that way.”

You chuckled as Tony wandered off into a sea of board members and Avengers alumni.

Bucky’s hand was still in yours as you made your way toward the bar.

He finally asked, quieter now, more curious than anything, “How do you know Stark?”

“My dad worked with Howard,” you said, eyes scanning the room. “I used to run around their estate when I was a kid. Tony was older, not around much.”

Bucky stopped slightly. Stilled, at the name. Howard. The weight of it, the war, the serum and everything that followed. He looked at you carefully now. Like a missing piece just shifted into place.

“What did your dad do?” he asked.

You shrugged, sipping your drink. “Scientist, biochem. I guess kind of a genius. He and Howard were obsessed with whatever they were doing, never saw him much, it was all classified”

He didn’t say anything, but he could feel the tension pulling tight inside his chest.

You glanced at him, catching it.

“He disappeared when I was seventeen,” you said. “One day he just didn’t come home. Papers said it was an accident. There was no body, no funeral.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

You continued like you were reading off a grocery list, detached and well-practiced. “My mom… I never met her. Gave birth, didn’t want the job and left.” It wasn’t bitter, it wasn’t broken, it was just empty.

Bucky didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything at all. You took another sip, then looked up at him over the rim of your glass. Your lipstick left the faintest smudge.

“Take me to Steve,” you said softly. “I wanna meet your best friend.”

He nodded, led you into the room. Still holding your hand, still not letting go.

a real piece of art

e.m x reader, 2.8k

summary: eddie has some time to kill, and you might just be his new favourite distration. includes: art history student!reader, meet cute, eddie's an absolute dork warnings: mentions of nudity in artwork and allusions to a young eddie who is very excited by the prospect.

a/n: this came to me as i stared blankly into the void of my coffee machine this morning. i'm incapable of proofreading as per usual. i could be convinced to do a part two

Eddie had no business being here. This was an art gallery for crying out loud! He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stepped in one, save that one unfortunate field trip in middle school where he’d been caught ogling a half naked sculpture in front of half the class. Sue him, he’d never seen a naked girl before, and he really had to give credit to the artist because he couldn’t look away. He’d been called a perv for a good year after that, and he’d never thought to visit another gallery again. 

Until now, that was. He was due for a practice and soundcheck in what he thought was only an hour, but somewhere along the line Jeff had got the time wrong, leaving Eddie stuck in Chicago with nothing but his ego to keep him company. Eddie had kicked himself for the mistake – who rehearses at 10 am anyways? There was a silent agreement that Gareth would be handling the bookings next time, where Eddie might be able to actually stay in bed until a reasonable hour. 

He’d thought to burrow down in a cafe for a little while, but the snooty businessmen and shrill giggles of the barista had sent him fleeing. The environment wasn’t conducive to good thinking anyways. He figured a little solace would do him some good, maybe give him some hard earned inspiration to turn into music for the band. So with coffee in hand, he’d taken to the streets, wandering idly as the strings of bodies moved in tandem, dodging and weaving the tracks of Tuesday morning commutes. It might have been enough for him had his jacket not been too thin for the sudden drop in temperature. Worn denim with steamed patches was hardly enough to break the piercing gusts of wind, and even his sweltering coffee in hand could not keep his hands from shaking. Looking around, Eddie felt out of luck. Cafe’s seemed too busy, and he had no real desire to start wandering shops nearby, so what was there left to do? 

$14 later, Eddie puffed a relieved sigh as the warmth of the gallery enveloped him, that trembling cold slowly dissipating from his veins until his hands no longer felt like ice. He figured he’d have taken any sanctuary, though he had been hoping maybe for a Library. At least then he could have bunkered down somewhere with a book. What did you even do at a gallery anyways?  He didn’t see much point in wandering around, scanning his eyes over paintings that seemed a million years old. He didn’t get art. Music was his art, after all. Even as he started to walk, all the pieces seemed to bleed together for him. Acrylics and oils and gouache melted into the blur of faces and places and things. Sure, they looked pretty, but Eddie couldn’t see why anyone would waste their time to sit and paint something like this, let alone stare at it for hours. 

He passed through room after room like this, brows furrowed, arms crossed as he tried to puzzle out the meaning. Music and melody had meaning, lyrics filled with the words people couldn’t seem to say any other way. The sounds of instruments were sounds of heartbeats, of head rushes and blood flow and heart aches and burning desires – paintings couldn’t do that, could they? 

Wandering into a smaller room, Eddie found himself caught as his eyes fixated on perhaps the only worthwhile piece of art he had seen all morning. There you were, perched somewhat uncomfortably on the plush leather seat in the room's centre, head resting delicately into cupped palms, your elbows propping you up into a figure he was sure was only meant for statues. You looked like one of the Greek ones, he thought, all soft and graceful curves, pretty lines and prettier expressions. There was a notebook in your lap, though Eddie couldn’t begin to make out what the blurry pen strokes might have  noted at this distance. 

You seemed so lost in thought as you stared at the piece directly before you, eyebrows knitted in concentration to match the deep set focus of your eyes, and Eddie, despite himself, was lost in you. 

It was a horrifying notion to realise he was back in this same situation again, entirely different and yet all the same. Here he was, stuck motionless, staring helplessly at something beautiful, something entirely foreign to him. Naked breasts had been enough to melt a twelve year old Eddie’s mind, but this Eddie, now grown, was entirely transfixed for another reason. Never in his life had just looking at a person knocked the wind right out of him. This was beyond attraction, he thought. Beyond a pretty face and a beautiful body and all those hormones that made people spin. You were all of that, and so much more. 

How he knew that seemed entirely out of reach, but the thought settled in him all the same. 

Eddie watched the subtle angle of your head, the way you tried to see from a different perspective, before fixating your attention on your notebook once more, scribbling away furiously at stained parchment. 

All better judgement seemed to leave him as he approached, slow and long strides to avoid the echoes of boots against floorboards in such vastness. His body took residence beside the lounge, standing tall at the opposite end, arms crossing as he tried to see what it was that had you so fascinated. 

Cheese. Bread. Nuts of some kind. He tilted his head as you had, browns furrowing in confusion. Still cheese. Still bread. Still nuts of some kind. He let out a defeated huff. 

“Are you okay?” 

He hadn’t expected you to speak, let alone notice him, but when he turned his chin towards you he was met with a curious expression. You were even more captivating up close, as it turned out, so much so that he could not decide what captured his attention more. The soft bags of sleepless nights hung low under your eyes, your cheeks flushed with a dusty sort of colour that only the artifice of candies could achieve, your cheeks indented so delicately with the lines of so many smiles that had come before. 

It was embarrassing in his eyes that he was still gawking, and even more embarrassing that you had to ask your question a second time. 

“Oh– yeah. I mean… yeah. Sorry. Was I being too loud?” 

The soft shake of your head was accompanied by an even gentler smile, and Eddie felt his shoulders ease a fraction away from his ears. 

“No, not at all. Just seemed like a forlorn sigh.” You pointed out, uncrossing your legs to lower your feet to the ground. 

Eddie’s brow raised, his tone lilting with amusement. “Forlorn, huh?” 

You shrugged, though Eddie could see the slow creep of embarrassment flush your cheeks, your hand lifting to rub at it absentmindedly. “Yeah, I guess. It was just the first word that came to mind.” 

Eddie was smiling before he knew what he was doing. “I like it. Forlorn. Like it’s from a poem, or something.” 

A soft hum of contemplation fell from your lips, your pen scratching nervously in the margins of your notebook, patterns of stars falling into the sea of words below. “Could be. Poets are meant to be all crestfallen and stuff.” 

He actually laughed at that, something sounding like a punched out breath leaving him, his eyes crinkling delightfully at the corners. 

“Are you a writer or somethin’? You don’t just hear people saying words like that every day. Gotta know them by trade.” 

You shrugged again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind the curve of your ear. “Student, actually. Art history, so I guess fancy words are part of the curriculum.” 

It seemed strange to be meeting you like this, like someone high above had heard his complaints only to send him an angel to set him straight. An art student; maybe you could teach him a thing or two. 

Eddie gestured to the seat beside you, flat palm dampened nervously at the prospect of speaking to someone so pretty, so much more learned than him. You nodded shyly, not bothering to adjust as he took up the empty space beside you, his elbows propping on his knees for comfort. 

“Can I ask you something, then? Since all of this is your thing.” 

You closed your notebook, folding your legs beneath you once more as you fixated your attention on him – something Eddie was sure no man could ever tire of wanting from you. “Sure”. 

“Why are you staring at this one? Out of all the pictures in this place, what makes cheese so interesting.” 

The astonished little chuckle that left you was something sacred, golden and warm and louder than he had anticipated. You could put that laugh to song. Maybe he would. 

“It’s not the cheese,’ You clarify, your smile never shifting from your lips, “though it looks great, doesn’t it? Looks real.” 

Eddie took in the piece once more, letting his eyes trace over the food to take in the finer details. It was true; it looked real. He could see the shadows, the cracks in the bread, the crumbs that had fallen onto the platter below. He realised it mustn’t have been easy to make something so real. It felt like a snapshot. 

Oh fuck, do I get art now? 

“Yeah, it looks real. Kinda crazy real, actually. How do they get it looking like that?” 

“It’s different for different people. This one’s by Peeters, and no one’s sure where she learned to paint, but she was one of the only female professionally working artists of the 17th century. She was a big deal.” 

Eddie tilted his head towards you. “Is that why you like her, then?” 

You shook your head, scrunching up your nose. “It’s very impressive, but it’s not the only reason. I was looking for her signature.” 

Eddie did not need to clarify himself, the confusion that etched across his face spoke volumes, leaving you to laugh again in amusement. 

“A lot of artists leave signatures so you know a work is theirs. Sometimes it’s their name, or an item, or a seal – sometimes it’s on the back, sometimes it’s made to look part of the picture. She writes her name down at the bottom, see?” 

You leaned in a little closer to Eddie, lining up his gaze with your own so you could point out a flourish of cursive in the corner. Drawn into you, Eddie could not help but lean into your orbit, his eyes following the line of your finger to its destination. “Oh yeah. Musician’s do that too, y’know. Chuck in a riff or a line or something to leave their mark.” 

“Seems like it’s an artist's thing. I think it’s pretty cool.” 

Eddie liked the insinuation that musicians were artists. He’d met too many people in his life who’d thought otherwise, who did not understand the value of art. He supposed he was one of them, though. He’d been ratting on the art around him only five minutes earlier. 

“You like music, then?” He asked, eagerness in his voice betraying the cool persona he was hoping to achieve. 

“I love music.” You confirmed, hands busily occupying themselves by twiddling the pen in your lap once more. “I wish they played music here. Imagine looking at all the art and listening to songs that fit. There’s these big dramatic paintings a few rooms over that are just begging for a rock instrumental to accompany it, and the cheese…” you trailed off, seemingly embarrassed to have been so caught up in the idea. “I feel like I'd be lost in it forever.” 

Eddie closed his eyes for the briefest moment, letting the vision of your little dream settle in his mind. He could get around that, art and music together – two worlds colliding. It seemed all the more enticing to think you would be there too, humming away as you watched the paintings and he watched you. 

“I think it sounds brilliant. You tell me when you’re building this fancy gallery and I’ll be the first one there.” 

He might have died at the sincerity with which you smiled. No heart was meant to withstand such adoration brimming inside of it. 

“You know, I–” you paused, garnering some courage to find the words, “the signature I was talking about before? That wasn’t the one that had me looking at this. The cheese, I mean.” You gestured vaguely towards the canvas before you, though Eddie was unwilling to peel his eyes from the work of art before him. 

“Yeah? What had you looking, then?” He couldn’t believe that for the first time in his life, Eddie actually cared about what was splayed across a canvas. Whatever it was that intrigued you so, he was aching to know. 

“She painted herself in the reflection of the lid on the jug. Up the top… see?” Adjusting the items in your lap, you slowly rose to your feet, extending a hand out to drag the boy up with you. Eddie faltered only for a second, contemplating whether this one single touch would make or break him. Would the sweat of his palms disgust you? He was so nervous to talk to you, after all, to take this chance. He swallowed, slipping calloused fingers into your own until he felt unperturbed digits grasp his own, your expression unphased as you guided him towards the wall. 

You both paused a foot short, your free hand pointing upwards to guide his flittering eyes. Lo and behold, painted so delicately into the reflection of the jug, was a face staring back at him. His hand squeezed your own with untapped excitement, and Eddie’s mouth dropped. 

“Holy shit, that’s so cool. That’s really her?” 

You nodded, squeezing his hand back. “Yeah, that’s Clara.”

It was silent for a beat, the two of you soaking in the image before you; the woman in and amongst all the pieces of a life lived so long ago. It was a moment in history, much like the one the two of you were caught in now. 

Eddie marvelled helplessly, unsure what seemed to amaze him more; all these details that he never would have noticed if it weren’t for you, or the fact that you, a complete stranger, were still holding on to his hand as if it were something normal. For the briefest moment, he wondered if this could be normal, you and him. 

“I think this is the ultimate signature in a painting, just writing yourself into the story like that. It’s such a small thing, but… it changes everything, doesn’t it?” You broke the silence, voice a little dream like as you spoke. Eddie could only nod dumbly, a contented smile spreading across his face. 

“You wouldn’t wanna show me more of these, would you?” 

Eddie couldn’t stand the idea that you might walk away after this, back to your own life that until now had been so far away from his own. He wanted to walk the whole gallery with you, your hand in his, your voice whispering sweet nothings about the history and details of the world around you. 

The sheer excitement that crossed your features was an expression unmatched, never before seen. It was like he had asked you the one question you had been waiting for your whole life. Maybe you had been. Maybe no one had ever taken interest in the thing you seemed to love so much. He knew what that was like after all, his music had not been everyone's cup of tea. 

Maybe it could be yours.

“Oh, I– really?” 

“Only if you want to. I spent my whole time here trying to work out what made this stuff so special; I think you might be the one to show me. I’ll buy you coffee as thanks, if you like. I mean… I’d like to take you out for coffee.” 

He felt like a bumbling idiot, pausing to breathe an embarrassed chuckle. “You can also tell me to get lost at any time.” 

Eddie wasn’t sure if you noticed the way your hand seemed to tighten in his own, the movement causing his heart to beat in unsteady rhythms. It was something so small that seemed to shift his entire world – your hand holding his. 

Your head tilted with a smile. “You never said your name, y’know.” 

“Eddie.” He breathed out a little too fast. He’d have to kick himself later for it, because right now, he was too fixated on the way his foolishness seemed to make you smile all the wider. 

“Eddie.” You echoed, turning your body to face his own. “I’d love a coffee.” 

It took everything in him not to fist bump in triumph, his body aching to wriggle with the excitement that was slowly taking over muscle by muscle. How the hell had his morning turned out this good? 

“Sounds like a date, then.”

(images not mine)

“Still Life with Cheeses, Almonds and Pretzels” by Clara Peeters (ca. 1615)

charmed

e. munson x reader, 3k

summary: eddie comes home from a long day at work to discover wayne has a pretty surprise for him includes: established!eddie x reader, wayne being the sweetest paternal figure, mumblings of a found family, wayne manifesting a daughter in law by years end warnings: afab reader, non descript

a/n: writing from the boys perspective is always way more fun. i have so many thoughts about wayne and eddie's relationship.

Eddie had intended to be home earlier, a far cry earlier than the 9:30 that blinked hazily on his vans dashboard as he pulled in before the trailer. He was meant to be home hours ago, hoping to enjoy a Friday night the way that a young person ought to – out with the people he loved. Instead he sat in his driver's seat, covered in oil and grime and god knows what else from under the hood of some deadbeat richman from the other side of town. The apprentice had fucked the repair of a rather pricey car, one that was to be picked up first thing monday, and Eddie didn’t have it in him to let the little guy drown under the barrage of abuse from an intimidating customer. 

So he stayed back, and now he was paying the price. Dinner would have been long over by now, and it was unlikely that Wayne was still home at such an hour. He usually had the night shift on this pay cycle, but Eddie couldn’t tell one from another these days. The lights were still on, his indication that he’d gotten his weeks wrong. 

Worn leather boots beat against the gravel as he trekked towards the door, hand running through the curls that hung low on his forehead; wild, in desperate need of a trim. He was spent, body weary and limp from the extra strain. He wanted to call his friends, to call you, to ask for good company, but he knew even now he was too tired to go anywhere. 

The door was unlocked, so he slipped into the warmth of the trailer with an involuntary shiver, eyes blinking tiredly to spot the figure propped up on the couch. Wayne. Beer in hand, chin shadowed with stubble; Eddie’s hero, if anyone were to ever ask. The old man was his favourite person, whether he knew it or not. 

Wayne gave a gruff smile, tilting his chin up at his nephew. “Long day, boy?” 

“Yeah.” Eddie breathed, voice more gravelly than he’d realised. “Got stuck back, sorry I didn’t call.” 

Wayne shrugged. “I figured, though there’s a surprise in your room f’you.” 

A surprise? Eddie couldn’t possibly guess what. “You’re joking.” 

Wayne simply smiled in response, shaking his head. “You go have a look ‘n tell me if I’m joking. Just be quiet about it.” 

Eddie gave a quizzical sort of look, boots resounding against the floorboards as he moved towards the room, a quick mumble from Wayne catching his attention again. 

“Quieter than that.” 

Eddie scoffed, his demeanour still playful despite his disbelief. He took more careful steps this time, readjusting the band wrapped clumsily around his bound tresses, trying to alleviate the steadily subsiding headache from two hours ago. Wayne had never been much of a secret keeper, nor was he one for dramatics. He was a pragmatic, realistic, nonfrivolous sort of man, which made that excitable little sparkle in his uncle’s eyes all the more amusing. Wayne didn’t play tricks, but Eddie couldn’t help but feel he was walking into one. 

With a slow turn of his door handle, Eddie eased the gap open, his eyes scanning the silent dark until his gaze settled upon the mountain of blankets upon his bed. There, buried under three blankets of comfort, was you. It might have been hard to tell under any other circumstances, but even half asleep and exhausted out of his mind, Eddie knew he could recognise your silhouette anywhere. He softened instantaneously, body slackening slightly under the slow wave of adoration that overcame him. You were here to see him. Talk about a surprise, he hadn’t expected to see you today, and now he felt his ribs pressing in tightly together, chest constricting with a glad sort of giddiness. 

He was gentle in closing the door again, his smile bemused at his now grinning uncle. “And how’d my girl end up in there, hm?” 

He toed off his boots, movements suddenly precise and careful under the presence of your company. Even through the closed door, he had no desire to rouse you just yet. Not until he was ready, clean and showered and shed of all other obligations, able to dedicate himself to your company. 

“She came by at 5,” Wayne explained, turning down the quiet shout of the television set with a well worn remote, “thought you’d be home soon, wanted to surprise you. I told her she was welcome t’wait, thinkin’ you’d be round earlier. But y’weren’t, so we had some dinner.” 

Wayne paused, nudging his chin towards the fridge, which Eddie took to mean there was leftovers waiting for him inside. He began rustling through, finding what was left of a roast and vegetables wrapped up neatly in foil. It was a little more extravagant than he had expected, and Eddie chalked that up to your aid in the kitchen. He could see the container of biscuits on the counter, too, with little hearts and flowers piped onto the tops. Pinks and blues and reds and whites, this wasn’t a house for sweets and softness, though Eddie welcomed your charms in any way he could get them. He sat at the table to feast, unbothered to even reheat the feast. 

Wayne continued on. “Thought she might go lookin’ for y’, but we got a’talking. She’s a real sweet thing, y’know, made a real effort to chat. Even offered to sit down ‘n watch a game with me, thought I didn’t have the heart t’put her through it. Ended up watchin’ some Antiques Roadshow thinkin’ she’d like it better; you ever seen me watchin’ that before? I ain’t never had much care, but we had good fun.”

“No shit!” Eddie piped up, astounded by the softened edges of his Uncle. You’d charmed him, he thought, with your curious questions and kind smiles. For Wayne to sit down and talk to anyone was a miracle, one that only an angel could perform. His Angel. 

“We got guessin’ and everythin’.” Wayne added, wiping roughly at his smile. “Seemed tired, though, so I told her to crash in your room. She’s been out maybe half an hour.” 

Astounded was an understatement. Eddie had brought girls home before he met you, though none had bothered to exchange more than polite pleasantries with his Uncle. He’d never been serious about them, so he’d never thought much of it, and then came you. Three months into this new connection, a relationship born of spring flowers and whisky nights and loud music and soft touches. Eddie had never been serious until now, until you, and now he couldn’t picture being anything else but. 

He was glowing, beaming from ear to ear. “So you like her, then?” He was so hopeful in his question, a sincerity Wayne only ever saw reserved for the most heartfelt of Eddie’s dreamings. 

“I do.” Wayne announced, washing down his contentment with another swig of his beer. “I hope y’re serious ‘bout her, she’s real soft on you, and I think she’s a good one. Seems to make you happy enough, you ain’t mopin’ nearly so much these days.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes, groaning with faux annoyance, rolling foil into a tiny ball to toss across the room, missing Wayne by a good foot of space. “I don’t mope.” 

“I don’t mope my ass, kid, you mope plenty. Just not anymore.” He was laughing now, worn lines creasing at the corners of his eyes. “I said she should come back f’dinner another night, we can all eat together. She was tellin’ me ‘bout this story she was readin’, and I’ll be damned if I don’t know how it ends.” 

Eddie knew how this story ended; it ended with you. It began with you, too. It was all you, he couldn’t see any other ending for him. 

“Yeah, that sounds good, old man.” He was doing his best to stomach the meal, but his words were caught around hastily eaten mouthfuls half chewed and uneasy to swallow. He’d give himself heartburn if he wasn’t careful, and it would have been worth it. 

Eddie took a moment to pause, swallowing thickly, belching unceremoniously in a way he was glad you weren't there to witness. “I am serious, y’know, about her. Real serious. I got a good feeling.” 

“Yeah?” Wayne questioned, sinking back into the sofa. 

“Yeah. She could be the one; ain’t that somethin’? I always thought it was bull when people said you just know, but…” he laughed with astonishment, “I think I just know.” 

“Well shit,” Wayne exclaimed, clearing his throat, “that’s real good, Ed’s. You just be good and treat her nice. Be a gentleman.” 

Eddie wasn’t too sure he knew how to be a gentleman, but somehow, he knew you liked him all the same. He didn’t need to be anything but himself around you, and that was a one in a billion kind of feeling,

He was quick in his cleaning, fumbling around the kitchen to pack away a still soaking plate, his mind skating over the plastic drying rack by the sink entirely. “I’m bein’ good, I swear.” 

“Bullshit.” Wayne teased, shaking his head. He braced himself on his knees, slowly rising to his feet with a groan. “I’m goin’ to bed. Tell her she’s welcome to stay whenever she likes, okay? Show her where the spare key is.” 

“I will.” Eddie nodded, barely able to fight his slow building excitement. He could feel himself getting restless, hands flexing just at the thought of holding you. “G’night, Wayne.” 

“G’night son.” He echoed back, disappearing into the quiet of his own room. 

Eddie made sure to lock up on his way, switching off the tv and lights as his own sort of wind down ritual. They’d be on all night if he wasn’t careful, and he’d spied the last bill long enough to have a mind for the electricity now. Besides, he needed to be calm when he woke you. He’d half frightened you to death last time he came barrelling in. 

Once again, he retreated towards his room, slipping into the dark like a shadow of the night, slowly shucking his way out of his overalls to kick to the side of the room. He didn’t mind staining his sheets with oil, but not you; you were something worth caring for. He knew he should have showered, but the sweat on his skin could hardly deter him from the need he had to be close to you, to ease away the troubles of his way with the balm of your skin against his, your whispers ringing in his head. 

He fumbled his way to the edge of the mattress, your sleeping body facing away from him to the back wall of the room. He peered a little closer into the darkness, a sliver of moonlight cascading across the bare curve of your shoulder, arm wrapped around something small, something fuzzy…

“Well shit, Ted, what’re you doing in here?” Eddie hadn’t thought to consider where the ragdoll cat had scampered off to. Teddy had been adopted only a few weeks after Eddie came to live with Wayne, his Uncle’s way of easing the boy into this entirely new world together. Teddy had been his childhood companion, and by the way he was burrowed into the pudge of your stomach, purring louder than a car engine, Eddie could see you’d won him over too. 

The cat barely stirred, rather giving him a grumbled sort of chirp at being disturbed, before wriggling his way further under the blankets. You, however, made the softest of whining noises that left Eddie’s heart near strangling in his chest. He lifted a ring clad hand to that moonlight shoulder, brushing callouses across the line of freckles that dusted your skin, watching as your eyes began to flutter open, head turning slightly to face him. 

“Eddie!” No one in the world had ever been so enthusiastic to see him before, not one. His name wasn’t the kind to roll off the tongue, to be begged for or shouted out or held tenderly on someone's lips. Never before, but the way your mouth wrapped around the letters seemed to change the word entirely. Nothing had ever sounded so tender, so wanting, so pleased. You were always pleased to see him, a feeling he never had to doubt when he could see it so plainly reflected in your irises. 

“Honey.” He cooed back, tugging up the corner of the bedsheets to slip beneath them, curving his body to fit the shape of your own, nudging his knee between your two just to feel your skin pressed against his own in every possible way. The hair on his body was just as wild as the hair on his head, but nothing felt like home to him more than the brush of your skin to the mess of his. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

You exhaled a lengthy yawn, muffling the sound into his pillow with a hum. Your hair, once styled, now seemed mussed and flattened under the weight of your head. His bed linens were already tattooing precious creases into sleep warmed skin. You were too beautiful for him to even comprehend. 

You turned in his arms, careful not to disrupt the grumbling cat beside you despite your eagerness. He felt arms press their way around him, your nose nuzzling at his chin. “Wayne let me in. I hope that’s okay.” 

Literally nothing else could have been more okay in his mind. It was perfect. This was perfect; coming home to you. “Come by anytime, baby. I’m just sorry I wasn’t back sooner. I made you wait.” 

You shook your head. “I didn’t mind. Wayne’s really cool. He kept me company.”

“So I heard.” His voice was edged with an air of amusement, his hand lifting to brush back the strands of hair falling across your face, leaving his palm to cup at the plush of your cheek, his eyes admiring even in the dark. “Antiques Roadshow?”

You let out a giggle. “We panicked! I was trying to make a good impression, and he suggested it so I thought why not. Honestly it was pretty fun, I could totally watch another episode.” 

“Mm.” His lips met the button of your nose dotingly, his voice slackening to a syrupy smoothness. “He’s impressed, I’m impressed; you’ve got us Munson men wrapped around your pretty little finger. Even Teddy’s on your side.” 

“I do not!” You chided, helpless against his onslaught of affection. He left you preening and giddy, a little lightheaded when he loved on you like this, and Eddie never had any intention of stopping. “Teddy just wanted a cuddle.”

“Him and me both.” Eddie asserted, snaking his other arm beneath the arch of your waist, wrapping around the small of your back to tug you in further, his smile resoundingly bright at the way you hummed happily. “We’re not too young to be asleep by 10, are we?” 

The way you eased into the very fabric of him, your bodies so close and so connected, wrapped tightly in the warmth of his room, was enough assurance to him that you were just as content here as he was. “No. I’m not leaving this spot. You just got home, and I’m all sleepy, and Ted’s gonna get mad if we move.” 

Ted chirped an affirmative sound, leaving Eddie to rasp a laugh. “Well we can’t make Teddy mad, can we. Gotta stay here all night with my girl.” 

You chuckled softly in turn, your voice quieting under the weight of exhaustion. “I was meant to keep you company, but I’m so sleepy.” Another yawn parted your plush lips, leaving Eddie with no choice but to press his own to the corner once they came back together again. 

“You are keepin’ me company. Think I’ll sleep a bunch better with you keepin’ me warm. I’ll take you on a date tomorrow, hm? After a big sleep in?” 

“You’re so sexy when you talk like that.” You mumbled, your lashes fluttering shut to rest against your cheeks. “I’d kiss you stupid if I could move.” 

Besotted was not a strong enough word for what Eddie felt in that moment, but he was overwhelmed with the urge to litter a smattering of kisses from the edge of your cheekbone to the corners of your forehead, each one softer than the last, lulling you into that sweet place of slumber you were already drifting towards. 

“Kiss me stupid tomorrow. Sleep, sweetheart.” You didn’t need to be told twice. Within moments, Eddie watched the light in your flicker to a dim, pale glow, your breathing evening out to something unhurried. Peaceful. It didn’t matter to him that he had only had those brief moments with you tonight. Five minutes with you was enough to chase away all the strife of a day otherwise written off in his mind. And that was what his life had been missing, after all. Someone who made going to sleep at 10pm look like the greatest moment of his life. He wanted to keep you to himself, a greedy kind of possessiveness stirring in his gut, for as long as he was able, knowing full well that less than twelve hours from now, Wayne would without a doubt be waiting to make you both breakfast on his morning off. 

Like he said, you had all the Munson boys charmed.

Before I Could Say It

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky almost confessed his love to you, and the one time he finally does.

Word Count: 5.9k

Warning(s): can be read as gn!reader bcs I didn't use any gender-specific words (pls advise me if this isn't true). canon divergence. no use of Y/N. use of the nicknames sugar and sweetheart. insecure thoughts. bucky feeling like he's not good enough. unrequited love (or is it?). alcohol consumption. a bit hurt/comfort. profanities. use of weaponry, including but not limited to guns and knives. depictions of violence, blood, injuries, and murder. (near) death experience. angst. fluff. open ending.

Author's Note: Hii guys. I know I should be focusing all of my energy on Faithfully Yours right now, but I had the idea for this story and just couldn't pass it up!! We have a bit of an open ending here. I wasn't planning on making a part two but I'll see what the general consensus say and will decide whether or not a part two is due from the responses. anywayy hope you enjoy this one xx don't forget to comment, like, and reblog!!

When Bucky tried to think about the beginning, his mind always drew a blank.

It had been five years since the first time destiny orchestrated your paths to cross, six if one were to count the one-year cryogenic sleep that Bucky spent in Wakanda. The Soldat met you first, back when you, Steve, Sam, and Nat fought him on that highway shoot-out that revealed his identity. After that, you were everywhere—in Bucharest with Steve to coax him out of hiding, on the tarmac battle where you went against half of your own family for his sake, and even in Wakanda, where your eyes became one of the last pairs he saw before his body succumbed to the unforgiving clutches of darkness.

And when he was finally woken up, you were there, too, waiting for him.

Since then, Bucky struggled to remember a time when you weren't there. You supervised his deprogramming in Wakanda, becoming Steve's eyes and ears while the Captain roamed the world as both a fugitive and a vigilante. When the Sokovia Accords turned void, and the scientists in Wakanda assured Bucky that his mind wasn't going to betray his heart anymore, you took him back to New York, offering solace in the form of your warmth pressing against his side on the plane ride to the States. 

Even once the two of you landed on the compound's grounds, you never strayed too far—standing between Bucky and a begrudging Tony as if you were ready to launch yourself forward should the billionaire try to do anything untoward. As if the ruthless Winter Soldier needed a human shield to prevent him from shattering into fragile little pieces.

Before Bucky knew it, his entire routine—his entire life—became you.

From your morning spar sessions in the gym, the long walks around Brooklyn in the afternoon, to the weekly movie nights that you roped him into in the name of reacquainting him with pop culture—everything in Bucky’s life started to shape and smell like you. 

It was a constant. 

You were Bucky’s new constant.

And somewhere along the way, Bucky’s little troublemaker of a heart decided, once and for all, to anchor itself to yours.

True to his fashion, Steve was the first person to notice. All of the lingering touches and longing glances, the hard-etched lines of Bucky’s countenance that seemed to soften every time you were near—they spoke of an affection beyond a mere loyalty one might harbor for their teammate. It spoke of love, one that was so unadulteratedly pure and raw that Steve was sure there was no room left in the crevices of Bucky’s heart where a piece of you didn’t reside in.

“You’ve gotta say something, Buck,” Steve said to Bucky one evening.

The two of them were standing in the convention hall of a lavish hotel deep in the heart of Manhattan, surrounded by a guestlist of people that Bucky was assured were some of the most influential figures of the twenty-first century. People tried to swarm him since the moment he entered the party, shoving business cards to his face and dropping names that Bucky knew should have meant something to him. He paid none of them any mind—not when his eyes immediately found you in that sea of ties and ball gowns, just like a moth enticed to a flame.

You were all dolled up for the night, wearing a fancy little number that screams you if only with a little bit of additional sparkles sprinkled on top. Bucky watched you move through the ocean of people, confidence oozing out of every step, a blinding smile as you received each handshake with an indisputable poise. Bucky’s head whipped towards your direction at every echo of laughter, searching for the source, drinking in your infectious glee as if it were the only way to sustain the rhythmic beating of his heart.

Bucky shifted in his feet, Steve’s unprompted advice forcing him to tear his eyes away from where you were standing by Natasha’s side. The blond beside him smiled knowingly, a teasing yet sincere tilt in his voice as he added, “You’ve gotta tell at some point, pal. Better sooner rather than later.”

The line in Bucky’s jaw ticked. He brought the glass of champagne to his lips, tipping the drink back as though the liquid stood a chance against his enhanced metabolism. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Buck.”

“Punk.”

The Captain sighed, reaching for a drink of his own. “At least ask for a dance, will you?”

Before Bucky could register what was happening, Steve had shoved Bucky forward, sending him stumbling forth towards the direction of your canorous laughter. Steve hid his amused smile behind his drink when Bucky flipped him the finger, the latter continuing his steps on wobbly feet, trying to ignore the pounding travelling up his bloodstreams.

“Hey, Bucky,” you greeted as soon as he had reached you. The smile on your face could rival the sun even on its brightest day, and Bucky prayed to every divine being in the universe that he could be on the receiving end of that smile for the rest of his days.

“Barnes.” Natasha nodded. 

“Hey, guys. What’s up?” Bucky attempted a smile, tugging at the ridiculous material of his bow tie that Tony had insisted him to wear. In fact, Tony was the one who forced Bucky to attend this whole shindig in the first place—something about showing a united front to prove to the public that there was no bad blood within the Avengers’ team. 

It was a shit ton of bullshit, in Bucky’s opinion.

But at least, the party gave him a chance to see you all dressed up to the nines.

“Nothing much.” You shrugged, tilting your head slightly to the side. “Did you need something?”

“No. I mean, I do. I was, um, wondering—” Bucky cleared his throat, “—I actually wanted to see if you’d care to join me for a dance?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Natasha’s eyes widen slightly. The redhead immediately scurried to the side, feigning interest in the tower of chocolate fondue just a couple of feet away.

Bucky’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest when you extended your palm towards him. “I would love to, Buck. Lead the way.”

Your fingers emitted warmth inside his hand, and for a moment, Bucky faltered. He kept his composure enough to guide you through the sea of couples on the dancefloor, willing the erratic thumping in his chest to quieten down as he pulled you flush against his body. The scent of your perfume slithered through the air, filling Bucky’s lungs, attacking each part of his senses until everything Bucky saw, heard, smelled, and felt was you.

“You look beautiful tonight, Sugar.”

The admission tumbled from his lips before Bucky had a chance to stop them, before he could thoroughly process the implications of such candor. You didn’t seem to mind, though. Instead, your persistent smile widened ever so slightly, your eyes twinkling under the glimmering lights of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

“Why, you look plenty dashing yourself, Bucky.” You hummed appreciatively, raking your eyes up and down Bucky’s suit-clad figure. “I must say, I was sad to see your long hair gone, but this looks great as well.”

Your fingers skimmed the hard contour of Bucky’s shoulder, leaving goosebumps on their wake, before sneaking through the short tendrils on the nape of his neck. He fought off a groan at the contact, the heavenly feeling of your fingers tugging at his hair sending shivers all throughout his body. Meanwhile, you were still smiling up at him all sweetly, completely oblivious to the rush of heat that you delivered through Bucky’s entire being.

“Sugar,” the nickname fell off Bucky’s lips in a low grunt, and for the first time that night, your composure staggered. 

Your breath hitched around a squeak when Bucky managed to tug you closer, circling his arms around your waist until there was barely room for air between both of your bodies. All around you, the world ceased to exist. The only thing that remained were your bated breaths, a raucous disruption through the electric field buzzing between where you and Bucky were pressed against one another. 

“I need to tell you something,” Bucky revealed, his voice low and sheer, stripped by unease and something akin to fear. 

Your forehead furrowed, undoubtedly sensing the trepidation shining out of the blue of Bucky’s eyes. “What’s the matter, Buck?”

Your palm landed on his stubbled cheek, and Bucky had to fight the urge to lean in, to chase more of your warmth like you were an oasis in the middle of his desert of a life. He grappled for the confession to come, for the feelings in his chest to solidify into something comprehensible. All Bucky had to do was open his mouth and seize the moment.

But just as quickly as it had arrived, the moment splintered through his fingertips.

“Good evening, everyone!”

Bucky's whole body jerked in surprise, his accusatory eyes instantly finding the MC standing on the stage at the front of the room. The music had stopped, replaced by the MC's welcoming remarks addressed towards a dozen supposedly prominent names that Bucky couldn't care less about.

“Hey, let's go find a seat,” you suggested, circling your tender fingers around Bucky's wrist before leading him through the maze of tables.

The two of you sat down just in time for Tony to deliver his opening speech as a representative of the Avengers. You glanced at Bucky in the middle of Tony's heartfelt sentiment about “shaping the future”, your hand finding Bucky's flesh one on his thigh, unaware of the kind of turmoil you have summoned from a single touch.

“You okay, Bucky?” you asked, squeezing his hand. “What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

I wanted to tell you that I love you, Bucky's heart echoed. I don't know when it started, and I don't know how, all I know is that you're every good thing that I have going on in my life.

Bucky's throat tightened.

He never ended up saying the words out loud. Instead, he smiled thinly. “It's not important, sweetheart. I'll tell you later.”

You assessed him curiously before offering him a small smile and directing your attention back towards the stage. Bucky sighed in the aftermath, feeling the wild beating of his heart settled to a normal one.

And just like that, the truth died on the tip of his tongue.

Weeks passed, and between countless briefings, missions, and reports, Bucky was forced to push all matters concerning his heart to the side. It wasn't easy, not when you occupied every facet of Bucky's otherwise monotone life. Every waking moment was a painful reminder that you were always within reach, but never close enough for him to have.

Following a successful infiltration into an illegal bio-weapon factory in the outskirts of Poland, the team had landed their jet on one of the safehouse grounds somewhere near the border of Poland and Germany. Natasha and Clint disappeared inside the house immediately upon landing, while Sam and Steve stayed on the quinjet to go over a few intels they had managed to gather from the factory.

Bucky's boots scraped softly against the grass as he crossed the distance towards the small lake just a few yards left to the safehouse. The surrounding trees rustled in the wind, a symphony of reds and oranges beneath the solemn autumn sky. On the shore of the lake, Bucky found you sitting, a rare serene look on your face as you closed your eyes to welcome the impending breeze.

“Hi, Bucky,” you greeted, eyes still shut tightly.

“How'd you know it was me, Sugar?”

“I always know when it's you.”

The moment your eyes opened, Bucky's heart stuttered in its cage. The smile you rewarded him was soft, embellished with a tenderness that a man of his repute would never deserve. He knew he should have looked away, but the selfish part of him wanted to hold your stare in place, to relish in your kindness no matter how much he believed he wasn't worthy of it.

“Come on, sit with me.”

You patted the ground next to you, and Bucky obeyed without further questions. He lowered himself on the grass, damp from the lingering chill of autumn air, and stretched his legs out. For a while, neither of you spoke, opting to enjoy the sound of water lapping lazily against the shore, a stark tranquility to the horrors you faced during the mission earlier.

The sky dimmed a tad darker as the sun ducked behind the cover of trees, leaving behind streaks of purple and gold on the horizon. Beside him, you heaved out a sigh, the remnants of sun casting your skin in an ethereal glow.

“Sometimes I wish moments like this could last forever,” you murmured.

Bucky's eyes slid towards you, studying the contours of your face like a historian would an ancient scripture. His fingers twitched, itching to feel every soft and hard edge of your features under the brush of his touch. 

You're the only thing in this world I want forever with.

The words resonated in his head and all the way down to his chest, settling like stone sinking underwater, slow and heavy. He almost said it out loud—nearly laid his heart bare for you to judge and scrutinize. But at last, he fabricated a grin and nudged his shoulder playfully to yours.

“You always get sentimental when you're tired,” he joked.

You laughed heartily at his jab, a melodic thing that wrested at every coil of Bucky's heartstrings. The two of you proceeded to watch the sunset together, the silence stretching between you, warm and comfortable. The sky burned in more explosions of hues, casting its reflection upon the lake like a dream neither of you dared to disturb. 

If Bucky were a braver man, a better man—one that wasn't weighed down by his history and remorse—maybe he would have told you. Maybe, in another life, Bucky would have charmed you at first sight, claiming you as his before the day could even end. But for now, Bucky was glad to settle for this—for sharing a quiet moment with you, and to bask in your company as though he were worthy of even a fraction of your attention.

For now, Bucky would let the four-letter word wither inside him, locked in a hidden fissure somewhere within his chest, keeping it safe from ever seeing any light of day.

Days flew by, and it was getting increasingly harder for Bucky to ignore the way his heart gravitated towards yours, to ignore the fact that you were always the first person he searched for in the morning and the last one he wanted to talk to before falling asleep. To pretend like the mere mention of your name didn't send a jolt that revived his entire being. Every single day was a battle between wish and logic—the unruly desire to make you his, and the rational reluctance of dragging you into the mess that was his life.

“This is getting ridiculous, Buck,” Steve said as he leaned back against the bar right next to Bucky, following the latter's eyesight to find you standing at the end of it. “You're just gonna avoid it forever? An eternal silent treatment? The two of you need to talk, whether you like it or not.”

Bucky inhaled a long breath, swirling the Asgardian mead in his glass without ever taking his eyes off you. It was your birthday—a joyous occasion that called for this merry yet intimate celebration with the entire team. The common room of the compound had been transformed into something warm and inviting, lit by the soft glow of string lights draped along the walls. A cake sat on the counter, half-eaten, its candles long blown out, but the remnants of your laughter from when you made your wish still lingered in the air.

From across the room, Bucky watched as Sam teased you about getting older, earning the bird-man a playful swat on his arm. Wanda handed you a small, neatly wrapped gift, and your eyes lit up in a way that made Bucky’s chest ache. He didn’t know what was in the box. He didn’t really care. All he knew was that he wanted to be the reason behind that breathtaking smile of yours.

And then, your eyes lifted.

The eye contact was fleeting. Brief. Gone by the time Bucky realized what was happening and forced his gaze away. Even then, Bucky still caught the hint of surprise as your eyes found his, replaced almost immediately by a longing that Bucky understood all too well. It clutched onto his heart, sinking its sharp nails until the life organ in his chest was bruised and brutally torn apart.

The Captain sighed. “You're being an idiot, pal.”

Bucky knew Steve was right—he was being an idiot. A coward, even. It was his own damn foolishness that had kept him avoiding you for weeks, skipping your morning spars, slipping out of any room you occupied before you could even notice his presence. All because he couldn’t handle the feelings that had taken root in his chest, the one that was growing stronger by the minute, infiltrating deeper into his system every time you so much as looked his way.

The party was still in full swing by the time Bucky decided to retire for the night, forgoing the goodbyes, heading straight to the elevator that took him back to his quarters. It was a few hours later when a clumsy knock sounded against his door, breaking through the quiet that had settled in his room.

“Sugar?”

Bucky's hand clenched around the door handle, his eyebrows knitting together at the sight of you in front of his bedroom.

“Hi, Buckyyy,” you greeted, your words slurring into uncontrollable giggles.

 Understanding dawned on Bucky's shoulders. “Sweetheart, are you drunk?”

“Am not!” You huffed, pushing past a stunned Bucky to enter the bedroom. 

You looked around for a moment, humming to yourself every time you came across a familiar token that decorated Bucky's room. There was a photo of you and him on the nightsand, a sketch of the Brooklyn Bridge courtesy of Steve hanging on the wall, and a few vinyl records stacked neatly on the shelf, gifted by various members of the team. At last, your steps halted beside the bed, and without a warning, you dove head first into the mattress, chuckling to yourself as you attempted to make snow angels with his blankets.

“This is sooo niceee,” you mused, burying youself deeper into one of Bucky's pillows. “Smells like you, Buck.”

The super soldier tried not to dwell too much on the sight of you lying on his bed, looking like you had always belonged in the same place that Bucky took his rest. A shiver ran down Bucky's spine as he closed the door behind him, his feet quiet against the carpeted floor before he took a tentative seat on the edge of the bed.

“Sugar?” Bucky took your shoulders in his grasp, turning you around until his eyes locked with yours. His heart staggered. “You wanna get back to your room? I could take you.”

His offer made you sit up in seconds, so fast that Bucky feared you might have given yourself a whiplash. He stared at you as your lips trembled, your whole body turning away from him until you were just a breadth out of his reach.

His fingers contracted in grief.

“Hey, Sugar? What's—”

“Why do you hate me?”

Silence.

Bucky's forehead creased in confusion.

“Hate you?” Bucky tasted the accusation on his tongue—the word being so foreign and farfetched from anything he could associate with you that Bucky had to wonder if he had misheard what you spoke. “Sweetheart, I don't hate you.”

“Liar.” You scoffed, scooting towards the foot of the bed, seemingly adamant to draw as much distance as possible between Bucky and yourself. “You have been avoiding me for weeks. You don't want to talk to me, or do anything with me. You hate me.”

Bucky blinked, stunned into momentary silence before shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the sheer absurdity of your words. “That’s not true,” he murmured, his voice rough with something that sounded dangerously close to regret.

You laughed at his response—a wry, sarcastic laugh that was void of even the smallest hint of your usual warmth. “Then what other possible reason could you have for avoiding me, Bucky? Hm?” Your head turned towards him, and for the first time that night, Bucky finally saw the telltale sign of tears in your eyes, a glassy sheen that erased any remnant of the wits that Bucky had grown to know and love.

His stomach churned.

Guilt was eating at him alive. He couldn't believe that his stupidity had caused this—that he had hurt you due to his own incapability of controlling his emotions. Bucky didn't know what he was thinking when he decided that the best course of action would be to completely evade you, but he certainly didn't think that it would result in this.

With you, sitting on his bed, crying your eyes out while simultaneously breaking Bucky's heart in the process.

Bucky exhaled sharply, as if the weight of his own remorse was pressing down on his chest. He couldn't stand it—the way your shoulders quivered, the way you tried so desperately to keep your composure together as tears welled in your eyes.

"Sweetheart," he rasped, reaching for you, his fingers hesitant at first before firming in resolve. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.”

You stiffened at his touch, your lips parting as if to protest, but Bucky was already pulling you into his embrace, holding you tightly against the muscular panes of his chest. His hands skimmed soothingly along your back, whispers of sweet nothings falling from his lips as he rocked you in the safety of his arms.

“I don't hate you, Sugar,” he murmured, voice shattering around the edges. “I've never hated you. How could I?”

How could I hate you when you are the only source of light I have remaining in this world? How could I hate you when loving you is the only thing about my life that I am absolutely certain of?

Your breath hitched against his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Bucky—”

“Shh,” he soothed, pressing his lips to your temple in a featherlight touch. “Just let me hold you, okay?”

Slowly, he guided the both of you down onto his bed, his arms never loosening from where they were wrapped around your body. His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your cheek, his fingers drawing lazy patterns against your back. The tension in your body melted bit by bit with each gentle word, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into something softer—something safe.

“Don't ever do that to me again,” you warned shakily. “Promise me.”

Bucky's hold around you tightened. “I promise.”

“Good.” You sighed, exhaustion wearing down every inch of your bones. “You're my favorite person, Bucky.”

The admission pierced Bucky's chest like a lightning strike. He knew he should not have read too much into it, that the revelation was nothing more than a drunken slip of tongue that you probably would not even remember in the morning. But for now, Bucky chose to let that little detail slide, to let himself pretend that the confession had been made with more purposeful intent behind it—that the words had meant as much to you as it did to Bucky.

"Sleep, sweetheart," he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead. "I've got you."

Since that night in his bedroom, Bucky had made a vow: he wasn't going to run anymore.

Bucky had learned his lesson. He wasn't going to let his own fears dictate his actions, nor would he allow his emotions ruin the precious friendship he had built with you over the past few years. Whatever he felt—whatever torment clawed at his chest whenever you so much as looked his way—it was his burden to bear. You didn't deserve to suffer for his cowardice, and he swore to himself that he would never let it happen again.

That thought lingered in Bucky's mind as he moved stealthily through the abandoned industrial site, gun drawn, boots scraping silently against the cracked concrete floor. The mission was straightforward: take out remaining hostiles, extract any valuable intel, and regroup. Simple. A basic in and out job that would be done just in time for dinner.

The team had split into pairs, and as fate would have it—or rather, as Steve would have it—Bucky found himself assigned to the west wing of the site alongside you. The direct channel to your comms in Bucky’s earpiece was quiet, and the super soldier took it as a good indication that your side of the mission was going smoothly. Meanwhile, he swept through his own side of hallways with methodical precision, checking every room, muttering a curt “clear” to his comms for each canvassed area. 

The air was eerie with cold and mold when Bucky entered the last remaining room in the hallway. There was nothing particularly different about this one. It was just as empty and as menacing, smelling of rat’s piss and years of abandonment, though his seasoned instinct—one sculpted from years of fighting and survival—warned him that something was amiss. His fingers tightened around his weapon almost instinctively, feeling an immediate unease venture up his spine, raising the very hair on the back of his neck.

The silence was too perfect.

Bucky’s feet skidded to a stop, turning on his heel to retrace his steps back towards the entrance.

Then, it happened.

The ambush struck like lightning on water. One second Bucky was alone, and the next, shadows had flooded the room, faceless figures in tactical gears leaping towards him at the same time. They were fast and ruthless, and even though none seemed to possess enhanced abilities, Bucky was still outnumbered. He dodged the first three attackers easily enough—disarming the blade from the first assailant’s hand, ducking out of the swinging baton of the second’s, and rolling on the floor before redirecting the third one’s bullet with the palm of his vibranium arm.

Bucky dashed out of the room into the one right across, the group of attackers still hot on his tail. He ducked behind a metal table and started opening fires at the entrance, taking out the threats before they even got the chance to enter the room. A curse fell under his breath when Bucky realized that he had worked through his rounds, scrambling to replace the ammunition as footsteps thundered into the room.

Slamming the fresh magazine in place, Bucky inhaled a gearing breath, only to be met with a sudden hush that descended through the air.

He raised his gun.

Instead of finding himself at the end of numerous gun barrels, Bucky was granted the view of bodies scattered all over the floor. The tang of iron meshed detestably with the spoor of grime, fog swirling around the edge of Bucky’s adrenaline-honed mind. When the dust finally stifled, his focus immediately zeroed in on the figure standing amidst the wreckage, rising out of the smoke like a doomsday’s salvation.

“Hi, handsome.” You smiled around a heavy exhale, a crinkle in your eye that seized the very life out of Bucky’s lungs. “Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, somewhere between relief and admiration. The grip around his weapon slackened ever so slightly, his body still thrumming with fight-and-flight, though the sight of your beautiful smile had managed to wash him with the kind of serenity that no other person could compel.

“Was wondering when you’d show up, sweetheart,” Bucky said, rising from his makeshift fortress behind the table.

“Sorry, Sarge.” You hummed, casually brushing the dust off Bucky’s shoulder as though the contact didn’t send him skyrocketing to heaven. “You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

Bucky failed to suppress his grin, nudging your shoulder as the two of you headed towards the entrance. With the hostiles neutralized, and the information uploaded to the flash drive discreetly tucked in the safety of Bucky’s inside pocket, the two of you were prepared for extraction. He redirected his comms to the main channel, alerting the other team members that the two of you were ready to wrap up and get the hell out of this dismal place.

He was barely a foot out of the door when a loud bang resonated in the air.

In a split second, Bucky sprung in retaliation, taking aim at one of the bloody assailants on the ground that had somehow taken hold of a gun, Bucky’s finger pulling at his own weapon’s trigger, assassinating him in place.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bucky’s heart throbbed in his throat, a silent prayer on his lips at how close of a call it had almost been. His gaze took a quick scan of the pile of bodies on the floor, making sure that none of them would pull a similar stunt, only allowing his shoulders to deflate when he saw no remaining signs of life.

“Bucky?”

Your voice barely reached him, thin despite the echoic air of this dingy site, but something inside Bucky twisted the moment he heard it.

When he turned, the initial relief that had flooded his chest instantly collapsed.

You were standing there, just a breadth out of reach with your gun still tightly clutched between your fingers. But the side of your neck—God, the side of your neck—was slick with red, thick and dark as it ran in angry runnels down your skin, staining the collar of your tactical gear, pooling on your shoulder and drenching everything it touched.

Your whole body swayed.

Bucky’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach.

“No, no, no—” he rasped as he caught you, arms winding around your frame to prevent you from hitting the floor. His knees slammed onto the cold concrete below as he cradled you against his chest, the tremble in his body betraying the steel he was supposed to be made out of.

Bucky blinked, willing this moment to splinter into a dream, willing for his body to be transported back into the comfort of his bedroom where the scene playing out in front of his eyes would be nothing more than a heinous nightmare. But as Bucky’s arms tightened around your limp figure, the awful, gut-wrenching truth settled like ice in his veins. 

This was real. 

The blood seeping through your gear wasn’t imagined. The faint hitch in your breath, the loss of color from your face, the sheer terror clawing its way up his throat—none of it was a dream.

His chest crashed.

“Hey, hey. I got you, Sugar.” His voice cracked as he pressed a palm against your wound, despairingly staunching the warmth from slipping through his fingers. But no matter how hard he was grasping, the blood just kept on flowing—too fast and too much—soaking his hands and every corner of his battered soul.

“Shit. Stay with me, sweetheart. Please,” he begged. “Steve! Nat! Somebody get here now!” he barked into his earpiece, nails digging deeper into your skin. “We need a medic! We need a—fuck—just get down here!”

You made a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, your breath warm against his cheek as you murmured, “I-It’s gonna… gonna be o-okay.”

It was a lie.

You both knew it.

And it destroyed him. 

“Don’t do that.” Bucky shook his head, his voice cracking around a choked sob. He forced a smile as he looked down at your pale face. “You always suck at lying.”

Your lips parted, the faintest ghost of a smile trying to make its way through, only to be interrupted by a wet cough that made Bucky’s chest cave in.

“Gotta stay with me, sweetheart. Please,” Bucky whimpered. “The team’s coming. Help is on the way. Just gotta hang in there a little more for me, yeah? Just a little longer. Please.”

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure to whom he was begging—whether it was you, the universe, or any higher divine power that might have heard his wretched prayer and taken pity on him. A man who had lost everything and asked for nothing, who was now asking for someone—anyone—to save the only thing in this world that made his life worth living, even if it meant having to sacrifice his soul in exchange.

Your hand reached out tentatively, shakily, gripping the strap of his tactical jacket and giving it the faintest tug. 

“Bucky,” you whispered, voice dissipating like a wisp of smoke as soon as you had uttered his name. Your eyes, glassy and unfocused, searched for his, and when they finally found him, a weak smile curved at your lips. “I love you.”

A sound tore from his throat, raw and full of despair. His forehead dropped against yours, his entire body rupturing under the weight of your words.

“I love you.” Bucky’s voice stammered. “God, I love you—I love you, sweetheart, I love you so much.” He pressed his lips against your clammy forehead, again and again, as though he could tether you here, as though his love alone could be enough to keep you from slipping away.

He should have been happy—should have felt something else other than this hollow, scorching agony. The person of his dreams, the one he had spent sleepless nights longing for, had just made the one admission that his heart had been wanting to hear, and yet, all he could do was break. His whole being perished under the weight of everything left unsaid, every moment wasted, every regret carving him open from the inside out.

He should have told you sooner.

God, he should have just told you—should have braced past his insecurities and found the courage somehow, should have showered you with every drop of love he had neatly stowed in his heart until he was shriveled and had no else to give. He should have bought you flowers everyday, let you know that you were the most beautiful person Bucky had ever met on this goddamn planet—because you deserved it.

You deserved everything.

Not this.

Not bleeding on the filthy floor of this desolate place, fighting off death that had bludgeoned its way right through your door.

“You’re gonna be okay, Sugar. We’re getting out of here, you hear me?” His breath stuttered, his grip tightening as if he could physically gather all of your fragmented pieces and mend you as new. “I’m gonna treat you so good. You’ll see. Gonna spoil you rotten like I ought to. Just—please, just hold on—”

Your fingers twitched against his chest. Your eyes fluttered.

A quivering breath left your lips before your body went completely limp.

Bucky stilled.

“Sugar?”

Nothing.

No soft inhale. No faint murmurs of response.

No squeeze of your fingers against his jacket.

Bucky’s entire world came crashing down in the blink of an eye.

“No. No, no, no, no—”

His hand cupped your face, blood smearing from his skin to yours. Bucky’s fingers trembled as he tapped your cheek, as if the action alone could keep you here, could bring you back to him. His breathing ceased, his whole body shuddering as he rocked you in his arms, your name tumbling over and over again from his lips like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea to the universe to undo everything, to give him one more chance, to take him instead.

“Come back to me,” he whispered, his face wet with the fractured shards of his heart. “Please.”

The only thing that acknowledged him was silence.

And Bucky Barnes had never hated the quiet more.

always a woman, to me (fic)

bucky barnes x fem!reader | inspiration | some canonically inaccurate things pertaining to bucky's family, go with it please!!

content warnings: complex family dynamics; very brief mentions of SA/harassment; brief mentions/allusions to PTSD and trauma; sexual content (p in v; fem and m receiving)

word count: 26k.

blurb: Bucky Barnes has a secret. He has massages nearly every week. It's to help him with his tension and anxiety; to help him sleep. And maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with the pretty masseuse.

Bucky Barnes had a secret. 

It had started as an off-handed joke from Sam. It was back in the summer, when Bucky had gone to visit him and his family. They’d been sitting out back, basking in the sunshine, sharing kebabs and grilled burgers and ice tea in the July heat. Sam had walked past him and grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it in a brotherly fashion. 

“God damn, you’re tense,” he’d chuckled. Bucky glanced up at him, laughing as he walked back to the house, likely to fetch another beer, Sam joked, “you should get a massage or something. Loosen you up.”

Bucky wasn’t sure why it had sat in his mind for so long. It was like a bad smell in his house: no matter what he did to try and deter, it wouldn’t leave. He knew he was tense. Sleeping on a hardwood floor with nothing but a woolen blanket will do that to you; leave you with knots in your shoulders and an aching back. He walked as if he were carrying rocks on his head, weighing down on his neck, dragging his arms towards the floor. His back was stiff, guard always up. Bucky flinched at the slightest intrusion. He wasn’t quick to physical touch, always the one to initiate something as minor as a handshake or hug with Sam.

The pain had once felt like repent. Punishment, in a way. After all the horrors he’d caused, what right did he have to be comfortable? To be relaxed. But it was also familiar. He’d been tense for so long it was hard to remember a time when he had felt every muscle in his body take a breath. Locked up inside of a shell, screaming to get out, made it so that there was always a part of him that would never fully calm. It was an understatement to say his accommodation during his time as the Winter Soldier was far from five stars. Concrete slabs for a bed; an ice chamber for a tomb; freezing water to shower under; beatings as punishment for a sloppy job, or when one of the guards was feeling bored. After, when he was running from Hydra, hiding from the law, it was not much better. The mattress he’d thrifted was lumpy. Springs stuck out at odd angles, digging into his spine and biting into his arms and legs. Sometimes the floor was favoured. Strangely, it provided him with more ease of rest. But he didn’t rest. He thrashed in deep and disturbed waters, fighting to break the surface of sleep. Awake wasn’t much better. He was on edge, on watch, ready to run or to fight - whichever came first. Usually both. There was always a fight, it seemed. A fight that he never wanted in the first place. 

Bucky had hoped that after Karli, and Sam, and John Walker, the seeming semblance of closure to his past life would help that tension ease. He had thought it would roll off him like pebbles from a sloping cliff - dropping down into the depths of the ocean. But just like all the dark sides of his past and the scars that littered his body, it seemed it would be forever. He had tried to make peace with that too. But Sam’s offhand comment had planted the seed. 

That was how he wound up here, standing in the reception of ‘Serenity Springs’. It was just outside of the city; a wooden lodge with black tiled roofs and enough shrubs to challenge the Amazon rainforest. It was attached to a golf club. He’d seen a gaggle of middle-aged men dressed in khakis and polo shirts, laughing haughty at a joke one had made whilst leaning against golf carts. Bucky had almost turned the car around at the sight: that wasn’t his crowd. But something had driven him to stay. Perhaps it was the eighty dollars he’d already dropped on the booking. 

Glancing around the quiet reception, he surveyed the scene like a reflex. Instead of scanning for threats, Bucky tried to familiarise himself with the foreign environment. Spas weren’t much of a thing in his time, with massages just as unpopular. If he were to sit his former self down and tell him that he would one day wind up in a spa, Bucky couldn’t help but feel it might be one of the harder things to wrap his head around. Somehow torture seemed more on the cards than dressing in a robe and lying down on some cushioned table with oils slicked up and down his back. 

The place seemed non-threatening. Plinky, nondescript music played in the background. A couple of older ladies sat in armchairs facing one another, nursing cups of coffee and talking in hushed tones with pleasant smiles. Their robes were beige and waffled in texture, hanging slightly large on their frail frames. To their right was an enormous fish tank. It bubbled in what Bucky imagined was supposed to be a soothing manner (though it truthfully just made him want to pee); brightly coloured coral was intermixed with reeds and purple and blue stones. Tropical fish swam around in the expanse. Behind him, an extensive collection of products were advertised on glass shelves. He eyed one of the price tags, eyes widening slightly at the seventy dollars attached to what looked to be a rather regular bottle of lotion. As he was about to lose nerve, someone sauntered over to the reception desk. 

“Good morning, sir,” she smiled kindly. 

“Morning,” Bucky replied, clearing his throat. 

“How can I help you today?” Her voice was overly soft like it had been left out in the sun for too long. 

Bucky took a breath, glancing at the array of items displayed along the desk’s surface as he said, “I, uh, got a booking. A massage and stuff like that.”

“Wonderful, let me just check on the system. What’s your name?”

Bucky’s eyes glanced at her, quickly scanning her face. She was waiting patiently, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “James. James Barnes.”

“Wonderful,” she murmured, typing away. A pause, waiting for the screen to load, and then, “ah, yes. The Swedish massage, is it? Neck, shoulders and arms, hm?”

“Sounds ‘bout right,” Bucky nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He felt like he took up too much space. Stood too tall; felt too broad. He took another quick glance around him and wanted to sigh with relief at the sight of another man tucked away in an armchair, also dressed in a robe. 

“Wonderful. So your treatment isn’t until three-forty. You do have access to all the spa amenities whilst you wait, which are just through the glass doors to your left,” the receptionist explained, gesturing with a soft sweep of her hand to the doorway. Bucky gave a nod. “There is a complimentary coffee included in your treatment. We have all the classics: Americano, latte, cappuccino…”

“A latte would be great. Thanks.”

“Excellent. I’ll bring that over to you, if you’d want to take a seat. I’ll also give you this to fill out, just to give to our therapists.” With that, a clipboard was placed before him. Bucky took it and perused the text. He swallowed and nodded again. “Wonderful. I’ll be right there with your coffee.”

Bucky wondered if it was a requirement for every sentence in this place to start with an affirmation. 

The armchair nearest the other man seemed to be calling to him. Some primal urge to be near his own, perhaps. Or maybe he didn’t want to seem as though he was eavesdropping into the juicy drama that Barbara was sharing with Lucy (apparently her son had cheated on his wife for the third time and got someone pregnant; quite the scandal; curse superhuman hearing). He tapped the pen provided against the frame of the board as he read. Bla, bla, bla, welcome to Serenity Springs, we hope you have a relaxing and rejuvenating time with us, bla, bla… First came the health conditions. His pen lingered at the check box beside ‘elderly’. There were ages specified in the brackets beside it but Bucky exceeded them, and so he decided not to bother. It wasn’t as though people were querying him on his pension every other day. The box beside ‘amputee’ was met with a tick mark, along with ‘mental illness’ and ‘poor sleep’. Shifting in his seat with a sigh, his eyes caught the receptionist making her way over with a coffee mug. 

“Here you go sir. Enjoy,” she remarked as she placed it on the coffee table beside him. “Here’s the key to your locker. Everything you need - robe, towel and sliders - are inside it. If you return to this area five minutes before your treatment, your therapist will come collect you. We hope you have a wonderful time with us, and please ask if you need anything.”

Bucky nodded and murmured a thanks, offering a tight smile. He felt uneasy in this place. Everyone was acting like they’d taken a sedative or smoked a joint. Must be something in the water. At the thought, he glanced at his coffee. Would that be so bad? Wasn’t that why he was here, after all? To relax. To loosen the hell up? He took a long sip and swallowed. Back to the clipboard. 

Is there anything your therapist should be aware of for your treatment?

It was hard to hold back his snort. The box didn’t provide enough space for all that. Instead, he simply wrote two words: ‘war vet’. There were some other boring terms and conditions to sign and date, like if he somehow became so relaxed that he might drop dead on the table, and then he was done. He watched the fish as he finished his coffee. There was a aquamarine one which kept bumping the glass. Darwinism. Then, with the clipboard handed over to the receptionist, who received it as if she’d won some grand award (“wonderful, thank you so much”), Bucky was venturing into the changing rooms. 

They were empty save for one gentleman. Elderly, wrinkled, still somewhat spritely in his way of moving as he fed things into his locker. Bucky used the key provided to open his designated locker. As promised, he was met with a robe and towel, and a pair of toweled sliders. He unpacked the backpack which had been slung over his shoulder, changing into his swim shorts. He hesitated at the hem of his shirt. The elderly man had long retired to the pool area. The changing room was empty. Inhaling deeply, Bucky tugged his shirt off quick and fast as if ripping off a band-aid. He tucked it into his backpack before pulling his robe on, quick to conceal his metal arm that glinted in the daylight seeping through the small windows above the lockers. Everything locked away, sliders now on, Bucky swallowed his pride and stepped out of the changing rooms and into the pool area as if he were walking onto an active battle field. 

There were a myriad of people lounging on sunbeds, eyes slipped shut or head buried in a book. Some were gathered in the hot tub; a couple sat side by side, chatting away, smiling brightly. A twenty-something-year-old was swimming laps like he was training for the Olympics in the pool. The whoosh of the waves that came with every stroke blended into the vague bubbling and lapping of the water. Through an archway were the so-called ‘amenities’ which he had been forewarned of. A sauna and a steam room, and an ice bucket which Bucky was planning to avoid like the plague. His feet seemed to guide him there, leading him to the hooks lining the wall outside the steam room. Swallowing the nerves, Bucky took a quick glance around him before shrugging off his robe. He wasn’t sure why he was so anxious to reveal his arm. He didn’t tend to show it off in public, favouring gloves simply to save the stares and questions, and mostly the recognition. But this was different. It felt exposing. It wasn’t just the hand or forearm that would be on show. It would be the whole thing. 

Face hard like steel, Bucky pulled open the door to the steam room and stepped inside. It tugged closed behind him. With a quick survey, there was nobody else inside. The tension that he unconsciously carried eased slightly with the realisation. Only slightly. Sighing, he took a seat in the far corner, tucked almost out of sight, disappearing behind a cloud of aromatic fog. The breath he took in was deep, filling his lungs as if it were the first time he had breathed in years, and he instantly felt lighter. His eyes slipped shut and his head rocked back. Bucky could see the appeal.

Time stretched on like that. Droplets gathered on his face, his arms, his chest, his legs. They ran down the bridge of his nose and dripped off his chin and fingertips. His metal arm soaked up the heat but it wasn’t uncomfortable. His back began to soften into the tiled bench. He licked his lips and faintly tasted salt from his sweat intermingled with the steam. When the door clicked open, however, whatever semblance of relaxation Bucky had found vanished. 

“I think he’ll have to leave her, Lucy.”

It was Barbara and Lucy from the reception. They waddled in, their floral swimsuits fitting for their characters. The door clicked shut behind them and they glanced at Bucky, smiling brightly at him. He gave a closed lip smile back, acknowledging them, questioning whether to dart out. Barbara settled in the far corner, Lucy beside her, and they both sighed. Bucky eyed the door. 

“I think he’s been needing to leave her since the first one, Barbs. That little nineteen-year-old he scurried off with? It’s shameless.”

Bucky glanced down at the floor. He couldn’t believe that he was considering staying to listen in to some more of the conversation. God damn it. 

“Sometimes wish he just got that damn vasectomy. Would have saved him a lot of trouble.”

In his peripheral vision, Bucky saw Lucy elbow Barbara. She gave a pointed look over to Bucky. Shame prickled his spine, dread colouring him pinker than the heat. They’d recognised him. Oh God - what were they going to say? He should leave. He should just get up and–

“-oh, I’m sorry dear. Should watch my language, hm?”

Bucky looked at her blankly for a moment before finding his voice. He smiled politely. “No, no, you’re good. Don’t worry. I wasn’t even listening, really.”

“Impossible. Barbara, here, doesn’t know the meaning of talking quietly,” Lucy replied. Barbara scoffed and shook her head, laughing. Bucky felt his smile ease into something more natural. Then, Lucy’s eyes widened. With a gape, she exclaimed, “My God, you’re in good shape.”

“Lucy!”

“Well, he is! They weren’t built like that back in my days, I’ll tell you that for free,” Lucy shamelessly commented. 

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh. He ran a hand through his hair, flustered and flattered all at once. “Oh, uh thanks, 'suppose.”

“What on earth do you lift? Cars?”

“Oh, Lucy, for Christ’s sake,” Barbara tutted, shaking her head. Then, at Bucky, she added, “sorry about her.”

“You’re good, you’re good. A compliment’s a compliment, so…” Bucky replied. 

“Mm, I think you might be a little young for this one,” Barbara joked. Bucky couldn’t help his smile as he thought, I think you’d be surprised to find that I’m definitely not. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Uh, no. First time, actually.”

“Oh, well you’re in for a treat!”

“We love it here. Come nearly every week,” Lucy chimed in. She had finally stopped ogling Bucky’s physique. Thumbing to her left, she added, “this one’s granddaughter works here. We get a discount.”

“Discount, huh? That’s a pretty sweet deal,” Bucky replied. 

“She’s a darl, she really is. A great masseuse too. Oh! Maybe you’ll have her! Are you having a treatment today?” Bucky nodded. Barbara clapped her hands together, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, well here’s to hoping!”

Bucky smiled once more and nodded. “Here’s to hoping,” he echoed, finding the conversation coming to a natural close. The door cracked open and someone else joined. The elderly man from the changing rooms. He took perch and the room fell quiet once more. Bucky rocked his head back and closed his eyes. The strange conversation with Barbara and Lucy had seemed to wipe away any fears of how people might react to him being there. He contemplated his narcissism as he basked in the steam once more. Breathed in and out. If it weren’t for his enhanced hearing, he likely wouldn’t have heard Barbara’s whisper to Lucy: 

“He’d be nice for my darl, don’t you think?”

“Oh certainly. If I was ten years younger…”

“Try thirty,” Barbara snorted. Bucky bit back his smile. Maybe this spa thing wouldn't be so bad after all. 

The rest of the waiting time passed without a hitch. People were weirdly welcoming. They kept to themselves. Shared polite smiles, the occasional odd word passed, a comment here or there about the temperature of the water in the hot tub or the essential oil used in the sauna. Any glances to his arm were fleeting like a comet; not a single comment made. Barbara and Lucy gave enthusiastic waves from across the room when Bucky accidentally caught their eye. He gave a small wave back; they were oddly endearing. In a funny way, he imagined that’s what he and Steve might have been like if everything had gone to plan: returning from the war, healthy and alive, settling to live long lives. 

Just as requested, at three-thirty-five, Bucky returned to the waiting room. He felt a little silly dressed in his swim shorts and robe, large feet tucked into a pair of sliders which were a size too small. He sat in an armchair and stared at the fishtank, losing himself in thoughts of what Barbara’s granddaughter might look like. He hadn’t asked for a name. Had no clue to go from, not unless she happened to be the spitting image of her grandmother. 

“James, is it?”

His head snapped to his left. You’d snuck up on him, somehow. You were smiling, warm and welcoming like a crackling fire in a log cabin. Bucky nodded. 

“Are you ready for your treatment?”

He nodded again. 

“Excellent. If you want to follow me, it’s just up these stairs.”

With that, Bucky pushed to his feet. He stood a good foot taller than you. Your hair was pulled back neatly, fly aways caught under bobby pins. The attire seemed typical for your job: a black shirt with black pants, plain flats which padded softly on the carpeted stairs that Bucky followed you up. The plinky music was back, slightly louder upstairs, and there was an oil diffuser which stunk the place up of lavender. You smiled politely over your shoulder. 

“Is this your first time at Serenity Spa?”

Bucky nodded.

“How are you finding it?”

“S’alright,” Bucky replied. You nodded, seemingly not discouraged by his quiet demeanour, and led him to a treatment room. 

“If you just want to take a seat for me,” you gestured to a leather single seater. Bucky nodded and did as asked. His hands clasped together; the metal twinkled under the low lighting of the room. You clicked the door shut, trapping the two of you inside of a mostly dark treatment room. There were electric candles scattered across the various surfaces. An orange light was dimly glowing above a sink. Coin sized spotlights were pressed into the ceiling to imitate stars. It smelt like essential oils. The plinky music remained, but now it was more like white noise, low tones that made Bucky feel like he was at the bottom of the ocean. The thing which caught his eye was an ornament. It was a Newton’s cradle: five metallic balls which were constantly in motion. One clicked against the other and it sent it all into action. 

“Right, so if we— Everything okay?”

Bucky glanced back at you. “Yeah.”

You turned to see where he’d been looking. “A fan of Newton’s cradle?”

“It’s annoying,” Bucky commented without thinking. You laugh, dissipating any worry Bucky had of being rude. 

“Suppose it is, yeah,” you quietly comment as you make your way over to it. A pedicured finger reaches out to catch one of the balls. You gently ease it back into place beside the others and it finally sits still. Looking at him, you ask, “better?”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah.”

“Good. Okay, so where was I?” you wonder aloud, walking back over to him. You lean against the massage table, standing opposite him. “Right! So, welcome to your treatment. You said this was your first time with us at Serenity. Is it your first time having a massage?”

Bucky nods. The tension was coming back, creeping in like a morning fog. You weren’t intimidating or unwelcoming. In fact, Bucky had never known someone to have such a natural aura of calm around them. It was as if you exuded it. The smile that remained on your face wasn’t fake or performative. It was as if you’d been born with a quirk to your lips, tugging them upwards, beaming at seemingly nothing. For some reason, it didn’t annoy him. But the unfamiliarity of the process - the notion that he’d have to relinquish control to a stranger - that did little to set him at ease. The spa had been pleasant enough because Bucky could decide where to go and when to leave. He knew what a steam room and a sauna and a hot tub entailed. But this? This was unchartered waters. 

“Okay,” you say, nodding, “well, today you’ll be receiving a Swedish massage for your neck, shoulders and arms. All that means is the type of massage therapy I’ll be using. Nothing out of the ordinary - your classic oils and lotions. Does that all sound okay?”

Bucky swallowed. He forced himself to nod. 

“What’s your skin type?”

Bucky’s brows tugged together with a frown. He glanced down at himself, mostly concealed in the waffly robe. “Uh…white?”

You give a small laugh, polite, not demeaning. “Oh, uh, no, I meant what sort of skin type do you have? Oily, dry, sensitive…?”

Bucky shrugged. “Normal, I guess.”

“Okay,” you say, nodding once more. “Normal’s good. Makes things easy for me,” you smile. Bucky tries his best to smile back. The tension is consuming him. He feels like his shoulders are up to his ears; his back nothing but a metal rod. “Are you comfortable with lotions and oils?”

“Sure.”

“And is there any place that you would prefer not to be touched?”

Bucky eyes flit away from yours and down at the floor. He studies your shoes. They’re leather. The polish shines in the low lighting. “Uh…Well, I have a prosthetic, so…not quite sure how that works…”

“Right, okay,” you say. “I did notice you put ‘war vet’ on the form? Is that something you’d want to discuss?”

Bucky’s eyes quickly dart back to yours. His guard goes up. “Discuss how?”

You seem to notice your misstep, eyes widening momentarily, that permanent smile faltering. “Oh! No, nothing…intrusive. Just…does that make a change to how you might want to receive your massage?”

What kind of dumbass question is that? Bucky thinks to himself. He shrugs. “Well, I don’t really know what this involves so–”

“--Well, I’m just thinking to another war vet I had in here–”

“--there’s been some before?” Bucky can’t help but ask. You seem stunned by his question for a second. 

“Yeah,” you then say, smiling again, nodding. “A few, actually. Massage and aroma therapy can have incredibly beneficial effects on improving the mind and body, especially for those who have gone through rough times. Traumatic times, even."

Bucky studies you a moment as if searching for some insincerity. You don’t shy away from it. You wait, smile, hands clasped pretty in front of you. “What’ve you done for them, in the past?”

You visibly relax at his question. “Well, one preferred to know what I was going to do. I’d give him heads-ups for where I was going to touch him, and he’d tell me no if it was too much. It can be overstimulating sometimes, y’know?”

That didn’t sound all bad. Bucky cleared his throat and shuffled in his seat. It felt like a vice, holding him in. “Yeah, okay. That sounds good with me.”

“Perfect. Okay, so, when you’re ready, if you could take off your robe - you can just leave it on the chair - and then get up onto the table, underneath the blanket. If you lie on your stomach with your head through the hole, there. Is that alright?”

Bucky felt his cheeks burn warm as he reluctantly asked, “do I, uh…am I…dressed, or?”

You don’t seem surprised by the question. “It’s down to personal preference. Some people like to be fully nude beneath the blanket but some prefer to keep their swim shorts on. The blanket’s there anyway so I won’t be seeing anything.”

His stiff nod is your reply. You push off the table and head to the door. “Perfect. I’ll give you a few minutes, and I’ll knock before coming back in.”

“Got it,” Bucky mumbled. With that, you’re stepping out of the room. He lets out a deep breath the moment he’s alone. It feels stupid. The twinkling tunes do little to make him feel less of a pratt as he rises to his feet and shrugs off his robe. The table is sturdy as he climbs atop of it. It’s ungainly as he wriggles under the blanket, once more doing little to alleviate how out of place he feels. Least it smells nice. And that annoying tick-tick-tick of Newton's cradle has stopped. Then, Bucky just lies. His forehead presses into the cushioned lining of the head-hole. His hands lay by his sides, metal fingers whirring quietly as they twitch. Impatient. On edge. Bucky’s not sure he’s ever been more uncomfortable in his life, and he’d spent half of it locked in a chamber of ice. 

As promised, there’s a knock on the door. At Bucky’s silence, you click it open a crack. “All good?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. You step in and close the door. It feels like every part of him is on edge, waiting to be triggered like a loaded gun. His eyes listen carefully to every move you make. Every footstep around the room. He tracks it in his mind as if retracing a map of the four walled room. 

“Okay, I’m just going to wash my hands,” you say. You walk over to the sink. Bucky hears the water running. On, then off. “I’m going to turn this light off,” you tell him, and Bucky watches the light slinking across the floor become slightly dimmer. You approach the table. Your footsteps are light - you’d make a good spy, he thinks to himself. The tone of your voice is gentle, soothing like honey, squishy like wet sand. “I’m just going to pull the blanket down to your lower waist.”

The blanket is eased off his frame and folded carefully downwards. It isn’t cold in the room but goosebumps still pebble his skin. His fingers twitch again. He stares holes into the ground. His arm has never felt so obvious before. Bucky listens for the hitch in your breath, some sign of surprise or recognition, or maybe even disgust. But there’s nothing. You’re unshaken, it seems. Until: 

“I can see you’re wearing a chain. Would it be okay if you remove it?”

Bucky remembers the dog tags which are currently pressing into his stomach. They were a part of him now, always on his person, that he forgot about them entirely. “Oh, uh, sure.”

“Thank you. It’s just to make it easier to get to your neck,” you tell him. Bucky pushes up slightly on one arm, using the other to pull the tags up and over his head. In his peripheral, he sees your outstretched hand, palm open. He hesitates. “There’s a bowl right near the sink. They’ll be safe there.”

Handing them over feels wrong. It’s like he’s giving a piece of him away. Without them, he feels naked. Exposed. As he lays back down on his front, he catches the clink of his dog tags being placed in the tray. You cross the room and lather your hands in some sort of oil. Bucky’s heart begins to quicken. There’s an overwhelming urge to just get up and grab his stuff and get out. But he doesn’t. Fights to keep his body still, his mind present. You return to the side of the table. 

“Take a deep breath in for me through the nose, James,” you request in that same, supple voice. Bucky closes his eyes and does as you ask. “Good…Now let it out through the mouth.”

His body softens slightly on the warm table. 

“I’m going to apply some oil to your shoulders and back, now. I might touch your neck, too.” 

With that, your hands meet his skin. They’re warm, slick with oil, soft like you wrap them in cotton wool every night. There’s a slight pressure that presses through your fingertips as you rub his shoulders. You follow the planes of his muscles, easing down his back, tracing the flesh with that pressure that’s just on the edge of being too much. Bucky lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. 

“Good,” you murmur, as if somehow noticing. With that, your hands are returning to his shoulders. Your palms press into the flesh, feeling out the muscle, seeking out the areas of tension. It seems you’re exploring, almost. Familiarising yourself with his body and his skeleton. It isn’t creepy or intrusive. It’s almost scientific. Methodical in the way an architect might survey the land before designing a building, or a painter contemplates their canvas before applying paint. When you finally make contact with his metal arm, it’s different. Of course it is: Bucky wasn’t expecting you to try and massage pure metal, as if you might soften it up. But you don’t shy away from it. Instead, you run your hands tenderly over the limb, fingers imitating the way they might press into the rest of his flesh and blood, palms expanding over the plates. The oil dampens the vibranium as if you’re blind to the inhuman appendage. Something drops out of his shoulders. It feels like one of the many rocks he carries has been taken away. 

“How’s the pressure?” you ask as you return to his back. 

“S’good,” Bucky murmurs. 

The sensation creeps up the back of his neck. The tips of your fingers tease at the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck. It’s dizzying, the way the massage of your hands can make him feel lighter. Bucky internally kicks himself for not trying this sooner. 

It isn’t a miracle cure. There’s a knot in his left shoulder where the scarring is that you work at, hands now lathered in lotion, which barely gives way. But with every precise push and prod at his body, he feels like a needle has been removed from a pin cushion. He feels like he’s floating on water’s surface. His body feels warm, liquid, and eased. Bucky lets out a sigh as you work at his back. Sinks deeper into the table like he’s melting. Just as promised, every time you do something different, you tell him. It helps him settle. Something in his mind is told to go off duty: we got it, we don’t need you right now. We’re safe. 

The hour is up too fast. The blanket is faithfully returned over his back, the hem lining his shoulders. You tell him that you’re going to wash your hands before doing so. Then you’re standing near his side. Bucky doesn’t want to open his eyes yet. He doesn’t want to step away from this pocket of peace he’s found, as if he’s stumbled blindly into the garden of Eden. 

“I’ll let you relax for a moment, and then if you want to return into your robe and meet me out in the seated lounge area when you’re ready: I’ll be outside.”

Bucky doesn’t reply. You open and close the door. The music isn’t as annoying as it was before. Bucky indulges in the nondescript instrumentation, lyricless but not without meaning. Reluctantly, he pushes up onto his forearms. The blanket slips down. He sighs and swings his legs off the side of the table. Climbing down, returning into his robe, he heads to the sink to retrieve his dog tags. Bucky takes a moment to check his reflection. Maybe it’s the essential oils seeping into his head, but he swears that he looks younger. He feels it. 

You’re sitting, one leg crossed over the other, staring out the window in the seated lounge. Bucky returns your smile when you turn to look at him. 

“How’re you feeling?” you ask. 

“Great, actually,” Bucky replies. He can’t help the slight amusement in his voice; he’s still bewildered that it did something. 

You’re not smug when you tell him, “I told you it does wonders.”

“Might have me drinking the Kool aid on that one,” Bucky smiles. He takes a seat to the left of you. 

“Can I get you a drink at all? Water?”

“I’m alright. Thank you, though.”

“My pleasure,” you say, rising to your feet. “Stay here as long as you like. There’s no rush to leave.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, smiling. As you’re about to leave, something occurs to him to ask. “Hey, uh–”

You pause and look at him expectantly.

“What’s your name again, sorry? Don’t think I caught it earlier.”

It rolls off your tongue easily and rattles in Bucky’s head. He echos it quietly and you seem to stare at him a moment. Bucky feels himself smile at you - a real smile. You smile back, somehow different from before, before leaving him alone in the lounge. Bucky sighs and relaxes in the chair. He can’t seem to shake the shadow of a smile on his face because for the first time since he was a dumb kid running amuck in Brooklyn, he feels like himself. He feels connected, his mind no longer lost in his skull, his body no longer a stranger to his soul. He feels present, lighter, rejuvenated. It’s like a drug. Now that he’s had a hit, he simply needs more. Cannabis doesn’t seem to touch him but this just might take its place. 

That was how it came to be that Bucky was a regular at the Serenity Spa. 

He went once a month, then twice, and now it was abnormal if he wasn’t there almost three times. There were membership perks which exceeded just the free welcome coffee. Turns out, there was a cafe too. They served brunch and sandwiches and Bucky got them for free. Drinks, too. Beers and whiskeys and wines. The other members became familiar faces. Barbara and Lucy were unlikely friends with Bucky. They pulled him into their gossip, quizzed him on a “man’s opinion” regarding Barbara’s lost-cause for a son. Some of the things he’d been told made Bucky feel like he wasn’t half bad in comparison (I mean, come on Darren, knocking up your wife’s sister is a step too far…). Lucy grilled Bucky relentlessly about his dating life. He knew why: he’d overheard them talking about how great he’d been for Barbara’s granddaughter - her ‘darl’ as she was known - more times than he could count. They’d questioned about his arm politely once in the hot tub. Bucky gave the shorter story - that he lost it in action and was lucky enough to get such an advanced replacement - and they seemed content. Apologetic and sympathetic in the way that most people are when they hear a snippet of Bucky’s life story, but not intrusive. Nothing seemed to jog their memory of former Captain America’s best friend. Perhaps it helped that he went by James at the spa, sporting it like some kind of alter ego. But he liked the separation. Nobody asked him about work, or about congress, or about how he was ‘holding up’. No, at the spa he was just James: a run of the mill guy who people likely presumed worked in finance or some other boring business career, with a barren love life and too much time spent in the gym. 

But the real draw that kept him going - the nicotine to his cigarettes - was you. 

Ever since his first time at the spa, you’d been his masseuse. He requested it so frequently that it wasn’t even a question anymore. The two of you had built a rapport of sorts. The conversations had expanded from outside of the start and end of the sessions. Bucky would ask you things whilst you massaged him. Silly, trivial things that he’d been wondering about on the drive back to the city, like what music you listened to, or what your favourite type of food was, or a show you’d been watching lately. He asked about how you got into massage-therapy and how long you’d lived in New York. Over three months, Bucky liked to think that the two of you were something akin to friends. Bucky didn’t request you as his therapist because you were pretty: he did it because he enjoyed your company and your talents. 

And, yes, okay, maybe because you were pretty too. 

It was your voice. He’s sure that’s what did it. You’d wormed your way into his ear drums and burrowed into the depths of his mind. He’d hear your crooning timbre in his sleep, which was increasingly less disturbed than before. He’d ask questions not just because he was interested but as an excuse to hear you speak. He’d bathe in the words, in the way vowels would fall off your tongue like dew drops on flower petals. How consonants were these melodic intricacies when they came out of your pretty mouth. 

Then it was your smile. It put all others to shame. Made Bucky wish that nobody else bothered with it, because they could never make it look quite as perfect and beguiling as you did. He’d started making jokes just to see it blossom into a grin. 

Then it was your lips. The way they’d uplift with your cheeriness, how they’d move when you’d speak, the way your tongue would dip over them sometimes, dampening them with your saliva like makeshift gloss, a gloss which Bucky wondered the taste of, the feel of…

But it was mostly the massages. That was the main draw. 

The massages, and the free drinks and food. 

The changes that the regular spa visits had brought in Bucky hadn’t gone unnoticed. Sam was perceptive of the tiniest things. He could tell if a single chocolate chip cookie had been stolen from a pack of fifty. So it shouldn’t have come as a shock when he told Bucky, one random Tuesday:

“You’re different.”

Bucky was visiting him at his “headquarters” (a rented out unit filled with training equipment and computers, tracking leads on the wall with pictures and string). He’d been in the area whilst campaigning for this congressman role he’d been chipping away at and thought he ought to stop by.

“Seem happy.”

“I’m gonna try not to be offended at that,” Bucky replied. At Sam’s quirked brow, he added, “you’re implying I’m usually not happy.”

“Just stating facts, robocop,” Sam smirked. He smacked him on the arm as he walked past, over to the coffee machine. “What’s your secret? Hard drugs?”

“Just trying some things out,” Bucky replied, shrugging. He surveyed the room, leisurely taking a lap. Photographs were framed and lined the shelves. One of him and Sam caught his eye. It was taken at Coney Island - the first time Bucky had been back since before the war. 

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Just things,” Bucky murmured. He wondered if you’d ever been to Coney Island. 

“Things, huh?”

“Yeah.” Did you like rides? Or were you more of a games and stalls kind of girl?

“Sexy things?”

That caught his attention. Bucky frowned, glancing over to his friend. He was wearing a shit-eating grin. The coffee machine whirred loudly as it brewed. “Sexy things?” he echoed, voice incredulous.

“You heard me,” Sam doubled down, wiggling his eyebrows. “You getting some? That mummified body of yours still got it?”

“You’re a child,” Bucky dryly replied. 

“So, no sex?”

Rolling his eyes, he wandered over to the coffee machine. He took the mug offered out to him. “Why’s that the first place your mind goes to?”

“Look, man, you’re a-hundred-and-ten: you ain’t dead,” Sam tells him. 

Chuckling shortly, Bucky shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee. 

“A’right, so if it ain’t a girl, what is it?”

Bucky weighed up in his mind whether or not to divulge his secret. He’d managed to keep it under wraps for three months now. Sharing it felt like showing someone a page of your old journals: slightly embarrassing but not completely mortifying. He contemplated whether he was ready to let someone else in on his oasis. 

“If I tell you, you’re not allowed to laugh,” Bucky sighed. 

“I never laugh,” Sam shrugged. Bucky rolled his eyes mirthfully, shaking his head. 

“A'right. I’ve been getting massages.”

Sam’s quiet a moment. Bucky can see the cogs in his mind processing his words. It seems that ‘Bucky’ and ‘massages’ don’t quite mesh well together in his brain. “Massages? Like at a spa?”

“Yep,” Bucky affirms, taking another sip of his drink. 

“Well, that’s…something. How long you been going?”

“A few months.”

“I mean, I’d make fun but it’s worked wonders. Not gonna take a dig at something that’s made tinman get his groove back.”

“I don’t approve of any of these nicknames, by the way.”

“Where is this spa?” Sam asks, ignoring Bucky’s comment. 

“New York.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Gimme more than that, man. What’s it called?”

Bucky eyes him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Cause I wanna get a piece of this!” Sam loudly replies, as if it were obvious. “You got any idea how stressful it is being Captain America? I need’a lie back in a sauna and get my back all oiled up.”

In a strange flash of images, Bucky pictures you giving Sam a massage in the same way you do him. Something green flares in his stomach.  

“You’re not going to my spa.”

“The hell I’m not. I’m a Captain now. I outrank you.”

Bucky quirked a brow. “I’m your senior. I outrank you.”

“You’re a senior to everything except trees and building so that don’t count. It’s moot.”

“It’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” Sam argues. He tosses up a hand before Bucky can bicker his side. “Look, I’ll find out one way or another, so you might as well tell me. Maybe we can have a day there together. Our first bromance trip.”

Nothing has ever sounded more unappealing to Bucky. 

And yet he somehow finds himself standing side by side with Sam Wilson in the Serenity Spa reception. 

“Morning, Lily,” Bucky smiles at the receptionist: Mrs Wonderul, he’d labelled her in his head. 

“Morning, James,” she returns, chipper as always. Her eyes move to Sam. 

“This is my friend, Sam. I think I got one of those extra guest passes?” Bucky checks. 

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve been stacking them up, in fact,” Lily tells him. Her manicured fingers click-clack on the keyboard as she types. “Are the two of you wanting treatments this afternoon?”

“Treatments, huh?” Sam asks, humour pitching his voice. “What’s that entail exactly?”

“Massages, facials, that sort of thing,” Lily politely explains. Sam bobs his head and glances to Bucky, shrugging. 

“I’m game if you are.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees. 

“Wonderful,” she chirps, typing away. “I have two slots at two-thirty?”

“Sounds good.”

“James, I’ll put you with your usual therapist. Sam, do you have a preference?”

“Whose his usual therapist?” Sam wonders, pointing to the stoic man beside him. Bucky grinds his teeth. Before Lily can reply, the door tucked in the corner, behind the reception desk, opens. You come walking through, focus on the clipboard in front of you. Your brows are furrowed together. 

“Lily, do you know where Matthew put the order of lavender oil? I’ve looked everywhere in the back,” you grumble. 

Lily glances over her shoulder at you and shrugs. “Who knows. He always put things in the weirdest places.”

“Almost like there’s a system in place to try and stop that from happening,” you mutter with a roll of your eyes. You look up at her but your eyes catch Bucky and Sam. The smile that jumps onto your face has Bucky selfishly thinking he has something to do with it. “James. You’re back.”

Bucky gives a closed lip smile back, nodding. His skin burns from the side-eye Sam gives him. Suddenly, his hand is extending out and over the counter, towards you. 

“I’m Sam. A friend of James,” he introduces. His smile is nothing short of charming. Bucky’s teeth crunch together so hard he’s amazed they don’t shatter; he somehow holds back his eye roll. You hesitate for a moment before taking his hand and shaking it, smiling cordially. 

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, introducing yourself. Then, snaking your hand away, your attention turns to Bucky. “I didn’t know you were coming in today. Usually see you on a Friday.”

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips when you regard him. He shrugs, hands slipping into his jean pockets. You flip one of the pages back into place on the clipboard and give them both a nod farewell. 

“I better get upstairs. See you later, hopefully,” you say as you walk out from the reception, towards the staircase. Lily excuses herself and follows you, seemingly needing to grab you for something. In the brief privacy given to them, Sam gives Bucky the widest grin he’s ever seen on his smug face. They speak in low voices. 

“So it is a girl.”

“Shut up.”

“She’s cute.”

“I mean it Sam.”

“You should swoop on that.”

Bucky’s head turns so he can meet his gaze dead-on. Sam gives a subtle nod and Bucky sighs, shaking his head, focus returning to the reception. “Drop it, Sam.” Lily wanders over again. 

“Sorry about that,” she says, taking place before the computer. She clicks around for some minutes, gathers a few more bits of information to complete the booking, and she’s handing over a key to Sam. Bucky doesn’t need one anymore; he has a claimed locker now. The two of them change and head into the spa amenities. As they pass through the doorway, the humid air sticking to their skin, Sam can’t seem to keep it in any longer. 

“She’s into you, man.”

“She’s doing her job,” Bucky sighs, leading them to the steam room. All the sly looks and grilling from Sam have his tension creeping up by the minute. “She’s paid to be nice to people.”

“Maybe,” Sam shrugs. “She wasn’t just being nice to you, though. I saw the way her eyes were looking. She’s got a thing for Freaky Magoo.”

“I’ll push you in the pool. Don’t tempt me,” Bucky warns. Sam chuckles and shakes his head. He seems to drop it with that. As his hand lands on the handle for the steam room, someone is calling his name. The two of them turn to lay eyes on Barbara and Lucy. 

“James!” Barbara grins. “Not like you to be here on a Wednesday.”

“One off,” Bucky shrugs. He gestures to his right, to Sam. “Brought a pal along.”

“Good God,” Lucy murmurs underbreath. Her eyes shamelessly rake up and down his body. Barbara rolls her eyes and elbows her. 

“Keep it in your swimsuit, Luc,” she chastises. 

“Nice to meet you, ladies. You know Tin Man, here?”

“He’s lovely,” Lucy tells him. “We’ve been nagging for him to settle down already. God, we know plenty of nice girls who would want him.”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Funny you should say that,” Sam starts, “there was a certain masseuse at reception that seemed pretty interested.”

Barbara’s face lights up like a city in Christmas. She claps her hands together, brimming with excitement. “I wonder if it was my darl!”

At Sam’s visible confusion, Lucy adds, “Barb’s granddaughter works here. We’ve been trying to set him up but he refuses.”

“Some boundaries I won’t cross, Barb,” Bucky tells her. 

As much as he appreciated Barbara and Lucy’s concern for his loneliness, Bucky didn’t need hands piecing his love-life together for him. Back in the thirties, even though he was somewhat of a play-boy, he knew that if the right girl came around, he’d settle down. The house and two-point-five kids had always appealed to him. Mundane routines in the morning, taking the kids to school, spending nights at the dining table with his wife and little ones: he wanted it all. But when the war came, that image had been put on the shelf. With every new chapter of his life that followed, it got pushed further and further back. Now it feels almost out of reach. 

Whilst he’d recovered a lot since being pardoned by the government, there were still chunks of him which he couldn’t figure out where to put. Things that different versions of him wanted now sat around like mismatching puzzle pieces. A relationship was one of those things. He wasn’t sure if anybody would ever want him, and even if they did, he wasn't sure if he was ready for that. Flirting was still rather daunting. Dating was a foreign language now. The date which he shared with Leah was like pulling teeth. He had no idea what to say, how to act, how to be. He felt like a child walking around in a pair of their parent's shoes, two sizes too big. If Bucky was going to date anybody, it would be on his terms. He would choose when and how and who. 

Sam thankfully manages to keep his thoughts about you to himself as they pass their time in the sauna and steam room. Lucy and Barbara are happy to converse, passing stories and sharing advice, and Bucky feels the tension that he’d gathered from the week spent filling out forms and approving various campaign materials roll off his shoulders with the steam and sweat. However, the pocket of peace he’d found is nothing more than an illusion the second they’re entering the reception for their appointments. 

“You gonna make a move, then?”

“Oh, good. You’re not past it,” Bucky sarcastically mutters. He doesn’t look at Sam, instead watching the fish. Before Sam can open his mouth again, an employee is approaching them. She has that peaceful serenity masking her face like most employees at the spa did. She greets them and requests they follow her upstairs. Apparently you’re just finishing up one of your appointments, and Sam’s therapist should be ready in a couple of minutes. They’re guided to take a seat in the lounge. 

“This place is pretty fancy, huh?” Sam comments. He surveys the lounge and nods approvingly. “I see the appeal, man. I do. Those ladies downstairs were sweet too.”

“Yeah, they’re a good crowd,” Bucky agrees, relaxing now that you’re no longer Sam’s current topic of conversation. “Barbara’s always telling us about her son, Darren. Sounds like a real piece of work.”

“Oh, really? How so?” 

Bucky lips move as if to speak, but something makes him stop. Sam raises a brow, waiting. Bucky’s brows tug together. His ears catch onto something, a conversation. Words muffled through walls and doors. 

“What? What is it?”

Bucky raises a hand and Sam obeys the silent request. Tilting his head slightly, he focuses and tries to listen into the conversation.

‘Come on,’ a guy is saying, ‘You know you want it…’

‘Please stop,’ a woman whimpers. 

No, not a woman. 

You. 

Like a reflex, Bucky is on his feet. He strides through the corridor and shoves his weight against the door. It swings open, whining loudly on its hinges. He knows Sam is on his tail, quick to follow. Bucky’s eyes zero in on you. Your back is pressed against the far wall. Standing in front of you is a man, shirtless; his hands on your waist. It’s red. That’s all Bucky sees. He clears the distance, grabs the man by the back of his neck. His metal arm whirs as he yanks him away. The man gasps out, shocked, scared. Bucky grunts as he tosses him against the massage table. His fingers fasten around his throat, pressing into his neck - enough to bring discomfort, not enough to do any real damage. 

He’s seething. Mind a flurry of rage; thoughts jaggered pieces of glass. 

“I got him, man,” Sam tells him. He places a hand on Bucky’s metal arm, a quiet mark to surrender. The man stares up at Bucky, eyes wide. There’s a flash of fear Bucky recognises like an old favourite song. The realisation that this might be how he dies. Bucky lets go. The man takes a gasping breath in, as if Bucky had truly been strangling him. Bucky takes a step back and lets Sam step in. He grabs the man by the biceps, muttering “move it”, and watches Sam escort him out of the room. 

He lets out a sharp exhale through the nose; jaw a wire trap. He turns, looks over his shoulder. You’re still standing where you were. His expression softens. You’re shaking, hands cupped close to your heart, eyes wide, wet with unshed tears. They’re staring at the doorway, where Sam’s just shown the former client out. When Bucky takes a step towards you, your gaze darts to him. He reaches a hand out, not quite touching your arm. 

“You okay?”

You swallow. Your head starts to shake ‘no’. His fingers shadow your skin, touch barely there. 

“C’mon. Sit down,” he gently tells you. You let him guide you to the chair that Bucky’s grown used to sitting in. Your leg jitters as you sit, hands wringing together in your lap. “What happened?”

“I don’t know…I…” You shake your head and swallow, licking your dry lips. “One second I’m washing my hands and the next…”

The breath in your body starts to catch. Bucky knows the signs of a panic attack approaching all too well. He places a hand on your knee, the jitters ceasing. 

“S’alright. Just focus on breathing, yeah?”

You nod. Take a deep measured breath in through the nose and another through the mouth. Your head hangs, eyes slipped shut, and you continue practising slow, steady breathing for a couple more minutes. You do it until the shaking stops. Until you open your eyes and find his. He gives you a reassuring smile. You try to return it. It’s wobbly, still rattled, but there nonetheless. 

“Where is he?”

“Sam took him outside,” Bucky replies. 

“You don’t have to be here,” you apologise. “You’re a customer. You should go back out, enjoy your time.”

“Nowhere I’d rather be than here,” is his sincere reply. Your eyes lock onto his. The smile on your face strengthens. 

“Thank you,” you quietly say. “For stepping in like that.”

“Course.”

“I had a gut feeling about him when he walked in,” you confess, glancing over his shoulder to the massage table. A shiver runs down your spine at the memory. “He gave me the creeps.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “Shouldn’t have to deal with that kinda thing.”

A gentle knock at the door catches both of your attention. Bucky removes his hand from your knee. It’s Sam, and behind him is Barbara. Sam gives him a nod, confirming that the asshole who thought he could put his hands wherever he wanted was gone. Then, Barbara’s pushing past him and making her way over to you. 

“Oh my God, we heard what happened,” she says, voice thick with sympathy. Bucky makes space for you to stand. Barbara tosses her arms around you, pulling you into an embrace, and you hug her back. Your face rests in the dip of her shoulder. “Are you okay, darl?”

Darl. 

“Yeah, grams. I’m okay,” you murmur. 

“Oh thank God these two were here,” she breathes, relieved. “Lily said that that awful man won’t be coming back. They can call the cops if he does.”

“That’s good.” 

You pull away from her, an arm still hooked around her back, and smile appreciatively. Looking over her shoulder, you nod and thank Sam too. “Don’t mention it,” he says, “just glad we could help.”

“You should go home,” Barbara tells you. You shake your head, stepping away from her. 

“No, no, I can’t,” you say, “I’ve got two more clients this afternoon.”

“Darling, you’re all shaken up. You need to go home and rest,” your grandmother insists. 

“I can’t, grams,” you sigh, exasperated. You brush a hand through your hair. “The trains are on strike today. The next one to Brooklyn isn’t until five, at least.”

“I can give you a ride home.” Bucky’s not completely certain he’s the one who spoke until everyone’s looking at him. He shrugs. “It’s no problem, really.”

“I live all the way in Brooklyn, I couldn’t possibly ask you to drive that far,” you tell him. 

“Not an issue. I live in Brooklyn too,” he assures. 

“That would be helping us out a lot,” Barbara says gratefully. But you’re still shaking your head. Guilt shadows your eyes as you step towards him. 

“Are you sure? I’d hate to put you out like that.”

Bucky nods, smiling at you. “Your grandma’s right. Things like that shake you. You need to get home, relax. I’m more than happy to drive; it’s totally up to you.”

With that reassurance, you only take a few moments to consider his offer before you’re nodding. Looking back to Barbara, you tell her that you’ll need to let Lily know, and your manager. She agrees. A plan is made and soon enough, Bucky’s waiting for you down at reception, bag in hand. The door to the staff quarters opens and there you are, dressed in jeans and a jumper, work attire packed away in the bag that’s slung over your shoulder. It seems you’ve calmed a little since the incident. There’s a playful charm to your voice as you tell him, “last chance to back out.”

Bucky chuckles. He nods his head to the doorway. The two of you head out. It’s bizarre, having you walk out with him. It feels like stepping out of a store with the employee. As you pass the threshold of the doorway to the spa, it feels like you’re walking into a new territory in the bond the two of you share. The strange relationship that doesn’t quite qualify as friendship, but surpasses something purely professional. The label of masseuse falls away: instead, you’re just you. 

“This one’s mine,” Bucky off-handedly says, unlocking a black hatchback. He pops the trunk and gestures for you to put your bag in; you do so, slotting it beside his. It smells of fresh linen thanks to the air freshener as the two of you climb in. When the door shuts, you let out a small sigh. 

“You sure about this? I don’t want you to feel like you have to give me a ride back just because.”

“I offered, for one thing,” Bucky chuckles, turning on the engine. He glances over to you, smiling. “And it’s up to you whether to take me up on it or not. If you wanna head back and stay at work, then do. But don’t turn down a ride just to be polite.”

You cock a brow, smirking. “Pretty good speech there.”

Laughing, he shakes his head. Your answer is the click of your seatbelt into place. Bucky pulls out of the parking lot and starts the route back to Brooklyn. The playlist he was listening to on the drive to the spa kicks up again, the gravelly voice of Elvis seeping through the speakers. 

“Elvis fan, huh?”

“Undecided,” he replies. “Only just started listening to him.”

“He’s alright,” you shrug. “Questionable history though. Did you know he met his wife when she was fourteen?”

“That’s kinda sweet,” Bucky murmurs. High school sweethearts were a rarity but a nice tale when they occurred. 

“He was twenty-four.”

“Ah,” his tongue clicks. “Less sweet.”

“Much.”

“Mm,” he nods. 

“Y’know who is good?” you ask, rhetorically it seems, as you answer, “Lionel Richie.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You’re kidding,” you gasp. The pure astonishment in your voice has him laughing. “He’s basically the definition of romance.”

“Queue him up, if you like,” he says, gesturing to the touch screen of the radio. You gladly take him up on the offer. Your fingernail taps the screen as you type, and then the song is cutting off and switching. A low bass riff vibrates the car. Humming contently, you relax back into your seat. A saxophone joins, a long, sensual melody that sounds like velvet. Lionel Richie, Bucky assumes, begins to sing. You sing along quietly, under breath, as if it’s a secret. His lips twitch. 

“Nice, right?”

“Yeah. I like it,” Bucky agrees. The music washes over him like a warm shower; picking pebbles off his shoulders. “He marry a fourteen-year-old too?”

The giggle you let out has him smiling to himself. It’s like gold dust, making you laugh. “No, but I think he maybe beat his wife.”

“God damn,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head. 

The ride stretches on. Trees and fields lining the highway merge into the cityscape. The sun sits low in the sky. It casts the world in an enchanting amber tinge, like lining around buildings. The blue sky has clouds shaded pink. His eyes flit to you. You’re leaning against the door of the car, content, watching the world roll by. Whilst Bucky would have preferred different circumstances to have the excuse to drive you home, he’s still grateful to have the privilege of being in your presence. You remind him of the first long day after winter, when the sun stretches on for hours, and the world feels brighter, awake, lifted free from a veil of darkness. 

As you cross into the city, you start to give Bucky directions to your building. 

“Just this one, on the right.”

He slows the car down, pulling up beside the pavement. The rumble of the engine quiets as he turns the key. You purse your lips, clear your throat. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you say. 

Bucky nods. “You’re welcome.”

You unclick your seatbelt. He does the same. Turning in your seat, you face him. His eyes scan over your face, searching for some remnant of distress from before. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I am. Just need a nice shower and some sleep, I think,” you reply. Your smile dims, eyes downcast to your fidgeting fingers. “Just feel kinda stupid.”

“How so?” Bucky frowns. 

“I just froze up. Didn’t do anything, just stood there,” you sigh. Your eyes nervously glance back up to his. Bucky shakes his head. 

“S’normal reaction. People always talk about fight or flight, but they never talk about freeze. You weren’t prepared for that kinda situation. And why should you be? You’re just tryn’a do your job. He’s the one who should be embarrassed. Ashamed, even.”

You nod, reluctantly agreeing. Women have a tendency to place the blame on themselves; society’s made it that way. You shouldering the situation that another man put you in doesn’t sit right with Bucky. He’ll be damned if you feel embarrassed for how you acted. 

“Guess you just made it look so easy. Coming in and grabbing him like that.”

Bucky shrugs. His eyes lower down to his metal hand. He flexes his fingers and watches how the intricate plates glide into place. He was fight. Always had been, since he was a kid. He sort of had to be, what with Steve Rogers being his best friend. That punk could find a fight with anyone, anywhere, always trying to do the right thing. Shame his bark didn’t always match his bite. 

“Suppose it helps having Captain America there, too.”

Bucky’s eyes darted up to yours. His organs fall through him: heart in his stomach; stomach in his feet. He swallows the bile scratching at his throat. You’re watching him, a patient smile on your face, brows slanted as if preparing for his reaction. Sympathetic, perhaps. Understanding. He wants to ask but can’t seem to find the words. His body contorts within itself; his intestines tangle into his guts. He feels sick. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t fight, because right now, Bucky can’t think of anything better than running. 

“I know who you are too, Bucky.” 

The words are hardly louder than a whisper. But from the way they shatter Bucky’s world, you might as well have yelled. 

He can’t seem to look away from you. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to say something. Do something. Berate him. Insult him. Accuse him of lying to you. Rebuke him for deceiving you. Bucky waits for the loathing to come. For it to twist your beautiful face, narrow your gaze, curl your lips. But instead, you just sit. 

A hand slowly reaches across the centre console. Your fingers steadily come to rest atop of his metal hand. It’s enough to help Bucky speak. 

“How long have you known?” he croaks. 

“The moment I met you,” you confess. Bucky’s not sure which answer he would have preferred. “Not many war vets who go by the name ‘James Barnes’ with a metal arm. Then grandma started talking and I pieced it all together by the end of the first day. Seeing Sam today just made me know I was right.”

“You never said.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t want to freak you out, or make you uncomfortable. I got the sense that it’s an escape for you there, and I didn’t want to take that away from you. ‘Sides, not like it matters.”

“Can’t say that,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head. His eyes gaze out the windscreen. There’s a pigeon in the centre of the road, fighting for a piece of stale bread with another. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I know enough to know you’re a good person.”

Bucky’s eyes slip shut like hearing the words are physically painful. Your fingers squeeze his hand. There’s no give under metal. Nothing but cold, hard ice. His eyes eventually open but he can’t bring himself to meet your gaze. His head is still wrapping around everything, grasping at the fact that you know who is and yet here you are, willingly sitting beside him, telling him that he’s good. There’s something about hearing you say it that makes Bucky want to believe it might be true. His silence stretches for miles as he thinks. It builds and builds until it seems to suffocate you. 

“I’ve freaked you out, haven’t I?”

He looks over to you. You pull your hand away, pressing it against your lips with the other, and you curse yourself quietly. Squeezing your eyes shut, you shake your head. 

“I knew it. I freaked you out. Can’t keep my big mouth shut.” Bucky’s brows twitch together. You look out the window, wringing your hands in your lap. “God, here you are coming to a spa to get some peace, and then you have to save some random girl from a creep, give her a drive home to be nice and she completely invades your privacy all because she has a stupid crush on you, like I’m twelve years old again or something.”

His stomach clenches. You’re looking at him now, eyes wide with apology. 

“Just forget I said anything,” you almost beg. “I promise I’ll never bring it up again. Okay?”

Bucky doesn’t move but you seem to take his silence as confirmation. You climb out the car like it’s on fire and speed walk up to your apartment building. Everything you said came out so fast, he thinks he might have whiplash. It takes a couple of seconds for his mind to catch up, and for Bucky to get out of the car and follow you. He’s quick as he grabs your bag from the trunk. It seems you’ve realised in that moment that your keys are in your bag, still safely in the back of his car. As you go to retrieve it, you gasp, stopping as you come face-to-face with Bucky. Before you can continue your self-deprecating rampage, Bucky drops the bag by his feet and speaks. 

“I get three massages a month. Three. You know why that is?”

You stare at him for a long moment before answering, “because it helps you sleep?”

Bucky’s lips twitch with a smile. “Yeah, it does. But that’s not the only reason.” He takes a step closer. “I needed an excuse to see you.”

Something flickers in your eyes. Bucky takes another step closer. “I wanted to say something but I didn’t know if I should. You’re just doing your job. Last thing you need is some one-hundred-year-old creep telling you he thinks you’re pretty.”

There’s a flicker of a smile.

“Can you tell the time?” you ask him. His confusion must be obvious. You laugh: short, small, secretive. “I always give you an extra fifteen minutes because I don’t like it when you leave. You’re my favourite part of the day.”

A weight falls off Bucky’s shoulders. He can’t look away from you, bewitched like staring at a supernova. He could spend his life trying to describe you and he’d never have enough words. Time would give out before he could finish trying to fathom how you make him feel. Bucky thinks back to earlier, with Sam and Barbara and Lucy. Somehow, it feels like a lifetime ago. The inner-battle he’d had returns to him: loneliness in one hand, and chance in another. He contemplates. He decides. 

“Can I take you out?”

You’re still for a second, then you nod. The smile grows bit by bit like drops of water in a bucket. “Yeah,” you tell him. “I’d really like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Dinner, maybe? Next Saturday? I’d say tomorrow but I’ve got this stupid meeting I gotta go too–”

“--next Saturday is perfect,” you interrupt, like you can’t hold the words in. Your hand takes his and you give a gentle squeeze. The tips of your fingers are cold. “I can give you my number and we can work something out?”

Bucky nods. His smile teetering on a grin. He reluctantly withdraws his hand to retrieve his phone. There’s a flush to his cheeks, a nervous smile on his face, as he hands over the outdated flip phone. You don’t comment. Instead, you take it and type in your number. A few seconds later, your phone buzzes with a message that presumably you’ve sent. You hand him back his phone. He passes over your bag.

“Perfect,” Bucky says, giving the device a small shake before putting it back in his pocket. He takes a step down the staircase. You take a step towards the door to your building. “I’ll text you.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Those three words are the only thing in Bucky’s head the drive back to his apartment. When he walks into his empty place, his hands find his phone. Your contact name has him smiling like he’s eighty years younger. There’s one text message attached, the one you sent to yourself earlier despite being addressed for him: I’m free next Saturday. 

The mint in Bucky’s mouth crunches against his teeth. It’s nice to have something to do. A distraction, like fiddling with a piece of string, as he waits at a table for two in an Italian restaurant you’d passingly said you’d like to try. It’s overtly romantic: cream silk table cloths; vases with single stemmed roses; candles flickering in the centre of the table. Jazz music purrs out the speakers. Waiters and waitresses dressed in pressed black pants and skirts and white button-up shirts, an apron tied neatly with a bow around their waist. Bucky takes another sip of his table water. He’s nervous, the same way he was the first day of his therapy session and his first time at the spa. It feels as though there’s a sign above him glowing with the words ‘DOESN’T BELONG HERE’, and a fluorescent arrow pointing down at his head. He swipes a hand over his beard. He’d trimmed it specifically for tonight. His hair had been combed probably one too many times. He’d flossed and eaten five mints so far as a nice pre-dinner appetiser. The deep blue suit jacket suddenly feels like it might be too formal, and with that the whole date feels like it might be too much. He doesn’t want to freak you out. Scare you off. He looks to his left with a busy mind and scans the bar. 

“This seat taken?”

His head whips round to spot you standing beside the chair, a hand delicately placed atop of it. With your smile, Bucky feels his tension slip away with his breath. You look beautiful. Slightly unrecognisable in a dress that moved like summer rain; make-up enhancing your already gorgeous features; hair loose and free. He smiles. “It is now.”

You take the invitation and tuck yourself in. “Been waiting long?”

“Just a couple hours,” Bucky shrugs. Your eyes widen and he chuckles. “I’m messing with you. I got here ten minutes early, don’t worry.”

“Damn you, Barnes,” you murmur, smile telling of your humour. Your fingers open the menu placed before you. “I’ve been wanting to come here forever. Walk past it all the time.”

“I know,” Bucky says, opening his own menu. “You told me so, about a month ago.”

Your eyes dart over the table to him. “You remember that?”

He shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Course.”

A bottle of wine is ordered and the two of you toast to good health before taking a sip. Your lipstick leaves a stain on the edge of the glass. A strand of hair slips free from behind your ear and dangles by your cheek, head hung as you prop yourself up on your fist, reading the menu. Bucky can’t help but admire you. Gracefully, you tuck it back into place and hum in thought. 

“You look beautiful,” he tells you. You glance up at him, stunned, and then you smile. 

“Thanks.” There’s a flush to your face. Bucky bites back his idiotic smile. “So do you. Handsome.”

His heart twists. God damn it. “Thanks. Trimmed my beard,” he hears himself reply, stroking the coarse hairs of his jaw. 

“I noticed. It looks good,” you say. You're casual as you look back down to the menu, adding, “I like a man with a beard.”

Bucky makes a mental note: never shave beard. 

It’s awkward at first. This area of the relationship feels like picketed grass which has been previously forbidden. The compliments Bucky would silently relay to you in his head can now be spoken. They come clunky at first, but easier after the first few are shared. His eyes linger longer, his smile holding a new edge. There’s no need to be coy anymore and tiptoe around things. Once that’s acknowledged, the two of you sink into the date as if it’s your third rather than your first. You order the ravioli and him the lemon and herb salmon. You tell him a story from work the other day and he tells you one from a plane ride he had to Washington for a campaign fundraiser. The drinks flow, the food comes and goes. You offer him a bite of your pasta off the fork. As the empty bowls and plates are taken by the waiter, Bucky wonders what had him so nervous. 

“I still can’t believe you never put two and two together about me and granny Barbs,” you giggle. Your finger toys with the rim of your wine glass. 

“In my defense, it’s not like you’re the spitting image.”

You laugh, head titling backwards like a little kid, and Bucky grins. He likes the fact that he can make you laugh. There was a time when he was sure he’d never be able to tell a joke again, or get a girl to swoon, and yet here he was. 

“Still. Surely she talks about all the family gossip with you and Lucy,” you say. 

“Not about you. I’ve gotten my fair share about Darren, though.” Your lips press together, smiling still, but smaller. Bucky treads carefully as he asks, “if you’re Barbara’s granddaughter, then that makes Darren your…uncle?”

A solemn shadow casts over your pretty face. “Darren’s my dad.”

Bucky nods his head slowly, visibly surprised, lips parting. “Ah. He certainly seems…”

You save Bucky from fumbling with something kind to say, laughing sadly as you joke, “like a Freudian nightmare? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“Yeah. I haven’t heard great things,” Bucky says apologetically. 

You shake your head and sigh. Your gaze drifts down to your wine glass and once more, you trace your finger around the circular rim, following it with your eyes. “I love my dad in the way that every daughter loves their dad. Y’know, in an innate kinda way? But I don’t like him. In fact, I can’t stand the guy. I haven’t had a conversation with him in over a year.”

Bucky is quiet as he nods. Your eyes glance up to meet his. As always, your smile never leaves, it only changes. It’s small, sad, heavy with the disappointment of a girl who once admired her father, only to realise the pedestal was made of sand. 

“And your mom’s still with him?” he broaches. 

You scoff, sighing. “Yep. She refuses to leave. She’s sick. Has been for a long time now. She says she doesn’t want her last years to be wasted with divorce. I don’t know - I’d rather that than spend my time with a dirtbag who swoops on anything with a pulse, but that’s just me…”

You cut yourself off with another quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you say, picking up your glass of wine. “Not exactly a wonderful first date topic, huh? Offloading all my daddy issues.”

“You’re good, don’t worry,” Bucky reassures. You take a sip and hesitantly meet his gaze. He smiles, empathetic. “My dad was a piece of crap too, so.”

“Ah. Good to see some things span across the generations.”

Bucky laughs. It was typical of you to find the sunlight in a blackened room. You raise your half-empty wine glass in the air and Bucky takes the hint, grabbing his own. “To shitty fathers.”

“Cheers to that,” he chuckles, his glass clinking against your. You both take a sip: the rich red wine soaking onto his tongue. “I gotta ask - and I’m probably out of line so please tell me to shut up- but your grandma said something about your mom’s sister…?”

“Ah. That old chestnut,” you kid, voice void of any real humour. “Yeah. The baby showers in a couple weekend’s time. Granny wants me to go with her to have a ‘familiar face’ there. I can’t think of anything worse.”

Bucky shakes his head, disbelieving. It was one thing to know your dad was a creep and a cheating coward - it was another to wrap your head around the fact that what was going to be your niece was also your half-sister. Bucky had seen and heard some pretty messed up things in his lifetime, and this wasn’t far off. 

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to go to that,” Bucky tells you. 

You shrug and take another sip of your wine. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” There’s a twinkle in your eye as you return your glass to the table, attention switching to him. “Now tell me about how your dad was a piece of crap so I feel less of a disaster-first-date.”

Bucky laughs and nods, indulging. “Alright. You want the short version or the long?”

“Oh - I didn’t know there was a choice,” you hum, leaning forward on the table, chin propped atop of your closed fist. “Long version.”

“Alright then,” Bucky clicks his tongue. His mind journeys back to before the torment and the ice and the torture. It goes right back to before the war. He smiles as if he can picture his mother’s living room: like he can smell the embers of a burnout fire in the hearth. There his dad would sit, in the dusty armchair by the window, usually with a paper in hand. “I loved my dad. He was strong and stoic, y’know? The kinda guy you felt like you could go to in a crisis and he’d have it covered in a second.”

You nod. 

“He was drafted into the first war and everything changed. He changed. He was always quiet before but he became mean. Distant. Didn’t wanna talk, didn’t wanna listen. Didn’t care about anything, really. He started fighting with my mama over stupid things, things they wouldn’t have fought about before. He didn’t give a crap about me or Becca. Everything was just work to him, all of a sudden. Like being around us was like doing a chore.”

You nod once more, eyebrows slanting with sympathy. Bucky takes a breath, clears his throat; his finger strokes the base of his wine glass. 

“One day I come home from work and there he is, stood in the kitchen with a suitcase. He was waiting for me to get home, apparently, to make this big announcement. He was leaving.”

Your breath catches. Bucky shrugs, eyes slipping down to study the table cloth as he loses himself in the memory. It feels just as disorientating now as it did back then. Tired, hands aching from labour, mind fuzzy with exhaustion and confusion, staring at his dad dressed in his Sunday best. 

“Mom begged to know why. If there was another woman, maybe. But he didn’t give us anything. He just said he had to go. And that was it,” Bucky says, eyes meeting yours once more. “He was gone. Never saw him again.”

“Just like that?” you quietly wonder. 

He nods. “Just like that. Left my mom all alone without a dollar to her name, two kids. Then I got drafted when the second war came and I had to leave them both, and it–”

He cuts himself off with a sigh, losing nerve. Your hand reaches across the table, lying atop of his metal one. You squeeze gently.  Bucky wants to retract his hand and shrug it away like he did when it happened. But something makes him sit in the moment of vulnerability. It doesn’t feel as daunting when it’s you, especially with how you’re looking at him. Like you care. Like you understand. Instead, he envelopes his other palm atop of your hand and smiles at you. You smile back, reassuring, and he sighs once more. 

“It killed me, ‘cause after my dad left I promised myself that I’d never abandon the people I love like he did…And then I never came back.”

You begin to shake your head. “That’s different, Bucky.”

“How is it?” 

“You didn’t abandon them. You were taken from them.”

Bucky stares at you and you stare back. Your voice is firm and sweet like cookie batter. “Is there a difference?”

“Yes,” you say, “the main one being that one of them is a choice and the other isn’t. You didn’t choose to leave your family, the way they didn’t choose to lose you. Your dad, on the other hand, chose to.”

Bucky considers this a moment, turning it over in his mind. It’s a new perspective - a side to a shape that he’s never seen before. With that, something somewhat new occurs to him. “I think the war broke him. He just couldn’t handle it.”

“Maybe,” you hum. “But that’s not an excuse to leave in the way he did. Not to me.”

Nodding, Bucky’s eyes drift down to your interlocked hands. Another weight is slowly lifted off his shoulders, and once again, it’s thanks to you. Never before did he think he’d be unpicking traumas from before the war even began. But here you were, teasing him apart carefully like untangling a necklace chain. Bucky begins to smile. “Hell of a first date, huh?”

“I’ll say,” you grin. Then you squeeze his hand. “I’m glad you told me that.”

“I’m glad you told me about yours too,” Bucky replies sincerely. 

You shrug, a playful glimmer in your expression. “Barbara sort of beat me to it. Hard to be mysterious when you have a gossip for a gran.”

He laughs at that. The two of you sit in the lifted mood for a moment and a waiter comes over. He plants a dessert menu down in front of each of you, and Bucky reluctantly pulls his hand from yours. You thank the waiter as he leaves. Surveying the desserts, you make a joke about one of the cheesecake flavours, and that leads into another anecdote about the time you tried to make chocolate mousse, and the gravity of the prior conversation lifts away. Bucky watches you from across the table, dazzling in the candle light, dressed in an emerald green dress, smiling and giggling and chattering away as if you’d known Bucky all your life. You’re carefree around him and it makes him feel normal, like he’s the Bucky he was before everything happened. If he focuses just on you he can pretend it’s the forties: the world melts away and it’s just him and a pretty girl. 

Bucky insists on paying. You complain about it half the walk home, insisting that next time it’s on your dime. The only thing Bucky hears is the ‘next time’. You hold his hand, fingers intertwined with his gloved ones, and chatter. Questions are passed back and forth and Bucky’s happy to indulge. The hem of your dress sways with every step you take; heels clicking on the pavement. He wants the sidewalk to stretch on forever. But eventually, you get to your building. You unlock the door, push it open and turn to him. 

“You wanna come up for a nightcap?”

Bucky hesitates for only a second before agreeing with a “sure”. You smile and lead him. Three flights of stairs and Bucky’s walking into your apartment. You toe off your heels and weave through the hallway, talking as you go about your latest squabble with Barbara. 

“In the end we called it even. Better to do that then spend the rest of the week arguing…”

Bucky’s half listening. He glances around the small entryway as he slips off his shoes. Pictures hang on the walls. They’re all of you and your friends. There’s a motivational quote embroidered into a hoop that hangs against a door. A mirror fills up a small slither of wall. Bucky glances in it and checks himself. 

“You want coffee or tea?”

With that, he follows your route into a living area. It’s open plan, half sitting room, half kitchen. “You have tea?” 

“Course. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” you reply. 

“Coffee’s great, thanks,” Bucky tells you. You nod and open your fridge. 

“Take a seat wherever.”

“This is a nice place,” he comments, sinking down onto the sofa. It’s squishy, sucks him in like a marshmallow: a plethora of throw cushions keep him nicely propped. As you make coffee and reel off some random facts and price points for the place, Bucky takes it in. Books upon books, a few about mindfulness and massage therapy; an empty bottle of champagne from a seemingly notable occasion; ornaments which imitate landmarks - the Eiffel tower; Big Ben, the pyramids; a bouquet of flowers sits in a vase on a small dining table, just big enough to seat two. It’s warmly lit. A string of fairy lights slinks from one side of the room to the other. 

Bucky watches you walk over. You sit down beside him, curling one leg under you, and offer him one of the mugs. He thanks you and nurses it. The skirt of your dress rides up, just long enough to save modesty, and like a teenager realising girls exist for the first time, Bucky tries his best not to stare. 

“I had a really fun time tonight,” you tell him, taking a sip of your steaming mug. Bucky smiles. 

“Me too. I’m glad we did this.”

You shuffle a little in your seat. Propping an arm up on the back of the headrest, you lean your cheek against it and gaze at him. He chuckles. 

“What?”

“Just thinking…Wanna ask you something but don’t know if it’s exactly first-date appropriate,” you say. 

Bucky rolls his eyes mirthfully and takes a sip of his coffee. “Feel like we’ve known each other long enough to forget about those kinda rules.”

“In that case: when was the last date you went on?”

Bucky’s brows twitch up; he wasn’t expecting that question. He looks down towards his lap, watching how his metal thumb rubs the porcelain handle of the mug. “Uh…About a year ago. Maybe slightly longer.”

“Oh really? How was it?”

Internally cringing at the memory, Bucky chuckles quietly. He shakes his head. “Not so hot.”

“Oh,” you hum. “Well, that’s a shame.”

He shrugs and turns his head to look at you. You’re so laid back: sock clad feet wiggling restlessly. “Not really. Means I’m here right now with you.”

“Ooh,” you grin, nose crinkling. “Nice line.”

“I try,” he suavely returns. You chuckle. He smiles. The coffee is good. “What about you?”

“Three…No, four years ago.”

“Four?”

“Don’t have to sound so horrified,” you snort. Bucky laughs, apologising. 

“I’m just surprised. You’re gorgeous. Don’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to take you out. Treat you nice.”

The fluster his words bring doesn’t go unnoticed. His ego triumphs. The smile on your face sinks into something more unshielded; as if peeling back some curtain. “Want the truth?”

Bucky nods. You sigh. “Most guys these days don’t know what they want. I’m not a one-night-kinda girl, and I need stability. An idea of where things are heading. That usually freaks people out. So it’s easier not to bother than to let myself get invested, only to wind up disappointed.”

He nods once more. You wash your words down with a sip of your coffee. “I get it,” Bucky tells you. “I tried the whole online dating scene. It’s a mess. Don’t know what I’m looking at half the time. And it feels like people can say anything on there without really meaning it.”

You hum in agreement, nodding, and meet his eyes again. Bucky’s flit down to your lips. They’re glossy from the lipstick you’d chosen, shimmering slightly in the twinkling fairy lights. He swallows. Then, he looks away, back down to the floor. 

“I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Bucky admits. “Dating, I mean. I don’t know what’s right and wrong. What’s old and what’s new. I mean, that date I went on, I brought her flowers. Pretty standard thing to do, back in my time, but she sort of laughed it off. Don’t think she meant any harm but still…Shakes a guy’s confidence, y’know?”

“I get it,” you say. He doesn’t look at you quite yet. In his peripheral, you lean down to place your mug gently on the wooden floor. “I’m always scared I’m too much. It’s like there’s this unspoken boundary you can’t cross and I never know where it is.”

Laughing under breath, agreeing, Bucky smiles smally to himself. “Yeah.”

“For the record,” something in your tone has him looking back up at you. The smile he’s met with is like the first day of Spring. It fills him with fresh air. “I love flowers. Don’t think I’d ever laugh at something like that.”

There’s a quick rush of adrenaline as Bucky sets his mind. He places his coffee mug quickly but carefully on the table to his left, and then, before he can lose his confidence, he’s reaching over to you and capturing your face in his hand. Leaning over, his lips find yours, and his eyes slip shut. Your breath catches, mouth parting with a split-second of surprise. Then your hand is reaching up to rest atop of his, and you press into his hold, and kiss him back. The feel of your right hand on his thigh has his body sparking to life like he’s been in hibernation. You lean your weight forward slightly, sighing against Bucky’s mouth, and he pulls away for a breath before kissing you again. Harder. Deeper. Fingertips run down along his forearm, up his shoulder, until they’re looping into his hair. You give a gentle tug and Bucky groans against your lips. You smile. He can feel it. He smiles too. 

“You’re so pretty,” you murmur into the kiss. Bucky’s teeth catch against your lower lip and you gasp. The breath that escapes you is shaky as he pulls just-so before letting go, kissing away the sting. Your fingers tighten in his locks. He smirks. It’s coming back to him; muscle memory, like dancing or riding a bike. Every little sound you make; every twitch of your fingers; every push and pull of your body: it drives him. Feeds him. He needs more, more, more. Somehow, you find yourself beneath him on your back. Bucky looms over you, propped up by his left arm, and he ventures further. Kisses the corner of your mouth, still shadowed with a smile. Kisses the cusp of your jaw. Suckles slightly at the tender skin of your neck, teeth scratching tauntingly at your jugular. 

“Bucky,” you sigh, head rocking backwards as if to present him with a fresh canvas.

He moans against your flesh. Your perfumed skin is pressed to his nose and it intoxicates him like liquor and turns him on like pheromones. His right hand sweeps down and along your figure. The forest green of your dress, silk and satin, bunches in his fingers as he squeezes your waist. Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. Bucky’s body is alight with a fire that’s laid dormant for years. Centuries. Blunt fingernails scratch at his scalp. But as his fingers feel the lace of your panties through the thin material of your dress, Bucky remembers where he is and what he’s doing. He eases off slightly. Peppers kisses until his lips find yours again. You pull him closer by the nape of his neck, tongue lapping salaciously into his mouth with a wanton moan. Bucky indulges for a moment before slowly pulling away. He opens his eyes to find you gazing up at him. Your pupils are blown wide like you’re stoned. Lips wet and swollen. You look fucking delicious. His hand parts from the side of your frame to come up to your face, swiping gently at your lower lip. You smile up at him. Bucky smiles back. He rubs his lips together and savours the taste of you. You somehow read his mind. It’s playful, understanding, as you whisper, “unspoken boundaries.”

He chuckles. “Plenty of time.”

“There better be,” you murmur, making him laugh harder. You plant one final peck to his lips. Bucky crawls off you and you sit back up, propping onto your arms. He reaches a hand on instinctively to help flatten some of your hair and you giggle, flustered. 

“Beautiful.”

The way you look at him is how any man would want to be looked at. As if there’s nothing else on the planet that will matter as much as he does. A twinge of nausea turns over in his stomach with dooming realisation. Like stepping off a cliff, Bucky was falling in love with you. Hard, fast, indomitably so. And the thing which seemed to terrify him the most was the fact that he wasn’t scared of it. Not even slightly. 

After the first date, Bucky had taken you on a second: drinks in a basement bar in Brooklyn, specialised in ‘surprise’ cocktails and craft beers. He’d brought you flowers. He’d walked you home and kissed you at the doorstep. He lingered and left. The third date was to a farmer’s market hosted in a city park. You’d wandered from stall to stall, hands intertwined with his, clad in a springtime jacket that made your skin seemingly glow under the daylight. It seemed you could spark up a conversation with anybody. Everything was interesting to you, from how beeswax soap was made to which cheese was the most challenging to produce. You’d drank coffee together whilst sat on an outdoor table outside of the New York City Library. He’d parted ways with you at the subway station, leaving you with a kiss, as you went to catch another train to work.  

Bucky still attended the spa. In the three weeks which followed the dinner date, Bucky had gone once for each. You were very professional, he had come to learn. Nothing more than a peck behind the closed door and another before he left, lingering if only slightly. But the massages remained the same. You followed routine, giving gentle heads-ups before placing your hands on his frame. Bucky didn’t need them much anymore. His trust in you shocked him to the core; it took nearly a year for Bucky to give a fraction of that level of trust to Sam. But he was certain that you could walk into the room with a knife and he’d think nothing of harm. 

“I’m just going to wash my hands,” you say, walking over to the sink. As you rinse them thoroughly under running water, Bucky props himself up onto his elbows. You walk over to him, standing at the head of the table to meet his gaze. “How you feeling?”

“Like a million dollars,” he says with a charming smile. You smile and lean forward to kiss him. You don’t give him time to try and search for more, pulling away all too quickly. Stepping away to tidy away some of the oils and lotions - the mystery of the behind-the-scenes now removed - Bucky climbs off the table and retrieves his robe. 

“So, I have an update on that whole baby shower thing,” you say. Bucky heads to the jewellery pot to retrieve his dog togs. 

“Oh?”

“Apparently I’m out of the will if I don’t go, according to Barbara,” you tell him, meeting his gaze. Bucky quirks a brow, hooking his tags over his neck. 

“You gonna go?”

You shrug. Twisting a lid back onto a tub of lotion, you say, “I’ve been giving it some thought. I think I should go.”

“Really?” he frowns. He crosses the room to lean against the massage bed, arms folded over his chest, watching you work. 

“It’s not fair to the baby,” you sigh. You slide the tub back onto the shelf. “It didn’t ask to be born into some weird-Greek-tragedy nightmare. ‘Sides, I always wanted a sibling. Guess it’s my fault for not being more specific when I made my birthday wishes.”

Bucky shakes his head, smiling smally. “You’re incredible, y’know that? I mean, seriously, not a lot of people would take this in stride like you are.”

You laugh. “Believe me - I am not taking it in stride. I just figure it’s worth giving the baby a chance. Don’t want it to be treated like the black sheep.”

He shakes his head again. “Better person than me, that’s all I’ll say.”

“Well, funny you should mention that,” you hum. You busy your hands with folding the blanket that had been covering Bucky’s body. He can’t catch your gaze. “I was kind of thinking it might be slightly more bearable if there was a familiar face there, just for me?” Bucky’s brows raise. You finally meet his eyes. “Wanna be my plus one?”

“You sure? Your family’s gonna be there, right?”

“Not really. Just my aunt and granny Barbs. Lucy’ll probably come too; they’re like a package deal.”

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking about that,” Bucky interrupts. “Are they…?”

“Gay?” You guess. He nods. Laughing, you shake your head. “Not that I’m aware of. Just lifelong friends, really. I call her aunt Lucy - she’s been around as long as I can remember.”

“Just thought it was worth checking,” Bucky hums, shrugging. “So, anyway, you were saying: your aunt, your gran, Lucy…”

“And some of the blushing soon-to-be-mother’s friends, probably,” you finish. “My mom and aunt’s mother died way back when, before I was even born. Grandpoppy too. And mom is, of course, refusing to go.”

“Seems fair,” Bucky mutters. 

“Daddy dearest is at work so we’re free of him. So really, it’s just two blood relatives.”

“Just two, huh?” he says. He clears the space between the two of you, taking the blanket from your hands and lying it on the table. With that, he places his open palms on your hips, tugging you closer. “Think I can handle that.”

“You sure? You might be about to witness a Shakespearan drama up close.”

“Lifelong dream.”

Smiling up at him, you push up onto your toes and kiss him dead on the lips. Bucky smiles. “You’re perfect,” you say against his damp mouth. “Thank you.”

The words catch in his throat. Anything for you. 

As decided two days prior, Bucky picks you up from outside your flat. Your aunt’s house was just outside of the city, not far from the spa, and you’d offered to take the train, but he figured driving was better. It gave him an excuse to have you all to himself for close to an hour. Lionel Richie crooned out of the speakers the whole ride there, accompanied by your slightly off-key harmonies. He’d smiled stupid most of the journey. But as the two of you neared the house, only five minutes away, your joy seemed to fizzle out like sun behind clouds. 

“You good over there?”

“Just mentally preparing,” you murmur. You’re staring out the side window. “I haven’t seen aunt Millie since before the Blip.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”

“Maybe,” you hum. “Feels like I’m betraying mom, though.”

“Does she know you’re going?” Bucky asks. His eyes flit over to you, concerned. You shake your head. 

“Her memory isn’t all that good these days. Thought it wasn’t worth the stress for her. ‘Sides, it’s not like we’re particularly close anyway.”

Bucky’s heart clenches. If someone were to ask him what he thought your family was like, he would have offered up two proud as peach parents and a little brother or sister who adored you. Instead, it seemed the only person worth their salt in your family tree was Barbara - second to you, of course. Whilst Bucky’s dad was a disappointment in the end, he still had fond memories of his childhood, and even after with his mom and sister. Steve was like a brother, and his parents a second set to his own. He never went without love or support, in some way or another. From the small stories you’d scattered within your time together, Bucky had built up a rather lonely picture of your upbringing. And yet here you were, far from bitter and still willing to step into the most mind-blowing scenario simply to prove to an unborn baby that you would try. 

His hand reaches across the seats until it lands on your knee. He squeezes reassuringly. Your warm palm envelopes over it and you catch his gaze. The two of you share a smile, a silent promise to go into this as a team. 

“Barbara and Lucy might just lose their minds when they see you, by the way,” you tell him, lightening the tone. 

Bucky grins, eyes drifting back to the road. He reluctantly withdraws his hand to shift gears, preparing to turn down another street. “I’m ready for the grilling.”

“Oh, nothing could prepare you for their grilling,” you warn, making him laugh. 

The house is charming. As Bucky pulls onto the driveway, he takes note of the magnificent topiaries and trimmed bushes. Flower beds line the front of the bricked building: cream painted window panes outlined with ivy. It’s like something from a fairytale book: enchanting and bewitching. Around the doorframe are balloons which rustle in the wind: blue and pink. Bucky puts the car into park and shuts off the engine. You’ve gone quiet. You’re staring at the house, lost in thought. 

“We don’t have to do this, y’know,” Bucky hears himself tell you. You don’t move, don’t look at him. “We can go right back to the city. Or just keep driving. Whatever you want.”

The silence stretches. Then, you shake your head. You turn to face him, a smile pushing onto your face. “No,” you say. “No, I need to do this. For the baby.”

He nods. When he gets out of the car, you follow. Retrieving a pair of gift bags from the back seat, Bucky hands one to you and carries the other. The gravel crunches beneath his shoes as the two of you head to the door. You take a deep breath in and knock. There’s music inside, muffled by the bricks and wood, and the vague sound of animated chatter. Bucky’s spine bristles. He didn’t love new people, or gatherings, or gatherings of new people. But this was important to you. You needed someone to be there for you, to help get you through it, and Bucky would be damned if that person wasn’t him. He’d opted for a long sleeved henley, deep blue, and jeans. His metal hand was on display but it didn’t draw too much attention, or at least he hoped so. 

The door swung open before he could obsess much more about his appearance. A lady stood, face round and cheeks flushed. She was heavily pregnant. This must be Aunt Millie. Bucky clenched his jaw and tried to find his inner peace. 

“Darling!” she cooed, throwing her arms around you. You were visibly stiff, reluctantly returning the embracement. “So glad you could make it!”

“Of course, aunt Mil,” you murmur. As she pulls away, her eyes naturally drift to Bucky. She eyes him with slight suspicion. “This is my friend, James.”

“James,” aunt Millie echoes, reaching out a hand. Bucky shakes it with his right. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too. Congratulations,” he says, sounding far from enthused. She smiles nonetheless. Her hand retracts to smooth over her baby bump. Bucky feels slightly sick.

“Nearly there. Daz says I’m about to pop any day now,” she says, rolling her eyes mirthfully. It’s your turn to clench your jaw. It seems an unfamiliar tick for someone so peaceful and relaxed as yourself. “Come in, come in! Everyone’s in the living room!”

You follow after her, Bucky in tow, and the pair of you step into an unfortunately beautiful living area. The homely interior looks like a stork has gone to town on it: blue and pink bunting strung on every wall; streamers dangling from the ceiling, pearly white; balloons everywhere. Poppy music plays from an Alexa. Drinks are laid out on an ebony cart, labels beside pitchers of blue and pink concoctions with cute baby puns. An impressive spread of food is on another console table. Party guests sit on the sofas and in armchairs, a few on stools. Bucky’s eyes land on Barbara. She’s brooding in the corner, a party hat skew-whiff on her head. She hasn’t seemed to notice him yet. 

“Everybody!” Aunt Millie calls. The conversations die down. What seems to be nine pairs of eyes drift over to you and Bucky. “Some new guests have arrived. Of course, you remember our little darling. And this is her friend, James.”

He finds himself looking at Barbara. There’s a shit-eating grin on her face. It seems the party has finally started for her. 

“Where should we put these?” you ask, lifting up your gift bag. 

“Oh, you sweeties,” aunt Millie preens. She guides the two of you into the adjoining kitchen. There’s a enormous stack of presents atop of the kitchen island. “You can add it to there. Thank you so much, that’s so kind.”

With that, she’s returning to her party. Bucky stands by your side and places his gift bag beside yours. “What’d you bring?” he murmurs. 

“Vodka,” you deadpan. He snorts. “I’m kidding,” you say, flashing him a grin. A real one, this time. “I found these cute baby blankets at this little store in Manhattan. Couldn’t resist. It was purely to benefit capitalism.”

He chuckles.

“What about you?”

“Some pacifiers. Figured you can never have enough, and I didn’t wanna spend more than twenty bucks.”

“Very smart of you,” you agree with a nod. You sigh and look up at him. Smiling, your voice is heavy with sincerity as you tell him, “thank you, for coming to this. I don’t think I could do this on my own.”

“Course,” Bucky quietly replies. He smiles down at you. You’re beautiful, standing in a summer dress that ends just before the knee, painted in peonies and snapdragons. “You need me, I’m there.”

Something in his words seems to hit you. Your eyes widen by a slight. If Bucky wasn’t trained to be so perceptive, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. But he does. Your lips part as if to say something, but instead of your sweet voice coming out, instead it’s:

“Well, well, well.”

Your eyes press shut. Bucky somehow holds back his laugh. The two of you turn to lay eyes on Lucy, saddled up beside Barbara. He’s not sure he’s seen either of them so happy. No, not happy. Gloating. 

“Nice of you to join us for this little shin-dig, James,” Barbara cordially greets. 

“Yes, so nice of you,” Lucy parrots. 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Nice to see you both too.”

“I should have placed money. If I was a betting man–”

“--What do you mean ‘if’? You lose about a twenty a week on those damn roulette tables on the internet.”

“Secret roulette tables,” Lucy hisses. 

“Glad to see the two of you enjoying yourselves,” you say, leaning against the kitchen island. “We miss anything so far?”

“Just a riveting round of ‘pin the baby bundle on the stork’,” Barbara says, sounding far from entertained. 

“Barbs here placed it way off to the left on the wallpaper. I think it was on purpose,” Lucy says. 

“What do you mean ‘think’, you twit, of course it was on purpose. This whole party is a whole load of–”

“--There you all are!”

It must look rather frightening, the fakeness of the smiles Aunt Millie is met with from the four reluctant guests. 

“We were just about to start a round of ‘twenty-one-questions’. Care to join?”

“How could we say no?” Lucy sardonically replies. Aunt Millie claps her hands together and returns to the living room. Lucy rolls her eyes; Barbara takes a swig of her glass of red wine. 

“What a dithering idiot,” Lucy mutters, following after the host. Barbara nods in agreement as she shadows. You shake your head and laugh quietly. 

“This is going fantastic.”

Bucky reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. You squeeze his metal palm and let him guide you back into the belly of the beast. There’s a loveseat empty which the two of you can only just fit on: your thigh presses up against Bucky’s. Without option, you’re each handed a paper cup of mocktail. Bucky has blue, you have pink. 

“Mm. What’s your taste like?” you quietly ask him. The attention is largely on aunt Millie who is explaining the very complex game of twenty-one-questions (‘so, essentially, everybody asks questions…’). 

“Sugar. Yours?”

You giggle underbreath. Pushing the cup near to him, you whisper, “here. Try it.”

He takes it from you and has a sip. Strawberry fizz hits his tongue like a sherbet. He bobs his head and nods. “Mm. I prefer mine.”

“Lemme try it. I might like it more.”

“No, I want it,” he childishly argues back. 

“Come on!” you giggle, reaching for his cup. He holds it up and out of reach, grinning down at you. “Bucky–”

“You two okay?”

His head snaps up to meet Aunt Millie’s curious expression. He lowers the cup, face flushing with embarrassment at the attention from the other party attendees, and nods. Clearing his throat, he replies, “yep. All good here.”

Twenty-one-questions goes by without a hitch. In fact, Bucky thinks you begin to enjoy yourself somewhat. The event is rather nice if you block out the fact that your mother’s sister is pregnant with your dad’s baby, your soon-to-be half-sibling/niece/nephew. The first round is a pig, the second a newspaper. 

“Alright, who should go next?” Aunt Millie wonders. 

“I think our darl should. She always comes up with clever ones,” Barbara says, pointing over to you. Bucky quirks a brow, looking down at you. You sigh and roll your eyes, but you don’t say no. 

“Got one?”

“Yep,” you smile, nodding. Bucky takes a sip of his neon blue concoction - it’s starting to grow on him. The questions start to come in and clues are uncovered: it’s a person; a relatively young person; a black person; a black man; a black man who flies; no, not the first black pilot; he isn’t a pilot, he just flies; a black man who–

“Is it Sam?” Bucky suddenly asks. 

You grin, looking up at him. “Sam who?”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky catches on quickly. “Is it Captain America?”

“Hey! James got it!” you cheer. The room cheers too, clapping jovially, whilst you gloat in your little gag. Bucky shakes his head at you; he’s smiling, hard. You let out a little laugh. He’s glad you're enjoying yourself. Relieved, even. The game comes to a close after that and stories are passed. The two of you end up wrapped in a conversation with one of your aunt’s friends from college. She’s nice enough, likely oblivious to the Freudian case study which was her friend’s pregnancy. As she’s telling you and Bucky about a trip she went on to Paris the other month, there’s a knock at the front door. Bucky vaguely tracks Aunt Millie getting up to go answer it. It was a reflex, to stay alert at all times. His hearing catches onto what sounds like a man’s voice. His brows tug together slightly, lips losing some of his smile. He sees it before it’s announced. His stomach twists. His back goes stiff. His palm sweats. He doesn’t have to know what Darren looks like to recognise him. An asshole like that is distinguishable from a mile away, by a blind man. 

“Look who made it!” Aunt Millie announces with dumb excitement. Everyone in the room turns. Bucky wishes there’s some way to warn you of what you’re about to see, but there isn’t. Everything is somehow happening in slow motion with no time to intervene. He knows the second you lay eyes on him. 

You go statue still. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Darren grins. He’s charming. Smarmy. Makes your skin prickle with disgust, a gut feeling that he wasn’t all he pretended to be. “Told the boys at work the occasion and they let me get off early.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” aunt Millie gushes. She ushers her friends to make space for him. Bucky’s gaze hardens to steel when he watches Darren’s eyes fall onto you. 

“Darling.”

You don’t speak. Don’t move. Bucky’s eyes flit down to you but he can’t see your face, just the back of your head. 

Darren’s guided to take perch on the sofa, a space cleared for him as if he’s royalty, and as he falls into conversation with aunt Millie’s friends, their attention all zoned in on him, you abruptly get up from the sofa and walk to the door. Bucky’s eyes dart over to Barbara and Lucy’s. They’re watching with an eagle gaze just like he is. Barbara looks apologetic, disappointed, worried. Lucy just looks pissed. Bucky gets up and gives them a brief nod; he ditches his cup on the coffee table as he heads for the door. You’re stood outside, lent against the brick wall. Your head is lulled back, eyes closed, lips pulled into a thin line. Bucky lets the door quietly click shut behind him. He doesn’t speak. Just stands, hands in his pockets, and watches you, quietly concerned. 

“He came,” you mumble. 

Bucky nods despite the fact you can’t see him. 

You lift a hand up to the bridge of your nose and pinch it, rubbing. “The fucking asshole came. He’s shameless. It actually makes me sick.” Sighing, you open your eyes and glance over to Bucky. Tears gather in the waterline. His mind splits. A part of him wants to go back in there and beat the son of a bitch until he can’t walk, and a part of him wants to stay and hold you and tell you everything will be okay. He knows which one to lean into the second a tear slips down your cheek. 

“Come here,” he murmurs. You don’t need any further prompting. You practically fall against him, a hand coming up to fist at his shirt, and Bucky wraps his arms around you, holding you close. Your body shivers with your quiet tears. He places a kiss to the crown of your head, pressing his cheek against your hair, and he holds you. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

“I fucking hate him,” you cry into his shirt. “I hate his guts.”

“That anyway to speak about your old man?”

Bucky’s shoulders seize. He slowly turns his head to find Darren standing there in the doorway, flesh and blood - a waste of both. He’s happy to let his contempt be palpable. It’s easy to sink back into his old ways: brooding, silent, deadly. Darren doesn’t seem to be all the way stupid. He shifts slightly under Bucky’s gaze. He eyes him warily and doesn’t take a step out of the house towards you. 

“Come on, darling. I just want to talk,” Darren says, softer. 

You slowly ease away from Bucky’s frame. Sniffing, you wipe your cheek. One of your hands stays on Bucky’s side, as if you need to keep him close. 

“I don’t wanna talk to you,” you say, voice still quivering. 

“Look, I understand this is a bit of a surprise–”

“A surprise? Which part exactly?” you spit. You’re angry, suddenly so. Pulling away from Bucky, you furiously wipe your face dry as you take a step towards your father. “You being here and ambushing me, or you knocking up mom’s sister?”

“It’s hardly an ambush, darling. This is a baby shower for my child.”

You laugh. It’s haunting to Bucky, void of humour. “Do you even hear yourself!? Can you not fathom how insane that is!? You need fucking help!”

“Don’t be cruel, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snarl, pointing at him. “You don’t get to call me that. You ruined my life.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think–”

“God, you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

Darren swallows. He looks uncomfortable. Bucky stares him down. “Can we talk somewhere alone, maybe?”

“No. I don’t want to be alone with you,” you state. Darren sighs. His hands slip into his pockets. You press your lips together and take a deep breath. In the lull, he takes a step outside and closes the door behind him. Bucky imagines it’s to save face from the others. God forbid people know the truth about this piece of scum. As if incapable of reading the room, Darren’s eyes drift up over your head to Bucky. 

“I see you’ve met someone,” he says. Bucky almost wants to laugh at the man’s idiocy when he extends out a hand for Bucky to shake. “I’m Darren.”

“I know who you are,” is all Bucky says. He doesn’t shake his hand. Darren eventually returns it to his pocket. The attention returns to you. You’re shaking your head, hands on your hips, staring at the wall just to the side of Darren’s head. 

“I see things are going just as good for you as always, then.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. Your eyes slowly drift over to your dad. He feels the need to expand. 

“First you throw away your medical degree and now this. Dating a former criminal. A known murderer. You’re just throwing it all away now, huh?”

Bucky’s blood goes cold. You shake your head. Slowly at first, then fast. “You don’t get to come in here and tell me how to live my life when you’ve made such a shitshow of yours.”

“You don’t talk to me like that. I’m your father.”

“And what exactly qualifies you of that title?” you ask, cocking your head. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you had a good future lined up before you threw it all down the shitter,” Darren boldly states. 

“I like my life,” you tell him. “I like the choices I’ve made in my life. I’m happy.”

“With him?”

“Yes. With him,” you affirm. Bucky wasn’t aware of how badly he needed to feel your touch until your hand reached behind you for his. The tension eased from him like water rolling off leaves. “I hated my life before. I hated college. I hated medical school. I hated you.”

“You could have been a doctor,” your dad says, shaking his head. There’s something akin to disgust in the way he appraises you. “You could have been a psychiatrist.”

“And whose fault is it that I’m not?”

He doesn’t answer. It seems he knows it, though. His brows twitch, his fingers too. Bucky doesn’t like him for a myriad of reasons, but partly because he can’t predict him. One moment he’s the apologetic father and the next he’s the disappointed dad. 

“You’re not who I thought you’d be, darling,” Darren remarks, shaking his head. He tuts. “What a waste.”

Anger blinds him. Bucky takes a step forward. Your hand clenching his is the only thing which makes him stop.

“I could say the same thing to you, dad,” you say. Your voice is steady, frighteningly so, when you speak. “You were all I looked up to, and now I can’t even look at you.”

Darren stands there, stupefied. His lips part like a fish out of water, searching for words. Rage colours his face, distorts his hideous features. But you don’t bother to wait for his comeback. It would only be a waste of oxygen. 

“Goodbye, dad.”

You turn heel and walk to the car. Bucky lets his hand slip away from yours. He doesn’t stop you and you don’t wait. Darren bristles as Bucky stalks towards him. He doesn’t stop until the shorter man’s back is pressed against the door. He dips his face, invading his personal space, and glares daggers into his wide eyes. 

“You do anything as much as text her, and I’ll find you. Got it?”

Darren swallows. Bucky’s metal arm whirs, his patient dwindling, and he grabs firmly at Darren’s upper arm. He squeezes. Hard enough to leave a mark. His smirk is impossible to hold back at the quiet whimper he’s met with. 

“Got it?” he grits out. 

Finally, Darren nods. Bucky lets go in an instant. He brushes his hands down Darren’s arms, smoothing his shirt, and takes a step back. His smile is overly polite. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”

You’re sitting in the passenger seat when Bucky reaches the car. He glances over to the house as he turns on the engine. Darren’s gone back inside, it seems. Barbara is at the kitchen window, watching. Bucky gives her another nod and she gives one back. He taps on the screen of the car until the satnav chimes to life, logged for your address. 

“Ready to leave?” he checks, glancing over to you. You’re slumped in your seat, staring out the passenger side window. Your reply is a silent nod. Bucky pulls out of the driveway and starts off down the road. 

You don’t speak for the first thirty minutes. Not a single word. You’re not crying, though, which Bucky takes to be a good thing. Bucky decides not to open the conversation. He knows more than anyone the value of space. You needed time to think and to process. Bucky never got to see his father again after he walked out, but he can only imagine that if their paths ever somehow crossed - then or even now - he would need time to work it all through.

But he’s human, still. His worry nibbles away at him until he can’t help but reach a hand across the console, just as he had done on the ride there, placing his hand on your knee. It lingers there for a minute. He considers taking it back. But then, your hand is laying atop of his. He glances over to you and you meet his gaze. The smile you flash him is real. Genuine. You might not be good, but you’re okay. That’s all Bucky needs right now. 

The radio hums quietly in the background. Bucky hadn’t bothered to queue anything up; he isn’t sure which playlist is on. A piano melody opens a song. A man begins to sing. You shuffle in your seat. 

“I like this song,” you mumble. Bucky glances at you. You turn to sit facing inwards, towards him. He reaches over to the dial and turns the volume up. A few moments later, you’re quietly singing along.

Bucky smiles to himself. The song swells into rhythmic blues with haunting synth tunes. As it ties together, fading off into the next tune, you sigh. 

“I’m okay now,” you say softly. Bucky doesn’t say anything. You nod. Smile. “Yeah. I think I’m okay.”

He offers out his hand to you and you take it. And for the first time since Bucky’s met you, he thinks he might be the one to remove a weight from your shoulders. 

Something shifts in the relationship after that. There’s a gravity to it which wasn’t there before, and a new meaning defined. It was more than pleasant dates and lingering kisses and longing stares. Bucky had seen the side of you which you kept under layers of armour which time had built. The endless patience he’d been privy to snapped. He’d held you whilst you cried and helped to dry the tears. In a strange way, it felt like a milestone had been met. One which underlined how serious Bucky was about you, and you about him. But it remained unnamed and unlabelled - the relationship the two of you shared. Bucky was still finding his footing with romance. The steps were coming back to him but he needed some time to remember the routines. Was asking someone to be your girlfriend even a thing anymore? It felt juvenile, outdated, and yet necessary. In a caveman-like way, Bucky wanted people to know you were with him. He belonged to you. 

“Watched any good movies this week?” you ask Bucky as you walk down the streets of Brooklyn one evening. In your right hand is a carrier bag filled with miscellaneous items you’d picked up on an errand run. It had felt domestic joining you in the shop as you picked out shampoo and mouthwash and painkillers. Your left hand is encased in his, warmed by his leather glove. 

“Fight Club,” he replies. Despite the little book Steve gave him being gone, Bucky had continued his catching-up on the things he missed. That included movies. You’d ask him occasionally about what his latest ‘education’ was. 

“Ah. Man-classic. What did you think?”

Bucky shrugged. A couple across the street laughed. “It was alright. The ending was pretty strange.”

“The whole movie is,” you snort. “I don’t like how it’s filmed. It makes me feel dizzy.”

“Definitely not my favourite,” Bucky agrees. 

“Brad Pitt is sexy though, so it gets points for that,” you comment. Bucky glances down at you, amused. 

“Can’t say I noticed.”

You roll your eyes, grinning up at him. “Yeah right. Nobody is immune to Brad Pitt.” Neither agreeing or disagreeing, you continue to fill the city-scape buzz. “What’s next on your watch-list?”

“Not sure,” Bucky hums. He reels aloud different titles from the mental list he'd been making, from people's recommendations of 'you have to see so-and-so movie - it's a classic!' You let out varying intonations of hums in response to each. Then, you gasp. 

“You know what we should watch?” Bucky quirks a brow in question. “Dirty Dancing. Now that is a classic.”

“Dirty Dancing? The hell’s that?” Bucky frowns, bemused. 

You gape at him like he’d just insulted your religion. “It’s the best romance movie ever made.”

“Quite the claim.”

“Because it’s true,” you insist. Your pace picks up slightly and Bucky laughs to himself. “We’re watching it tonight. You can’t fight me on this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

He’s more than happy to let you drag him to your apartment building, driven with newfound purpose. Your apartment is something of a second home to him now. He kicks off his shoes when he walks in; lounges on his claimed spot and turns on the television whilst you potter about in the kitchen. The fairy lights and lamp flicker to life. You wander over with two glasses of wine and a bowl of popcorn. Bucky pops a piece in his mouth whilst scrolling through the various streaming platforms. You sit sideways on, stretching your feet out and onto his lap. He loves it. It’s so easy, so natural, so right. Eventually, Bucky finds Dirty Dancing. As the opening credits roll onto the screen, Bucky’s metal hand busies itself with rubbing soothing, deep circles into the sole of your foot. Little tricks he’d learnt from your time together. The movie stretches on. Sixties music with blues drum beats; sepia tainted footage. His attention is only half on the story. It keeps drifting to you. You’re enthralled, smiling to yourself faintly. Your head bobs along to the music sometimes. Your lips move silently with some of the dialogue; you’ve seemingly seen it enough times to rehearse it. 

“Patrik Swayze is so attractive,” you randomly announce. Bucky chuckles. He squeezes your foot playfully and you squirm. “Don’t worry, you’re hot too.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs with a lazy grin. 

“I think there’s nothing sexier than a guy who dances,” you muse. “What’d you think so far?”

“I like it,” he tells you. You meet his eyes, a brow quirked as if to ask ‘really’. “I do. It’s fun. Romantic.”

“So romantic,” you swoon like a teenager. Bucky grins, shakes his head, and looks back to the movie. “Do you dance?”

“I used to,” Bucky says. He smiles at the faint memories of hours spent in dance halls. The smell of smoke gripping to the wallpaper; the taste of whiskey on his tongue. A girl on his arm, Steve begrudgingly tagging along. “Used to be pretty good at it. I could waltz fairly good. My ma taught me how.”

“I’m jealous,” you murmur. “People don’t dance these days. Not like back then.”

Something in your tone has Bucky pushing your feet off his lap. His body isn’t his own when he rises to his feet. You look up at him, mildly amused, and he extends a hand out to you. 

“Come on then.”

You quirk a brow. “Really?” 

He nods. You hesitate for a moment before slipping your hand into his. He helps tug you up and onto your feet. You giggle, nervous, and let him maneuver you like a puppet. His heart thrums nervously in his chest. He hasn’t danced in years; not properly. No more than the toe tap in the kitchen as the radio plays. But something about you has him taking the chance. 

“Like this,” he murmurs. His voice fades into the music and dialogue of the movie. 

Your left hand is guided onto his shoulder, and your right is captured in his metal hand. His right lands on your waist, fingers pressing into your flesh gently like sinking into snow. He nods and takes a step forward, and you take one backwards. 

“That’s it, you got it,” he quietly praises. Your shoulders ease slightly. You accidentally step onto his sock clad toe. 

“Oops. Sorry.”

“You’re good,” Bucky chuckles. After a few more stumbles and squished toes, you start to pick up on it. Bucky leads; his hand stays safe on your side, his other occasionally squeezing your palm. You're staring down at the floor, watching your feet like you might grow an extra toe, brows tugged together within concentration. Bucky lifts his finger under your chin and eases your face up, until your eyes meet his. A timid smile has his heart hiccuping. Bucky dips his face, pulling your body closer to him by the waist, and rests his chin by the crux of your shoulder. Your fingers press into the bridge of where metal meets flesh. He takes a deep breath in: you smell of your perfume and moisturiser. He tilts his head just enough to let his lips ghost a kiss to your neck. A quiet gasp escapes you. Bucky holds you closer still. His hips roll instinctively to the rhythm. His eyes slip shut. A weight rolls off his shoulder. Your own body begins to sway, the musicality contagious, and Bucky kisses you again on the throat, his lips lingering against the thin veil of skin. Your hand slinks away from his shoulder and up, into his hair. Your head turns and his eyes find yours, half-hooded, smiles gone. Something sweeps over the two of you, captures you in a bubble, and Bucky dances with you without shame. His hand grips at your hips and guides them to the beat, against him. Your eyes don’t shy away from his. Your lips remain parted, breath a little short; there’s the faintest tinge of wine that fills the ever decreasing gap between the two of you. And he can’t take it any longer. Bucky kisses you. He pours everything into it. Every memory, every thought, every compliment. You hold him close. Let him live in the dream of being a normal guy with a pretty girl. His lips slowly break apart but he remains close. Revels in the feel of your warm breath fanning his mouth. He swallows. Digs inside of him for guts to say the three words that have been there maybe since the start. 

A loud clatter on the television has you jumping. 

The bubble pops.

The two of you look to the TV. There’s a fight, a scuff of some kind between Johnny and another guy. Bucky swallows, his confidence flickering like a dying candle. You slip out of his hold with a nervous smile. Flustered like it was your first kiss. Combing some hair behind your ears, you smile at him. 

“I’m just gonna use the bathroom.”

Bucky nods. As you head out the room, he sighs. His fingers still tingle from your touch. His heart is racing. His mind feels foggy, like he’s been possessed by a former version of himself. When you return, he’s back on the sofa, drinking his wine, watching the movie. You wordless return to your spot beside him. Your head leans against his shoulder. You bring the bowl of popcorn up and take a handful. Bucky takes a piece too. 

“Y’know, you kinda remind me of her,” Bucky says, tipping his glass towards the screen. 

“Baby?”

“Mhm. Determined. Kind. Giggly, with an edge. Sexy.”

“Sexy, huh?”

“Hey, if you’re having Patrik then it’s only fair that I have her.”

You giggle. Crunching on a piece of popcorn, you shrug. “Fair enough. Can’t argue with that logic.”

The popcorn goes down piece by piece, the bowl empty by the time the end credits roll. Bucky sees the appeal. It’s charming, living in its time like Bucky wishes he could. Yawning, you reach over for the remote and turn the volume down. That’s when the two of you catch it. It’s raining. 

“Sounds pretty heavy,” you comment. Bucky hums. Getting to your feet, you gather the empty glasses and bowl and head into the kitchen. He clicks off the TV and follows. Your back is to him as you stand at the sink, rinsing the pots. Bucky doesn’t wait for you to ask, grabbing a tea towel and taking the spot beside you to dry the pots you wash. Domestic. Safe and secure. “Y’know, you could just stay over.”

Something zips through Bucky at the thought. “Yeah?”

“I mean…I am, so…”

He chuckles at that, catching your cheeky grin in the corner of his eye. He swallows, turns over the offer in his mind like assessing an artifact. “You sure you wouldn’t mind?”

You shut off the sink. Looking up at him, you smile. There’s something on your face that isn’t familiar to Bucky. Your eyes flicker up and down over him; it’s quick but noticeable. “Certain of it.”

Considering Bucky has never stayed over before, the two of you step into a routine as if you’ve done it dozens of times before. Your shoulder brushes his upper arm as you stand side by side at the sink, brushing your teeth. In the reflection, your eyes catch. You smile at him. He smiles back. He stays behind to use the toilet as you head into your bedroom. In the quiet seclusion of the bathroom, he washes his hands and studies himself in the mirror. The memory of you moments ago, close to his body, close enough that he could feel every little twitch that every breath brought, was replaying in his mind, over and over. The way your breath caught, the tiny gasp that came when he kissed your neck. The smell of you was consuming him, driving him crazy. He closed his eyes and gripped the sink. Get it together, Barnes. Jesus. He was acting like a goddamn teenager, going through puberty all over again. But with the eroticism came anxiety. It seeped into his shoulders, tightened the muscles like pulling on strings. It had been years - years - since he laid with a woman. He imagined it to be the same as dancing; muscle memory. But he worried himself sick. What if he wasn’t as good as he used to be? What if it’s a big disappointment for you? He wants to make you feel good…That’s all he’s ever wanted. 

Bucky splashes some cold water on his face. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. He trusts you. That’s all that matters. He knows you, too. Knows you won’t laugh in his face. That you’ll be patient, understanding. It was in your nature, as embedded in your body like your tendons and bones. Get it together. He heads out the bathroom and into the bedroom. 

You’re sitting on the bed atop of the covers, scrolling on your phone, in your pajamas: an oversized shirt from your former college, sporting the emblem on the front, and a pair of sleep shorts. The only light comes from your left, a yellow-ish glow from the bedside lamp. He’s not sure where the idea comes from, but the second it's in his mind, it’s out his mouth. 

“Y’know what I was thinking about?”

“How sexy Patrick Swayze is?” you wonder, not looking up from your screen. Bucky rolls his eyes in good nature. 

“I wanna give you a massage.”

That has your attention. You look up and over to him, clicking off your phone. “A massage?”

“Yeah. I wanna see what it’s like. Pay you back. Tit for tat,” Bucky shrugs, slipping his hands into his pant pockets. You chuckle; your phone joins the bedside table. 

“You don’t gotta ‘pay me back’. It’s a service, Bucky. That’s how economy works. Business,” you tease. He rolls his eyes and sits down on the bed. You’re still deliberating his offer. Eventually, you shrug. “I mean, I’m game.”

His brows raise slightly. “Yeah?”

“Sure,” you say. You get to your feet and head for the door, saying as you go, “there’s some spare oils and stuff in the bathroom. I’ll go get them.”

In the brief time you’re gone - the extractor fan light telling of your whereabouts - Bucky meddles with the bedsheets. He arranges it so there’s a pillow laid out for your head, pushing the duvet off the foot of the bed. He’s still standing by the foot of the bed when you come back in, a bottle of massage oil in each hand. 

“Your choice,” you say, lifting each, “lavender or cedarwood.”

“Lavender,” he nods. You hand it over. He turns it over in his metal hand, vaguely reading the label. You click the door behind you and press your back against it, waiting. Bucky clears his throat, finding his smile. He gestures to the bed. “Your massage bed, ma’am.”

“Why thank you,” comes your accented reply. He chuckles. You climb onto the bed, sitting on your knees, and something about it sends a chill down Bucky’s spine. You quirk a brow, expectant. 

“Could you, uh, take off your top. So I can get to your shoulders, s’all.”

Your lips quirk. “If you wanted me naked,” you lowly say, fingers catching the hem of your shirt. Bucky’s lungs go empty as you pull it up and over your head. It’s tossed to the floor. He lets out a shaky breath through the nose. “All you had to do is ask.”

His eyes slip shamelessly down from your eyes to your chest. You sit there, shirtless, waiting. He swallows. He gestures to the bed. “Lie down, on your stomach.”

Your compliance shouldn’t be as erotic as it is. You sink down into the mattress, face turned to the right, facing the wall. Your eyes slip shut with a breath. Bucky’s eyes trail down your bare back; he admires every muscle, every dip, every freckle and scar, every stretch mark. You’re beautiful; something pulled from his fantasies and crafted into life. He sinks onto the bed on his knees. He hooks a leg over your body, holding himself over your frame in a straddle. Opening the bottle of oil, he tips what seems a sufficient amount into his right hand. The bottle clinks on the bedside table. He rubs his hands together and inhales slowly, calming himself, his heart racing, mind veering off into sensual reveries. 

“I’m going to touch you,” he murmurs. You don’t speak. His hands sink down onto your skin. Your body is firm beneath his touch, but there’s the squish and give of skin that gives when he pushes gently into the muscle. You let out a deep sigh. He smirks. “That’s it…”

Bucky’s mesmerised with how your body feels beneath his touch. He mimics what you do to him; presses into the crux of your shoulders, follows the flow of muscles down your lats and arms. He runs his palms by the heels of his hands up your back. The way you're breathing is driving him crazy. He’s never practised such restraint; growing harder and harder with every second his fingers are on your body. Then, he’s leaning down, down, down, until his lips meet your upper back. He kisses you. You sigh heavily. Another, and another, tracking down your spine. His fingers dip into the waistband of your sleep shorts. Before he can ask, you’re lifting your hips enough to help him slide them down: a silent mark of consent. He guides them down your legs, tosses them onto the floor. You’re not wearing panties. Bucky thinks a part of him dies and gladly goes to heaven. 

He runs a palm up your leg, starting at the shin, following the inner track of your thigh. He coaxes them apart and you give like parting water. Bucky’s eyes flick up to your face. Your eyes remain closed; your breathing, hard. He realises he is too. Your glistening core has him letting out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hands plant on your hips and he guides your body so you’re propped up onto your knees. You shift, leaning on your forearms. His finger reaches out and brushes through your folds, gathering some of the slick on his fingers. You gasp out at the tiny sensation. 

“Bucky,” you mumble. He groans. His grip is just shy of mean when he grabs your ass, guiding you open; he leans down and he can fucking smell you. It’s dizzying, intoxicating. It’s going to kill him. 

And what a way to die. 

His nose nuzzles against you first before his tongue licks a long, deep lap right to your clit. You’re gasping out, fingers fisting into the sheets. He’s a man starved. He can’t get enough. Your taste is addictive. It’s more than heroin, more than crack. It’s everything. His tongue dips at your weeping cunt, sucks at your swollen clit. He moans against you, eating you out like it’s his God given right. His fingers grab at the flesh of your cheeks, sure to leave bruises. You rut against his face, moaning stupid into the sheets. He keeps going until you’re begging. “Please, baby, please…God, fuck Bucky, don’t stop…M’gonna come, oh God…”

He keeps going until you’re clenching around nothing, shaking as you tip over the edge. He keeps going until you’re trying to crawl out of his hold, the overstimulation teetering on too much. He sits back on his haunches and wipes his face, licks his lips, savours the taste that he already wants more of. You’re on him in a second. Practically crawling into his lap, hooking your legs over and around his waist so you’re straddling him. Hands around his neck, in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, pulling at his brown locks. You can surely taste yourself as you kiss him. It’s messy, filthy, nothing but tongue and teeth and broken pleas and moans. His hands can’t stay still. They roam over your body; rub at your thighs, caress your tits. You grab at his t-shirt and tug until he’s breaking apart, pulling it over his head. His dog tags rest against burning hot skin. 

Leaning back into his hold, your hands glide down his chest. You take your time with it, following along with your eyes, mouth agape. 

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” you sigh. Then you’re leaning in, pressing kisses to the junction of his prosthetic, and his eyes roll back into his head. They linger more and more as you journey to his ear, catching his lobe between your teeth. He’s amazed he doesn’t come as you whine into his ear, “need you to fuck me.”

With a grunt, his hands grab your hips and he tosses you onto your back. He’s caging you in, kissing you senseless until neither of you can remember your names. Your hands push at his pants and there’s a small struggle as Bucky kicks off his pants and boxers. But when your fingers wrap around his throbbing length, Bucky lets out a choked gasp, head dropping onto your collarbone. 

“Don’t tease,” he quietly begs. He kisses at your nipple. “I won’t last.”

“How long?” you whisper. You work him gently, slowly, careful of the pressure. 

“Too long,” he chuckles. He’s too turned on to be embarrassed by the admission. 

You kiss his forehead reassuringly. He lifts his head, eyes finding yours. “Me too,” you confide. 

Bucky ruts into your hand, hips rolling instinctively. Your thumb traces over the tip; his eyes slip shut with a moan of your name. 

“That’s it,” you murmur. Bucky wants to cry as you start speaking to him in that voice. The voice that hooked him in. The voice that could make him do anything. “Feels good, baby?”

“Fuck,” he grits out. He’s painfully hard. “No, no, m’close…”

“You wanna fuck me?” you innocently ask with a coo. Bucky moans, rutting desperately into your fist. “You gonna fuck me, James?”

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna kill me,” he practically whines against your clammy skin. 

Your hand finally eases away and he lets out a breath, both of relief and disappointment. Then you’re wriggling up the bed, sitting up enough to reach over into the drawer of the bedside table. Bucky keeps himself busy with face fucking your tits. Your back arches at the hickeys he decorates the plump skin with. His dog tags dangle, ghosting your skin. Cupping his jaw, your fingers stroke lovingly at his cheek to guide his face away, back up to yours. The kiss you catch him in is different: slower, sweet, tender. His fingers seek out your free hand, stealing the condom from your hold. But then you’re breaking apart with a shaking head, breath fanning hot against his swollen lips. 

“I’m not ready yet,” you whisper. Bucky swallows. “It’ll hurt.”

“What’d you need?” Bucky murmurs through kisses. He leaves them anywhere. Your cheeks, your jaw, your neck. “Whatever you want, baby…”

“Need to be fingered,” you hum. Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut at the thought. His right hand runs up and along your leg, but before he can reach your cunt, you’re grabbing at his wrist. Face contorted with confusion, he glances up at you. You look fucking gone. You’re shaking your head, a small smile on your lips. “The oils aren’t for intimate use.”

He shakes his head, not following. 

“You can’t use them internally,” you explain, easing his hand away from you. He goes to push off you to wash his hands but you hold him close, stopping him. His brows are furrowed slightly, muddled, as he watches your hand slip away from his. Your finger slides through the soaking folds of your pussy. Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. Your head tilts back, eyes slipping shut as you sigh, pushing a finger inside of you. 

You start to fuck yourself with your fingers. 

“Holy fuck,” Bucky moans. He can’t seem to look away. He kisses your neck and jaw, insatiable, eyes trained on your digits that sink in and out of your soaking hole. How he hasn’t come yet is beyond him. You let out a desperate moan when you scissor yourself open. His metal thumb reaches down and he plays with your neglected clit. The squeal you let out is adorably erotic. Bucky chuckles against your burning hot skin. You’re like a fever he can’t sweat out. He kisses at your ear; nibbles at the edge of it. “So fucking sexy, fucking your hand.”

You cry out, groaning. The lewd squelch of your fingers runs like cold water down Bucky’s spine. 

“Bucky,” you whimper. “M’so close.”

“That’s it,” he croons. His fingers pinch your pebbled nipple. You’re rocking on your hand, three fingers buried inside of you. He shakes his head, smirking. “Doing so good for me, doll. You can come, baby. Let go…”

You shiver when you come. Your fingers slip out of you as you climax, incoherent blubbers falling from your kiss-swollen lips, a blasphemy of his name with the lords. Bucky rests his head against the crux of your shoulder, leaving love bites on your neck, his hand rubbing your waist reassuringly as you slowly start to come down. The sound of sucking has him opening his eyes. Your fingers are deep inside your mouth, cleaning them of your juices. He can’t help but laugh. 

“You can’t be fucking real,” he mutters. Your eyes open and he kisses you, chasing the taste of you on your tongue. 

And then finally, finally, he’s easing his way inside of you. 

You’re laid back on the bed; head rolled back, eyes pressed shut, mouth agape. Bucky props himself up above you, his metal hand guiding him into your sopping cunt. Despite the foreplay, you squeeze him as he enters. His moans are muffled into the skin of your shoulder. Your fingers thread through his hair, soothing him as he pushes inside, deeper and deeper, until you’re all he can feel. 

Somewhere in the haze, the two of you lock eyes. You smile at him. It tells him thousands of things. The trust you hold in him is astronomical in that moment, Bucky realises, and the same goes for him. He kisses you tenderly. Then he gently rocks his hips back, easing out, before driving back in. Your moan is half broken with a gasp. He groans against your body. Then, the tether snaps, and he loses all restraint. He fucks you into the bed until you can’t speak. He fucks you until your legs are locking around his body like a vice. He fucks you until you’re begging him for something, anything - until all that matters if hearing his name falling from your mouth over, and over, and over. 

“Fuck, James,” you cry, pulling him impossibly closer. He knows you're close. He is too. He has been for the past hour. “Please, baby. Please…”

“I know, doll, I know,” he grunts. The kisses are sloppy; broken but not wasteful. He moans as you clench around him. “Fuck, feel so fuckin’ good…”

Your voice cracks when you come for the third time that night. And it’s with that dying cry of his name that Bucky lets himself fall over the edge, tumbling into white-blind ecstasy. He’d forgotten, somehow, in all the years of torture and running and rebuilding: he’d forgotten how good it felt. 

Now that he’d remembered, Bucky wasn’t sure if he could ever go without it again. 

You’re still shaking after Bucky’s throws out the condom. He grabs the duvet and tugs it back up and onto the bed. It’s eased just up to your hip; your body is still hot as fire. Beads of sweat run down Bucky’s face. He lays on his back, eyes transfixed on the ceiling until he can’t hold them open any more. His chest is heaving as he slowly but surely begins to catch his breath. You sleepily shuffle closer, snuggling up against his clammy chest, panting still. He wraps his arm around you and presses a kiss to the crown of your forehead. 

“James?” you quietly broach. Your voice is a little breathless, those less so than before. He can still hear you crying out his name; nothing has ever sounded as sweet as you coming. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you something?” He swallows and nods. His finger swipes over your back, stroking at the skin, still slick with oil. “I love you.”

The words sit in the sex-soaked room. They seep into his mind like vapour, clouding every thought. Every nightmare and every horror is cloaked. Every self deprecating insult that he’s berated himself with becomes hidden. And through the mist, is you. It was always you. He knew it from the moment he met you. The reason why he had put up with all the shit that was thrown his way. The reason why he was still here, still trying, still fighting for something. It was because he needed to find you. 

It might be the easiest thing he’s ever said, when Bucky tells you, “I love you too.”

~*~*~*

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I might do a part two. Let me know if that's something people might want! also, this is my first time writing for bucky on this blog - please let me know if this is something you want to see more of!

Siren

Summary : Bucky is obsessed with you. He is insanely, hopelessly, unhealthily obsessed with you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Grumpy x Sunshine, Wife!reader, sweet!reader, sex references. Love taken to an extreme. A lot of cursing, Congressman!Bucky, threats, obsessive love bordering on stalking, possessive love. Overprotective!Bucky, Jealous! Bucky, dark!Bucky, dark!you, Overprotective!you. You are Sam and Sarah’s childhood best friend, canon-typical violence. I feel like I have to disclose that Bucky does not hurt you at any point in this story. Let me know if I miss anything! 

Word count : 8.9k

Note : This is probably my most cursing-heavy story. This is fictional story, so please do not get into an unhealthily obsessive relationship irl. I will also be posting a new part of Super Soldier Support Group tomorrow! Enjoy!

It started with a casual gathering at the Wilson Family home. Nothing fancy, just good food, loud music, and a backyard full of people laughing. 

It was warm, the kind of sticky Louisiana heat that made the air feel weirdly refreshing— the perfect day for Sam to throw one of his famous family cookouts.

Bucky hadn’t wanted to go, not that day anyway. He had not been sleeping well that week, and that made him grumpy. Well, grumpier than usual. 

He wasn’t sure if he could handle the crowd, or the small talk. 

But Sam had insisted, and somehow a sleep-deprived Bucky found himself standing in the corner of the docks, watching from a distance while the party went on without him.

Then he saw you.

And suddenly, everything stopped.

You were laughing, standing next to Sarah and helping with the food. You had this bright energy about you, like sunshine breaking through a dark cloud.

From the very first moment he saw you, something inside Bucky snapped. It wasn’t attraction—it was possession. His brain, his soul, whatever dark, broken part of him that was still capable of love— latched onto you like a parasite. You were too beautiful. Too sweet. Too—fuck, what was he thinking?

“C’mon man,” Sam’s voice snapped him back to reality. “Don’t just stand there looking like you’re planning a murder. I want you to meet someone.”

Bucky frowned but let Sam drag him forward anyway. His stomach twisted when he realised Sam was leading him straight to you.

“This is my childhood best friend,” Sam introduced you, “Be nice to her, Buck.”

You turned from your conversation to face him, and…Jesus Christ.

This was even worse up close. You had such a pretty smile, and the most wonderful eyes. You didn’t even have to try to brighten up the room.

“Hi,” you greeted, offering your hand.

Bucky hesitated. He didn’t like touching strangers—hell, he barely liked touching people he knew—but then you looked at him again, and—fuck.

Before he could talk himself out of it, his flesh fingers wrapped around yours.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t react the way people so often did when they realised who he was. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Bucky,” you said softly. “Sam’s told me a lot about you.”

Bucky’s heart felt like it was beating out of his chest. All he could manage was a stiff nod.

Sam, standing beside you, cleared his throat, narrowing his eyes at Bucky. “Be civil, okay?” He was already overthinking this, assuming this could go sideways fast. Sam wanted you two to get along more than anything in the world— he would at least want his childhood best friend and his work best friend to be able to stand in a room together without ripping each other’s head off— but he wasn’t counting on it.

Confused, you scrunched your nose. “Why wouldn’t we?”

Bucky wanted to know the same thing.

“Because,” Sam said, exasperated, “you’re polar opposites. You’re too damn nice for your own good, and Barnes here is all doom and gloom. He hates people. You love people.”

You turned your eyes back to Bucky, considering the former winter soldier before smiling, and subsequently melting Bucky’s heart. 

“I don’t know, Sam,” you said. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”

—

Bucky kept his distance throughout the day. 

Not because he wanted to, but because he had to.

You were too much. Too sweet, it felt like he was getting a sugar rush just looking at you. 

It was overwhelming. 

And it wasn’t just that he liked you. It was worse than that. 

In the short time he had known you, he had already begun craving you.

But you made it worse.

You sought him out, found excuses to talk to him, tried to make him laugh.

And god help him, but he liked it.

He liked the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled at him. He liked the way you said his name. He liked the way your hand traced his metal arm when you spoke to him.

“Bucky,” you called at one point, while Sam worked the grill, “Try this.”

He glanced down at the spoon you were holding out to him, brows furrowed. “What is it?”

You chuckled like you already knew you had him wrapped around your finger. “Just try it.”

He sighed, and then you pressed a hand to his chest, steadying yourself as you lifted the spoon to his lips.

He froze, and before he could even process what was happening, he was opening his mouth, letting you feed him.

You watched him, waiting for his reaction. “Well?”

Bucky blinked, chewing slowly. It was… good. Really good.

But admitting that felt like surrender, so he just shrugged. “It’s fine.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging him playfully. “Liar.”

Then, you laughed. 

He didn’t just want to hear it again—he needed to. It was like a drug, a high he had to chase. 

Fuck.

That was it.

That was the moment he was done for.

Because you had no idea what you’d just done. No idea that you had ruined him.

No idea that he had just decided— you were his.

—

Later, after the sun had set and most of the guests had left, Bucky sat at the edge of the porch, elbows on his knees, watching you.

Or, more accurately, he was staring at you.

You were a few feet away, laughing as AJ and Cass ran circles around you, their small hands grabbing at your arms as you playfully tried to catch them.

Bucky couldn’t look away.

He knew you were going to be his downfall, and yet he didn’t even want to fight it.

“What’s up with you, Buck?” Sam asked, sitting beside him.

Bucky didn’t move, he didn’t even respond. He barely even registered that Sam was there at all.

Sam followed his line of sight, and then groaned. “Oh, hell no.”

Still, Bucky said nothing.

Sam snapped his fingers in front of Bucky’s face. “Yo. Terminator.”

Bucky blinked. He only just realised Sam was there. “What?”

“What?” Sam repeated, voice rising. “Don’t what me! What the fuck was that?”

Bucky frowned. “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Sam chuckled, teasing. “You’ve been staring at her like you’re about to drag her off to a cabin in the middle of nowhere and keep her there forever.”

Bucky’s muscles tensed. The idea did sound appealing.

“She’s nice,” Bucky said flatly.

Sam let out an amused laugh. “Nice? Nice? Barnes, you look like you want to fucking eat my childhood best friend—what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Sam was joking, but he wasn’t wrong.

Bucky did want to devour you. He wanted to claim you, protect you, make sure no one else ever got the chance to touch you the way he wanted to.

It was bad.

Because for the first time in decades, Bucky wanted.

Mine, he thought. Mine, mine, mine.

And god help anyone who tried to get in his way.

—

At first, Sam was just relieved that you and Bucky got along.

And before he knew it, the four of you—you, Bucky, Sam, and Joaquin—started hanging out regularly. When she was available, Sarah was there too, usually when the get-togethers happened at her place. It wasn’t anything official, just casual. You’d grab coffee, go on late-night walks along the docks. Sometimes, the five of you spent lazy afternoons at Sarah’s while Cass and AJ tried to rope you into whatever game they were playing.

On the surface, it was just friends spending time together.

But Bucky was always a little bit too possessive.

No one really noticed.

Like when Joaquin would make a joke and you’d laugh a little too hard, Bucky would step in, resting his arm on the back of your chair. When you and Sarah got into a playful argument, and Bucky would subtly shift between you, his body positioned like a barrier.

Or when someone at a bar got a little too interested in you, and Bucky would just stare at them until they backed the fuck off.

You didn’t seem to notice.

You just smiled at Bucky. You reached for his hand when you were deep in thought, leaned into him when you laughed, gave him hugs without him even having to ask.

And he let you.

Because if he couldn’t have you the way he wanted, then he’d settle for this—for now.

—

One day, you heard a knock on your door late at night. 

When you opened it, you found Sam, Joaquin, and Bucky standing there—bruised, bloodied, and looking entirely too pleased with themselves for three men who had clearly just come back from a rough mission.

You sighed. “Come in, boys.”

They filed in, Sam  grinning as he collapsed onto your couch. Joaquin gave you a sheepish ‘sorry’ look before following. Bucky just hovered near the door.

“Sit,” you told him, already grabbing your first aid kit.

He hesitated, then dropped onto the chair closest to you. you knelt beside him.

His knuckles were raw, a few cuts marred his face, and there was a forming bruise on his forehead. You worked on him, dabbing antiseptic onto his wounds.

“Hold still,” you whispered when he shifted under your touch. When you finished, without thinking, you pressed a fleeting kiss to the bruise on his forehead. “For good measure,” you said sheepishly.

Bucky’s breath hitched.

But before he could say anything, you moved on to Sam and Joaquin, fussing over them with the same level of care.

He felt his stomach twist in dread. 

Bucky knew this was irrational. He knew you were just being a good friend.

And yet, as he sat there, watching your hands tend to them—watching you murmur reassurances, watching Joaquin grin at you and Sam chuckle under his breath— with bated breath.

He shouldn’t be jealous. He shouldn’t. You were also Sam’s friend. You were also Joaquin’s friend.

After all, you had taken care of him first. That had to mean something… right?

—

The bar was alive with noise, filled with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional thud of a pool ball being sunk into a pocket. It was one of those rare nights when there were no missions to worry about, no need to be on high alert. Even Sarah managed to get a babysitter for the kids. 

Sarah and Sam stood near the pool table, casually sipping on their non-alcoholic beers. Bucky nursed his whiskey— not that it would do anything to his enhanced metabolism. You had your mocktail, sweet and bright, just like you.

And then there was Joaquin.

He had spent the last hour or so flirting with the bartender, grinning as she giggled and slid him free drink after free drink. He, of course, took every single one without hesitation.

Now, he was absolutely sloshed.

“Joaquin,” Sam teased, arms crossed as he watched your drunk friend lean against the pool table. “You are so lucky you’re pretty.”

Joaquin shot him finger guns. “Gracias, hermano.”

“No,” Sarah scowled, shaking her head, pointing to the blonde behind the bar. “He’s lucky she thinks he’s pretty.”

“Let’s be honest, everyone thinks I’m pretty,” Joaquin declared, before missing his shot so badly that the cue ball bounced off the table.

Bucky rolled his eyes and let out a small laugh. 

You were next, so you stepped up to take your shot. “If anyone fucks up my shot, I am going to scream.”

And then, like a fucking menace, Joaquin swatted your pool cue mid-shot.

You gasped. “You little shit!”

Joaquin cackled.

“That’s it,” you huffed, shaking your head as you set the cue aside. “I’m getting you some water to sober up before you do something actually stupid.”

Sarah took her turn next, and Bucky… felt happy. He was among friends, leaning against the table, watching the game.

Life was good, right?

That bliss lasted all of three minutes before he realised… you were taking too long.

It didn’t take that long to get a glass of water.

He glanced up, scanning the bar for you. 

His stomach dropped. 

You were leaning against the bar, smiling up at some guy. Some asshole who looked way too interested, who was saying something that made you laugh.

Bucky’s chest burned.

Mine, he thought. 

But no. No, no, no. He had no right to feel like this. You weren’t his. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He was just a friend.

Then why the fuck did he want to break that guy’s fucking ankles for being too goddamn close to you?

Bucky knew you were beautiful. But that fucker didn’t get to look at you like that. He didn’t get to act all high and mighty, like he even had a chance—

Bucky’s grip on his pool cue tightened.

CRACK.

The cue snapped clean in half.

Sarah’s head snapped toward him. “Man— what happened?”

Sam raised a brow. “You good?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His breathing was all messed up. 

“I gotta go,” he said hastily. 

Sarah blinked. “You just crushed wood like it was a damn breadstick.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He turned on his heel and left.

—

When he got back to his hotel in the heart of New Orleans, he sat on the edge of his bed, fingers twitching.

Then, he texted you.

Got an emergency. Had to go early.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed.

Oh okay!!! Hope everything’s alright <3!

You were so fucking sweet. So fucking clueless.

You had no idea that the emergency… was you.

And that if he hadn’t left, he would have smashed that guy’s face in. 

—

That night, Bucky couldn’t sleep.

It was driving him insane.

The second he closed his eyes, all he could see was you, laughing at the bar, that asshole touching you, and your body leaned just a little too close—fuck.

The obsession burned in his chest. He needed to know. Needed to be sure.

So, like a fucking lunatic, he found himself outside your Louisiana apartment at four in the morning, perched on your fire escape like a creep.

The window was dark, and there didn’t seem to be any movement inside. Maybe you weren’t even home. Maybe you were— No. No, stop. Fuck.

His metal fingers gripped against the railing. If you had taken that guy home—if that motherfucker was in there, in your bed— he didn’t know what he’d do.

"Whatcha doin’?" 

Bucky jumped, damn near slipped right off the fire escape. His heart nearly stopped.

He whirled around, ready to fight, only to see you, standing behind him.

The fuck—?

"Jesus Christ," he rasped, staring at you like you’d just teleported out of thin air. "Why are you on the fire escape?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Why are you on the fire escape?"

Bucky scowled. “I asked you first.”

You shrugged, completely unfazed, and just climbed through the window. "I forgot my keys."

Bucky blinked.

You turned to look at him expectantly. “Well? Are you coming in or what?”

…What the fuck was wrong with you? Why weren’t you scared?

Still, he followed you inside.

—

You made him tea.

He sat on your couch, cradling the mug in his hands while you curled up beside him, watching him with curiosity.

“So,” you started casually, “what was the emergency?”

Bucky cleared his throat. “Nothing much,” he lied. “I fixed it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And why were you lurking outside my apartment like some weirdo?”

“I wasn’t lurking.”

You hummed, unconvinced, and sipped your tea.

Bucky let out a deep breath, rubbing a hand down his face. “I was just… checking on you.”

Your lips curved up. “Why?”

He hesitated. He couldn’t tell you the truth. Couldn’t tell you that he’d nearly lost his fucking mind at the thought of you with someone else.

But then, as if he could read your mind, you said, “If you were worried about the guy at the bar, don’t be. He’s just an old friend from high school.” You tilted your head reassuringly. “And he’s gay.”

Bucky blinked.

Oh.

Oh, he was a fucking idiot.

Embarrassment flooded his chest in waves, but it did nothing to ease the gnawing possessiveness coiling around his ribs. It didn’t matter that the guy wasn’t a threat. It didn’t change the fact that Bucky had wanted to break him in half for so much as looking at you.

You set your mug down, shifting closer. “Bucky,” you murmured, “what’s wrong?”

He clenched his teeth. “I have to say something.”

You tilted your head, adorably waiting.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” The words felt dragged out from his throat like he’d been choking on them.

You took a deep breath. “Oh?”

Bucky let out a huff of air, fingers twitching at his sides. “I think—I know—I love you.”

There it was. The confession he could never take back.

Your eyes relaxed as you put your mug down. 

That’s it. This was your rejection. Bucky was sure. 

But then, without hesitation, you cradled his cheeks gently and pulled him down in a bruising kiss.

Bucky groaned into your mouth, hands fisting in your skirt, pulling you closer.

And when you whispered, “I love you, too,” against his lips—

He was fucking gone.

Love wasn’t supposed to be this… all-consuming. It wasn’t supposed to feel like madness. But that was what his love was.

He was everywhere—his greedy hands, both metal and flesh. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, and Bucky growled, lifting you into his lap like you weighed nothing.

You gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding against him in a way that sent his brain into overload.

And when you rocked your hips against his again. when you gasped at him, teasing, taunting—

Bucky snapped.

Suddenly, you were beneath him, pinned to the couch, his body trapping you.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he rasped.

You bit your lip, eyes dark. “Then show me.”

And fuck, did he.

—

The next morning, Bucky jolted awake to the ring of your doorbell. 

For a second, he was disoriented, his brain sluggish, mind still drunk on you.

You were sprawled half on top of him, face buried against his chest. His metal arm was wrapped around you, fingers splayed across your bare back.

The bell rang impatiently again. And then— knock knock knock.

"Yo, wake up!" Sarah shouted.

His eyes flicked to the clock— 9:42 AM.

Carefully, he untangled himself from you, doing his best not to wake you as he slid out of bed. He barely managed to pull his sweats on before another knock rattled the door.

He opened it.

“Huh,” Sarah grinned.

Bucky’s scowl deepened. “What?”

“Don’t what me.” Sarah gestured, pointing an accusatory finger at Bucky’s chest. “What the fuck is this?”

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “None of your business.”

“Oh, I think it is.” Sarah crossed him her arms and almost cackled.

Bucky just let out a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was still way too tired for this.

Sarah smirked, waggling her eyebrows. “So? How was it? You’re, like, a hundred years old— did your back hold up?”

“Go,” Bucky gritted.

“Relax,” Sarah shook her head, shoving your wallet into his chest. "Your girl left this in my car."

Bucky blinked, but his mind was still buffering on the part when she called you his girl. "Sarah—“

She held up her hand. "Hey, I’m happy for you. Really. But I’ve known her since we were both in diapers, so uh—" she leaned in. "If you hurt her, just know I will kill you."

Bucky huffed. As if. “Yeah, yeah."

"Good talk." She said as she turned to leave.

From the bed, you stirred, mumbling sleepily, “Was that Sarah?”

Bucky climbed back in beside you. “Don’t worry about it.”

You hummed, curling back into his chest. “Mmkay.”

Bucky wrapped his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

Mine, he thought.

And this time, you knew it too.

—

It had been two years since that night when everything changed.

You had since moved to Brooklyn with Bucky, and had since built a home together.

Two years of waking up with you in his bed.

Two years of you stealing his shirts, dancing around the kitchen in nothing but one of his Henleys and a pair of socks.

Two years of Bucky being so obsessed with you it was a goddamn miracle he let you leave out of his sight at all.

His hand was always on you—on your lower back, your thigh, wrapped around your wrist when you got too distracted in public. His eyes always tracked you whenever you so much as moved. 

Bucky knew it probably wasn’t healthy to be this obsessed— but who the fuck cares?

Besides, no one had noticed. Not really.

Sam rolled his eyes when Bucky hovered too close in public. Joaquin just assumed Bucky was overprotective. Sarah thought it was sweet.

None of them knew just how deep it went.

How Bucky watched you when you slept, how he memorised the way your breath hitched when you dreamed. How he could track scent in a crowd, how he could tell the different sounds of your shoes.

How, sometimes, he just stared at you with this feral, carnal need to keep you his forever.

So one night, he did something about it.

It wasn’t a grand proposal. There were no speeches, no flowers, no kneeling at all.

Bucky just slipped a diamond ring onto your finger as you sat curled up beside him on the couch.

"Let’s get married," he said.

It was not a question. It was a statement.

You looked down at your hand and blinked, joy seeping into your chest. You looked back up at him, tilting your head.

“Okay,” you smiled.

Of course you were gonna marry him. Of course.

It was the most obvious thing in the world.

And Buck felt something primal and dark settle inside him. 

“Good girl,” he said, grabbing your chin and tilling them up to kiss you. 

—

The ceremony was small — just a few close friends and family.

Sam stood at the front, grinning like an idiot, though he was definitely in tears. He tried to deny it, but everyone knew when Sarah dramatically announced she was out of tissues and had to make a store run.

You wore a simple white dress, the sunlight making the lace look holy. 

Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off you. He wasn’t sure how he could even breathe. You were so goddamn beautiful, and all he could think was mine.

Mine, mine, mine. 

He held your hands tightly, every vow he spoke was drenched in devotion.

When Sam pronounced you husband and wife, Bucky crashed his lips against yours, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you so desperately it was like he thought you'd disappear. Joaquin cheered, Sarah covered AJ and Cass’ eyes, and Sam muttered something about needing another box of tissues.

But Bucky didn’t care. You were his wife. 

His. 

Later, at the small reception, he barely let you out of his sight. His hand stayed glued to your waist, his lips brushed against your temple every other minute. He religiously watched the way you smiled, the way you laughed, admired the sparkle of your wedding ring — a ring he’d spent months obsessing over.

“Mine,” he whispered against your skin more times than you could count.

—

A year after the wedding, Bucky somehow found himself on the campaign trail. Sam had roped him into it, convinced the world needed someone like him in Capitol Hill— someone with a backbone, a heart, and a no-bullshit attitude. And because Bucky couldn’t say no to his best friend (or to you, when you’d smiled and told him he’d be perfect for it), he ran.

And won.

He was now Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.

But no matter how powerful or important he became, you were still his priority. You were the first person he called after every meeting, the one who made the stuffy suits and long hours bearable. 

And fuck, did he spoil you rotten. He got a four-bedroom Brownstone when you both moved to DC. For the kids to grow up in, he had told you, when you were ready, of course. The house was under your name.

He bought you designer dresses, diamond earrings, the kind of perfume that smelled like liquid gold. Anything you so much as look at, Bucky was ordering it before you even thought to ask.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you’d say, laughing as another velvet box showed up at your doorstep.

“I want to,” Bucky would grumble, nuzzling into your neck, his arms wrapped tightly around you. “I’m your husband. I want to make sure you have everything you want.”

And he meant it.

Then one day, you asked for something that actually made him think.

“I want a pretty knife.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“For self-defense,” you explained casually. “You know. Just in case.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed. “You?” He asked, still trying to make sense of it. “But Sweetheart, you’re—” He paused, searching for the right word. “You’re so… sweet.”

You smiled at him…. And that fucking smile.

Bucky swore you could’ve asked him for the moon and he would’ve tried to lasso it down for you. But a knife? He wasn’t sure whether you could even use it.

Still, you wanted it. So you got it.

Bucky made a few calls, and soon you had a beautifully crafted knife with a marble handle. He even made you practice holding it, standing behind you with his arms wrapped around yours, guiding your hand in slow movements.

You caught on so quickly. He was so proud.

But despite all the lessons, Bucky wasn’t entirely convinced you’d ever actually use it.

“Baby, if anyone even looks at you the wrong way, I’d handle it,” he insisted one night, watching you twirl the knife in your fingers like a toy. “No one’s gonna touch you.”

You giggled, leaning up to kiss him. “Just in case, okay?”

Bucky nodded, nipping at your collarbone, “Okay.”

—

Sometimes, the world forgot Bucky Barnes had always been a dangerous man.

Sure, to the public, he was a polished congressman— the war hero turned politician, a man who fought for justice and all that. At the state galas, he smiled for the cameras, shook hands with donors, and played the role of the perfect politician. And with your radiant and sweet charm on his arm, everyone ate it up. You were the darling wife of Congressman Barnes, the woman who could make the room hold their breath.

But they didn’t realise how violently obsessed Bucky was with you.

He watched every interaction you had at those events. He eventually had a little notepad where he hastily scribbled the name of every man who looked at you too long,  an arrogant politician who thought they could pry you away from him. They thought you were too innocent to be with the former winter soldier— They thought they could whisper something suggestive in your ear or brush their hand along your back without consequence.

But Bucky always noticed.

He’d smile, even laugh sometimes, as if the petty attempts didn’t bother him. But they did. They fucking consumed him. His teeth would grind against each other, his grip on your waist would tighten, and his eyes would darken into a stormy blue— all while the poor bastard standing in front of him had no idea just how badly he’d fucked up.

Bucky had a routine. After the gala, he’d walk you out and hand you to his driver.

He would lean down, whispering softly into your ear.

“Head to the car, baby. I’ve got something to take care of.”

You never questioned it. You’d smile, kiss his cheek, and do as he asked.

And once you were gone, Bucky would… pay them a visit.

The man who let his hand wander a little too low on your back? The one who called you “darling” like he had any fucking right? 

Bucky found him in a secluded corner of the marbled building of Washington DC, his steel-blue eyes cold and calculating.

“You think you can touch what’s mine?” Bucky growled.

He had always been clever. He had always chosen a corner with no cameras. No witnesses. Then, he’d whisper a threat, one that left grown men trembling.

But sometimes threats weren’t enough.

One time, he got fed up with a senator’s son who had too much to drink. He’d cornered you by the bar, his hand grabbing your arm and waist, lips curling into a wicked smirk. 

You’d laughed politely, excused yourself, and found your way back to Bucky. But the damage had been done

Later that night, Bucky found him.

It wasn’t pretty.

The next morning, the senator’s son was seen with a cast on his wrist, stammering about a “bad fall.” 

No one questioned it, 

After all, accidents happen.

That sick, satisfied feeling always found its way to his chest. Though the real satisfaction always came when he hopped in the car. 

He’d find you taking off your heels, waiting for him in the back seat. You’d smile at him, oblivious to the violence he’d just left in his wake. And when you asked, “Did everything go okay?” Bucky would just smile, lean down, and kiss you.

Because Bucky Barnes was a kind person, a great friend, a wonderful husband, and an honest man. But after decades of isolation, torture, and conditioning, he would never truly be a good man again. But for you, he would pretend to be.

—

Still, like any other job, Bucky had bad weeks. And this week had been hell.

Bucky had come home late every night.

Between his work in Congress and the bills he was trying to push through, the DC police department had asked for his help in identifying some vigilante called Siren.

Now, he barely had time to breathe.

You hated seeing him like this. He was always so strong, so put-together, but lately, stress had carved itself into his shoulders, a permanent tightness in his back muscles.

It didn’t help that Senator Mitchell was being a prick, as usual. The man thrived on opposing Bucky’s every move, shooting down every proposal like it was his life’s mission to make your husband miserable.

And then there was Congressman Davis. From what you’ve heard, he was an arrogant, insufferable bastard who had spent the last few weeks blocking one of Bucky’s most important bills.

So when Bucky had muttered “God, I fucking hate that guy” over breakfast one morning, you’d simply nodded.

The next day, Congressman Davis didn’t show up to work.

Broke both legs in a freak accident, according to the news.

Bucky had stared at the article. “That’s… weird.”

“You think?” you tilted your head.

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “Honestly, I don’t have time to care. Mitchell is still a pain in my ass, and now the DC police want me to help them identify some masked vigilante tearing through the city.”

That made your stomach flip, but you kept your eyes neutral as he tossed a thick file onto the table.

“Siren?” you asked, watching him flip through the grainy surveillance images. The black-clad figure was barely visible. The only clear detail was the glint of a knife in her hand.

Bucky snorted. “What kind of name is Siren, anyway?”

You shrugged. “I think it’s kinda sexy.”

Bucky shot you an amused look.

You shrugged, leaning on the counter. “What do they want from you?”

“They want me to analyse the footage, see if I recognise any combat techniques,” Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples. “As if I can ID someone from a couple of blurry images.”

You hummed in response, flipping through the file again. 

“Maybe she doesn’t wanna be found.” you offered.

“No shit.” Bucky frowned. 

—

That night, Bucky sat at his desk, eyes narrowed at the open file in front of him. His fingers tapped against the wood as he studied the images again. Something about her was… familiar. 

You watched from the doorway, wrapped in a silk robe.

He needs a distraction, you thought. 

You walked across the room, slipping behind him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as you pressed fluttering kisses to his neck.

Bucky sighed, leaning into your touch. “Baby…”

“You’re stressed,” you whispered, biting the lobe of his ear.

“I just— I can’t get a read on her,” he admitted, rolling his shoulders. “On top of that, I have to deal with Mitchell tomorrow.”

You glanced at the photo he was studying—Siren, breaking the arm of an arms dealer. Poetic justice.

You said nothing, pressing a kiss to his jaw. 

Your fingers trailed lower, sliding down his chest, nails lightly scraping against his skin through his shirt. “I think you need a break.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Baby, I—”

When you stepped back, his words died in his throat.

Because you had untied your robe.

And underneath, a lingerie set that he’d picked out for you weeks ago, the one that had him practically drooling when you tried it on.

The chair scraped back so fast it nearly toppled over.

Then, Bucky was lifting you onto the desk, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding up your sides, mapping out every inch of exposed skin as if he hadn’t memorised everything already. 

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, lips ghosting over your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re tryin’ to kill me, sweet girl.”

You giggled, threading your fingers through his hair. “I just thought my dear husband needed a break.” You batted your eyes innocently.

Bucky’s lips met yours in a bruising kiss. His hands kneaded your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you.

“S’not fair,” he muttered against your lips, his lovely Brooklyn drawl slipping out. “I was workin’.”

“Oh?” You smiled innocently, nails raking down his back. “You wanna go back to your case?”

Bucky growled, lifting you effortlessly as your legs wrapped around his waist. “Fuck no.”

And with that, he carried you to your bedroom. 

Siren was forgotten, for now. 

—

That night, after you stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around your body, you casually said, “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

Bucky frowned immediately, towel-drying his damp hair as he leaned against the doorframe. “Alone?”

You’d done this before, but never this late. 

You rolled your eyes. “I can handle myself, honey.”

He crossed his arms, “That’s not the point.”

You sighed, stepping forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he let you go—reluctantly. At least you had your knife with you. 

—

By the time you got back, you were sweaty, chest rising and falling like you’d just finished a workout.

Bucky, who was sitting on the couch, immediately stood up and walked over to you. He looked at you, studying in the slight flush in your cheeks, the damp strands of hair sticking to your forehead.

He tilted his head. “You said you were going for a walk.”

You wiped at your brow. “Yeah, well… guess I went for a jog instead.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Since when do you jog?”

You shrugged. “Felt like I had some energy to burn.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, trying to assess the situation, but then you stood on your toes and kissed him.

Suddenly, he wasn’t questioning anything anymore.

—

The next day in Capitol Hill, Senator Mitchell had a black eye.

A nasty one, too. It was swollen and bruised, red against his pale skin.

Mitchell barely spoke all session, and when Bucky had the floor, the senator didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t sneer. Didn’t open his mouth to object.

He just sat there, shifting uncomfortably, trying his hardest not to look at Bucky.

Weird.

—

Before heading home, Bucky had one last piece of business to handle.

An overconfident diplomat from last week’s charity gala had overstayed his welcome in the city, unlucky for him. 

He had touched your arm without permission, his fingers lingering just a little too long on your skin. Bucky had been across the room that night, but even distance couldn’t dull his rage. 

By the end of the night, the bastard had vanished into the crowd.

That had been frustrating. But patience was something Bucky had in abundance when it came to protecting what was his.

So when he overheard a passing remark today that the diplomat was still in town, he found out where he was staying and simply went to the hotel lobby.

Bucky sat comfortably in a leather armchair, looking like just another guest winding down from a long day. He even smiled when his target stepped through the elevator doors.

Bucky stood and intercepted the man, placing himself just close enough that escape wouldn’t be an option. “Nice to see you again,” Bucky greeted, his voice almost pleasant. The diplomat barely had time to register the danger before Bucky leaned in, that same eerie smile still in place.

“If you so much as look at my wife again, I’ll break your fucking nose so badly, they’ll have to rebuild it from the inside out. And even then, it’ll never sit fucking right ever again.” Bucky said, though his tone was conversational. To anyone else, it would look as if he was commenting on the weather. “And that’ll be the least of your problems.”

The man swallowed hard, his overconfidence crumbling.

Satisfied, Bucky patted his shoulder once, before walking away. On the drive home, he pulled a pen from the glove compartment and calmly crossed the man's name off his list.

When he finally stepped through the door, he smiled to see you finishing up dinner. Bucky told you he could just hire a personal chef, but you insisted that you wanted to make his meals, to be his perfect housewife. 

Without a word, he tugged you into his lap, burying his face against your neck, his lips brushing against your skin, “You know you’re mine, right, baby?” he said, his hands tightening around you. “Only mine.”

—

The next morning, you found him in the kitchen, reading over yet another Siren case file.

You pouted, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his back. “Buckyyy.”

He chuckled, placing his hand over yours. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“I lost my knife,” you mumbled.

Bucky paused. “Lost it?”

No. No, you wouldn’t be so careless. 

Did someone take it from you? Did someone touch you?

The mere thought sent Bucky into a violent spiral, his fingers itched for blood.

Because if someone had taken it from you—if someone had dared to lay their filthy hands on what was his—they were going to wish they were never alive.

You nodded against his skin. “I think I dropped it during my morning run.”

He turned, relieved that you were just a bit careless. He lifted your chin with two fingers, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you gave him your best adorable pout. 

“My sweet girl,” he said. “You gotta be more careful.”

You blinked up at him, a little upset. “I liked that knife.”

He chuckled before letting out a deep breath. He could never be mad at you. So he just exhaled, brushing his lips against your forehead. “I’ll get you another one, baby. Whatever you want.”

You beamed. “Really?”

“Of course.” His fingers tightened slightly on your chin. “But you tell me next time you go for an early run. Don’t like you out there alone.”

You grinned, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “You worry too much.”

—

Within a week, Bucky gave you a new knife— a replacement for the one you lost. But calling it just a knife would be an insult.

It was stunning.

The handle was custom-made, dark metal inlaid with delicate floral, perfectly molded to fit your grip. The blade was wickedly sharp, and yet, it wasn’t just a weapon. It was art.

You turned it over in your hands, marveling at the craftsmanship. “You spoil me," you said, testing the weight in your palm. It was perfect.

Bucky smiled, satisfied. "Darling, I haven’t even started."

And just when you thought he couldn’t get any worse, he handed you something else— a little holster, custom-made to hold your new knife. The leather was buttery soft, made to fit against your thigh or tuck neatly under your jacket.

“Specially made for you,” he said proudly, brushing his lips over your cheek, then your jaw. “Gotta keep my good girl safe.”

Your stomach flipped.

What you didn’t know was that, because Bucky was a completely unhinged, lovesick lunatic, he had slipped a tiny tracking device into your holster—one discreet enough that you’d never notice. But that wasn’t all. The device also had a built-in listening function, so it was silently transmitting your location and every sound around you straight to a hidden app on his phone.

Not because he didn’t trust you.

But because the thought of you out there, alone without his protection— drove him insane.

So he made sure that, no matter where you went, he’d always be able to find you.

So now, if anyone so much as breathed wrong in your direction, Bucky would hear it. 

And he’d handle it.

—

The next morning, Bucky’s phone rang. It was an unlisted number from DC Police.

He sighed, already dreading whatever mess was waiting for him. But before he even thought about leaving, he had to take care of something far more important.

You.

Still hazy from sleep, you barely had time to blink before Bucky was on you, pressing you deeper into the mattress, his lips peppering gentle yet desperate kisses across every inch of exposed skin. Your cheek, your shoulders, the delicate curve of your throat.

"Just reminding you how much I love you before I go to work,” he nuzzled you.

You hummed, tilting your head to grant him better access. He took full advantage, dragging his mouth down your throat, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin there. His teeth grazed your pulse point, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Be good, baby,” he whispered against your lips, still unwilling to leave. 

You smiled, all sweet innocence. “I’m always a good girl.”

Bucky groaned, pressing one last kiss to your lips before reluctantly pulling away.

For now.

—

The moment Bucky stepped into the precinct, conversations halted. Officers froze, whispering behind their hands.

Bucky’s eyes flickered around the room, landing on the open file waiting for him on the table.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

Detective Ramirez, a no-nonsense woman who had been working in DC longer than most high schoolers have been alive, flipping through the folder. “We did a lot of digging last night… and Siren’s been operating a lot longer than we thought.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as she laid out the evidence.

“We traced activity back a couple years. Louisiana. Then Brooklyn. And now, D.C.” 

Huh. What a weird coincidence. Those are all the places you’ve lived in.

She shook her head. “She’s been at this for a long time.”

The grainy surveillance images showed the same shadowy figure— always disappearing before authorities could get close. But it was clear now. This wasn’t just some local vigilante.

“She started with street-level criminals—gangs, traffickers, arms dealers. But lately?” Ramirez slid a new set of photos across the table.

Congressman Davis. Senator Mitchell.

What?

“Both men had been attacked in the last three months. Different incidents. Different locations. But the same signature,” she explained, shaking her head. They’re terrified,” Ramirez continued. “Refused to talk, barely gave us any details because they’re convinced Siren will come back and… finish the job.”

Bucky stayed silent, his mind racing. 

Something wasn’t adding up.

“And then there’s this in the crime scene. We believe it’s hers.” Ramirez reached into an evidence bag, carefully unwrapping something small wrapped in cloth. She placed it on the table and slid it toward him.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

A knife.

Not just any knife.

Your knife.

The one he had given you.

The one you had lost.

He reached for it, turning it over in his gloved hand. It was unmistakable in its design.

Bucky clenched his teeth, forcing his expression to remain neutral.

Because if he let anything slip—if they saw even the slightest reaction—he wasn’t sure how he was going to explain this.

—

Bucky came home late that night, his mind clouded and fearful.

The evidence was stacked against you, but he refused to believe it. You couldn't be Siren. No—maybe she had stolen your knife. Maybe someone was trying to frame you. Maybe—

Then he saw the note.

"Went for a run. Be back soon <3"

Bullshit.

His gut twisted with the kind of instinctual, primal warning that had kept him alive for decades. Maybe he thought the handwriting was too neat, or maybe just knew when you were lying to him. He always did.

Metal knuckle curling into a ball, he pulled out his phone and tapped into the hidden tracking signal embedded in your holster.

You were nowhere near a park, or a public road for that matter. Instead, you were in a wealthy neighbourhood on the other side of town.

Then he turned on the listening device.

A second later, your voice crackled through the speaker. You sounded eerily calm. “A little birdie told me you were planning to block the new Veteran Act."

Bucky’s breath hitched. He had told you about that bill he had been spearheading. About how Jones—that corrupt prick—was going to block it before it even had a chance.

And now you must be standing in front of him, threatening him.

He heard the unmistakable whisper of a blade slicing through the air.

Jones hesitated. “You’re insane—”

"Approve it,” he heard you sneer, “Or I’ll come back and finish the job."

Bucky’s heart slammed against his ribs. He was torn between wanting to go to you—to drag you away from this, to keep you safe—and just listening.

In hindsight, he should have known.

The "walks." The "runs." The way you had picked up knifework too quickly when he had first put a blade in your hands. The first night he kissed you, he had found you on your fire escape—because you had been doing vigilante shit after the pool bar. 

And then you spoke again, this time in a sweet sing-song tone, “If you don’t, I’ll put your head underwater until the bubbles stop."

Jones went silent.

Bucky knew you had taken mixed martial arts as a kid for self-defense, but he had never thought much of it— never imagined you still practiced, still used it.

And then, “O-okay, okay—I will.”

Fuck.

He had to admit it now. You were Siren.

Sweet, innocent you. The woman who pressed sleepy kisses against his collarbone in the morning. The woman who curled up in his lap at night, blinking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

But that wasn’t all you were.

You were this, too. You were a predator hiding in plain sight.

And instead of being freaked out—instead of feeling betrayed or angry—Bucky was… turned on.

His breaths were uneven, chest rising and falling with arousal.

Because he knew this wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t corrupting you.

You were always like this.

Maybe, you were just waiting for someone who would be just as sick as you are.

And you found him.

—

The second you slipped through the back door, you felt his eyes on you.

You had been careful. So fucking careful.

You had changed in the garden shed.  You wiped the sweat and dirt from your skin, slipping into an oversized hoodie, leggings, sneakers that were scuffed just enough to sell the illusion. By the time you stepped inside, you looked like nothing more than a tired, unsuspecting wife coming home from an innocent late-night run.

So you played your part.

You plastered a sleepy smile onto your face. “Hey, honey."

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

He just sat there, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped together.

What’s going on?

"How’s Senator Jones?" He said calmly, too calmly. 

Your stomach plummeted.

The room felt like it had shrunk, walls pressing in. Everything was suffocating.

You blinked at him, feigning confusion. “What?"

Bucky tilted his head, the ghost of an amused smile playing at his lips.

"I know you’re Siren."

Your breath stalled.

A million reasons went through your rolodex of excuses, each one weaker than the last. But when you looked at him, at the certainty in his eyes, you knew there was no use denying it.

He knew.

But two could play at that game.

So instead of panic, you kept yourself calm. 

“Oh?” You arched a brow, voice smooth as silk. "And how’s that diplomat from that gala? Heard you took care of him."

For the first time since you came back, Bucky faltered.

“Y-You knew?” He stammered.

You saw the moment it hit him, the way his pupils blew wide.

"Of course I knew, baby,” you said sweetly, stepping closer. You could see the tension in his shoulders, "I know about your list, Bucky. I see your murderous rage every time."

Bucky’s muscles tightened. His breath became shallow, heart thrumming against his ribs.

You sighed, walking past him to a compartment under the island kitchen, pulling out a small, battered notebook. You flipped it open, then placed it in his hands.

Bucky’s fingers tightened around it as he scanned the pages.

What was this?

It was his list—mirrored.

The same names. The same faces. The same fucking targets. So you could keep track of who he was after. 

But alongside them, you had your own notes. Your observations.

Log entries tracking him— where he had been sighted, what areas he had stalked, what time he usually came home. Notes on when he was distracted. When he was asleep. When you could slip out and do your little crime fighting routine. You had copies of all the numbers in his contacts— classified or otherwise.

You even had pictures of him from the goddamn Capitol Hill security cameras. From his usual coffee shops. From his favourite supermarket.

His hands started shaking, because between the scribbled words, between the ink and the scratched-out sentences, there’s something familiar.

Not just in the thoughts.

But in the way they’re written. They were scrawled in a rush, like they were obsessive.

And then, just beneath one of the messier lines, there’s a word—so small, so easy to miss. ‘Mine.’

Sweet, darling, unassuming you, had a dark side.

You were just like him.

A perfect reflection. A mirror image of his own madness.

His throat felt dry. "You—" He swallowed. "You kept track of me?"

You tilted your head innocently. "Oh, sweetheart."

But if you thought that was something—

Bucky moved, crossing the room and yanked open the bottom drawer of the TV stand. His movements were almost aggressive as he pulled out a thick, leather-bound book.

Not his little notebook. 

This was different.

And then he handed it to you.

The second you flipped it open, your heart stopped.

It wasn’t names.

It wasn’t targets.

It was you.

Pages upon pages, filled with cramped, meticulous handwriting.

Your detailed wardrobe, all of your perfumes, observations of what you smelled like after a shower versus after a long day. An analysis of how your voice changed when you were lying. The exact shade your lips turned when you were cold. Your coffee orders in all the cafes you’ve ever been to, your favourite snacks. There was even a paragraph of the way you twirled your fork when you ate pasta. The names and addresses of all of your exes— where they lived, where they work, where they shop.

Your entire existence, laid bare.

A record. A worship. A fucking obsession.

Then, you both realised. 

You were just two absolute fucking lunatics, hopelessly, unhealthily obsessed with each other.

The two of you had been circling each other like predators for years— watching, tracking, leaving breadcrumbs of obsession in each other’s worlds without even realising it.

You weren’t just people to each other.

You were religion.

You were scripture.

Two minds running parallel, equally deranged, equally consumed— until you inevitably collided. 

You licked your lips slowly, the corner of your mouth curling as you looked up at him through your lashes. You knew what you were doing— of course you did.

With a voice as saccharine as it was wicked, you whispered, "I’m still your good girl."

Bucky fucking shattered.

A wrecked groan tore from his throat. His grip felt like iron chains as he gripped your waist, shoving you against the nearest surface— the kitchen counters. But you barely noticed, too focused on the way his hands clawed at you, like even after all these years, he still needed to mark you, ruin you.

His lips were on you in an instant, first on your lips, then trailing down your throat.

And then he dropped to his knees.

A fucking worshipper at your altar.

A zealot ready to die a martyr.

His hands gripped your thighs, firm enough to bruise, and he tilted his head up to look at you, pupils blown wide, his lips slightly parted.

He was completely undone. Completely yours.

A satisfied smile spread across your face as you threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him whimper.

"But you’re also my good boy,” you teased, “aren’t you?"

His groan was ruinous.

His eyes were wild, desperate, and fucking feral.

"Yeah, baby," he nodded, voice wrecked, hands trailing up, gripping the curve of your hips. "Yours. All yours.”

And then—

He showed you.

Because Bucky Barnes will never be a good man again.

But for you?

He’d be anything.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings

his girls [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x reader alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You were careful.

Or at least, you thought you were careful.

For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.

You figured no one had noticed.

Until today.

It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.

Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.

“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.

“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement. 

“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.

“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.

“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”

“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”

You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut. 

“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”

“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”

You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”

Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“Machine giving you trouble again?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.

“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.

“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.

“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”

Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.

“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”

The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.

“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.

“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—

Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?” 

“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.

Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”

You made a face at her. “What are you on about?” 

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.

Right. Focus.

“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”

Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.

“I like the way you think.”

—

You knew Alpine would be your downfall.

The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.

So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to. 

You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.

Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.

The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?” 

You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.

“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”

“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.

“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. 

Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder.  “This is bullshit, and you know it—”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”

“That is not true!” 

“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.

“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.

Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.

“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.

The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.

“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both. 

“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.

Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”

“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”

As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.

“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew. 

Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.

“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.

“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.

Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.

“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”

“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.

“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.  “You what?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.

It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.

You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”

Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.

Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”

And, truthfully, neither were you.

Foundations (#1)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Possible Smut in the future. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms. (Bucky)

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 8.1.k.

note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok. Let’s just pretend for a bit.

Next Chapter

Two years ago.

Steve crouched in the snow-dusted ruins of the Hydra facility, surrounded by the faint hum of outdated machinery and the occasional creak of the aging structure. The air in the base carried a mix of metallic tang and decay as if the building itself was holding its last breaths. He ran his gloved hand along a table coated with frost and dust before stopping in front of a row of cryogenic chambers.

Each pod told a story of Hydra’s grotesque obsession with human experimentation. Steve’s sharp gaze scanned them uneasily and when he reached the last chamber, he froze.

Encased in cryogenic suspension, there was a small boy, no older than three, with his delicate features eerily serene within the frosted glass. The sight made his stomach twist.

Natasha’s voice crackled through the comms. “Steve, what did you find?”

He pressed a hand against the glass. “It’s a boy. About… two or three years old. Cryostasis. We need to get him out of here.”

His eyes darted to a nearby desk, where he eyed a weathered folder with its corners curled with age. Flipping it open, he scanned the documents, and his stomach churned with every line. “This- he is not a kidnapped normal human boy… they’ve been using fertilization methods here. Thirty samples and only this child lived after birth. The mother died in labor. Nat-” Steve’s voice got strained. “He’s… he’s Bucky’s son.”

The line remained silent for a moment before Natasha answered cautiously. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. There’s… documentation here, DNA confirmations. God, he doesn’t even have a name. Just a designation: A-25.”

A beat of silence passed again, heavy with the implication before Natasha’s voice softened. “What do you want to do?”

Steve exhaled slowly, his breath clouding the icy air. “We can’t just leave him here.”

-----

Back on the Quinjet, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The cryo-pod rested in the cargo bay, its faint orange light casting an otherworldly glow over the steel walls. Steve sat on a bench, with his elbows rested on his knees and his hands pressed on his face, wrestling with the enormity of the decision he’d just made. Across from him, two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stood stiffly, with palpable apprehension.

“Captain Rogers,” one of them began, breaking the tense silence. “Moving him to the tower isn’t viable. We don’t know what kind of conditioning Hydra implemented, or if the kid is enhanced. He could be dangerous.”

Steve’s head snapped up, pinning the agent in place with his gaze. “He’s a child. And from what I read; he didn’t inherit the serum properties. Whatever Hydra did to him, it’s on us to undo it. Leaving him here or handing him over to a government lab isn’t an option.”

The agent shifted uneasily. “And if he’s unstable? Wha-”

Steve set his jaw, leaning back against the cold metal wall with determination. “Then I’ll handle it,” he cut firmly. “But we are not abandoning him.”

----

Two nights later in the common room, Steve, Natasha, and Tony gathered to discuss the next steps. The atmosphere was heavy. Tony leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a skeptical expression.

“Look, I’m not saying we keep this from Barnes,” he pointed out with a little hesitation. “But you’ve seen him, Steve. He’s barely keeping himself together most days. Throwing a kid into the mix?”

Steve’s jaw clenched, and he hardened his gaze. “That’s not your call to make. He deserves to know.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Even if it sends him over the edge?”

“He’s stronger than you think,” Steve countered firmly. “And he’s not alone, even if sometimes he thinks he is. If he decides to step up, we’ll help him. All of us. That boy is his only family, Tony. Bucky deserves the chance to decide what kind of relationship he wants with him.”

----

Present.

Two weeks into the new school year, she stood at the kindergarten’s gate, greeting the kids with a warm smile. The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves, and shades of orange and gold framed the cheerful faces of the kids as they laughed and ran to their friends. Each day, they’d formed a routine, walking together through the small park leading to the school hall.

Nearly everyone had arrived when, just as she was about to close the gate, she noticed a figure approaching. Her gaze landed on a tall man with strikingly beautiful yet tired blue eyes. His hesitant steps betrayed a certain nervousness. Beside him walked a boy, the spitting image of him, with the same dark hair and soulful eyes. They were unfamiliar to her, but she knew immediately who they must be.

Thomas Barnes and, presumably, his father.

The director had informed her about the new student, explaining that, for personal reasons, the boy would start a bit later than the others. Now here they were, standing on the threshold of a new chapter.

She stepped forward with a warm smile. “You must be Thomas,” she said gently, crouching slightly to meet the boy’s gaze. Then she looked up at the man, her voice equally kind. “And you must be his dad. Welcome.”

The child hugged his father’s leg when he realized he had to go in alone. Bucky bit his lip, placing a hand on the boy’s head. “Kiddo, we talked about this. I’ll pick you up at three, and then we’ll go to Uncle Steve’s,” he said softly.

Then he gave her an apologetic look. “Also, what do we always say? Manners. You didn’t even greet Miss...”

Oh. She got so distracted by the pair that her clouded mind didn’t even consider the basic introductions. “Sorry! I’m Miss Y/n. It’s a pleasure to meet you two.”

The boy separated one hand from his father’s leg and, straightening his posture but with a quivering lip, offered his hand like a little gentleman. “I’m Thomas. I’m five years old, and… and I will be in your care.”

She shook his hand, surprised and delighted. “Well, aren’t you a little gentleman,” she said warmly.

The bell rang, and she straightened up. “Well, that is our cue. Would you like to come inside? There are lots of boys and girls who would love to meet and play with you,” she reassured. Then she looked at Bucky. “And, as your papa -Mr. Barnes- said, he’ll be here when we finish.”

“James,” Bucky said promptly, stretching out his hand firm but gently to shake hers. She felt a traitorous warmth rise in her cheeks when their gaze met at closer range. His tired blue eyes held more than exhaustion; something softer and more vulnerable lingered there, though it was quickly masked. Apprehension, perhaps? He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and yet, somehow, he was effortlessly handsome.

“Nice to meet you, James,” she managed, keeping her tone calm and reassuring. “Don’t worry, your little one will be fine, you’ll see.”

Bucky nodded once, briskly but slightly hesitant. “Yeah, I-I know. Alright, Kiddo,” he said, crouching slightly to Thomas’s level, in a low and encouraging voice. “You listen to your teacher and... have fun, alright? Just like we talked about.”

Thomas clung to his father’s jeans for a moment longer, small fingers clutching the fabric as if it were a lifeline. His lip quivered, and he glanced back at her with uncertain eyes. For a brief second, she wondered if he might refuse to let go, but then, slowly, he released his grip. The boy stepped toward her, tentative but brave, and positioned himself by her side.

She crouched again, offering him an encouraging smile. “You’re going to have a wonderful day, Thomas. I’ll be right here with you.”

The reassurance seemed to help. Thomas nodded shyly, though he didn’t speak. When she stood again, she noticed Bucky watching his son with an expression that tugged at her heart, equal parts pride and pain.

With a single nod of acknowledgment toward her, he straightened and turned on his heel, walking away without looking back. She couldn’t help but watch him for a moment longer than she should have, her gaze lingering on his broad shoulders as he disappeared down the path. She exhaled softly, turning her attention back to Thomas.

“Shall we?” she asked gently, holding out her hand.

Thomas hesitated, but then his small hand slid into hers. Together, they walked toward the classroom, the sound of children’s laughter welcoming them into a new day.

----

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as he strolled along the sidewalk, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. Two years. It had been two years since Thomas came into his life, and now, for the first time, he was entrusting his care to someone else’s hands, strangers, no less. It might have seemed like an ordinary milestone for any other parent, but ordinary wasn’t a word that had ever described his life.

Normalcy was a foreign concept in their household. From the moment Steve had walked into the tower with that cryo-pod and the revelation of Thomas’s existence, everything had shifted. Even in the haze of his own self-doubt and fucked up brain, Bucky had known there was only one choice to make. Despite the murmurs of alternatives offered to him -guardianship through S.H.I.E.L.D. programs, adoption options- he hadn’t hesitated.

Responsibility. He owed the child that much, even if the idea of raising him terrified him to his core. How could he possibly be a parent when he was barely figuring out how to be himself? A walking mess trying to navigate a world he no longer fit into, burdened by guilt, memories, and nightmares. But Thomas wasn’t just a child, he was his child, a fragile thread tethering Bucky to something tangible and real.

The first months had been the hardest. Thomas, scared and silent, flinched at shadows and refused to speak more than a handful of words. A traumatized child by his earliest experiences, molded by Hydra’s cruel hands, and burdened with a fragility that made Bucky’s heart ache almost everyday. He could barely bring himself to imagine what might have happened if Steve hadn’t found him in that lab.

It wasn’t a journey he could have managed alone. Living at the Avengers Tower, he had been reluctant at first to accept help from the team. Steve, of course, had been steadfast and supportive, as expected. But what surprised Bucky the most was how the others had stepped in. Natasha’s guidance when words failed him, Wanda’s ability to soothe the boy, and even Tony’s seemingly endless stream of resources, like the top-tier child therapists he’d hired without hesitation.

Thomas was lucky, in a way, that Hydra’s experiments hadn’t left him with the serum’s super-soldier effects. The organization had tried, forcing serum-adjacent treatments to awaken something dormant, but to no avail. It was a relief Bucky carried deeply, though it did little to soften his guilt for not being there to stop it sooner.

Over time, they found a constant rhythm in their lives. Bucky wasn’t perfect -far from it- but he learned how to be there for Thomas. He showed him that food wasn’t a reward to fear, that adults could offer love instead of pain, that bedtime stories were for comfort and not to kept teaching lessons until he closed his exhausted eyes. Slowly but surely, the child started to blossom, inching out of his shell, exploring the world with a tentative kind of hope.

Still, Bucky knew they couldn’t stay in the protective bubble of the tower forever. Thomas needed more: kids his age, a chance to experience life outside their small, cloistered world. It had taken time, but Bucky finally worked up the nerve to rent an apartment for the two of them and begin the daunting process of finding a kindergarten.

The search was harder than expected. On paper, the process was simple: call, inquire, and enroll. In practice, things unraveled quickly. Many schools initially expressed enthusiasm, but the moment they learned Thomas was the son of that James Barnes, things changed. “Administrative errors” cropped up, classes mysteriously filled to capacity, or calls simply went unanswered.

When Tony offered to pull strings, Bucky refused. He wasn’t about to force his son into a place where the only motivation was Stark’s money. He didn’t want Thomas in an environment where whispers followed him down the hall, or where teachers tiptoed around him out of fear or prejudice.

So, he kept searching. Two weeks into the semester, he finally found a place. It was modest, tucked into a quiet neighborhood, with no interest in his past beyond the necessary paperwork. No judgment. No lingering stares. Just a promise to give Thomas a chance, and that was all Bucky needed.

As he walked away from the schoolyard, leaving Thomas in the care of his teacher and her warm smile, he tried to shake the tension in his chest. Rationally, he knew it was the right step. Thomas deserved to experience childhood, and this was the first of many milestones.

Still, the ache of leaving was sharper than he’d expected.

----

Thomas’s first day could have been better, but it wasn’t terrible either. As expected, the transition wasn’t easy. He seemed overwhelmed by the number of children around him. Though the school was small, nine energetic five-year-olds in one room was a stark contrast to the quiet, adult-dominated environment he’d grown up in.

The morning began with a formal introduction, as she guided Thomas gently to the front of the room. “Everyone, this is Thomas. Let’s all say hello!” she announced with her ever-patient smile.

A chorus of cheerful voices greeted him in unison, and Thomas blinked, wide-eyed, shifting closer to her side. Throughout the day, he stuck to her like a shadow, quietly observing the other children. His curious gaze darted from one group to another, watching how they played together, laughed, and squabbled.

The first hiccup came when two boys got into a brief tug-of-war over a toy truck. Thomas visibly tensed, his small shoulders stiffening as he clutched the hem of her skirt. She quickly diffused the situation and offered Thomas a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Thomas, sometimes there are quarrels, but nothing to worry about,” she said softly, her voice soothing as she rested a hand on his shoulder. He nodded but didn’t move from his spot.

Flora, one of the more outgoing girls in the class, made several attempts to coax Thomas into playing with her. Each time, she would approach with a bright smile and an outstretched hand, only to be gently refused as he shook his head and clung to his teacher. “Thomas is feeling a little shy today,” she explained kindly to Flora. “But I bet he’ll join you soon.” Flora nodded enthusiastically, skipping back to her friends, undeterred.

When the day finally wound to a close, the children were picked up one by one, their parents ushering them out with cheerful waves and chatter. Soon, the classroom emptied, leaving only her and Thomas. She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes past pick-up time. Not late enough to be alarming, but enough to notice the change in Thomas.

The boy sat stiffly on a bench near the gate, his small chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. She crouched down in front of him, “Hey, Thomas, it’s okay. Your dad will be here soon, I promise. While we wait, want to learn a game?”

The child blinked at her, with glassy eyes by unshed tears and then nodded hesitantly.

She held out her hands and showed him a simple clapping game. The rhythm seemed to distract him, his and his breathing slowed down as he focused on mimicking her motions. They repeated the sequence a few times, and she rewarded him with a bright smile each time he got it right.

Then, footsteps approached the gate, and she looked up to see James Barnes hurrying toward them, with a concerned expression.

“I’m so sorry,” he said breathlessly, his blue eyes flicking from her to Thomas. “Traffic was worse than I expected-”

“Papa!” the small voice broke through as he bolted toward his father, tears streaming down his face now that the wait was over.

Bucky crouched and scooped him up immediately, cradling him close with his gloved hands. “Hey, hey, I’m here,” he murmured with guilt. “I’m so sorry, kiddo. I won’t be late again, I promise.”

As he held his son tightly, he turned toward her, ready to apologize again. But when he met her gaze, something in his chest shifted, just a flicker, something too fleeting to name.

She was smiling, kind and patient, with a softness in her expression that made it painfully obvious she wasn’t upset about waiting.

That shouldn’t have stood out. But it did.

“I’m sorry for making you wait and... taking up your time. It won’t happen again.”

She shook her head with a kind smile. “It’s alright. He was fine, really. And the game helped. Don’t worry about it.”

Bucky gave her a grateful look, softening his features just enough to show how much he appreciated her patience. “Thanks... for everything.”

She was about to respond when something crossed her mind. She hesitated briefly before speaking. “Um, Mr. Barnes -James- do you think we could schedule a meeting sometime this week? I usually interview families during the first days to get to know them better, but since Thomas started a bit later, we haven’t had the chance. If you’d like, we can arrange a time that works for you.”

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and she quickly added, “Of course, if you need to check with Mrs-”

“It’s just me,” he interrupted, firmer than intended but not unkind.

She blinked. “Oh.”

Just him.

Her expression didn’t change much, she simply nodded, adjusting quickly, but something about her expression made his throat go dry.

“Alright,” she said smoothly, “how does tomorrow at 1 PM sound?”

Bucky knitted his brows, working through something in his mind. She took the hesitation as doubt and quickly reassured him, “The interviews take place during school hours. Another teacher covers my class while I meet with parents. It’s all planned out.”

He nodded after a moment, letting the arrangement settle.

“Then it’s a date.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

Silence. His own brain screeched to a halt.

Shit.

The second the words left his mouth, he froze. Why the hell did he have to use that word? He shows up late on the first day, and instead of keeping his shit together, he throws that word in her face like some creep. What is she going to think? That he’s hitting on her? That he doesn’t take this seriously? His mind started spiraling as always, and he glanced at her, waiting for her reaction, expecting something-anything- that signaled she’s offended or uncomfortable.

But she only smiled. Not a smirk, not teasing, just… warm. Like she hadn’t even registered the slip, or worse, like she had and found it endearing.

“Alright, Mr. Barnes. See you tomorrow. Bye, Thomas! Have a wonderful afternoon!”

He nodded stiffly, turned on his heel, and walked toward the gate with Thomas in his arms. The tension in his shoulders was killing him, and his mind kept spiraling. Why couldn’t he have just said meeting like a normal person?

-----

He arrived five minutes early. Pressing the doorbell, he tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, exhaling quietly as he waited.

A moment later, a soft buzz hummed from the side gate, signaling that he should push to enter. The latch clicked open under his touch, and he stepped through, strolling into the modest front yard where tiny footprints were imprinted into the damp soil, remnants of an afternoon spent playing.

As he neared the entrance, the building’s front door swung open, and there she was, standing at the threshold to receive him.

She hadn’t expected him to be so… put together.

Her breath hitched for half a second as she took him in, her brain momentarily short-circuiting before she caught herself. He was overdressed for a simple parent-teacher chat. His hair was neatly tied into a short ponytail, keeping the strands away from his sharp, striking features. The crisp black shirt he wore, fitted just right, framing his broad shoulders like a second skin, the mother-of-pearl blue buttons subtly gleaming under the soft afternoon light. The contrast of the dark fabric against his fair skin only made his blue eyes stand out even more.

She blinked, suddenly aware that she had been staring, like an absolute idiot, at that.

Her own reflection in the glass door made her painfully self-conscious. She had thrown on a comfortable jumper that morning, warm and practical, paired with an open wool jacket she hadn’t given much thought to. Now, under his gaze, she felt underdressed.

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, she straightened her posture and smiled, keeping her voice even. “Mr. Barnes, right on time.”

His lips twitched slightly, almost a smile, but not quite. “James. Figured I shouldn’t be late twice in a row.”

She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. “Come on in. Would you like some tea or coffee before we start?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Tea, if it’s not a hassle.”

“No hassle at all,” she assured him, leading the way inside.

As he followed her down the hallway, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. This was just a meeting, a standard conversation about Thomas. That was all. She led him into the small office and closed the door with a soft click.

With him inside, the space suddenly felt even smaller, almost claustrophobic. As he settled into the chair, she turned toward the small counter, flipping on the electric kettle. With her back to him, she absently tugged at the neckline of her jumper, then glanced down, frowning as she noticed a faint smear of green tempera near the hem. Great. Just great. She tried to rub it away discreetly, but the stain refused to budge.

Forcing herself to move on, she turned around, offering a professional -and hopefully not too flustered- smile. “So, Mr. Barnes.”

“James is really alright,” he repeated. Then he asked himself if there was a rule to use the last name, and she was trying to make him notice that fact politely by still addressing him with formality.

She nodded. “Alright, James.” The name felt different on her tongue, more personal somehow, and for some reason, it flustered her to use it. She cleared her throat, refocusing. “I’m going to ask some questions about Thomas’s daily life and family status so we can start building his file.”

At that, she caught the way his gloved hands tensed over his knees. It was subtle, just the smallest tightening of his fingers, but she noticed. His expression, however, remained unreadable: calm, polite, the perfect picture of an agreeable parent sitting through a standard school procedure.

But she knew better.

Not wanting to push too soon, she offered an alternative. “Also, if you’re interested, I can tell you briefly about yesterday and today’s steps in his integration.”

Something shifted in his posture at that. Not much, but enough. A small breath in, a glance toward her, like a man bracing for news he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

“Yeah,” he murmured, nodding. “I’d like that.”

----

Bucky felt little beads of sweat trickling down his spine. Was he trying too much?

He shifted slightly, flexing his fingers over his knees as he stole a glance at himself, just a quick, discreet look. Then, at her, and then, at the tiny office around them, shelves stacked with colorful folders, walls decorated with cheerful crayon drawings.

Back in his time, people dressed better. If a parent had to meet with a teacher, for whatever reason, it was treated as a formal occasion. A suit, a tie. The respect was shown in one’s presentation. So, naturally, he thought the right thing to do was clean up good.

Now, sitting in that too-small, squeaky green chair, with that attractive lovely lady making him tea, he felt like a goddamn wedding cake doll.

Her jumper was slightly wrinkled, her open wool jacket practical and cozy, and there was that stubborn little stain on the hem that she’d tried to wipe away when she thought he wasn’t looking. She belonged in this space, warm and natural, while he looked like he had an appointment with a boardroom, not a kindergarten teacher.

He swallowed, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. Too late to do anything about it now.

"Alright," she said, settling across from him with a patient smile. "Where do you want to start? The interrogation about personal matters or how Thomas is adjusting to his partners and environment?"

Bucky barely hesitated. "The second one."

She smiled knowingly as if she had expected that answer. “He was a little introverted at first, which is completely normal for a child his age in a new group. Most of the kids already knew each other, so he’s still figuring out where he fits in.”

Bucky nodded, listening intently.

She hesitated for a second before continuing, careful but warm. “He’s also a bit… dependent.”

That made something in Bucky’s chest tighten.

“Which, again, is perfectly normal,” she reassured quickly, reading the shift in his expression. “Especially considering his background. I have no problem giving him the comfort and reassurance he needs throughout the day. But maybe, with time, we can work on building his independence a little.” She offered him a gentle smile. “But overall, James, he’s a lovely kid. Really.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, easing some of the tension in his shoulders. Lovely. Not a problem. Not difficult. Just… lovely.

She turned to retrieve the tea, and as she was about to place his mug on the table, the sleeve of her wool jacket caught on a rough splinter in the wood. The movement sent the cup tipping, and a small splash of hot liquid spilled onto her hand and the table.

“Oh, fuc-” She caught herself just in time, trading the curse for a flustered, “Oh, dear.” She hastily set the mug down, shaking her wrist slightly as she clutched her burned fingers.

Before Bucky even registered the thought, his body moved on instinct. Old chivalry, muscle memory, -maybe both- he reached out, pulling off his glove in one swift motion and gently cradling her injured hand in his own. He wrapped his cool metal fingers around hers, as an automatic attempt to soothe the burn.

She tensed.

The reaction was so small that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But he did. The slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way her breath caught, the way she froze beneath his touch for a fraction of a second.

His brain caught up with his actions.

Shit.

This was something he did all the time with Thomas, an instinctive, unconscious movement, one that made sense when it was his son crying over scraped knees or bumped elbows. But this wasn’t Thomas. This his son’s teacher. A stranger, technically. And here he was, holding her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He winced inwardly, twitching his fingers slightly as if preparing to pull away, to apologize, to-

But then, she relaxed.

Just enough for him to notice. Her grip eased slightly as her fingers rested in his palm, still warm from the tea. And then, to his utter surprise, she let out a soft, breathy laugh.

“Well,” she murmured, “I guess that’s one way to handle it. Thank you,” she said, sincerily.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He wasn’t accustomed to people thanking him. Hell, he wasn’t accustomed to people wanting to share a space with him. The proof of that was in how damn difficult it had been to find a school willing to take Thomas in without judgment.

Was it always so hot in here?

The stupid shirt Steve had lent him to look presentable felt glued to his skin, clinging uncomfortably as a fresh wave of heat crept up his neck. He let go of her hand -reluctantly- and with a quick movement, he popped open a couple of the top buttons, trying to breathe. His fingers ran absentmindedly through his hair in the process, loosening a few strands from the short ponytail.

She blinked.

Hard.

His deep voice cut through the charged moment. “Don’t mention it. I’m sorry if I overstepped.” He murmured the words as he hastily pulled his glove back on, as if reestablishing some invisible boundary he had accidentally crossed.

It took her a second -maybe two- to remember how to speak after that sight.

“Oh, not at all,” she finally managed, waving her hand nonchalantly. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, so you are perdoned.”

“Oh, good,” he added promptly.

“Yeah, good,” she echoed.

And then- silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

The kind that stretched for just a few seconds too long, making the air feel thick and awkward. It was ridiculous, really. She was supposed to be having a professional conversation, and yet here she was, staring at him like a flustered schoolgirl while he sat there, stiff and unreadable, probably wondering if she had a single functioning brain cell left.

Snapping herself out of it, she straightened in her chair, clearing her throat as she grabbed a folder and a pen. Professional. Focused.

“Let’s start with the questions,” she stated, determined to get back on track. “How is the family group composed?”

A faint tick appeared in his jaw. “Just the two of us.”

She nodded, jotting it down. “Do you receive any kind of support from extended family members or close friends?”

Bucky hesitated. “I have… friends.” A pause. Then, a little softer, “Oh, um… my friend Steve is like an uncle to him.”

She froze for half a second, pen hovering above the paper. Steve.

As in Steve Rogers.

And suddenly, the fact that James Barnes -Bucky Barnes- was sitting in her tiny office, answering questions about kindergarten pickup times and playtime habits, felt almost surreal.

But she pushed past it, nodding as if it was just any other answer. “Tell me about a normal day in Thomas’ life. From the moment he wakes up until bedtime.”

The questions continued, one after another. But to his surprise, none of them were invasive.

Nothing about him. Nothing about his past. Nothing about the child’s mother.

She was only interested in Thomas, his routines, his favorite activities, the people who cared for him. What made him happy, what calmed him down, what sparked his curiosity.

And he just felt… like a normal Dad.

She tapped the pen against her lower lip, scanning the notes she had just taken, furrowing her brows slightly in concentration.

Bucky tried to keep his eyes anywhere else; on the folder, on the damn splintered table, but somehow, his gaze flickered back to her.

Her lips were slightly parted. Soft. That translucent lip gloss she wore caught the autumn light just enough to glisten innocently. She didn’t seem aware of it, of the way the movement drew attention, of how effortless it was.

He clenched his jaw. Pathetic.

Maybe Sam had a point. Maybe he really did need to -what was how he had said it?- "get some." Because sitting here, staring at his kid’s teacher like the virgin Steve used to be back in the day, was not normal.

Especially when she was just… there. In a damn tempera-stained jumper, flipping through papers, completely unaware that his brain had short-circuited over something as simple as the way she absentmindedly pressed the tip of the pen to her lip.

He shifted slightly in his seat, making the little chair squeak under his weight. He needed to get a grip.

She looked up then, extending the forms she had just filled out. “Here, read it, and if it’s fine for you, please sign it, and we’re done.”

He reached for the papers, his fingers briefly grazing hers. She was already moving, sorting through more documents, rummaging inside what looked like her purse as he scanned the form.

A moment later, he signed it, handed it back, and stood up.

The room somehow felt even smaller with him standing.

She tucked the papers into a folder, then hesitated for the briefest second before extending something toward him. A small, brightly wrapped raspberry lollipop.

He just looked at it.

She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly self-conscious. “Oh, um- it’s just a thing we do,” she explained, feeling a little ridiculous. “Teachers give a sweet to the parent who comes in for the visit. A friendly token.”

Bucky glanced at the candy, then at her.

Slowly, he reached out, taking it from her hand.

“If you feel too old to try it, give it to Thomas,” she teased lightly. “Though I must say, they’re pretty good.”

Bucky barely managed to keep his expression neutral as an entirely inappropriate image flashed through his mind involving her slightly parted lips against the bright red lollipop, swirling her tongue over the slick, glossy-

Nope. Absolutely not. He shoved the thought into the darkest corner of his brain and slammed the door shut.

Clearing his throat, he glanced at the candy in his palm. He was pretty sure the last time he had something like this was in the ‘20s, running through cobblestone streets in short, ragged pants and scraped knees. It felt oddly foreign now, a relic of a time buried long ago.

“No, it’s… it’s alright,” he muttered, tucking the candy into his jeans pocket, trying to expel the compelling thoughts swirling at the back of his mind.

Her smile lingered a moment as she straightened the papers, and again, the moment stretched just enough to make the air feel heavier than before.

She cleared her throat. “Well, the institution will be asking for another meeting in about three months to give you an update on how he’s doing. It’s the same for all the kids,” she explained, slipping back into professional mode.

Bucky nodded, adjusting his stance slightly, like he was grateful to have something to focus on.

“I’ve also added you to the parents-teacher WhatsApp group," she continued, "as a way to communicate news, the things kids should bring, upcoming events, that kind of stuff.” She hesitated, glancing at her notes before adding, “Um… it says you don’t have the app installed, so it would be great if you could download it.”

And then, silence.

Bucky barely moved, but something in his posture changed. His gaze flickered toward the small table, where his old clamshell phone rested near his keys.

She noticed.

That was not a smartphone, and it was definitely not suited for a parent-teacher chitchat group.

Before he could say anything, she quickly added, “It’s a policy here, since, well… it’s assumed everyone has it.” She smiled, small and reassuring. “But don’t worry, I can send you a normal text separately with the same information. Just… without the cool emojis, I’ll have to stick to ASCII.” She winked.

That got something out of him, a faint huff, not quite a laugh, but close. His shoulders relaxed just slightly. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Appreciate that.”

----

After a couple of months, Bucky was relieved -no, grateful- to see Thomas flourishing in his new environment.

The once-quiet, wary boy had slowly started to open up. He was more talkative now, his voice no longer a whisper but something steadier, stronger. He laughed more, flinched less. When he came home from school, he actually talked about his day, about the games they played, about Flora and Matthew, about how Miss Y/n read the best stories and always did the funniest voices.

Bucky didn’t know if she realized just how much of a difference she had made.

One afternoon, while Thomas was scribbling dinosaurs at the kitchen table, Bucky’s old clamshell phone vibrated against the counter.

He flipped it open. A general message from her number.

Dear families, our annual fundraising event is coming up! Each grade and nursery group will participate by preparing goodies to sell, baked treats, crafts, and more! We encourage everyone to take part and help make it a great day for the kids!

Bucky was already closing the phone when it binged another time. It was her again.

Don’t know about your culinary expertise, but we could really use some strong dads to help build the booths this saturday ;)

He blinked.

A just-for-him message.

For a second, he only stared at it, like his brain needed to catch up. The winking face at the end nearly made him short-circuit.

Clearly, she was recruiting him for his enhanced strength.

It wasn’t like the other parents would be thrilled to have him around. He rarely talked to them, never lingered after pickup, never engaged in small talk about school trips or birthday parties. The most interaction he got was a nod or a hesitant smile. Acknowledgment, but never an invitation.

And he understood why. He wasn’t the kind of dad people naturally gravitated toward. He wasn’t friendly like Steve, or charming like Sam. He was… him. Quiet. Intimidating. A man with too much history and too little practice in fitting into normal spaces.

So why would anyone want him there?

He exhaled sharply, glancing at the message again. Maybe she’d sent the same thing to a few others. Maybe it wasn’t just for him.

But… she had sent it. With a winky face.

And despite the self-doubt crawling at the back of his mind, he couldn’t ignore the small, reluctant warmth blooming in his chest.

Because for whatever reason, she thought to ask.

-----

When the Saturday came, Bucky was sharp on time at the open kindergarten gate, with Steve.

Not that it had taken too much to convince him. Steve, being the charitable man he was, never missed an opportunity to help. But Bucky also knew his friend well enough to recognize the other reason he had agreed to come so quickly, curiosity. Curiosity about the place Thomas spent his days. And curiosity about the “winking emote teacher.”

Bucky had two reasons for bringing Steve.

One: With two super soldiers on site, setting up the booths would take a fraction of the time.

Two: He didn’t want to come alone. Not that he’d admit it outright, but walking into a social setting full of parents and staff -people he knew saw him as an outsider even if they tried to mask it- felt a little too exposed. At least with Steve there, the focus will be put elsewhere, and he knew his level of self-consciousness will drop.

Of course, Steve suspected as much. But to his credit, he had the courtesy of not saying anything.

They hadn’t been there long enough when he spotted her across the yard, balancing a few wooden planks in her arms as she walked toward the setup area. She was focused, navigating carefully, until a rogue Lego piece nearly sent her sprawling.

In an instant Steve was there, supporting her before she could hit the ground.

She let out a startled gasp, gripping his forearms instinctively. And then, the realization showed all over her face. Because holy shit, Captain America was in the kindergarten.

“Uh- thanks,” she said, letting go of his forearms, looking a little flustered.

Steve, ever the gentleman, just smiled. “No problem.”

Then, as if remembering there were other people present, she glanced over his shoulder, and finally noticed Bucky, standing just a few steps behind, looking slightly out of place.

Her face lit up with recognition. “Oh, hey! You made it. and with backup! That adds points, you know” She grinned, tilting her head playfully. “More help means more credit when it’s time to take home the leftover cakes and pies.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s a thing?”

“Absolutely.” She crossed her arms, pretending to be serious. “Hard work should be rewarded. And what better prize than free dessert?”

Steve chuckled, throwing Bucky a look. “See, now that’s motivation.”

Bucky shifted slightly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yeah. Um I thought some extra hands would come in handy, anyway.”

She nodded, rocking back on her heels slightly. “Well, I’m glad you did. We can definitely use the help, some of these booths have been in storage forever, and let’s just say… they’re not in peak condition.”

Steve smirked. “Don’t worry ma’am, we’ll make sure they stand up straight.”

She snorted. “That’s the bare minimum we’re hoping for, yeah.” Then she proceeded to give them a quick rundown of what was needed: booth assembly, structural support, and general heavy lifting. After making sure they understood, she left them to it, moving to a shaded corner where a group of teachers and moms were busy painting banners.

As Bucky grabbed a plank, Steve picked up another, glancing over his shoulder toward her. Then, with a knowing half-smile, he turned to Bucky.

“So… I assume she is Tommy’s teacher?”

Bucky didn’t even look up. Just gave a curt nod, with an unreadable expression.

Steve hummed. “She’s cute.”

He didn’t take the bait. Just kept his gaze firmly on the plank in his hands, jaw tightening just a fraction.

Steve pressed a little more. “Real cute.”

This time, Bucky gave him a noncommittal grunt. No eye contact. No reaction.

"Do you think the teachers might do a kissing booth?" Steve asked nonchalantly, setting a plank into place like he hadn’t just thrown a live grenade into the conversation.

That got a reaction.

Bucky’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second before he shot him a side glance. “…Is that still a thing nowadays?”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah. Dunno if it’s as chaste as it was in our time, Buck, but it’s still runnin’. Clint told me sometimes they have them at his kids’ school.”

Bucky pressed his mouth into a thin line, gripping the hammer a little tighter.

Steve chuckled, sensing an opening. “I mean, it makes sense, you know. A lot of divorced dads…”

“Yeah, I guess it does,” Bucky cut him off, hammering a plank into place with maybe a little too much force. The loud crack of wood echoed through the yard.

Steve just smirked. “Touchy subject?”

Bucky ignored him, grabbing another nail.

"You know, Buck, I think you should ask her out."

"Shut up, punk."

"I'm serious. What’s the worst that could happen?"

Bucky turned to him, giving him a look so dry it could’ve drained the Atlantic. His next words were slow, like he was explaining something to a mentally impaired person.

"Let’s see. First of all, she’s my child’s teacher. It’s unethical."

Steve opened his mouth, but Bucky steamrolled right over him.

"Two, I can barely deal with myself most days. I can’t trust my own mind sometimes. I’m trying to put my shit together because of Thomas, but you know there are days I can barely get out of bed. So adding another person into our lives right now?" He shook his head. "I don’t think that’s a good idea."

Steve stayed quiet, watching him.

"And three," Bucky exhaled, returning to the plank, "I don’t think she’d be interested, damn I even don’t know if she is seeing someone. And I don’t want to make our interactions weird."

Steve tilted his head, giving him a look that was both skeptical and amused but, to Bucky’s relief, he kept his mouth shut didn’t press further.

-----

After a couple of hours, Bucky and Steve eventually split up, taking on different tasks. As expected, Steve had a small crowd of parents ‘casually’ gravitating around him, helping with his station while subtly asking for pictures and sneaking in questions between hammering and measuring.

Bucky, meanwhile, retreated to a quieter corner, bending some metal pipes to straighten the framework. It was a stark contrast, really. Steve walked into a place and illuminated it, drew people in without even trying. And Bucky… well.

He worked alone, unnoticed. Or so he thought.

A sudden hand on his shoulder broke his trance, and he startled just slightly.

“Sorry!” she promptly removed her hand. “I called your name, but you didn’t seem to hear.”

Bucky just blinked, “It’s fine.”

She smiled, holding up a thermos. “Thought maybe you’d want some coffee?”

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he tried to shake off the momentary stiffness. “I, uh… yeah. That’d be nice. Thank you.” His voice came out a little rough, and his eye contact was fleeting at best.

Fucking Steve. Bringing up his nonexistent love life like an asshole, and now Bucky was hyperaware of her presence. Every small shift of her stance, every little tilt of her head. It was funny -no, it wasn’t- how their roles had completely reversed.

Once upon a time, Steve had been the one fumbling, awkward, struggling to find his footing with women. And now? He was Captain America, confident and magnetic, while Bucky was… whatever the hell this was. A fucking mess.

“Thank you for coming, James. Really,” she said as she poured coffee into a small cup.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

“And thanks for bringing help with you,” she added playfully. “It seems everyone is livelier since you two got here.”

He grumbled something under his breath, bending the pipe back and forth absentmindedly, like someone fidgeting with a strand of grass.

She caught the movement and grinned. “Showoff.”

Bucky huffed, pressing his lips into a firm line to stop the small, unwilling twitch of amusement threatening to surface.

“I’m going to miss this,” she said suddenly, looking at the thermos handle. “The community here is really nice. Luckily, I’ll still be around for the event.”

Bucky’s gaze snapped to her “What?”

She blinked. “I said, I’m going to miss-”

“Are you taking a vacation?” he interrupted, unable to stop himself.

Her brows furrowed slightly. “What? No-” Then, she realized. “Oh. James… Jane is coming back.”

Bucky just stared at her, the words not quite clicking in his brain. “Who?”

She tilted her head, looking almost apologetic. “Jane. The actual teacher. I thought you knew, I’m just a substitute. The real teacher was on medical leave, but she’s ready to return now.”

The words settled like a slow drop of ink into water, spreading, tainting something that had been perfect moments ago.

“I didn’t- didn’t know,” he admitted, quietly. Maybe because Thomas had entered late in the school year, they’d missed that little piece of information.

She seemed to notice the shift in him, the way his grip tightened around the empty cup. There was a certain distress in his expression, subtle but there.

“Don’t worry,” she said gently, trying to reassure him. “Jane is an excellent teacher and person. Thomas will be thrilled to have her in the class.”

Bucky nodded, curtly, handing the thermos cup back.

In all the interactions he’d had with her, the drop-offs, their little conversations, the parent meeting, the fact that she was just a substitute had never popped up.

"When’s your last day?" he asked, suddenly very interested in the twisted pipe in his hands.

“The Friday before the event,” she replied. “I’m still going to participate since I helped organize it, but by Monday, Jane will be here.” She paused, as if anticipating his reaction. “I can assure you, It won’t be a sudden change for the kids. This week, she’ll come for a couple of hours every day to introduce herself so they can get used to her.”

Bucky gave a slow nod, gripping the metal a little tighter than necessary.

It shouldn’t have really mattered. It shouldn’t have made him feel anything at all.

And yet, the news bothered him.

Because things had been fine. He wasn’t close to her, not in any significant way, but she was a constant. And if there was one thing Bucky Barnes wasn’t fond of, it was change.

It wasn’t like he had been expecting anything more than what he already had, which wasn’t much. Just crumbs, really. Small moments of connection. Casual chats, occasional teasing remarks that made something in his chest pull in a way he ignored. The way she talked to him like any other parent—like a man, not a reputation.

But it wasn’t just that, was it?

There were other things, little details that had wormed their way into his awareness without permission. The way her voice softened when she spoke to Thomas. The way her soft body looked like it would fit perfectly against his if he just- no. The way her eyes lingered on him just a second longer than necessary sometimes, making him wonder if…

Bucky exhaled sharply, straightening his pose, forcing the thoughts back.

It was comfortable. And, somehow, warm.

And now she was going to leave.

And maybe it was stupid, but it affected him more than he wanted to admit.

Chapter 2

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

Julie

Based on the song Julie by Emily Kinney, give it a listen!

BestFriend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie wants you to meet his new girlfriend, Julie. You don’t think she’s right for him, but who is? 

A/N: I'm back from my little break. The blurbs you saw the past couple of days were scheduled. Sorry if your name is Julie, let’s pretend it’s not for the purposes of this fic. I was listening to old Emily Kinney songs and my favorite came up, then I had this idea. Two things: let’s pretend Hawkins is big enough to have taxis, and ‘skeeters’ as in the old Midwest way of saying mosquitos—you’ll get that when you read. 

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: angst with a happy ending, flufffff, presumed unrequited love, big tension-filled love confession–it’s yummy nummy guys fr, emotional cheating? (eh, kinda but not really, and not on reader, Eddie’s not a cheater tho), they wanna make out so bad, they’re so stupidly in love I hate them, friends to lovers, mentions of weed smoking, Eddie’s made-up religion. 

I’m staring at the ground as she walks right by

You’re staring at me mad ‘cause I refuse to say hi

I’m just staring into space ‘cause all I got on my mind

Elevator kisses, summer, summertime

Elevator kisses, you and I

–Julie by Emily Kinney

Masterlist

You’re sitting at the bar—your usual spot with Eddie at the Hideout—waiting to meet his new girlfriend. He’s about ten minutes late, but that’s not out of the ordinary for your best friend. In your thirteen years of knowing him, he’s only been early for an event twice—never exactly on time. Suffice it to say, he’s not changing much for this new girl. 

Halfway through your Amaretto Sour, you feel a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you spot an out of breath Eddie—frizzy hair, band tee, and ripped jeans as per usual. 

“Hey!” Sliding off the cracked leather cushion on the metal stool, you throw your arms around the man for a big hug. “How are you? Where’s–,” Your voice trails off as you look past him for the girl he has yet to introduce you to—the girl he swears is cool and that you’ll like, the girl whose presence is notably lacking in the busy bar.

“Julie,” he finishes for you, “She’s outside, actually.” 

A confused smile inches up your lips as your brows furrow at his cringing face. “What, are you casing the place for her? I don’t bite,” chuckling, you try to lighten the obvious discomfort he’s displaying. 

“Uh–well, I just came in to tell you we’re gonna have to rain check.” Eddie’s ringed hand rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit you know he’s had since at least grade school when you met him. 

Huffing out a quiet laugh, you cock your head, bewildered, “What?” 

He’s here, he just said she’s here, so why can’t she come in and you can all get this over with? Then you can go home and cry about it later. You had plans—ice cream already in the freezer and a VHS of Dirty Dancing ready to go. 

“Um–I guess I–forgot to mention that the Hideout is a bar—or at least, I–I didn’t think I needed to specify—and she doesn’t like bars.” 

One look at his face tells you he wishes he didn’t have to do this. He’s clearly embarrassed and sorry for putting you out like this. Inviting you to a place just to show up late and then tell you to go home—that there won’t be any hanging out to be had tonight. 

“Oh, does she not drink?” You could understand that, not everybody who can drink alcohol likes to drink alcohol. You know they make a mean Shirley Temple here—perks of confidently bellying up to the bar as a very apparent freshman in high school.

Eddie’s voice jumps a few octaves at the question, “Mm–no, she does.” 

Eyebrows raising, eyes alight with mirth, you can’t help but laugh at the circumstances. First of all, what a confounding situation. She drinks; she just doesn’t want to step inside a bar, apparently. Surely she knows she’s here to meet you—her new boyfriend’s longest friend. Typically that invokes the desire to be on one’s best behavior—the approval of the best friend is a huge step in a budding relationship. 

And second of all, she appears to be making Eddie do this. She won’t come into the establishment even for a thirty second interaction. A quick, ‘Hi, good to meet you! I’m Julie! Sorry, but bars aren’t my scene—for whatever reason—and I was wondering if you’d like to move this party to a secondary location?’ It doesn’t sound that hard as you run through the scenario in your head, but you don’t know the girl. Maybe she’s allergic to cigarette smoke and decades-old out-of-date jukebox music.

“So…,” you drawl, pursing your lips, hoping Eddie will take the hint and explain. 

“I guess she just hates bars,” he shrugs, looking even more sorry than before—if that’s even possible. 

Snorting, you can’t believe the Eddie Munson is dating a girl who’s too good to step inside a bar. The boy who practically grew up playing music on the Hideout’s rickety stage and made his first few bucks being a barback is dating a girl who hates bars—so much so, that she refuses to enter them. Okay. That’s a choice…

“Did you tell her that sitting at the bar and shootin’ the shit is the seventh commandment of the religion you founded—the one you made me baptize into? Made a whole deal about it and everything. Does she know you and I plan to be just like Bobby and Jim—old bar flies interrupting kids’ conversations to say, ‘When I was your age–,’” you put on your best old person voice, wiggling a ceremonious finger. 

That finally gets a genuine smile out of him—even a laugh. The sight makes you smile too, you’ve never been able to stop yourself from sharing in his joy. 

“You know, I guess I forgot to give her that rundown,” he quips before the lighthearted humor leaves his eyes again, a rueful smile taking its place. “Listen, I’m really sorry about this. I wish I could stay, I’ve missed just grabbing a pint and throwing peanut shells at the people who black out.”

 Taking in his face, he looks so sad, so sorry—it makes you want to fix it. 

“Yeah, you’ve gotta try and beat my high score. Last time Ricky woke up when you got ‘im, would’ve pushed me out of the lead if you hadn’t thrown so hard,” you giggle, remembering the way the old man shot up, grumbling, ‘Damn, skeeters,’ causing you and Eddie to whip around, facing the other direction to avoid suspicion. “If you wanna stay, you can just call Julie a car. Wave down a taxi and come have a drink,” you suggest, suddenly feeling extremely timid while talking to the boy you’ve known since grade school. 

He looks like he wants to stay, but the regret never leaves his eyes. As he opens his mouth to respond, the bartender cuts him off, placing a full pint down on the bar next to you—Eddie’s usual. “Hey, Ed, good to see ya, boy! You know, you shouldn’t leave such a pretty lady unattended,” he playfully chides, jabbing at Eddie’s perpetual tardiness. 

Tom’s been the bartender at the Hideout for as long as you can remember. He’s watched you and Eddie grow up, serving you two since high school. The old man was basically the only adult in town who’d spare you hooligans any attention. An eccentric himself, he enjoyed listening to your and Eddie’s rantings and ravings.

His comment warms your face, you duck your head to avoid seeing your best friend’s reaction. Something about the comment makes it sound like you’re Eddie’s girl—like he shouldn’t leave his girl waiting, lest you be scooped up by another man. 

“Yeah, Tommy? She got a couple suitors,” he asks, chuckling at the old man’s warning.

Well, now you just feel embarrassed. 

Eddie finds it funny. He clearly didn’t read into Tom’s comment the way you did. Or if he did, he’s ignoring the insinuation. Because it’s untrue. You’re not Eddie’s girl. Maybe you used to be. At least, that’s what everybody would always say—never believing the ‘best friend excuse.’ 

Tom, ever your biggest fan, nods enthusiastically. “Oh, a few of ‘em! Told ‘em they gotta get through you first. Y’bet your bottom dollar that scared ‘em off.” 

Feeling done with this joke, you turn to Tom, raising your now empty glass. “Can I get another, Tommy?” 

“Comin’ right up, sweets.” 

With the older man now away and occupied, you look at Eddie again. “You’ve even got a drink waiting for you now. If you want to…stay…”

Shooting you an apologetic smile, Eddie pulls out his wallet, plucking out a few dollar bills to leave on the bar top. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I think I should just take her home. Don’t wanna fuck up too early into the relationship,” he jokes, but it falls flat—along with the hopeful smile on your face. 

“Yeah…wouldn’t want that.”

You think you actually would like that. You’d like that very much. As long as the fuck up leads to a break up—that works just fine for you. 

“How about tomorrow? We were gonna go on a double date with Steve and Jess, but you can come too. We’ll invite Robin, it’ll just be a group dinner then and you can meet her—she’s cool, I promise!”

The idea of going on a failed double date with Eddie and his new girlfriend sounds like your worst nightmare—right up there with presenting a project naked in high school. But he looks so hopeful. Those damn big, wet eyes of his are looking extra puppy dog-ish this evening. He clearly feels awful about tonight and probably won’t give up until he feels he’s made it up to you. 

Unable to stifle your sigh, you force a smile on your face, “Sure.”

Pumping his fist, he puts his hands on your cheeks, gently shaking your face. “Thank you! You are the best! Enzos, tomorrow at seven.” He pulls your head in for a wet smooch on the forehead—his classic move when you begrudgingly agree to do his bidding. 

You’ll kick yourself for it later, but you close your eyes to relish the feel of his lips on your skin. It’s not where you’d like them, but you’ll take what you can get. Opening your eyes as he pulls away, you spot a random man standing behind him, tapping his shoulder. 

“Hey, are you Eddie?” 

Eddie turns slightly, sees the stranger, and positions himself in front of you. You wonder if he did that on purpose or if it’s a habit—either way, it makes your heart flutter. 

“Yeah…”

The stranger looks annoyed when he conveys the message. You think you would be too if you were enlisted by a random woman to go corral her boyfriend.

“There’s a blonde lady outside lookin’ for you. Said to tell you, ‘Get your ass back out here or I’m leaving.’ And, hey, word of warning, dude,” the man leans into Eddie, “She doesn’t seem all that pleased with you right now.” 

The man walks off leaving a mildly shocked Eddie and a more shocked you. She really does not want to step foot in this damn bar, does she? 

Eddie seems to shake off the interaction, turning to you quickly and speaking like the past twenty seconds didn’t happen. “Enzos at seven, say you’ll be there,” he points at you, expectant gaze unmoving from your face. 

“Okay,” you shrug, unsure why he seems to think you’d ditch. You totally would, but you don’t know why he thinks you would. 

Backing up toward the exit, his reprimanding finger never falls. “Say it,” he demands, eyebrows raising, waiting for you to agree. 

“Okay, I’ll be there,” you grumble, less than enthused that he’s pushing it so hard. 

“Perfect! See you then!” 

Letting out another sigh, you turn back to the bar. “Tom, where’s that drink?”

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You seem to be the first to arrive at Enzos—no sign of Steve, Robin, or Eddie. Unsure of what to do, you wait outside for them. You don’t have to wait long though, Steve pulls up with Jess and Robin only five minutes after you. 

“Hey, where’s Eddie,” Steve asks, arm wrapped securely around his long time girlfriend. 

Offering your friend a tight-lipped smile, you shrug, “Not here yet.” 

“I didn’t know he’d even be late to his own plans. Thought it was just everybody else’s he didn’t respect,” Robin quips, looking around the busy parking lot. 

“Kind of makes you feel better though, doesn’t it? Like it’s not just you?” Steve laughs at Jess’s comment. Her point makes you smile for the first time all day, she’s right and you appreciate her candor. She’s been a great addition to the group since the end of high school—fits right in with all the ribbing that goes on. You wish you could hope the same for Julie, but the other night already put a bad taste in your mouth. 

“You met his girlfriend the other night, right?” You swear Robin could be a mind reader, she’s always asking exactly what you hope she doesn’t. 

“Uh, was supposed to, yeah.” 

Your response makes the group frown. “Supposed to? So it didn’t happen,” Steve asks, shaking his head with the question.

Sucking your teeth, you consider how much you should share. You don’t want to sway anybody’s opinions of the girl before they’ve met her. Hell, you haven’t even met her—but it feels like you know all you need to know. 

“Uh–no. It did not happen,” you respond stiltedly. “Apparently she doesn’t like bars.” 

Robin’s head jerks back like she’s been slapped, a scowl on her face. “Has she heard of Munsianity?” 

Jess speaks up, setting her reaction aside to gather context. “Sorry, Munsianity?”

Steve answers for you and Robin, “Yeah, it’s this stupid made-up religion Eddie created in high school. Made us all unconsenting apostles.” 

“Well, I actually really enjoyed the sacraments,” Robin counters, nodding approvingly at the fond memories. 

“Sacraments?” 

Poor Jess. Steve’s apparently slacking on his lore lessons. 

This time it’s you who answers her, “Weed shotgunning, the Great Hotbox of ‘86, forced horror movie marathons, etcetera. It did have good benefits, though. Half-off rides, all that free weed…” 

Robin scoffs, “Yeah, half-off rides for us. You got them for free, never had to haggle over gas money.” 

The reminder of your special treatment as his best friend makes you smile. But then you remember last night and the smile fades as fast as it came. 

Steve snorts, “You know, we should be happy that Eddie became a mechanic. He had the makings of a very concerning cult leader. Would’ve been so niche and under the radar even the Feds wouldn’t be able to catch ‘im.” 

“You better believe it, big boy! Feds ain’t got nothin’ on the Munsons—well except for–my father who they do have detained right now. So they’ve got one thing on the Munsons, but nothing anybody’s missing,” Eddie shrugs, a wild grin spread across his face. 

Surprise and introductions rush through the group, Eddie’s hand never leaves the short blonde girl’s waist as she politely greets everyone. When it’s your turn, you can barely manage a tight-lipped smile and a nod—eyes never moving past her shoulders after your initial look when they walked up. 

Thankfully, Julie doesn’t seem all that talkative—not going out of her way to make your acquaintance. Your eyes are firmly planted to the ground as Steve tries to small-talk the girl, but any attempt to know her more is interrupted when Robin complains about her rumbling stomach. Steve confirms Eddie’s reservation name and leads the group inside. 

Jess seems to have gotten through to the blonde as they follow after Steve and Robin, chit chatting about their choice of shoes for the evening. You and Eddie are the last ones left in front of the restaurant. You can feel his burning gaze on the side of your face as you dig the toe of your Reeboks deeper into the gravel—remembering how, as kids, you used to run barefoot over rocky terrain like this, spending so much time outside without shoes that you both developed hobbit feet, the toughened skin impervious to the sharp rocks.

“What the hell was that,” he hisses, cocking his head incredulously.

Eyes still not lifting from the riveting dusty, white gravel, you shrug, “What was what?”

“You didn’t say, ‘Hi,’ you barely even made eye contact! You’re supposed to be my rock here. You’re supposed to help me make sure the evening goes well.” 

Eyebrows raising at his admission, you finally meet his gaze—his eyes are notably less angry now. You didn’t know you had a job to do tonight—convincing everyone to like his girlfriend no less. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, unsure of what else to say. 

“S’fine, let’s just go inside.”

The night goes as smoothly as an awkward introductory dinner can. Jokes are thrown around—everyone seems to laugh except Julie. Stories are shared at Eddie’s expense, earning cringed looks from the blonde. It’s like everyone is trying their best to pull her out of what you hope is just a shell—maybe she’s great once you get to know her—but you seem to be the only one willing to acknowledge how awful this dinner is going.

Steve uncomfortably coughs after Julie berates Eddie for his decision to order a second beer, Robin subtly kicks your foot under the table when you scowl at the blonde’s snippy tone, Jess quickly changes the subject to the gold jewelry the girl wears—successfully distracting her. 

Clearly, everyone is witnessing the consistent clashing of personalities, but no one is reacting accordingly. It makes you feel insane—like you’ve gone through the looking glass and Eddie’s decided he’d like a girlfriend who hates him. 

Zoning out for the rest of the dinner, you bide your time until you can escape—pushing the food around on your plate and rubbing the condensation off your glass. You only perk back up when you hear Steve and Eddie bickering over who will cover the bill. A smile almost makes its way onto your face, but then Julie speaks up, patting Eddie’s chest. “Eddie will pay for it, won’t you, baby? He just got a raise at the shop and he’s making so much more now.”

The scowl returns at her not-so-subtle brag to Steve and Jess. Apparently, she hasn’t been listening—otherwise, she would’ve caught on to Steve’s complaints about his job at the firm where he’s a partner, making far more than Eddie does. Also, it’s not her money to spend, nor is it hers to brag about. Eddie’s very clearly uncomfortable with her comment and you’re opening your mouth to speak before you know what you’re going to say. 

Robin beats you to it though, she sees right through you, “Thank god, you’ve been working there long enough! Congrats, dude.” 

Eddie mutters a quiet, ‘Thanks,” as he hands the card to the waiter. 

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The goodbye’s are even more awkward than the hello’s. You avoid Julie like you did before, but this time you don’t feel Eddie’s angry eyes on you. Sparing a look at your best friend, you notice he seems tired, his mood deflated compared to how he appeared before the dinner. 

Surprisingly, Julie leaves first out of the two of them, offering Eddie a clipped goodbye. Steve must look just as confused as you feel because Eddie mentions how she wanted to drive separately in the case that he ‘drank too much.’ You have to physically stop yourself from blanching at his words. If she thinks two beers is too much, she would’ve hated Eddie in high school.

Robin, Steve, and Jess all say their goodbyes, promising to hang out again soon. With just you and Eddie left, the ground becomes incredibly interesting again. You can feel his eyes on you as you wait for him to speak up first.

“What, do you not like her?” 

His immediate attitude grates on your nerves, causing you to meet his scrutinizing eyes. “Do you?”

She’s not a very pleasant girl and he seemed to be embarrassed every time she spoke tonight. How can he ask you if you like her with the way he seemed to regret the whole event? Your intonation seems to piss him off even more, overcompensating in his response—you hope. 

“Of course I do!” 

You shrug, pursing your lips, “She seems fine.”

Eddie must be looking for a fight because he doesn’t drop the subject. “You barely even spoke to her, you didn’t look at her at all! How would you know if she seems ‘fine’?”

Throwing your hands up in annoyance, you shake your head at him incredulously, “What do you want from me, Eddie?”

Matching your frustration, he shrugs his shoulders, bobbing his head expectantly, “I don’t know, I guess I want my best friend to like who I’m dating because I care about your opinion!” The statement may have come across sweeter if he hadn’t yelled it angrily. 

Chewing on your lip, you meet his exasperated eyes, muttering lowly, “You want my opinion?”

“Yes! Of course, I always want your opinion.”

Resigning yourself to the situation, nowhere to divert the conversation to—you can’t help but tell the truth, you’re tired of pretending. Letting out a sigh, you force a neutral mask to fall over your face, “You shouldn’t be with her.”

“What?” 

That was clearly not what he was expecting you to say. He figured you didn’t jive with her given how little you chose to interact, but he didn’t know you’d go this far. 

“If you stay with her, you’re a fool.”

That pisses him off again. Eddie never liked being told he’s done something wrong, especially when he didn’t know or intend it. And now it feels like his best friend is telling him she’s disappointed in his choices. 

“What the fuck are you talking about? You just met her! You didn’t bother getting to know her! What are you seeing that I’m not?” 

The last sentence is closer to the boy you grew up with. He trusts you implicitly and he wants to know what he’s missing here, what is he overlooking? 

“I mean, I bet she’s smart and you keep saying she’s so cool but…”

“But what?” 

The sadness in your eyes is breaking through your mask as you look at your oldest friend—the man you love. Suddenly it’s like a dam breaks, all the thoughts you’ve saved come spewing out. 

“You deserve someone who brings you happiness and accepts you—all your flaws included, and if you think that that’s Julie, then you’re wrong. You deserve to laugh until your stomach aches, and you deserve to spend your money how you want, and you deserve to feel desired. You deserve to be loved. And if you think she can give you that, I suggest you think again before you get any further.” 

Eddie’s brown, button eyes are as wide as saucers by the time you’re done. His mouth opens and closes, unsure how to respond to all of that. “I…don’t know what to say…”

Feeling bare and see-through—like cellophane, tears flood your waterline. You didn’t mean to say all of that and you feel mortified at his poor excuse for a response. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you throw your hand out to him, gesturing to his frozen figure. “Well, you wanted my opinion and there it is. Do with it what you will.” 

You’re done. You’ve exposed yourself enough for one night so you walk past him, ready to find your car and escape this insufferable bubble of truth. 

His voice carries as you brush past him, the words make you stop. “If not Julie, then who?”

Brows furrowing, turning your head to just barely see him in your peripheral vision, you take in the rigid expanse of his back. “What?”

Eddie turns around with a calculating gaze, roving over your sad face. You can almost see the cogs turning in his brain, he’s catching on and it makes you want to run away, but your feet won’t move.

“If you don’t think I should be with Julie, who do you think I should be with,” he asks slowly, head cocking as he studies your soul through your wet eyes.

Those wet eyes widen for a fraction of a second before you shrug dismissively, “I don’t know.”

Gravel crunches under his shoes as he steps closer to your body, closing the distance you tried to create. “No, come on, sweetheart. You have such a strong opinion,” he goads, “Surely you’ve thought the whole thing through. Who should I be with?”

Your silence is deafening. Melting under his rapt gaze, you look anywhere but those damn eyes. His next question throws you completely off. 

“How’s Connor?”

The way he asks it is simple and pleasant, but you know better. It’s a weighted question given the subject of the conversation. 

“We broke up,” you mutter, still avoiding your best friend’s eyes, thankful you can’t see his reaction to the break up of your long time boyfriend—the one Eddie never seemed to get along with. 

“When?” His voice is low and calculated. He doesn’t sound angry, he just sounds like a lawyer performing a line of funnel questioning—hoping he can back you into a corner of truth. 

Kicking your toe into the gravel again, you mutter the answer shamefully, “Two weeks ago.” 

If the circumstances were normal, Eddie would’ve been told immediately, but they weren’t, so he wasn’t. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Sucking in a deep breath, you let it out at the same time as your quiet answer, “Didn’t think you’d wanna know.” 

Bullshit. It’s bullshit. You know it, he knows it, the universe knows it. 

“Why didn’t you tell me,” he repeats, voice somehow even lower, like he’s closing in on the truth if you’d just cooperate. 

Scoffing, you shake your head, glancing up at his dark eyes, “I just told you, I didn’t think you’d–”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, sweetheart. Why didn’t you tell me?” He repeats the question for a third time, firm voice slowing down on every word. 

Grasping at straws, scrambling for any deflection you can, you avoid his eyes again. “Tell you what?”

“How you feel.” 

Oh. That.

You could do this all night, though. You’ve had years of practice on how best to annoy Eddie. “About Julie? I just told you how I feel.” 

That’s not what he meant and you know it. His nostrils flare as his lips form a tight line across his face. You know you’re about ten seconds away from a verbal lashing, but you’d take that over this awful conversation any day. 

But the angry words don’t come. He just keeps staring at you in silence for a full minute, scrutinizing every tiny reaction—every twitch of your brows, every narrowing of your eyes, every nervous chew of your lips. It feels like torture. You can’t move. Your stupid feet won’t save you, and he won’t talk. Damn him for knowing how to break you down.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” you rush out, huffing an annoyed breath at the revelation. 

Suddenly quick to respond now, Eddie’s face screws up in outrage, his unsteady voice hisses out, “Of course it matters. If I had to sit around and watch you with him for another minute, I would be doing the same thing you are now!” 

Jerking your head back at his admission, you take offense to the insinuation that you’re trying to break him and Julie up. You are. But you resent the insinuation. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter because you have a girlfriend,” you accuse, as if he’s not painfully aware of that fact—as if it’s not the only thing holding him back from kissing the life out of you. 

Scoffing at your rebuttal, he throws his arms up in exasperation. “I had to go out and meet somebody! I had to…get you out of my head. If I had to spend another second around you when you’re not mine to have—I would’ve gone insane!” 

He’s shouting it as if you’re the one purposefully making him daydream about his best friend, as if you’ve maliciously planted the seeds of his own destruction. 

At this point you’re just bickering like you used to, but now it’s about untimely romantic feelings for each other and not who gets to pick the movie. Crossing your arms, you throw him an annoyed look, “Well, you’re acting pretty insane already, so.”

He blanches at that being what you gathered from his confession of feelings. Groaning loudly through gritted teeth, he shakes his hands at you, “God, you’re a lunatic, you know that? I’m tryin’ to tell you I’m in love with you and you’re playing ‘Who’s Being More Stupid’?” 

“Well, you’re acting like I made you fall in love with me when really, I’ve been waiting for you to get your head out of your ass and tell me that since we were in eighth grade!” 

You two must look insane to the patrons leaving the restaurant—two strangers arguing in the parking lot about who loves each other more and for how much longer.

“If that’s true, then why’d you go and date that dill weed?” 

Guffawing at his response, you look at him like he’s off his rocker. “What was your argument again? I had to go meet somebody,” you deepen your voice, mocking his earlier confession. 

Stepping toe-to-toe with you, he leans into your face, “You piss me off!” 

Chest huffing with angered breaths, you copy his movements, leaning into him, nearly nose-to-nose, “You piss me off!”

Labored breaths leave matching open mouths, his eyes dart down to your gloss covered lips. “I really wanna kiss you,” he breathes out with barely restrained desire. 

Roving eyes dart from his obsidian gaze to his pink lips, stuttered breaths form desperate words, “Go break up with your girlfriend.” 

Eddie’s head bobs forward on its own accord, hungry lips crawling for home on yours, but he won’t let your relationship start with cheating. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

Having to consciously tell his feet to step back, he removes himself from your intoxicating orbit, nodding his head with heavy breaths. “Okay.”

Missing the loss of his body heat, you copy his nod—self-restraint is virtuous and necessary, but god, do you want to rip his clothes off in the middle of this parking lot. “Okay,” you repeat—the only word your trance allows you to form.

“I’ll be right back. Wait for me at your place, okay?” He’s backing up, demanding finger hovering in the air, pinning you to your word. 

A nervous grin spreads across your face, “Okay.” 

You watch as he keeps his eyes on you for as long as he can until he has to turn around to find his van. Letting out a sigh, trying to calm the rapid beat of your heart, you laugh to yourself, “Okay.”

A/N: I'm easing back into writing after losing the motivation so quickly on a random day. I got v sad and v depressed all at once, but this was the first idea that got me to write again. Like, reblog and comment if you enjoyed it. Lmk if you like my work because it helps to keep me writing.

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