cheekybarneslibrary

[cheekybarneslibrary]

EXCUSE ME why did it end there i need a part two immediately this was unreal!!! you wrote winter soldier bucky in such a terrifying but weirdly tender way and i’m obsessed with it. the way he’s so clearly him but also not, the little jealous moments, the soft touches that feel familiar but wrong at the same time, absolute perfection! 😭😭😭💖

this whole concept is so good and you balance the angst and tension so well. i love that we still get glimpses of bucky through the winter soldier, and it makes it hurt even more. absolutely begging for more of this and for normal bucky to come back after the fact brb going to go cry myself to sleep

Familiar Strangers

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/The Winter Soldier x Reader

Summary: You were absolutely positive that you'd found it - the way to break Bucky out of his HYDRA conditioning once and for all. However, when the experiment doesn't work, you're suddenly stuck with the Winter Soldier...and no idea how to get your husband back.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Angst, Mentions of past torture, Mind control (the experiment was 100% consensual on both ends though), No smut but a pretty intense makeout session, Kind of dubcon? (Reader questions it), The Winter Soldier is kind of obsessed with you (and he does not know how to hide it), Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: Clearing out the writing cobwebs again, so here's a one-shot! I might (definitely) write a part two to this one, so if you like it stay tuned! As always, any feedback is incredibly appreciated! Hope you guys enjoy!

-

It didn’t work.

It didn’t fucking work.

You said the words, and it killed you to do it. It killed you to repeat the phrases that had ripped away his humanity and soul every time they were spoken over the decades he was tortured by HYDRA. But you did it. Because you had to. Because it was the only way to know.

You watched him struggle to fight it, and it killed you even more.

It was working. He was fighting, gritting his teeth and riddled with an anxiety that was almost palpable, but it was working.

You reached the last word. You let that traitorous feeling of hope flutter in your chest, and…

And then he went still. He locked up. His eyes went blank. And you failed.

Now, you pace your lab, feeling blue eyes follow every one of your movements like a hawk. He watches you. Waiting. Observing. Not Bucky, but the Winter Soldier. The living breathing weapon. The deadly assassin.

You keep pacing.

“I was so sure.” You say, running a frustrated hand through your hair. “I was so sure. I thought it would work. I…I can’t even go back to find what we did wrong-“

“какие у меня заказы?” The Winter Soldier asks, what are my orders, and you nearly jump out of your skin at the sound of his voice.

“You don’t have any.” You snap the words, anger and frustration and just a little bit of heartbreak making you prickle.

He stops. Looks confused. Still quiet, still not Bucky, but confused. 

That look makes you deflate.

“Sorry, sorry. I just…” you sigh, closing your eyes and exhaling through your nose. “I’m sorry.” For everything. For failing this experiment. For not wiping this programming from his mind like you thought you could. For not knowing how to get him back.

The sharp sting of frustrated tears prickles behind your eyes. You press the heels of your palms to them, trying to push the surge of emotion away. You don’t have time to cry. You have to think and figure out a way to- 

Hands wrap around your wrists. Not deadly. Not incapacitating you or knocking you to the ground. The grip is firm, but gentle. Your hands are pulled down to your sides, away from your face.

You go still. Very still.

The Winter Soldier is looking down at you, like he isn’t quite sure what he’s doing, either. Like he couldn’t look away if he tried.

Your tears haven’t fallen, but they’re still pooling in your eyes. A metal thumb slides over your cheek, catching one as it escapes and wiping it away.

He murmurs something in Russian. You don’t understand it. He speaks again, in Romanian this time, and you still don’t know what he’s saying.

Finally, he speaks English, his thumb brushing your cheek once more in a way that’s so intimate that you have to search his eyes to see if Bucky hasn’t really come back.

“Don’t…do that.”  His voice is surprisingly soft, and his thumb trails from beneath your eyes, tracing over your cheek and down to your lips. His eyes follow the movement like he’s mesmerized by the sight, and you’re frozen in place as he leans a little closer.

“Who are you?” He asks, and there’s no accusation in his tone. No anger. Just curiosity, and something like reverence.

“I…” the answer catches in your throat. Not with fear, but with surprise. “I’m your…”

He leans closer, and you pull back.

“Shit.” You mumble to yourself, and he looks confused again. It’s strange, really, that the expression can look so sweet. So genuine.

He reaches for you. Tugs you to him again. It’s not forceful, but it’s firm. Like you yourself are an answer to an important question, and he isn’t going to let you walk away until he finds the answer.

“Who are you?” He repeats, deadly hands cradling you in a way that makes it difficult to focus. Still, you frown. You pull back again, defeated and tired and too close to crying for your own comfort.

You’ll get Bucky back, and you’ll try again. But for now…

“I’m your wife.” You say, reaching down to pull his arms from where they’ve wrapped around you. To your relief, he allows it. “And it’s time I take you home now.”

-

He doesn’t leave your side. Not for a moment.

You’re too wrapped up in your own thoughts, your own guilt and fear and frustration, to even speak to him. He’s not Bucky. He’s not in his right mind. And you put him there. You said the code words, so sure that they wouldn’t work, and they did. 

And now, it seems that your hubris has earned you a guard dog. One who glares at anyone who looks at you as you pass by. Who reaches for a knife that isn’t there when someone nearly bumps into you on the way to your apartment. Whose arm remains wrapped around you so firmly you think he might try to carry you up the stairs.

The moment you walk through the door, you break his hold and move towards the kitchen. Your notes are still lying on the counter, the ones you worked through with Bucky this morning over coffee. The ones you pored over for hours and hours as you convinced yourself that this time you had finally figured it out. You had finally worked through the problem and found the solution.

You lean over that counter now, watching through your peripheral as the Winter Soldier scans the apartment. It had been perfect. Your math, your calculations, had been drawn up to a fucking T and now-

Well, now an arm is wrapping around you, pulling you away from the counter so quickly that you drop a page of your own scribbled handwriting with a startled noise.

He spins you, presses you against the opposite counter. The granite digs into your back, not hard enough to be uncomfortable but enough that you register that you are being held very firmly in place.

You look up. He looks down. Familiar blue eyes lock onto your own.

You don’t know why you say it, but you do. The apartment suddenly feels so quiet that the question seems to echo through the air.

“Can I have Bucky back?”

Bucky will help you work through this. At the very least, he’ll help calm you as you stay awake all night trying to pore through your notes. He would probably make you go to sleep. Kiss your forehead and tell you that you’ll figure it out, that it will all be okay.

The Winter Soldier, still pressing you against the counter, furrows his brow at the question.

“Who’s Bucky?”

And that, those two simple words, make the tears break free.

He reaches up to wipe them away like he did in your lab, and your vision is blurry as you try to swat his hands away. His response is to pull you closer, and you push at his chest.

“Let me go.” You say, voice breaking. He doesn’t. 

You could command him to. You know you could. You said the code words. You brought the Winter Soldier out. But despite your frustration there is no part of you that could ever make yourself do it.

“Please, just give me Bucky back.” You say instead, voice muffled by his shirt. His metal hand is cradling the back of your head, too gentle for a living weapon. Too familiar, but not the same.

His voice is low, and it sounds almost pained as he speaks into your hair. “I don’t know how.”

You try to push at him again, but he holds you tight. You know, somewhere deep down, that if you were really fighting to get him off of you that he would let you go. Maybe even walk away. You don’t want him to. You should, but you don’t.

He pulls back, just enough to look at you. To look at the tears in your eyes and the way your fingers are curling against his chest like you don’t know whether to shove him again or pull him closer.

He cradles your face, so strangely gentle.

“Stop that.”

You look up at him, and it takes you a moment to realize what he means. He’s still wiping your tears away. He wants you to stop crying.

“I don’t know how.” You say, finally, defeated. A pathetic mimicry of his own words.

He looks at you, and you can’t decipher what’s lying beneath his gaze. What it means. What he wants. But, despite it all, you do see something.

He’s not Bucky, but Bucky is there. You’ve been trying to get the Winter Soldier out of him for so long, trying to make him himself again. You never really thought of this side of him as…well, human.

But the way he’s looking at you now, confusion and concern and a strange sort of devotion in his eyes, makes you realize that, even brainwashed like he was, he was still a person. Still a version of Bucky, as fucked up as it may be. Now that he’s here, with no orders and very little knowledge of why, you see it.

“I’m sorry.” You say, tears still falling. And you don’t know what those two words mean, exactly. For making him into this again, even with his consent. For failing the experiment. For everything that’s happened to him over the decades.

He wipes your tears away again, like it’s instinct.

“Tell me how to make this stop.” His voice is a murmur. He’s so close that his nose brushes against yours. Something crackles in the air, an electric tension that you can feel beneath your skin. His hands tighten on you, just slightly. His voice is still pleading, but it’s not gentle anymore. There’s something there, now. Something new and barely restrained and you’re too upset by the events of tonight to notice that it’s about to break free.

You shake your head. “I don’t think you ca-“

His lips crash against yours with so much force it knocks you back against the counter.

His arms wrap more tightly around you, pulling you so close you swear you can feel his rapid heartbeat against your chest.

Bucky Barnes kisses you with devotion. With love and thinly veiled hunger. Bucky is gentle, and even when he isn’t you can always tell that he’s still being careful with you. Always trying to hold back. Always trying to keep himself from hurting you, somehow.

The Winter Soldier kisses you like he’s starving.

It’s almost clumsy in its urgency, like the kiss is something he would die before he ever pulled away from. Like he needs it so badly he doesn’t know what to do with himself. With you.

His hand moves from your cheek to tangle in your hair, and he lifts you effortlessly onto the counter as he uses his grip to angle your head and deepen the kiss. Your noise of surprise is swallowed by his mouth, firm and almost desperate against yours as he anchors you to him like he’s drowning.

It takes a moment for the shock to wear off, but you kiss him back. The second he feels your reciprocation, he makes a noise in the back of his throat that sends an electric jolt down your spine. His free hand moves to your thigh, yanking you closer and guiding your legs around his waist as his tongue slides between your lips like he’s tasting something more addicting than any drug ever created.

Your own hands fly up to his hair, unable to stop yourself or even think clearly as your nails scrape against his scalp. The sound he makes is so low, so hungry that it sounds almost feral, and you’re barely able to register that you’re moving again before he’s pulling you off the counter and you’re crashing down onto the kitchen floor. You think, vaguely, that the force of him catching you before your head bangs against the ground might leave a dent in the linoleum.

Despite the near-violence of the movement, he doesn’t stop kissing you, teeth dragging against your lips as his knee slides between yours and he presses you into the floor like he can’t get enough of the feeling of you against him. You feel his flesh hand slide up beneath your shirt, gripping your waist and tugging you impossibly closer. You gasp, and he growls as he chases the sound with another tug at your hair, forcing your head back as his lips break from yours to move down to your neck.

You can’t think. You can barely breathe. And it takes a moment for you to realize that he’s speaking in a language you don’t know. You’re pretty sure it’s Russian. You don’t understand it, can barely register anything other than his body atop yours and his calloused hands sliding over the skin beneath your shirt, but with the way he’s saying the words, between open-mouthed kisses and bites to your skin like he’s trying to tattoo them onto you with his lips and teeth, you think they might be words of devotion. Of claiming.

You reach up, unsure what your hand is seeking, whether it be his face or his hair or anything. His metal hand leaves the back of your head and catches yours, pressing it back down onto the floor as his fingers tangle in your own in a gesture so intimate that it snaps you back into reality.

“I-wait.” You blink, trying to drag yourself out of the haze of lust and back to the present. He doesn’t seem to hear you, pressing his body impossibly closer and biting down at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder hard enough to make you gasp and nearly forget where you even are. 

Your voice is shaky when you manage to speak again. “Wait, stop.”

He hears you this time, and he does. Not because it was an order. You can feel in the hesitation to release you, to pull his lips from your skin and look into your eyes, that he stopped because you asked.

Holy shit, his eyes are on fire. The blue is nearly blown out by his pupils, and they’re burning with so much intense want that it makes your head spin. Those eyes meet yours for only a second before they fall back to your lips, and he begins to lean down like a man hypnotized. Your free hand flies up, covering his mouth before it reaches your own and knocks all logic out of your mind again.

His eyes return to yours, confused and absolutely fucking starved.

“I…” words. Find words. “You’re not Bucky.”

You feel him frown beneath your palm, and he reaches up to move it away from his mouth. “So?”

You don’t…really have an answer. Your mind is still too fogged over and the weight of his body on top of yours is too distracting. You wiggle out from under him, and he makes a noise that sounds almost like loss as he releases you. You push yourself back against the cabinets, and he looks seconds away from crawling over to you and pulling you to him again. His eyes drop to your mouth once more, like he’s contemplating it.

“Stop looking at me like that.” You say, and he doesn’t. He seems to try, though, watching the rise and fall of your chest as you catch your breath like he’s watching something holy.

“You said you’re my wife.” His voice sounds rough. Low.

“I’m Bucky’s wife.” You clarify, leaning your head back against the cabinet behind you. “And I don’t know how much…you, is him. Or how much him is you. I don’t know how ethical this is.”

He looks confused again. You suppose that’s fair. It’s not like he’s used to being around people with stellar moral codes.

Frustration and pain pool in your stomach, and you exhale. Slowly. Trying to calm yourself.

“I don’t know how to get him back, and it scares me.” You let the statement hang there. An admission. Honest and raw.

He frowns again, and you swear you can see his eyes soften. It’s an odd sight, but then again, this entire night has been strange.

“I’ll try.” He says, and you can’t help the feeling of relief, the odd sense of something like gratitude, that washes through you.

“Thank you.” You whisper, the words spilling out on an exhale. You sigh, thunking your head lightly against the cupboard again. “I have to call Steve.”

His frown is back, but you sense a glimmer of recognition at the name. Also maybe a bit of something else. Something like jealousy that makes him prickle. “Whose Steve?”

“Your best friend. And kind of mine, too, I guess. He’s broken you out of this before.”

“Is he going to hurt you?”

The question surprises you, and you raise your head to look at him. He looks concerned. Protective. You shake your head quickly. “No. Never. He’s actually going to be super understanding and nice about this, which is probably going to piss me off.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t deserve it. I fucked up. I got the math wrong, and I lost Bucky.”

He just looks at you for a minute. You look back at him.

“You do the same staring thing he does.” You observe.

“I want you.” He says back, and the simpleness of the sentence nearly makes you laugh, even as lust curls in your stomach once again, the feeling of his lips against your skin still tingling.

“Yeah, I kind of got that.” You say, unable to keep the small smile from curling at the corner of your mouth. His eyes fall to the movement of your lips like he’s entranced. You pretend to ignore it.

“I want you like Bucky has you.”

“You’re blunt like him, too.”

He just stares at you again, and you furrow your brow. “Are you…jealous? Of your own alter-ego?”

“Yes.”

“You know you’re still Bucky, right?”

“You said I’m not.”

“I…” you sigh, dragging a tired hand through your hair. “You’re right, I did. I don’t know. I don’t…I didn’t account for all of this. Like I said, I got too cocky. I’m a scientist. The philosophical questions surrounding someone’s brainwashed assassin alter-ego aren’t exactly my specialty.”

More staring.

You give up, dragging yourself to your feet, and he stands with you like you’re a magnet guiding his movements.

“Look, can we just go to bed?”

His eyebrows raise, and you roll your eyes. “Not like that. To sleep.”

He looks disappointed, but he nods and follows you into the bedroom on almost disturbingly silent feet.

You grab pajamas for yourself, wordlessly gesture to the dresser where all of his clothes are held, and make your way to the bathroom to wash up.

When you return, he’s staring at you again, standing by your bed in a pair of his sweatpants. No shirt. Like that helps your recently established ‘no sex’ rule.

He looks down at your shirt - oversized and clearly his - and back up to your face.

God help you, he looks like he’s about to pounce again.

“Relax,” you grumble, trying to ignore the feeling of his gaze igniting your skin like a firework, “it’s not like it’s lingerie.”

“It’s mine.” There’s a weight behind the words that makes you nearly pause. He catches it, because of course he does, and his gaze darkens. You just move over to the bed, crawl beneath the covers like you have a thousand times, and try to throw your walls back up.

“It’s Bucky’s.” You grumble, dropping your head against the pillow.

“I’m Bucky.” He says it simply. Almost like he’s craving for it to be the truth. It makes your heart hurt. Desperation for that to be completely, entirely true nearly makes you curl in on yourself and cry.

But he’s trying, and that’s enough. You turn to him, eyes softening as you pat his side of the bed in silent invitation.

He moves like he was waiting for permission, climbing in beside you.

You don’t touch him. Just turn on your side, face him with your hand resting beneath your pillow, and try to observe.

He turns, faces you too. For a while, you just stare into each other’s eyes. Silent and studying. Like the weirdest, most oddly intimate staring contest that’s ever been held.

And then you break it. Try one last tactic. You reach your hand up, brush your fingers over his cheek.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.” You say, quietly. He leans into your touch, but doesn’t break your gaze. Like he’s listening. Like he’s trying. You tell him his age. His sister’s name. His mother’s. You even repeat facts about his time in the war. About the day you met him. About the day he proposed.

When you finish, his eyes are soft, but he’s still not Bucky.

You offer a humorless, heartbroken little smile. “Kind of thought that would work.” You admit, defeat lacing your voice. “Guess I’m oh for two tonight, huh?”

He doesn’t smile back, but he does seem to give in to something. His arm slides around you, and he pulls you into his chest.

You let him.

You sigh, letting your eyes drift shut, and inhale his familiar scent. He doesn’t hold you delicately. He holds you like he’s protecting you. Like he’s prepared to fight anyone and anything that might try to take you away from him.

And when you fall asleep, emotionally exhausted and still hurting in ways you can't even put a name to, he’s still holding you just as tightly.

[cheekybarneslibrary]

this fic absolutely fried my brain in the best way while so early this morning. i’m such a sucker for the “almost” moments and you wrote them so perfectly i wanted to throw my phone!!! bucky being so in love it’s ridiculous, the way every little interaction is just dripping with tension, the lap scene in the suv, the kitchen flour fight, everything… unreal!!!!

this version of bucky is my favorite kind. soft and yearning and just absolutely gone while still being so him. i felt every single second of it!!! i couldn’t stop scrolling. you balance the pining, the tension, and the payoff so well it actually hurts.

and the ending too. AGH!! all of it wrapped up so beautifully i could actually cry. i’m so normal about this (i’m not) 🥹🩷

carefully, with love | b. barnes

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ synopsis: Bucky’s never been good at saying how he feels—but he’s getting better at showing it. Almost. From close tension-thick moments in cramped SUVs to flour clinging on your eyelashes in the middle of the night, there are three times he nearly kisses you…and the one time he finally does.

-> pairing: bucky barnes x fem!avenger!reader

-> disclaimers: fluff, just a little angst, cursing, unestablished relationship, so much pining & yearning hello, avengers tower au cause i can’t be stopped, use of pet names (doll, like once), use of y/n, mentions of violence & injuries, bucky’s so in love it’s sickening

-> word count: 8k

-> song rec: please, please, please, let me get what i want by the smiths

-> a/n: i thrive for almost moments and this entire fic was just a projection of that. i also have so many bucky fic ideas, i need to write them all or i’ll combust. (i’m writing for other characters too but these bucky drafts are just accumulating, i’m sorry)

Bucky isn’t entirely sure if he should punch Sam or thank him for the face cut he inflicted on him during training. For one, it stung like a bitch when Wilson’s combat boot went right into his cheek and split a gash into it. However, on the much brighter side, after training is over, you approach Bucky with squinted eyes laced in concern.

“You’ll have to clean it.” You hum, examining the cut with a sympathetic smile. “You’re bleeding.”

Bucky brushes it off with a shrug, his expression flat like the gash actually doesn’t bother him at all. “I’ll be alright.”

You figure that. He’s endured a lot more pain in his past than a simple boot to the face, but you’re far too caring to let his stubborn nature win in this case.

“C’mon.” You say, ushering him to follow as you begin walking out of the Avenger’s Tower training room and towards the nearest bathroom.

Bucky is going to protest—to insist that you don’t have to stress over him and that he can patch himself up. However, you’re already walking down the hallway, not bothering to glance over your shoulder because you know he’ll eventually follow. Follow he does and if he wasn’t so distracted by the way your hips swish while you walk, he’d have noticed the teasing smirks Natasha and Wanda give each other as you both leave.

When the two of you slip into the floor’s bathroom, you shut the door behind you and immediately kneel down to fetch the first aid kit from beneath the sink. “Sit, Buck.” You order.

Wordlessly, he finds himself obeying and plopping down on the closed toilet seat lid. His eyes are trained on your every move, finding it difficult to look anywhere else, as you shut the cabinet and rummage through the kit searching for the proper materials.

It’s one of those moments where he doesn’t feel as if he needs to say anything—most of the time he spends with you is like that. You’d don’t expect him to converse or entertain because sometimes, merely sitting in silence with him is enough. It’s comfortable and equally as rich as any conversation would be.

Ripping open an alcohol wipe, you narrow your gaze at the feeling of his eyes on you. Your lips curl up at the corner sweetly. “What?” You ask, your voice gentle.

“Nothin’.” Bucky blinks, shaking his head. “You don’t have to, y’know? More than capable of cleaning it myself.”

You smile even more at his relentlessly headstrong mindset. “Would you? Remember last time you got hurt on a mission?“

At the time, Bucky didn’t tell anyone his non-metal arm was in pain for days because he simply didn’t feel like burdening them with his problem. It only came to your attention when you accidentally brushed his shoulder in the kitchen, and he flinched—just a tiny twitch, barely noticeable.

But you’d noticed. You always seem to notice.

You scolded him for not telling anyone he’d been hurting and then again for not taking care of it properly himself. Then you dragged him into the medical room to wrap it up comfortably, much to his chagrin.

Now, sitting across from you again, he nods slowly. “Yeah,” he mutters, brushing his thumb over the cut on his cheek. “I remember.”

Quickly, you lightly smack his hand down so he can’t touch it before shifting over to stand in front of him. “Exactly, so let me do this for you, yeah?” He doesn’t have time to answer because then you’re holding up the alcohol wipe in front of his face. “This might sting.”

Bucky doesn’t so much as flinch when you press the wipe against his cut, but finds your warning endearing anyways. He’s more focused on the way you position yourself in between his spread open legs and lean down to get a better look at his cut.

“How hard did Sam kick you in your face?” You let out a small chuckle, the noise echoing off the walls of the bathroom. “He mad at you or something?”

The corners of Bucky’s lips threaten to curl up at your comment. “I took the last pancake Wanda made this morning, that might be it.”

You smile, laughing breathily as you reach over to grab some antiseptic cream from the first aid kit. “Makes sense. I would’ve kicked you in the face too.”

Bucky’s eyebrows raise, watching you unscrew the lid to squeeze some onto your fingertip. “Oh, would you have?” When you nod, he hums. “I think I would’ve preferred a kick in the face from you instead of him anyway.”

Pursing your lips, you tilt your head teasingly. “Don’t let him hear you say that, Barnes. He might think I’m taking his spot as your best friend.”

“He’d never recover.” Bucky grins, but stills to a silence when you place your fingers on his cheek lightly.

His attention drifts up to your face, observing the way that your eyebrows knit together softly and lips twist in focus. You’re close to him now, so much so that he can smell your cherry perfume and he wonders how it’s managed to stay on despite having just returned from practice.

When his head tilts too far up as he looks at you, you gently grab his jaw and guide his head back down. The action is small, but sends a course of shivers down his spine, a feeling so rare and one he only ever experiences with you.

He doubts you know the effect you have on him. After all, he’s been trying his absolute hardest to conceal these newfound and confusing emotions until he can begin to understand them himself.

He knows something is off, though, when he catches himself smiling as your loud laughter echoes through the walls of the Tower during your and Natasha’s weekly movie nights, or when he wakes up early for coffee and finds you already in the kitchen, packing Peter a lunch for school with a bright smile on your face.

It’s the little things you do—like saving him a spot at the dinner table, handing him a fresh towel before he can even ask on sparring days, or patching up his wounds despite his grumpy protests—that make him worry he’s developing feelings no friend should have. It terrifies him, truly. But he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t feel good all the same.

You unwrap a butterfly bandaid and lay it carefully on his cheek, leaning your head back to admire your hard work. “Lookin’ good. Keep this with you,” You hold the antiseptic cream for him to take. “And put it on everyday so it doesn’t scab.”

Bucky takes the bottle from your hand, his calloused fingers brushing against your soft ones. “Yes ma’am.” He answers yet doesn’t get up from where he sits.

Suddenly, you become hyper-aware of the position you find yourself in—you’re still in between his legs and he’s still looking up at you like he can’t bear to pry his eyes away. It’s compromising and oddly intimate in a way you can’t determine if you like or hate, yet the warmth you feel in the pit of your stomach is answer enough.

“All done.” You remind him, your voice coming out more quiet than you intend.

A sudden tension seems to wash over the room as Bucky’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

“Right,” He nods, then faster than you can register, he’s pushing himself to a standing position. His eyes are on you the entire time he rises, towering over you to look down with an expression you can’t quite decipher—one that makes your knees feel wobbly. “Thank you, Y/N.”

Your name sounds rich on his tongue like saying it is sacred to him. It makes your heart thump in your chest. “Anytime, Buck.”

The way you look up at him, through your softly kitted eyebrows, makes Bucky hesitate. His stare quickly travels across your face like trying to memorize it in its close proximity. His focus lands on your lips before flickering back up to your eyes. Now he’s aware of just how much he’d like to kiss you and just how much he probably shouldn’t.

You open your mouth to say something when a knock at the door interrupts, snapping your attention away from each other. You clear your throat, stepping back and increasing the distance between the two of you. Bucky hates how it feels colder without you close to him.

“Hey guys!” A squeaky voice belonging to Peter Parker echoes from the other side. “Sorry if you’re busy in there or something, but I really have to go and Vision’s fixing the elevator so I really don’t wanna have to run all the way upstairs!”

You let out a small chuckle, shaking your head. “We’re all done in here, Pete.” You turn to Bucky, offering him a sweet smile, back to your usual demeanor. “Don’t get kicked in the face again, ‘kay?”

His grin widens and with a nod of his head, he responds. “Not unless it’s by you, remember?”

You purse your lips to prevent your smile from stretching, then swing the door open. Bucky’s eyes are only trained on you as you walk, even when a desperate Peter runs inside and shoos him away with intentional shoves.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Everything was on fire. Quite literally.

The mission the team is on has gone sideways fast and now, all that matters is getting out of there. The extraction SUV comes into view just beyond the crumbling warehouse gates, engine revving as the back doors fly open.

“Move! Move! Move!” Steve barks into comms as he sprints towards the vehicle.

Natasha is right behind him, dragging a limping Sam who’s still cracking jokes through gritted teeth. You and Bucky follow close behind with Peter in tow—grounded and grumbling without any buildings to swing from. Natasha helps get Sam into the backseat before joining Steve in the front, which means the rest of you are to squeeze.

“You first, Pete!” You order and he obliges, quickly shoving himself inside.

Bucky follows suit and once he’s sat, he turns back, motioning for you to come in.

Your fingers grip the edge of the door, glancing around inside the car at the lack of seats left. Craning your neck behind you, you watch as more explosions occur and enemies emerge, dead-set on the car that you can’t get inside of. “Fuck! Guys, there’s no more room!”

“What?” Peter shouts. “Sam, why couldn’t you have flown?”

“I’m injured, you little asshole!” Sam hisses back.

“What do I do?” You emphasize. “Seriously, there’s—”

“There’s room.” Bucky speaks up.

You blink. “Where?!”

He doesn’t answer but instead, grabs your wrist and pulls. You yelp as he tugs you into the car, the door slamming shut behind you. You barely have time to process that you’re safely inside before the car peels away from the curb with a screech.

Then you realize, you’re in his lap—legs draped over his, your weight settling against him as the car jostles over cracked pavement. His arm instinctively wraps around your waist, holding you steady and secure. Suddenly, there’s no space or distance. Just you and him.

You freeze and so does he.

Nat’s arguing with Tony over comms, snapping at him to tell F.R.I.D.A.Y to reroute traffic. Steve chimes in every few seconds, telling them both to calm down, but he’s way too focused on weaving through cars like a getaway driver. Beside you, Peter’s whining about Sam’s wing-pack jabbing into his side, but Sam just grits his teeth and tells him to quit complaining.

It’s complete chaos in the car but Bucky? He doesn’t hear any of it.

Because you’re right there, pressing up against him in a way that makes it hard for him to breathe, a pressure blooming tightly in his throat. One of your hands clutches the side of his vest, knuckles brushing against his chest as you stabilize yourself for the wobbly car ride. Your face is close—almost too close—and you have to duck your head slightly, settling into a stomach churning position near his shoulder and jaw. For a second, he thinks he can feel the warmth of your breath against his neck and suddenly, every bump in the road is utter torture.

“I’m sorry,” He mutters, his voice low. “It was the only option.”

You nod quickly, trying to brush it off like this wasn’t the closest the two of you have ever been—like it wasn’t physically compromising in a way that makes your head pulse. “Yeah, I get it. It makes sense. Practical.”

Practical. Right.

Heat radiates off of your body as you adjust yourself on top of him, sinking into his lap like some cruel test of his self control.

“Is this okay?” He mumbles, his voice just above a whisper, reserving the question for only the two of you.

“Yes.” It’s the only word you manage to get out, too distracted by the way his fingers curl around your waist—grounding and almost possessive. He squeezes you closer with each sharp turn Steve takes, like holding you in place steadies something inside of him too.

Bucky swallows hard and risks a glance at you. There’s a smudge of dirt on your jaw and a thin line of blood on your lip from where it somehow split during combat. Your chest rises and falls with exhaustion, cheeks flushed and eyes still burning with adrenaline. And yet, despite it all, you look unbelievably gorgeous, like the chaos has only made you even more breathtaking.

“Are you hurt?” He asks, though his eyes have already scanned you twice for any injuries.

“No, I’m alright.” You answer, fingers fiddling with the edge of his utility vest out of what he assumed to be nerves with no place to go.

He nods but then pauses the moment your eyes flicker up to meet his. There’s a major shift in the air and for what feels like minutes, everything else fades away—the rambunctiousness of the car, the shouting from your teammates, the smell of smoke and metal from the mission. It stills to a stop.

Because you’re looking at him like you might feel it too; the same sensation he’s been drowning in for months whenever he’s around you.

And in that moment, Bucky Barnes wants to kiss you more than he’s wanted to do anything in years. Maybe ever. There you are; warm, gentle and in his lap like it’s normal, like your bodies were meant to be this close together. It sends a heatwave through his body that he supposes can only dissipate when his lips meet yours.

Then, Peter accidentally elbows him in his side while he argues with Sam, and Bucky is robbed of that idea as quickly as he obtains it.

“Are you,” You say, eyes flickering over his face like he might disappear if you don’t look hard enough. “Okay?”

“I’m fine.” He nods, assuringly but you can read it all over his face. There’s something there—something heavy and sincere—so similar to the pulsing you’re experiencing in your own chest.

Bucky leans back, putting some distance between the two of you, though it’s extremely difficult both physically and mentally. His gaze locks outside the car window, focusing on the trees as they pass instead of the way your eyes still fixate on him. More than he could ever admit, he wants to reach out, pull you closer, and press his lips to yours. But this wasn’t the time, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for something so real, so permanent.

So instead, he holds himself back and swallows the feeling.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

You’re confident you don’t need to look at the recipe, but the more you mix the contents of your bowl, the more it looks suspicious.

The dough is too sticky, and there’s definitely more flour on your crewneck than there is in the bowl. You’re starting to think that you somehow missed a step while you were jamming out to the music playing from the small speaker in the kitchen of the Tower. However, you persevere, determined to manifest your grandmother’s chocolate chip cookie magic through sheer force and determination.

Over the quiet music and your own soft humming, you don’t notice the sound of someone entering the kitchen until a sudden shift in the air draws your attention. Your eyes flicker up and meet his electric blue ones.

Bucky stands in the doorway, dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie with hair still damp from the shower. There’s tiredness in his face, sure, but also something tender—deep in the way that he looks at you. It was almost as if seeing you here, bobbing your head to the music on the radio and mixing the contents of the bowl like you’re in your own little world, was the first time he allowed himself to breathe all day.

“Heard you were making cookies.” He says, his voice gruff with sleep.

“Who said?” You smile, mixing your dough again in hopes that it would make it better.

Bucky steps closer, moving to stand on the opposite side of the island to you. “Steve,” He answers. “Said I’d better check on you before you burn the kitchen down with yourself inside of it.”

You let out a playful scoff, rolling your eyes. “Just for that, he doesn’t get any.”

Bucky grins, leaning against the countertop and examining the situation before him. There’s powder all over the table and ingredients sprawled about that he isn’t entirely sure you even need for chocolate chip cookies. His eyes trial up to you and your pajamas that display remnants of your mixture. Not only that but there are splotches of flour on your cheeks, and when he looks up at the top of your head, some there too.

He lets out a small chuckle at the sight and the noise has you glancing up at him briefly. “What?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Didn’t know chocolate chip cookies were this messy. You’ve got flour all over your face, Doll.”

Your hand instinctively flies up to wipe it away, swiping at your cheek blindly.

“That made it worse.” He squints, sympathetically.

You shrug, not caring much about how you looked in front of the soldier. “A little mess is the price I’m willing to pay for these cookies,” You say at the same time you suddenly realize what’s missing from your recipe. “Hey, since you’re here, can you do me a favor?”

He hums, the noise rumbling from the back of his throat and sounding oddly attractive to your ears.

“Could you find me the chocolate chips? I’m sure they’re somewhere in that cabinet.” You ask, nodding in the direction of one of the top shelves.

Bucky, who is positive he’ll do anything you ask of him, pushes himself off of the counter to walk over towards the cabinets. “Don’t tell me you started making the cookies before you checked if we even have chocolate chips.”

You shrug, sprinkling a little more flour into your bowl. “I was choosing to be optimistic.”

He rummages around before effortlessly grabbing a bag of chocolate chips from the highest shelf. Then he’s walking over to you, joining you on your side of the table to pass you the bag and smile at your workspace. “These are gonna be quite the cookies, huh?”

“Family recipe.” You nod confidently, opening the bag to drop plenty of chocolate chips into your mixing bowl. Bucky watches as you stir, your eyebrows knitting together in concentration. “Wanna taste?”

His shoulder brushes against yours as you turn to him, holding the bowl up to his face. It smells delicious and with how excited you are, he can’t exactly resist. “Sure.”

Your eyes follow him as he swoops his index finger into the bowl, runs it around the edge to collect stray dough and pops it into his mouth. Then slowly and almost absentmindedly, he licks the dough off of his finger.

His eyes flick up to yours, catching you mid-stare. You try to play it off, try not to let the warmth rising in your chest crawl all the way to your cheeks. It’s just cookie dough and just Bucky—your very handsome teammate casually doing something that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.

“Good?” You ask, and your voice is a little too light to be natural.

He hums, nodding. “Very.”

In satisfaction, you quirk your chin up and will yourself to turn away from him, no longer able to dwell on how horribly good he looks beneath the yellow light of the kitchen.

“You need my help?” He asks, watching you reach into a cabinet for a baking sheet.

You knit your brows, shaking your head. “Oh, no, it’s okay, you don’t have to.”

He rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie, his metal hand glimmering in a way that makes your stomach twist, and he takes the sheet from your hands. “I want to.”

You can’t find words to say as he immediately gets to work scooping the dough into balls and placing them on the tray, so you murmur a simple, “Thank you” and twist around to occupy yourself with cleaning your mess.

The kitchen falls into a domestically relaxed quiet, save for the sound of you doing the dishes and Bucky organizing the cookies on the sheet with an adorably concentrated precision. Every once in a while, you glance over your shoulder to get a glimpse of him as he rolls. Unknowingly to you, he does the same—twisting around when you aren’t looking to furrow his brows in admiration.

After you finish the dishes, you wipe your hands off on a dishrag and make your way back to the island where Bucky works. With a mindless grin, you lean against the counter, arms crossed as you watch him with your head in your palm.

There’s something about it—the sight of Bucky Barnes rolling cookie dough in his pajamas, damp strands of hair falling into his face as he leans over the counter. The notoriously brooding man had stepped into the kitchen wearing the softest smile, his hands now moving with a kind of gentleness, like the dough was a treasure you’d entrusted him with.

You can’t help but watch, hoping your heart-eyes aren’t as visible as you imagine they are in your head.

His gaze flickers to you, a small smile threatening to tear at the sides of his lips under the pressure of your attention. “You alright?”

You blink and nod, but don’t shy away. “I’m fine. Jus’ thinking.”

His head tilts in curiosity as he finishes rolling the last cookie. “About what?”

“About how no one would believe me if I told them Sergeant Barnes was helping me make chocolate chip cookies.” You purse your lips playfully.

Bucky raises his eyebrows, carrying the cookie tray to the oven with his metal hand and placing it on the rack. “I’ll have you know, I’m a man of many talents.”

“Hmm,” you nod. “And baking is one of them?”

“Kinda had to be,” He straightens up and gives you a crooked smile, dusting his hands off. “My sister always made me bake with her every Sunday night—said I was useless unless I was mixing the batter. She’d dance around the kitchen to the music from the radio, and boss me around like she ran the place. I got pretty good at it after a while.”

You smile, fighting with your insides to keep them from turning to mush. “That’s sweet.”

For a moment, he just looks at you as if he’s seeing a piece of that memory reflected in you, like something about this moment brings it back to life in the gentlest way. It’s delicately warm and wonderfully familiar, feeling like home in a way that means the world to him.

His smile softens briefly like he’s letting himself sit in it, in you, in the quiet comfort of something good. Then, with a small huff that sounds suspiciously like fondness, he shakes his head. “Don’t go spreadin’ that around. I’ve got a reputation to maintain here.”

You grin, eyes sparkling mischievously. “How’d you know? I was actually planning on leaving a note next to the cookie plate,” You say, motioning in the air with your hands. “‘Rolled by James Buchanan Barnes. Carefully. With love. Lots of it.’”

Bucky rolls his eyes at your response, but grins anyway. “Cause you’ve got a big mouth, that’s how.”

You scoff, hand against your chest in offense. “Excuse me?”

Bucky’s face doesn’t budge. It’s flat and neutral as he says, “You heard me.”

You narrow your eyes. “Jerk.”

Then without thinking, you dip your hand into the nearby flour jar—fingers curling around the soft powder—and flick it towards his chest in one swiftly impulsive motion. A white puff blooms across the dark fabric of his hoodie that he stares down at in a stunned silence.

You cover your mouth, a soft laugh slipping past it before you can even help it.

“Really?” He says.

You open your mouth to say something but then Bucky moves suddenly, reaching for the flour with a speed that ignites your fight or flight instincts.

“Alright, then.” He tilts.

You yelp, bolting around the kitchen island as he grabs a handful. “Bucky, no—”

“You started this.” He teases, following you in a confident sort of chase.

Circling the counter again, you attempt to increase the distance but as you round the far side, a cloud of flour explodes against your back.

“Hey!” You exclaim, eyeing the streak of white powder covering your crewneck.

Bucky just smirks, eyebrows raised in mock concern so in return, you reach into the flour jar again, desperate to get him back.

And for a sincere moment, the kitchen fills with laughter—yours bright and effortless; his, rough and warm, in a way it hasn’t been in years. For a full minute, nothing else exists but the sound of feet padding against the tiled floor as flour flies across the air in a ridiculous food fight. You’re both smiling like complete idiots despite the mess you’re making and Bucky realizes, suddenly and quietly, that this might be the happiest he’s been in a long time.

You lunge forward to circle the table again but this time, instead of running away from him, you run past him. It’s a drive-by attack, your arm shooting out as you pass to sprinkle flour directly onto his head.

A satisfying puff coats his dark hair and you let out a laugh of success. You attempt to make a run for it but then his fingers wrap around your wrist and in one fluid motion, he gently tugs you back towards him. Faster than you can process, your body spins around and your chest collides directly with his own.

Your feet stumble to a stop.

The both of you still.

Your head tilts up but his gaze is already on yours, staring at you with a longing look you only wish you can decipher.

Yet, before either of you can say anything, he lifts his hand and drops a handful of flour on the top of your head. The powder puffs out, sprinkling over your forehead and acting as glitter on your eyelashes.

Your mouth parts in shock, and Bucky, he’s grinning like he’s just won first place. “Got you.”

“You cheater.” You huff at the same time flour trickles from your hair in a silly fog of smoke onto the two of you.

He laughs, deep and sincere. “We didn’t establish any rules.”

You try to glare up at him but suddenly, you’re entirely hyper-aware of his hand that still holds your wrist gently, keeping you tucked against him. You swallow, eyes flickering across his face like you were trying to determine if he felt it too—that warmth pooling at the bottom of your stomach.

Some quiet song hums low from the kitchen speaker, delicate and slow, the kind of melody that makes everything feel like it’s moving in slow motion.

“You good?” He tilts his head, smiling crookedly.

His voice is too close, too gruff, that you almost melt into a puddle on the kitchen floor.

“Fine,” You say, the word coming out a lot quieter than you intend it to. “You win.”

Suddenly, Bucky gets trapped in the sincerity you watch him with. Your eyes are soft, puppy-like almost—wide and searching as they stare at him like they’re trying to figure him out without saying a word. Surely you don’t mean to, but he’s not positive he can handle the way you peer up with knitted eyebrows of velvety vulnerability. They’re gentle, so much so that it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

A guttural ache curls at his insides, burning with a longing desire that he doesn’t know how to put out. For a split second, he thinks about leaning in to close the distance that is so obviously being pulled taut, like an invisible string, between the two of you. And in that same second, he thinks he might read it on your face too.

Would it be so horrible if his lips met yours beneath the gentle light of the Tower’s kitchen; where flour coats the counters, and your eyelashes, like snow. Where your laughter lingers in the air like a song he heard once and could never get enough of. Where the smell of warm, chocolate chip cookies in the oven dances around you and makes you feel like home. Would it be so terrible to give in to something so soft, so tender?

Bucky isn’t sure but, god, he wants to. He’s wanted to, for as long as he can remember. And he almost does.

Until his grip loosens and the weight of who he is pulls him back down to earth from the clouds you have him floating in.

His hand slips from your wrist and just like that, the window of opportunity passes. For a beat, he thinks he catches a glimpse of disappointment in those eyes of yours but then he’s forcing himself out of it, clearing his throat free of the tension and words he doesn’t say.

“I’ll check on the cookies.” He says, coming off confidently like usual, though he was far from it.

“Good idea.” You nod, far too quickly for it to be casual. “Don’t want them to burn and have everyone know Bucky Barnes isn’t as good at baking as he says he is.”

He smiles, the flutter stuck in his chest like the smoke after a flame is put out.

“They won’t burn,” He tilts his head. “Not when they were rolled carefully with love. Lots of it.”

And just like that, you’re back—the two of you falling into that easy, mutual rhythm as if the longing stares and gentle touches mean nothing. You move around each other like you always have, in that seamless and unspoken way despite the unsaid that lingers. It hovers, just beneath the surface waiting for one of you to finally put a name to it.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

It was supposed to be a low-level recon mission at a nearby Hydra facility—one where the team got in and out with no problem. No combat. Just surveillance and intel retrieval. Easy enough for you, Natasha, and Sam to handle on your own. The rest of the team had stayed behind to run tactical. It was one of those missions—quick, clean, no surprises.

Except something did happen. And now, no one can reach you.

“It was an ambush,” Natasha’s voice says through comms, sharp with static and urgency. “We didn’t see them coming.”

The facility had been more than just abandoned—it was bait. Seconds after infiltration, the place locked down, alarms blared, and drones swarmed the exits. A blast took out part of the structure, and in the chaos, the three of you got separated.

“Nat,” Steve speaks through the comms after a few minutes pass, his voice calm despite the circumstances. “Have you found each other yet?”

It takes a second but then Nat’s voice is echoing through the speaker. “I’m with Wilson but we can’t find Y/N. She’s still not responding to us on comms.”

Bucky leans against the control panel, his jaw clenched in worry. Guilt washes over his body in a wave because before you’d left, he insisted on going with you all. Something about the idea of you walking into an ex-hydra base, even one that’s been shut down for years, didn’t feel right to him. Yet you’d insisted he stayed.

“I’ll be fine, Barnes.” You had said.

“I don’t trust it.” He responded.

Placing a gentle hand on his metal arm, you continued. “Just trust me.”

So he did and while he’d never doubt your ability to take care of yourself, he’s more mad at himself for knowing something was suspicious about the ex-Hydra base and letting the three of you go alone anyways.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y,” Tony’s voice breaks Bucky out of his head. The Stark man sits across from Steve, observing the map and the way your location has been pinging in the same spot for the past five minutes. “Any intel on Y/N’s location or activity from her suit?”

miss y/n’s current location cannot be updated. her suit appears to have lost connection.

Bucky watches in real time as your location on the map flashes red before blinking away completely.

“Fuck!” He growls, slamming his fist down on the table before backing away, pacing like the movement might ease him of the frustration coiled in his chest.

Steve glances at his best friend, jaw tight. He understands the anger, he feels it too, but knows better than to try and talk Bucky down. Instead, he turns back to comms and speaks, low but urgent, “Nat, her location has gone off the grid completely. Any sign of her?”

“No! We can’t,” Natasha’s voice comes out in a panic before static ensues. It takes a moment amidst all of the chaos before she speaks again, “We can’t find her! Steve, the building’s gonna collapse, we’ve got to get out of here!”

With those words, Bucky’s heart sinks to the bottom of his chest, sudden and harsh like the drop on a roller coaster. “No.” He says, his voice loud and stern as he approaches the panel and leans over Steve to speak to Natasha himself. “You’re not leaving without her.”

“Buck.” Steve glances up at him.

“Her location last said she was in the building.” Bucky presses his index finger against the map. “If it collapses and she’s—”

“Hey,” Steve says more firmly, turning towards his friend. “We don’t know that she’s still in there.”

“We don’t know that she’s not!” Bucky’s voice rises before he can stop it, words tearing out of him louder than he means, but the release feels necessary.

“Steve,” Sam speaks through his earpiece. “We’ve scoured the entire building, Redwing too—nothing. The damn ceiling’s gonna fall!”

“What if they took her?” Bucky proposes, standing up to run a hand over his head in worry. It’s not an idea far out the picture, after all, Bucky knew a lot about how capable they were of doing so.

Steve rubs his forehead. He knew there was a chance Bucky was right. While you were more than capable of holding your own, he also understood the dangerous of you being forced to fend yourself off against a bunch of ex-Hydra operatives.

Steve’s silence might be enough to send Bucky into a full on crash-out. He can feel the anxiety coursing through his body—knowing that you’re out there by yourself, surrounded by the same people who once broke him. It’s a fear unlike anything he’s experienced before and when that thought hits, it doesn’t feel like a freight train, but something worse.

His whole life, Bucky had endured so much that pushing people away became the only way to keep them safe—from both the people that hurt him and himself. He hadn’t allowed himself comfort, hadn’t dared to reach for happiness because deep down, he didn’t feel he deserved it. And worse, he feared those who did veer close enough would come out exactly as he had.

But you—in all your warmth and kindness—had somehow snuck through the cracks in his armour and settled into his soul. He couldn’t keep himself away from you, no matter how much he tried. Sometimes, it made him feel selfish to want you as much as he did. You were good, far too good to be crushed under the burdens he carried. Yet, you had a way of imprinting yourself into his heart, where the damage was irreversible and Bucky hadn’t done a single thing to stop you.

And now, he is living that consequence.

He’s prepared to rain hell on anyone who might’ve taken you, who might’ve hurt you. With clenched fists, he readies himself to go out there and search for as long as it takes just so he can bring you home.

But then Sam’s comms crackle. “Guys! I think we found her!”

Bucky perks up, as Steve and Tony share glances of hope. They gather around the panel, waiting for Sam to speak up again or for your location to flash back on.

“Guys, we found her!” Sam shouts, his voice filled with relief. “We’re—”

But then his comms disconnect. Urgently, Steve tries to get back in contact with them, any of them, but it’s radio silence.

Bucky doesn’t know whether to be thankful or even more worried, and the knot in his stomach remains tight the entire time the tower awaits your return. They spend thirty minutes monitoring Sam and Natasha’s location as it maneuvers through the city, just hoping they’re coming back with you.

It feels like the longest wait Bucky has ever had to endure, like time was moving slowly just to fuck with him. He sits on a chair in the corner, leaning his hand back against the wall as his knee bounces up and down anxiously.

Then Tony speaks. “They’re back.”

Bucky looks up, eyes set on the map where Sam and Natasha’s location is pinned at the Avengers Tower. Without thinking, he pushes himself off of his chair and marches out of the control room. Tony and Steve are right behind him as he storms straight towards the elevators to greet you downstairs himself, but just as he enters the living room, the elevator door dings on their floor.

He blinks and there you are, limping in with Sam at your side and Natasha rushing into the kitchen to fill you up a glass of water.

Bucky freezes, observing the many scratches and scrapes on your face. Your suit is disheveled, reflecting a battle you seem to have clearly put up. For some reason, he can’t move. He just stands off to the side, watching with a distant expression.

Steve rushes over to your other side, though you insist you’re fine, and he and Sam guide you to sit on the couch. You hiss in pain as you do so, clutching your hip where you’d injured it during the collapse. Natasha makes her way over with the water cup, handing it to you and you drink it down almost immediately.

“We need to get you checked.” Natasha orders.

“No,” You say, shaking your head quickly. “I mean, yes but I just need a minute, just to catch my breath, please.”

Steve’s eyes flicker up to Bucky, who’s standing to the side like he’s afraid to get too close. He can see the longing on his best friend’s face, all of the unspoken words that are threatening to spill over the surface if he doesn’t say them soon.

“You two mind telling us what happened?” Steve turns to Natasha and Sam who nod almost instantly. Then he looks back at you and with a much softer voice, asks. “You gonna be alright for a bit?”

At his worry, your lips curl up into a weak smile—your attempt at lifting a weight off their shoulders. “Why? You wanna stay to babysit me?”

A few of the others let out small laughs, your usual positive attitude giving them some relief. All but Bucky, whose jaw clenches with a feeling he can’t determine.

Everyone moves to head towards the meeting room, leaving you on the couch to lean your head back in exhaustion. As they walk, Steve claps his hand on Bucky’s shoulder with a look that says, “If you don’t tell her now, I will.”

Soon, the team is out of the room, and it’s just you and Bucky remaining. You feel his presence before you look up to see him, but when you do, you’re met with devastated eyes that tell you just how much your absence has bothered him.

With a head tilt, your raspy voice speaks, “Buck—”

“You scared the shit out of me.” He admits faster than you can process. His words hang in the air, tension suddenly pulsing through the walls of the tower.

“I’m sorry,” You say. “The blast knocked me out and when I got up, I tried to radio but it crushed my earpiece.”

Bucky remains silent for a beat, but you can tell his brain is running a mile a minute. “They could’ve taken you.”

“They didn’t.” You answer, with a small shrug.

“They could have.” He emphasizes.

“But they didn’t.” You say honestly but gently, understanding how jarring this must’ve been for him considering his history. “I mean, I think,” You pause. “I think they tried to. I fought them off though, I took care of it. I don’t even think they were really a match for me.”

Your attempt at lightening the conversation doesn’t go unnoticed, and for a second, the ends of his lips twitch like he wants to smile, before dropping back to an unreadable expression.

To say you feel horrible would be an understatement. It wasn’t your fault—both of you know that—but it rattled him nonetheless. Even now, he’s staring at you like you’re some half-pretend haze in his mind, like he’s not sure if you’re even real.

With a deep breath, you start to push yourself off the couch, wobbling under the weight of pain and imbalance. Bucky is at your side in an instant leaning down to help. His hands find your hips with practiced care, gentle and respectful, as he helps guide you upright.

“What’re you doing?” He asks.

“Standing so I can talk to you.” You answer, wincing a bit as your back straightens but ultimately relaxing your shoulders once you meet his weary eyes.

“How badly are you hurt?” Bucky says, gaze examining you in your entirety, hands never leaving your hips as if he was afraid you’ll disappear once he lets go.

“My back’s sore, and I’m pretty sure I tore something in my hip but it’s alright.” You answer, your hands clutching his arms to stabilize yourself though you feel perfectly okay to stand on your feet. He doesn’t seem convinced and you duck your head to catch his gaze better. “I’m fine, Buck, see. I’ll be okay.”

Bucky is focused on the scrapes on your cheeks, resisting the urge he has to lift his finger and brush against them.

You’re okay.

He tries to remind himself—You’re standing in front of him talking, smiling, breathing. You’re okay. For a second, he almost can’t understand why he’s still so shaken up, until his eyes meet yours and everything makes sense.

“I thought I lost you.” He speaks before he thinks, the words slipping from his mouth like it takes all of his energy just to mutter.

Your own breath seems to get lodged in your throat because suddenly, you have no idea what to say. Despite its sadness, his admission feels like a swarm of butterflies is fluttering against the insides of your stomach—warm and fuzzy.

The way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that matters to him beneath the soft light of the Tower’s living room, nearly makes your legs give out underneath you. You clutch onto his arms tighter, fighting how deeply you wish to tug him against you.

Your mouth opens like you want to say something but then you close it with a shake of your head. Seconds pass of the two of you only holding each other’s gaze before you work up the courage to mumble out a response.

“I’m here.” Your voice is quiet, just above a whisper.

Bucky feels it before he can even process it—that warmth flooding his chest in an overwhelming way only you’re capable of causing. It’s a twist deep in his core that somehow makes him feel light on his feet, and suddenly, the only thing of any importance is your gentle eyes as they blink up at him.

He’ll hate himself forever if he doesn’t take this opportunity—if he lets his fear of vulnerability control him any longer. Bucky Barnes has wanted to kiss you so many times, and all of those times have ended with him pulling away because comfort and love are things he’s been robbed of for years—things he doesn’t feel like he deserves.

But god, he wants it, and he wants you. More than you can even begin to comprehend.

With a singular blink, and a desire strong enough to destroy buildings, he’s moving to close the distance.

You almost don’t realize it’s happening until his mouth meets yours with a feverish want.

Undeniably, you’ve dreamt of this moment for as long as you can remember—Bucky’s lips against yours, your bodies pressed together closely. You’d almost believe you’re dreaming if not for the feeling of his warm fingertips at the skin on your hips. Your eyes flutter shut and your arms instinctively move to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

Bucky’s brain becomes a foggy mess the moment you start kissing him back. His hands move from your hips to wrap around your lower back, in an attempt to help you maintain your balance and, at the same time, draw you closer. As your lips move against his, he can’t help but wonder how something so soft can feel so earth-shattering.

You’re both in a daze—one gentle but hungry nonetheless—like you’ve both waited so long for this moment and now that it’s finally happening, all other problems cease to exist.

As much as you hate it, you pull away for air. Breathlessly, your eyes scan his pupils that you swore have grown larger in size since you’ve last looked at them. When your mouth begins curling up into the brightest smile you’re sure has ever graced your face, you lean forward to press a small, gentle kiss to his lips.

Then another one.

And then another one.

And another.

He accepts them happily, almost entirely in disbelief that this is even his reality. His heart thuds hard beneath his ribs, almost like it wants to jump out right out into your hands.

“I’ve wanted you to do that for so long,” You hum against his lips as you press a final kiss to them. When you finally lean your head back, your eyes flicker across his face like maybe you’re making sure this isn’t a dream.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” He echoes softly, fingers rubbing slow, soothing circles over the tender part of your back.

“Why didn’t you?” You ask.

He shakes his head, eyebrows free of that constant furrow they always seem to be burdened with. “Thought I had all the time in the world,” His voice is just above a whisper when he adds, “Today showed me that I might not,”

He brings one hand up to your face, placing the back of his index finger carefully against your cheek and brushing over a cut beneath your eye with a delicacy that feels like air.

“I wasted so much of that time already, being scared and holding myself back,” His focus never once leaves you. “I can’t anymore. I just want to spend it with you.”

For a second, you can only pause and wonder if Bucky knows the impact of his words—the very ones he uses so scarcely. They make your skin heat up and it feels as if the throbbing pain in your lower back suddenly dissipates.

“Me too, Bucky.” You breathe, sincerity coating your lips as you smile up at him. In traditional you fashion, your eyes glimmer with a sudden playful tease. “If I knew that’s all it would take, I’d have gotten beat up on a mission a lot earlier.”

Bucky lets out a breathy laugh, allowing himself the joy of grinning. “That’s not a funny joke.”

“It’s a little funny.” You reciprocate, tilting your head at him.

“No, it’s not.” He responds, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist.

You shake your head softly before leaning in to kiss him again. Bucky melts into it without hesitation, already cursing himself for all the time he spent keeping this at arm’s length. Now that he has it—has you—he can’t imagine ever letting go.

[cheekybarneslibrary]

alpine being the ultimate wing-cat will never get old. this trope owns my whole heart. bucky being jealous of his own cat sent me into orbit!!! this fic was such a perfect mix of sweet and funny and soft, exactly what i needed today. i love this take on the characters so much and i’m gonna be thinking about it all day 🫶🏻

Whose Cat Is It Anyway?

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: For the longest time, you thought the cat roaming the tower wasn’t owned by anybody. Then you eventually realize that the “Tower Cat” does, in fact, have a name, and is owned by none other than Bucky Barnes himself, the one team member you aren’t exactly best friends with. After Bucky finds out that Alpine has become fond of you, he starts giving you odd looks and passive-aggressive comments. This leads you to the conclusion that he is jealous of you for taking his cat. However, as time goes on, you come to the realization that it might be the other way around.

Word Count: 9.6k

Warnings/Tags: Bucky is so bad at feelings, Reader is an unreliable narrator, Reader is very oblivious (it's bad)

A/N: Is it realistic for somebody to get jealous over a cat? Probably not (keyword being probably), but I thought it was funny, so here you guys go! First post on this account :) Enjoy!

Cats.

You, like many people, adore the creatures.

They can be affectionate and cuddly on good days, purring and rubbing up against you as if nothing else exists. However, they can also be mischievous little demons.

Either way, you’ve always loved cats. 

Recently, you had been planning on getting a cat, but after moving in with the rest of the team, the plan had been put on hold. 

It was a tragedy. You were really looking forward to adopting one for yourself. You weren’t exactly sure if pets were allowed in the Watchtower. Technically, you didn’t see any rules against it, but you didn’t want to adopt a pet immediately after getting new roommates.

That being said, you did ask Valentina, but that didn’t really go well.

-

You shuffled anxiously, hearing the phone ring before it eventually picked up. “Hey, so—”

“Is this an emergency? You do know this number is for emergencies only, correct?” She said, and you could practically see the eye roll.

“Welllll, not exactly, but you haven’t exactly been around for us to ask any questions. You also don’t respond to my texts…” You trailed off, mumbling the last line. It’s not as if you wanted her around, but it would have solved this issue ages ago.

She remained silent for a moment, and you heard her sigh, exasperated. “Well, what is it?” She asked.

“The policy for pets?”

She sputtered for a moment, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Pets,” you said slowly as if talking to a child, “can we have them?” 

She huffed, and sharp laughter rang in your ears. “Oh, absolutely not.” 

You exhaled, “Damn…” You mutter to yourself, thinking she wouldn’t catch it.

“I do not want to see a pet there. I don’t care if it’s a dog, cat, guinea pig, snake, or turtle. No pets. Now, please, save this number for emergencies only. Goodbye.” She hung up the phone before you got a word in.

You soon realized after that incident that either people didn’t know about the policy, or didn’t care (likely the latter).

You didn’t immediately notice the animals. You weren’t even sure if they were always there or a new addition. The story of how you found out is actually pretty anticlimactic.

Yelena walked in with a guinea pig in hand. 

That's really about it.

You watched as she sat down on the couch, petting the animal without a care in the world. You raised an eyebrow. You weren’t sure if this was a deliberate act of rebellion or if Yelena just didn’t know. Either way, you didn’t mind. You just needed to know where everybody stood, you know, for… reasons.

“Did Valentina ever mention the policy for pets?” You asked casually, walking over to sit next to Yelena. The guinea pig crawls over her lap into yours. You smile as you pet them gently.

Yelena pauses, “You know what? I don’t know.” She looks down at the guinea pig on your lap, “I also don’t really care. I don’t think Valentina knows I have her anyway.” 

You nod, chuckling. “Fair enough. Would you care if she told you otherwise?”

Yelena laughs before her smile falls, “Not one bit.”

Frankly, you find it hard to believe Valentina did not notice the guinea pig. She seems like the type to have cameras everywhere and have constant monitoring. However, you let that slide, after all, it wasn’t exactly an animal that freely roams the tower.

What truly surprised you was the cat, or “Tower Cat” as you began to call her. She just appeared one day. Nobody said anything, no “hey guys we’re going to have a cat around, hope you don’t mind!” You wouldn’t have minded, but it's the principle that matters.

You had just finished up a solo mission. It was nothing too difficult, but you were exhausted nonetheless. You walked into the empty common area, blinking in confusion. Normally, there’s always one person here. You cautiously entered the space, looking around for any signs of life. 

“Uhh, anybody home?” You asked, your voice echoing slightly in the empty space.

You walk over to the couch to try to catch a breather for a moment before you see her.

A cat. A fluffy white cat.

How’d she get in? You aren't sure, but you weren’t going to complain. You look around one more time to make sure nobody is nearby.

“Hello there!” You slowly moved to the cat loafed up on the couch. You tried to extend a hand to her, but she immediately moved away as if offended by your attempt to pet her. “Not the cuddly type, huh? That’s okay.” You now had a new goal: befriend the cat.

Over the next few weeks, you had taken to various methods of befriending Tower Cat. You had bought some toys and treats for her. While she was initially very hesitant, and you mean very hesitant, she slowly started to warm up to you. She would now walk up to you to eat the treats you offered her. You considered that progress since the first time you tried to feed her treats, she hissed at you. 

The first time she approached you was a moment to be written down in history. You were hanging out in the kitchen, making yourself a quick snack, when suddenly you noticed something fluffy next to you.

You immediately paused whatever you were doing, looking down at Tower Cat. You didn’t want to scare her away, so you slowly started to turn your attention away from her. As you cooked, you noticed that she didn't leave the area. She didn't try to engage with you, but she watched you cook, never straying very far. 

Eventually, when you finished, you went back to your room to grab the cat treats. To your surprise, she actually followed and made herself comfortable on your desk. 

“Oh, so you just own my space now?” You asked her, grabbing a treat out of the bag. You hesitantly offered her a treat from your hand. You hadn’t tried this since the initial scratch incident. She stared at you for a moment before eventually deciding to approach you and take the treat. You withheld your gasp, allowing her to lick your hand before she became disinterested and claimed your desk as her own once more.

“You’re cool there?” You asked her.

She watched you silently.

“Okay, have fun, I guess.” You smiled, leaving the door to your room ajar in case she wanted to leave.

You weren’t sure if the rest of the team noticed the new addition, but you can’t imagine they didn’t notice. With how many former assassins and super soldiers you live with? No way they didn't notice. The first time you heard anything about it was when you were talking with Bob and Yelena. 

“Oh, damn it.” Yelena sighed, groaning in frustration. You and Bob, being the only ones in the room, turned towards her. She was looking into her room, looking less than pleased. 

“What happened?” You ask. 

“Damn cat got into my room again. Knocked over all my stuff.” Yelena responded, walking into her room, leaving the door wide open. You watched as Tower Cat came out from her room looking innocent. 

You blink, “The cat? Didn’t realize anybody knew she was here.” You looked between Yelena and Bob. 

“She’s not exactly hard to miss,” Yelena said, walking out of her room, closing the door behind her. She looks down at Tower Cat before shaking her head and walking back over to you and Bob.

“It’s just that nobody talks about her. I just assumed it was one of those things that everybody sees, but never speaks about.” You leaned against the armrest of the sofa. “So I’m assuming she isn’t any of your guys’ cat?” You raised an eyebrow, looking between Yelena and Bob.

Yelena shook her head, “Nope.” 

Bob similarly shook his head, “Not mine either.”

“Huh, do we know whose cat she is?” You asked.

Yelena shrugged, “I thought she just wandered in one day, and everybody let her stay. Haven’t really asked though.”

You hummed, “That’s funny. I was actually considering getting one too. Maybe it’s fate.” You joke, smiling.

Yelena laughs, “Please, take her. The first, and only, time I tried to pet her, she hissed and tried to scratch me.” You nodded in sympathy.

“Yeah, she did that to me the first time, too. She eventually warmed up to me, kinda. She actually came into my room the other day just to relax.” You said, looking over to the cat in question, who is walking through a hallway. Bob and Yelena followed your gaze, watching as the feline slowly walked over to your door before waltzing in like it was her own. “Oh, hey there she goes, what timing.” You laugh at their stunned faces.

“Does she have a name?” Bob asked.

“Well, I was gonna name her, but her original title of ‘Tower Cat’ just kinda stuck.” You explained.

“How’d you get her to like you?” He asked, looking at you with genuine curiosity.

“Treats and patience. Wanna see if we can try and get her to warm up to you a bit?” You asked, grinning. 

Bob smiled, nodding silently. Yelena laughs sharply before bidding her goodbyes for the night. She did not want to deal with that cat any more than she already did that day.

That’s how you started your “Cat Time” with Bob. You grew close over your similar love of cats. However, there’d be times where Tower Cat wouldn’t be anywhere in the Watchtower, betraying her name entirely. You and Bob would walk around, checking around, but there’d be nothing. She always showed up the next day or two after, so you assumed somebody would just let her into their room, but you didn’t know who. 

Eventually, after weeks of exposure, she warmed up to both you and Bob considerably. She’d hang out with you two while you watch TV or talk. Everything was going well. You finally got the cat you wanted.

Then you found she wasn’t your cat to claim.

-

If there was one person on the team where you weren’t sure where you stood, it was Bucky Barnes. 

To be clear, you had tried to establish friendly relations, seeing as you were living together, but after multiple attempts being met with nothing, you eventually gave up. 

When you first moved in, you wanted to make a good impression on everyone, and for all intents and purposes, you were successful. 

Alexei was not very difficult. You just engage in conversation with him often and laugh. He could actually be pretty funny sometimes, much to Yelena’s embarrassment.

Ava was a bit more difficult, but she eventually warmed up to you. Sometimes when you baked, you’d offer her some cookies, and you two would talk. Yelena would join in too occasionally. Those nights were always fun.

John was John, meaning he was kinda an asshole. You eventually got somewhere with him... kinda. You both would banter back and forth, but initially it was not banter. The insults over time turned less aggressive and more along the lines of “you annoy me, but you’re alright, I guess.” In your defense, you did try to be nice to him at first, but he made that very difficult with the way he treated other people, especially in the beginning. You eventually figured it out, though.

Yelena was the easiest next to Bob. She immediately became one of your best friends. She was one of the people on the team you really looked up to. You two would often end up hanging out with each other. This was how you were introduced to Bob.

Initially, it was kind of awkward with Bob. Both of you were friends by association, meaning you both liked Yelena, but didn’t really know each other. Eventually, once Tower Cat came into the picture, you both would hang out. You realized how funny he was once you actually got to know him. This led to a lot of late nights with you, Yelena, Bob, and Tower Cat. Sometimes Yelena would insist that Tower Cat must go, but for the most part, that was your little group.

So overall, you thought you did a good job establishing a positive relationship with the team. If you try to forget about Bucky, that is. You almost feel embarrassed thinking about it. By the end, you had gotten pretty desperate and had tried bringing him coffee in the mornings, or checking in to see if he was injured after missions. If you two were friends and your efforts had succeeded, you wouldn’t be embarrassed. However, they failed, and failed miserably.

The coffee incident? You wince even thinking about it.

“Oh, hey, I left some coffee on the counter for you. Not sure how you like it, so I left the sugar to the side.” You smiled as you watched Bucky walk in. He looked like he had just woken up, hair disheveled, rubbing his eyes.

He looked over to you before glancing at the mug you left for him, filled with coffee. He nodded slowly, walking over to it hesitantly. He stared at it for a bit before clearing his throat, “I was actually going to go to the gym.” 

You tried not to sigh and look over at him. “No worries. I’ll just, uh, clean it up.” 

He nods, looking at you, muttering a small “Thanks anyway.” 

As he walks away, you immediately feel embarrassed. Well, that was pathetic.

Of course, that wasn’t the only embarrassing incident.

Bucky had been returning from a mission with John. However, you only saw Bucky exit the elevator and head toward his room. You noticed that his face had a deep cut on it. 

“Hey, you need help with that?” You asked, walking over to him. He paused before looking at you.

He smiled reassuringly, but you can see in his eyes he’d rather be anywhere else than talking with you. “I’m good, thanks.”

You blinked, watching as blood dripped down his face from the wound. “You sure? I don’t mind-”

“I am fine.” He cut you off. “I will be fine, thanks.” He told you, not even looking you in the eye. His words sounded so final that you didn’t even try to follow him. He closed the door behind him, leaving you staring at it.

That was when you realized that the “good impression” mission you had was a failure. 

You had tried, and maybe it was because of your personality, you aren’t sure. He just did not like you. After that incident, you backed off of him, not offering aid or doing small gestures for him. His previous interactions sent you a clear message, and you received it. 

Were you hurt by it? A little. You did put effort into trying to make him at least think you were an okay person. You couldn't help but admire him from a distance. Anyway, you tried not to take it too personally, after all, he’s been through a lot. He probably just isn’t comfortable with you, which you get, but it still hurts putting in effort for such blatant disregard.

So you can imagine your surprise when he approaches you on a random day.

-

“. . . and  I was so confused, like how did you come to that conclusion?” You raise your hands, gesturing confusedly. Bob chuckles at your outrage. 

You sigh, putting your hands down, petting Tower Cat on your lap softly. “I dunno, I was just so over it. I eventually confronted her, and she had the AUDACITY to act confused.” You continue to rant, neither you nor Bob noticing the elevator opening.

“And I’m assuming you weren’t going to let that slide?” Bob asks with a soft, amused smile on his face. You grin back at him.

“Not a chance. So—”

“Is that Alpine?”

You and Bob immediately turn toward Bucky. You blink. “When’d you get here?” You ask.

“Just now,” he pauses, “since when did Alpine start hanging out with you two?” Bucky furrowed his eyebrows.

“‘Alpine?’” You repeat the foreign name back at him. You and Bob look at Tower Cat, or apparently “Alpine.”

You look up at Bucky, “She’s your cat?” You feel your mouth drop in surprise. 

“Whose cat did you think she was?” He asks, looking at you in disbelief.

“I thought she was like the communal tower cat or something.” You say, your voice quiet as if that will quell Bucky’s growing bewilderment.

“The ‘communal tower cat?’” He repeats incredulously. 

“Okay, sorry, sorry.” You apologize profusely, hoping that he won’t murder you for taking his cat. Bucky seems to stare at you for what feels like forever. You shift uncomfortably under his stare.

“Uh, you can have her back, if you want.” You eventually say, mumbling the last part. Bucky just continues to stare at Alpine in your lap. You look toward Bob to see if he is feeling the same awkward tension you are. He quickly glances at you, then Bucky, then back at you before shifting awkwardly.

You try to pick up Alpine without disturbing her. The moment you try, her eyes snap open. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” You coo softly to the cat. You offhandedly notice Bucky shifts stiffly. 

“Bucky’s back, though. Wanna go with him?” You speak softly to her. In response, she pushes herself closer to you, purring against your collarbone. “Aw, I’m sorry, I wanna cuddle with you more too.” You frown at her before gently handing her to Bucky. Your hands brush his as you try to give her to Bucky without disturbing her too much.

She meows softly, and you feel your heart break. “Didn’t realize you liked cats,” Bucky says.

Bob laughs, and you both turn to him before he covers it with a cough and low “Sorry.” He knows you love cats.

“Love them.” You respond with a strained smile. He looks at you for a moment longer. Eventually, you clear your throat and look away from his gaze, “Sorry, Bucky.”

Bucky seems to stare at you for a moment longer before leaving. Not a word said, he just leaves. 

“Well, at least we know why Tower Cat or ‘Alpine’  disappears some nights,” you comment, Bob shaking his head, amused, “but damn, he hates me.” You whisper as if Bucky will hear you, and knowing him, you can’t be too sure. 

“I doubt that. He just has…” Bob pauses for a moment, trying to find the word for it, “struggles.”

You huff, “Yeah, that’s one way to say it. I don’t even know what I did to him. It’s not my fault your cat likes me.” Actually, it is your fault, but Bucky doesn’t need to know the details.

In your defense, Alpine did just waltz around the entire place like she owned it. There was no indication she was owned, let alone owned by Bucky of all people. 

“He do that often?” Bob asks. You raise an eyebrow at him to elaborate. “The staring.”

You scoff, “Only in days that end in ‘y.’” You shift on the couch so that you’re lying down instead of sitting. “I assumed it’s one of his weird quirks. I thought it was just a former assassin thing where he just stares at you as if assessing if you’re a threat,” you hold your hand up to emphasize your next point, “which I am not.”

“Maybe he thinks you’re pretty?” Bob suggests, and you laugh loudly, making him raise his eyebrows at you in slight concern

You smile at Bob, “That’s so sweet,” you put your hand on his shoulder gently, “but so very wrong.”

Bob shakes his head but smiles, “You never know.”

You shake your head confidently. “No, I do. He’s probably planning different ways to kill me if needed. The stare of ‘I’m planning your murder because you took my cat.’” You stick your hands up into the air, doing jazz hands, still staring up at the ceiling.

“Is that a thing?” Bob asks, doubtful.

You look at him, contemplative. “I don’t know, but if it was, he definitely invented it.” You respond.

Bob frowns, but he nods, agreeing with the sentiment anyway.

-

You initially thought Bucky was jealous of you.

After all, Alpine decided that you were now her favorite person, and Alpine was his cat. Therefore, it’d make sense if he were a little upset over how Alpine clung to you. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little smug. 

“Hey, whatcha guys doing?” You walk into the common area, watching as the team stands surrounding the center coffee table. 

“Don’t fuck this up—” 

“Shut up, John. I’m trying to concentrate.” Yelena cuts him off. 

You eventually walk over and see the situation. 

“What are you doing?! Don’t pick that one!” John points at the Jenga tower in front of him. Yelena leans over it, slowly tugging at a piece that’s halfway out.

Yelena stops, turning toward John, “John, I swear if you don’t be quiet, I will knock over this tower on purpose.” She points a finger at him, and he mutters a quick “Okay,” his hands held up in mock surrender.

You notice that on the couch sits Bucky Barnes himself, which immediately strikes you as odd. Bucky, while not explicitly against these little bonding activities, didn’t ever seem to care for participating in them. He’d support them, but from his own room. Seeing him actively engaging with these activities is definitely new. You also notice that Alpine is curled up on his lap. 

Everybody else is standing, eagerly watching the game of Jenga. It appears that Yelena and John are on a team, which is a concerning team-up on its own, and Ava and Alexei are on a team. Bob seems content watching the game.

“GOT IT!” Yelena raises the Jenga piece into the air in victory. 

Ava groans, looking at the tower, and you feel her pain. There were seemingly no good moves. You decide to walk up to Yelena and John to see how they’re doing.

“Oh, finally decided to join us?” Yelena pats you on the shoulder as you walk up to her. 

“Didn’t realize you guys would be out here still.” You admit, you’d come back from a walk around the city. 

John shrugs, nodding his head slightly, “Yeah, I didn’t think we’d still be here either.” He mutters.

You raise an eyebrow, “How long have you guys been at it?”

“Eh, not that long.” Yelena waves a hand casually.

”Two hours.” John deadpans at the same time.

You chuckle, deciding to sit down. “For one game?” 

“We’re determined.” Yelena joins you on the couch.

You smile, nodding, “Say, since when did he start joining?” You quickly glance at Bucky, sitting on the other couch.

Yelena shrugs, “I don’t know, why?”

“Well, I mean, he just doesn’t ever show up to these. Was wondering how you guys got him to actually sit through a game.” You whisper, hoping he can’t hear you. However, you suddenly get the feeling that he’s watching you. You try to discreetly look at him, but when you do, he’s still staring at the game in front of him.

“What happened?” John asks, hovering over you and Yelena sat over on the couch. 

“None of your business.” Yelena rolls her eyes.

“Well, if you are talking about B—”

“Oh, so now you’re eavesdropping.” You click your tongue, disappointed in him.

“You guys aren’t quiet.” He looks unimpressed.

“That’s not fair. We are quiet by normal people’s standards.” You turn to face him. You’re so focused on proving John wrong that you don’t even register Ava yelling “Alpine! No! Get off the table!”

“Well, I thought to inform you that perhaps the person you’re discussing can hear you, seeing as he wouldn’t fall into ‘normal people standards.’” John does air quotes.

You slowly turn to see if Bucky is watching you three have your not-so-quiet discussion. To your surprise, he is looking at you. Also, to your surprise, everybody is looking at you. 

You feel yourself shrinking under their scrutiny. Did they all hear your conversation? “What?”

“The kitty cat likes you! I did not think she liked anybody.” Alexei laughs, and you furrow your brows, confused. You eventually sit up to find Alpine looking up at you, sitting right at your feet. 

“Oh.”

She meows before hopping onto your lap. Yelena immediately shifts away from you, and John similarly moves away. 

“Keep her there, please? She almost knocked over the tower.” Ava sounds exhausted. 

“Uh, yeah sure.” You respond, still processing everything that just happened. No wonder Bucky was looking at you.

You glance up at him to find him no longer sitting laxly, but instead leaning forward, staring directly at you. 

You grimace, trying to mouth an apology to him, but his expression stays the same. By this point, everybody else is sucked into the game again, except you two. You think that maybe he’ll just resolve to stare at you for the rest of the game, but no, he stands up.

Alpine purrs on your lap, but not even that can ease your growing stress levels as you see Bucky maneuver his way to your couch. You expected him to talk to you, perhaps ask for his precious cat back, but he does none of that. 

Instead, he sits on the couch with you, saying nothing. He makes himself comfortable as if this is a normal occurrence. He decided to sit on the other side of the couch, pretty much the furthest he can sit from you while still being on the cushions. You can’t help but glance at him a few times, as if that would elicit an explanation. 

Alpine looks up at you as you stare at the game in front of you, rigidly. You don’t dare to move or say anything. After minutes of silence from you two, you eventually turn toward him.

“Did you want Alpine back?” Your voice is barely louder than a whisper, as if afraid that any louder would garner the team’s attention once more.

He turns toward you, and for the first time, you are struck by how blue his eyes are. 

“It’s fine.” He matches your volume, glancing toward Alpine on your lap. If you weren’t looking for any sort of reaction, you wouldn’t have caught the way his eyes narrowed as he gazed upon Alpine in your lap. 

You feel obligated to give Alpine back, even if every bone in your body is telling you to keep her. He even said, “It’s fine,” meaning it is definitely not fine. That, combined with the narrowed look towards his cat, probably means that he wants his cat back right now.

“No, really,” you start to shift, Alpine’s purring ceasing, “it’s okay. Sorry about that.” Just as you’re about to pick her up to give her to Bucky, he reaches over and gestures for you to stop, putting a hand on your shoulder.

He says your name, making you pause as your hands freeze under Alpine, ready to pick her up. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. If she likes you, she can stay with you.” You nod, very aware that his hand is still on your shoulder. 

“If you’re sure…” You trail off hesitantly.

“I am.” He looks at you smiling, but can’t help but think it looks forced. 

The rest of the night continued without a hitch. The game of Jenga eventually ended, with Ava and Alexei winning. John swore that he saw Ava cheat and phase her hand through the tower in order to grab a piece at just the right angle, but he couldn’t prove it. He grumbled about it for the rest of the night, taking snips at them, but he eventually let it go. 

Throughout the entire night, you sat there with Alpine. Bucky did not ask for her. However, you did notice that every now and then, he’d turn to look at you, or more accurately, look at Alpine. You thought that maybe he did want to say something, but didn’t want to cause a huge scene. You would’ve assumed it’d be to ask for his cat back, but he seemed insistent that you keep her. 

So you sat, watching as the team started slowly turning in for the night. As one by one went, you waited for Bucky to say something, anything, yet he sat there. 

By the time almost everybody left, it was just you two. You had pulled out your phone by this point in order to look as if you were busy. Feeling a weight lift itself from your lap, you look and see Alpine get off of you, slowly walking across the couch to make her way to Bucky. You decide that this is your cue to leave. 

You stand up, brushing off loose cat fur left on you. Just as you are about to leave, you sneak a glance toward Bucky, only to find he is already staring at you.

“Sorry about that.” You break the silence, casually pointing at his cat, as if his whole behavior hasn’t put you on edge all night. 

He seems surprised that you spoke to him, looking from you down to Alpine. “It’s alright. She seemed to like being close to you.” You thought you could detect a hint of bitterness in his tone.

“Yeah,” you chuckle, unsure how to respond. 

Silence permeates the room once again. “Well, I’m gonna head out.” You slowly start walking towards your room. “Good night,” You bid him before turning around and heading out, not expecting a response.

“Night,” he returns softly. 

You pause in your retreat, turning around, to see him looking down at Alpine. You offer him a small smile before heading back into your room.

-

So yeah, you thought that between the constant looks, bitterness, and not-so-subtle glares, he was jealous.

Not wanting to fuel his anger, you tried to avoid being in the room at the same time Alpine would be with Bucky. Alpine could be cuddled next to you, but the moment Bucky walked in, you’d vanish. 

He gave you weird looks, as if he were trying to figure out what your deal was. You just continued to give him a polite smile every time.

Cooking in the kitchen was always an invitation for Alpine to join. She liked it when you cooked because she’d just watch you, and Alpine decided watching you cook was the most fascinating thing. You didn’t mind, so you let her. 

You wash the final dish before going to consume the results of your Alpine-monitored cooking session. Just as you’re about to eat, Bucky comes walking in. You make direct eye contact with him, before glancing to Alpine perched on the counter next to you. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, approaching you two.

“Eating,” you look down at your plate of food, “I was going to go eat in my room anyway. Alpine is all yours.” You did not plan on eating in your room, but you did that night. 

Incidents like this didn’t stop as you had hoped. 

Whenever you folded your laundry, Alpine would magically find her way onto your clean clothes. She liked the warmth, and so she’d make herself cozy. You pretended to be upset, but you enjoyed her company.

Then you hear a knock at your door, which was already open, so you turn around to see Bucky. 

You can’t mask your surprise before he makes a comment. He clears his throat, “Sorry, I was just wondering if Alpine was in here.” You shift to the side, allowing him to see the very asleep feline on your bed in a pile of clothes. You immediately put down any hangers in your hand.

“I am so sorry. Here, sorry.” You gently pick up Alpine, apologizing to both her and Bucky. She meows softly, annoyed at being disturbed from her rest. You would be upset too if you were suddenly woken up and removed from warmth. “Sorry, she just likes sitting on the warm clothes. Here, take her back.” You give Bucky the fluffy cat, and he looks hesitant to accept her, but does so anyway.

“I’m sorry about that, won't happen again.” You smile, embarrassed. Bucky stares at you as you slowly shut the door on him and cover your face in embarrassment. 

What made all of these incidents worse is that instead of becoming less frequent over time, they seemed to almost increase in frequency as time went on. You’d always see Bucky or Alpine. You couldn’t walk around the tower without seeing one of the two. Even worse, once one shows up, it wouldn’t take long before the other magically appeared.

You would be sitting with the team, Alpine on your lap, when the sound of the elevator would ring out. Most of the time, it wouldn’t be an issue, but since you had Alpine on your lap, it had to be Bucky because the universe hates you.

“Do you still want to try that new cafe you were talking about earlier?” Ava crosses her legs as she leans back in one of the chairs. 

You grin, “Oh yeah! I heard their pastries were amazing.” You pet Alpine as you pick her up to walk around with. She wouldn’t let anybody else hold her, even Bob, but she would allow you to hold her. Actually, now that you think about it, she’d probably let Bucky hold her too, but you haven’t asked him (and you don’t plan to).

“Did you wanna try and go today? I don’t know when exactly they’re busy, but we can always check.” You walk around the coffee table already thinking about what you might order once you get there.

Then the elevator rang out.

Unconcerned, you turned around to welcome the newcomer. That is, until the doors open to reveal Bucky.

Feet frozen in place, you look down at Alpine in your arms. Bucky walks out of the elevator and immediately meets your eyes before he looks at your arms.

You don’t break eye contact with him as you slowly put Alpine down on the ground. Immediately, she heads over to Bucky and rubs up against him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, despite not being very apologetic. If given the chance, you'd absolutely pick her up again. To make things worse, you completely forgot that Bucky can definitely hear you. Feeling his focus shift from Alpine onto you, you internally wince. 

Forgetting Ava is witnessing this interaction, you hear her call your name out, and you turn to face her. “Sorry, what?”

“Do you wanna head out now?” She looks between you and Bucky, raising an eyebrow.

“Absolutely, let’s go.” You nod enthusiastically, ignoring the piercing eyes on your back.

“Where are you two going?” Bucky asks, grabbing Alpine for himself and holding her in the same position you were sporting not even a minute before. Hoping Ava won’t say anything, you look dead into her eyes, pleading.

“New cafe,” she ignores your plea, “wanna come with us?” Feeling your stomach drop, you decide to confront the problem yourself by doing the one thing he does best: staring directly into his eyes.

He matches your stare, unsurprisingly, and then looks towards Ava. “You sure?” He asks hesitantly. 

“Yeah, it’s all good. We were planning on asking Yelena to come with us anyway.” Ava dismisses casually, as if this isn’t gonna be a miserable trip.

Continuing your staring contest, he breaks the silence with one dreadful word: “Sure.” He ends whatever trance you two were in, turning to smile at Ava before returning his gaze to you.

“Alright,” Ava gives you two an odd look, “well, I’m gonna go grab Lena, I’ll be back in a minute.” She starts to walk away, and you feel your soul leave with her.

“You sure this is okay?” Bucky questions, startling you.

You nod, turning to face him, “Yeah, she said it was all good.” You smile at him.

He nods slowly, “Yeah, ‘she said,’” he quotes, “I was asking if you are okay with me coming along.”

You nod, “Yep, no issue with it.” You lie.

He nods, watching you and definitely not believing you, “Alright, if you say so.” He walks over to the couches where you’re standing by. “Didn’t realize she liked you that much that she let you carry her.” He comments casually.

You immediately understand the hidden meaning. He may seem all innocent there, standing with a fluffy cat in his arms purring up against his chest, but you know it isn’t that simple. He is challenging you right now. He is asking you how you managed to win her affections over and is silently reminding you that she is not yours. Talk about being passive-aggressive.

You keep your smile, “Yeah, it’s actually pretty crazy. She doesn’t even let Bob hold her. To be honest, I’m surprised she let me carry her around.”

Bucky smiles, it’s softer than you expected. “Perhaps she feels as if you’re a safe person to be around.

You nod, humming in acknowledgment. 

“Alright, are we ready? Come on, I want to get some coffee.” Yelena walks out, Ava at her side.

“It’s almost nine at night.” Ava comments in disbelief.

“Yeah?” Yelena pauses, “Well, I like coffee. Let’s go.” She enters the elevator, waiting for you all to join her.

The elevator ride wasn’t as awkward as you thought. Yelena and Ava managed to ease the tension for the most part. Whether or not they were even aware of it is a discussion of its own, but knowing them, they probably knew.

The walk to the coffee shop wasn’t very eventful either, for the most part. About halfway through, you realize that Ava and Yelena are heavily engrossed in their own conversation. Earlier, you couldn’t stop talking, but as the topics changed, you started to say less and less as they transitioned to your less knowledgeable topics. By this point, you didn’t even know what they were talking about. This led to you walking ahead of them.

To your surprise, somebody else decided to join you in what you thought was your brief solo walking moment.

“They seem to be passionate.” Bucky comments, and you both look behind you to see Ava nodding her head with a drawn-out “Yes!” All of this occurs while Yelena gestures wildly, seemingly approving of Ava’s agreement.

“Huh, yeah, I guess so.” You add on, amused. You two walk in silence for a moment before you eventually just decide to ask the question bugging your mind. “So, uh,” you pause as Bucky immediately gives you his full attention, “why exactly did you want to come?” You look at him.

He seems slightly taken aback by your question, but smiles anyway. “I like coffee, you guys said the cafe was good.”

You nod along, finding yourself questioning previous incidents. You had offered him coffee before, and he had decidedly not accepted it. So either he was lying, or he just really wanted to embarrass you that one time. You can’t tell which one is worse.

“You do? Really?” You ask, unconvinced.

“Yeah.” You laugh at his answer, “What?” He asks, matching the smirk on your face. “You don’t believe me?” He asks, acting as if he’s offended.

You continue to laugh, and he once again stares at you, resolute. “No, no, I believe you.” You smile at him.

He looks at you, nodding as if accepting that to be the end of that discussion. You eventually stop at the door of the cafe. The moment you’re about to open it, Bucky puts his hand in front of you, halting your action. You pause. What is he about to do?

Dazed for a moment, you watch as he opens the door for you. You smile at how unabashedly old-fashioned he is. 

“Thank you.” You tell him, walking in. He smiles at the gratitude, garnering Yelena and Ava’s attention.

“What is it you are doing?” Yelena asks him as she walks inside. Bucky follows in behind her and Ava.

“Holding the door?” Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“No shit. I meant the” she gestures to her own face then to Bucky, “smile.”

“Am I not allowed to smile?” Bucky asks, disbelief written all over his face. 

“I mean, you can,” Ava asks, but even she seems doubtful of her statement, “you just… don’t.”

“Oh, so you want me to have a restriction on being happy now?” Bucky asks, shaking his head in a disapproving manner. The three of them join you in line.

“I mean, I thought you already did.” Yelena blatantly admits. You all turn to her, “What?” 

“Next up!” You roll your eyes at their discussion before going to the counter and telling the barista your order. Yelena and Ava peep over your shoulder and tell her their order as well. However, Bucky stands behind you three silently. 

“What do you want?” You ask him.

He pauses, “Uh, black coffee.” 

“‘Black coffee?’” You repeat, and he nods in confirmation. It was the exact same coffee he had rejected months ago. 

“Okay, black coffee for him.” You turn back towards the barista, telling her your name before pulling out your card to pay. 

Just as you’re about to tap the card, Bucky pulls you back, “Hey—” He taps his card.

“Oh, thanks, Bucky.” Yelena nods at him. Ava also gives him a quick “Thanks.”

You look up at him, suddenly feeling unsure about everything. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

He shrugs, “I wanted to.”

“Thanks.” You tell him, and he accepts your gratitude with a nod before you all find a table to sit at.

This whole situation is odd. You genuinely thought he hated you. Well, hate is extreme, but he decidedly went out of his way to avoid your previous attempts at friendship. 

Tagging along to a cafe with you, walking with you, and generally acting like a gentleman was not exactly what you expected this trip to be. You expected more backhanded compliments like before. If this was some sort of way to get to you, he was really playing the long game. 

He hasn’t mentioned Alpine once during this whole excursion. It makes you wonder if you’ll have to be the one to confront him about that. That’s not exactly something you want to do, but you feel like it’s coming anyway.

You take a look at him to see how he’s faring here. He’s in a deep conversation with Yelena and Ava, all leaning away from you. You can’t hear what they’re discussing, but Yelena and Ava both make eye contact with you throughout their little talk. You aren’t even sure if you want to know what they’re talking about. 

Hearing the barista call your name, you grab the drinks and pastries for the group, and you thank them before heading back to the table.

“So,” Ava starts cautiously at your return, glancing at Bucky for a split second before looking back at you, “when did you two… start?” She gestures between you and Bucky.

You take a slow sip of your drink. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You know this whole,” Yelena interjects, “thing you two have going on. It’s painful.” She takes a sip of her coffee.

Suddenly, the room feels hot, and it doesn’t help that your drink is also hot. You turn to Bucky, but he just looks at Yelena and Ava, bored. You take another sip, hoping he will say something, anything. 

After a period of silence, you accept the fact that he will not be denying anything, so you eventually speak up. “No idea what you’re talking about.”  You shrug.

What makes it worse is that you truly don’t know. Your excuse is terrible, and so they will think you’re lying when you genuinely have no idea.

Ava nods her head, “Mhm, okay.” She says, looking between you two.

You turn towards Bucky, who has not taken a sip of his coffee once. “Thought it was your favorite.” His attention snaps to you.

”I never said that.” He shakes his head.

“Then why’d you order it?” You raise an eyebrow, amused. 

He looks at you before taking a long, slow sip of his coffee. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “Happy?” He asks.

You smile, “Thrilled.”

Walking home is not exactly silent, after all, you’re in New York, but it’s definitely quieter. Once again, Bucky decides to walk next to you. He makes a big deal about you being on the outside of the sidewalk, you roll your eyes, but let him have his moment. 

You turn around every now and then to check and make sure Ava and Yelena are behind you. However, every time you turn around, they are already looking at you. Ava gives you a nod with a small smirk, and Yelena gives you a thumbs up. You give them a horrified look the first time it happens. However, by the third time you turn around and they repeat their same shenanigans, you give up, shaking your head, trusting that they will stay behind you and Bucky for the rest of the walk.

When you get back to the tower, you all enter the elevator. The ride up is relatively quiet, but then the door opens. You walk out, Bucky on your left, and John walks by, turning to see who came back, only to look at you two with an appalled expression.

“Did you two go on a date?” John looks at Bucky as if doubting what he’s seeing.

Ava and Yelena step out right after John’s question. “No, they just walked side by side together, and got coffee while teasing each other across our table.” Yelena walks over.

Alpine makes her presence known and walks over to you, rubbing herself against you. “You wanna take her for the night?” Bucky leans toward you, whispering to your ear. You feel your heart rate increase.

“Oh God, they’re sharing custody over the damn cat.” You hear John remark, exasperated. You both ignore him.

You frown at him. For somebody who is so protective of his cat, you would never have expected an offer as gracious as this one. “Are… are you sure?” You ask him hesitantly. 

He smirks, amused, “Yes, I’m sure.”

You nod slowly, “And you won’t be upset?”

He tilts his head slightly, “Why would I?” 

You look at him, his eyes on you with a fondness that sends your stomach whirling. You feel instantly conflicted. Why is he acting like this? What happened to being upset about you stealing Alpine’s affection? Were you wrong? There’s no way you were wrong. He was definitely upset when he commented about how much she liked you. 

“We should go.” Ava looks towards the remaining team members who are watching you and Bucky. “Give them some privacy.”

John scoffs, “‘Privacy?’ There is no privacy here.” 

“Just because you ruined your love life doesn’t mean you have to be bitter over other people’s, John.” Yelena snaps, disapprovingly.

His eyebrows raise, “Jesus, okay. Let’s give them some privacy.” He walks away from them, not even checking to see if Yelena and Ava follow behind him. 

As that whole discussion went down, Bucky continued to look at you, confused. 

“I just thought you might be upset?” You eventually respond to his question, unsure whether you're stating something or asking. 

“Over you sleeping with my cat next to you?” He asks, sounding progressively more perplexed.

You open your mouth to say yes, but the look he gives you leaves you speechless. You try to say something, but everything that your brain comes up with sounds unreasonable. How do you tell somebody that yes, you thought they’d be upset that you were snuggling with their cat? 

He huffs, his voice softening, “Why would I be upset about that?” You briefly wonder if he can read minds, but shove that thought away.

You eventually muster enough brain power to speak, “It’s stupid.”

He looks at you, shaking his head, “I doubt that.”

“No, it’s really fucking stupid. You’re going to think I’m insane after this.” You reiterate.

“I promise I won’t think you’re insane.” He chuckles, picking up Alpine, who was demanding attention. 

You remain silent for a moment, staring at him, holding Alpine in his arms. Both Bucky and Alpine stare at you as if awaiting your response. You look around, as if checking to make sure nobody is going to hear what you’re about to say.

“I thought you were jealous…” you look up at him, finding him patiently waiting for you to explain, “of me taking Alpine all the time.” You look away from him.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you look at him once more. He isn’t reacting at all. You shift on your feet, unnerved. Suddenly, he cracks a small smile, exhaling amused. However, your dismayed reaction causes his smile to fall.

“How on Earth did you come to that conclusion?” He desperately tries to keep the amusement out of his voice, but you can hear it as clear as day, much to your chagrin.

You open your mouth to explain, but hesitate for a brief moment. “So you’re not jealous of me taking Alpine… I just wanna confirm.” You mutter.

He shakes his head, amusement lighting up his eyes, but he humors you, “No. I am not jealous of you taking Alpine.”

You walk over to the couch and sit down, leaning over and placing your palms against your eyes. “So you weren’t making passive-aggressive comments about me taking her?” 

“No, promise.” He confirms, joining you on the couch.

“Okay, well,” you look towards Bucky, who nods for you to continue, “I thought you hated me cause in the past every time I tried to talk to you, you’d just ignore me. So eventually I just kinda assumed that you did not like me. Then you saw me with Alpine, and started acting weird, so I was like ‘oh no, he’s going to be upset that I took his cat.’” You ramble, watching Bucky’s eyes get wider as you progress.

“You thought I hated you?” He asks, as if the concept were absurd.

“Yeah, I mean, there was that time I made coffee for you and you just rejected it. Then I also tried to help out with an injury you got during a mission, and you said no and sounded upset at me, so I just figured you didn’t like me around you.” You explain sheepishly.

Bucky exhales harshly, “I never disliked you. I thought it was sweet when you did all that.” 

You blink, “You did?”

He laughs, Alpine moving off his lap onto yours. “Yes, I did.”

You frown, “But you always rejected my offers.” 

Now he avoids eye contact, “Well,” he locks eyes with Alpine, “I didn’t know how to approach you. I didn’t know how to talk to you without messing everything up, so I didn’t. I was scared.”

“‘Scared?’ Scared of what? Me?” You repeat.

He laughs softly, “Terrified.”

“I am like the least scary person on the team. Why the hell would you be scared?” You laugh at the idea. 

“Because,” he looks at you, his eyes flickering down to your lips briefly before going back up to your eyes. You look at him, anxiously awaiting his response. 

“You said you thought I was jealous of you,” he shifts the topic, “because you won Alpine’s affection.” He shook his head at the thought. “I was never jealous of you.” He reiterates, moving closer to you. You remain in your spot, watching as he grabs your hand. “I was jealous of her.” He looks down, smiling at the ridiculous notion.

“Of… Alpine?” You repeat dubiously.

“Because,” he looks up to meet your eyes, “she was able to get close to you. She was able to just insert herself into your life like she always belonged.” He looks down at Alpine purring on your lap. “Something I wasn’t able to do.”

You take a deep breath, “I thought you disliked me…”

He shakes his head, “I could never. I was stupid, but I have never once disliked you. I never wanted to hurt you, but I guess I did that anyway.” He exhales with a soft huff of laughter, but there’s no humor.

“This whole time?” You ask softly. “This whole time you’ve…” You glance down at his hands, clasped in your own. 

He nods slowly, “All this time.” He confirms softly.

You gape at him, not saying a word. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say something. Instead, you say nothing, shifting closer to him on the couch, closing what little space is between you two. Alpine doesn’t even move from your lap despite the disturbance. You look at him, and his lips part open. Your eyes flicker between his eyes and lips, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Slowly, you inch closer, giving him time to back out. You feel his breathing quicken before you close the gap.

It wasn’t a long kiss, but a soft one. You barely linger, removing yourself from him, before he can react. His mouth is slightly open out of pure awe. He looks at you, as if ready to lean in again, pupils dilated. You put your hand on his chest, causing him to raise his eyebrows in surprise. 

“At least take me out on a date first, Barnes.” You smirk, chuckling breathlessly despite the short-lived kiss. 

He grins, looking awestruck, eyes lighting up with that same amusement from earlier, “I did.” He squeezes your hand tighter, trying to move you closer once again.

You shake your head, “No. You tagged along to my cafe quest with two other team members.”

He chuckles, looking down in disbelief that this is even happening. “I would take you out on a date every single day if you asked me,” he rubs his thumbs along your hands. “But all I want right now, all I need right now, is you.” He slowly raises his arm up to hold your face, his hand cradling you gently.

You feel your face heat up at his words, “You drive a hard bargain…” You pretend to think about it. Eventually, you shift yourself so that you're leaning against him. Alpine looks up at you two, annoyed. “Aw, did we disturb you?” You ask her. She meows before climbing to rest on both you and Bucky. You laugh, feeling her purring resume and leaning just a little closer to him.

-

“Oh my God.” You blink away the sleepiness from your eyes. Oh, right, you’re still on the couch from last night. Alpine is on top of Bucky’s chest, peacefully asleep. You are cuddled up next to Bucky’s side.

“What the fuck, we sit there.” John sounds affronted, loosely gesturing to you and Bucky on the couch. “You could’ve gone to your room to do that.” 

Bucky, now also awake, raises an eyebrow at him. “Sleep?”

“You know what you did.” John narrows his eyes at you two. You stand up, stretching as the rest of the team walks in.

“What happened?” Yelena asks, walking in.

“Nothing, we just fell asleep on the couch last night. Nothing crazy.” You shrug, giving a pointed look to John. 

“Oh, so you two figured it out, great.” Yelena walks over to make herself coffee.

“You knew?” You walk over to her, not entirely surprised. You notice in your peripherals that Bucky, still lying down, is now being scrutinized by the rest of the team, John standing over him disapprovingly.

Yelena pauses, giving you a look. “Yes, I knew… Everybody knew. You even asked me about him.”

“Yeah! He stares at you like you hung stars.” Alexei adds on, pointing to the ceiling.

“You mean the moon?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Eh, moon and stars.” He adds on.

You roll your eyes, looking over at Bucky. He’s sitting on the couch, the rest of the team asking him various questions, presumably about you two. Seeing him now, he looks so stoic. Then, almost as if he can feel you watching, he turns towards you, and you physically see his eyes soften. 

“Oh wow, he’s bad,” Yelena comments next to you, watching him. You laugh at her, but continue to admire just how soft he looks. The image is something you could not have imagined merely weeks ago, but now you have the pleasure of experiencing it.

“I’m glad it worked out, it was getting difficult to watch,” Yelena adds. 

You give a small smile, “Thank the cat.” You look down at the feline rubbing up against your legs.

I hope you guys enjoyed that! This is my first Marvel fic so it might take a moment for me to find my footing. I really don't want to make characters too ooc, so feel free to leave any feedback. Thank you for reading if you made it all the way through :D

[cheekybarneslibrary]

not to be dramatic but this is the most beautiful smut i’ve ever read in my life. soft and aching and full of so much care i might actually cry. as someone who rarely reads or writes smut, this was everything i’ve ever wanted. thank you for ruining me in the gentlest way possible 😭

A Soft Place for a Soldier to Fall

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky doesn’t know how to sleep, how to let go, how to be touched softly. But tonight, you show him.

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: 18+ (mdni); explicit sexual content (oral m receiving); ptsd; post-mission trauma; insomnia; heavy emotional intimacy; crying during intimacy; mentions of scars and past violence (Bucky’s past with Hydra); discussions of self-worth; aftercare; slight sub!Bucky; Bucky is needy; Bucky is sensitive

Author’s Note: Yeah, so, I’ve been craving Bucky lately, what can I say. And I just need him to feel good. Also, I thought you lovely people might be in the mood for a little more smut from me, so here it is. I hope you enjoy!! But, minors please stay away.

Masterlist

You are lying on your back. The cotton sheets are a halo around your hips, and in your hand is a book cracked open. You are trying to get some reading done while waiting for Bucky to come out of the bathroom. The pages tremble every time the air conditioner groans awake in the corner, mechanical lungs inhaling and exhaling with a kick.

Outside, the moon throws silver knives across the floor.

The glow from your nightstand lamp is cozy, nearly sticking to your skin, as if it hasn’t recognized it’s supposed to dry down and let you breathe. It pools in the hollows of your collarbones, smears across the fabric on your chest

Bucky’s boots are still by the door. His mission suit somewhere under the chair, your socks abandoned by the bathroom tiles. The world feels suspended here, breath caught in the throat of time, as though the clock has paused to listen in.

Bucky climbs into bed in a way that makes you feel he’s apologizing for taking up space. As though he’s afraid the mattress will throw him off. As though he doesn’t know how to live in a moment that isn’t trying to kill him.

His hair is damp from a too-quick shower, smelling like your soap. The fabric of his shirt is soft and black and barely holding on to the heat of him. He pauses, hesitates, looks at you with eyes that do not know how to rest. Eyes the color of a storm that’s already passed, but left the sky wounded. Bruised.

You feel him. Before he even touches you.

The mattress dips, sags, droops under his weight. And then he’s on you, crawling over you - careful, always so careful - cool metal brushing against your thigh. The rest of him is all heat and history. He lowers himself onto you, across you, over you, as though as if he’s attempting to become something less than his size. His forehead digs into your ribs. His body bends over yours, and he exhales a sigh against your skin.

You don’t say anything first. You keep reading, your eyes pretending to follow the words, your fingers curled in the page crease. But you feel everything. Every twitch of his breath. Every tremor of thought. The way he’s trying to sync his inhale to yours. The way he can’t. The way he keeps missing the rhythm.

The book smells of paper. The air is refreshing. And Bucky smells of vanilla and something a little more pronounced, gunpowder still soaked into the seams of his skin. Like soap and something scorched. Something burned in and not burned out.

His metal hand rests on your hip, as a claim. The plates shift, minute and mechanical, twitching against your skin like they don’t know how to be still.

He stretches across you and you breathe for both of you.

Your shirt rides up due to his jittery hands, baring the soft plane of your stomach. His hair sticks to your skin, damp strands like threads stitching him into you. His flesh hand is clenched in the sheets beside you, tense, then loose, then tight again. Gripping, letting go, gripping. The movement vibrates against your hipbone.

His metal fingers trail around your waist, twitching in stutters and stops, like static trying to settle. He is trying so hard to be soft for you. To be quiet.

To take up less space than his grief allows.

But his body tells the truth. You feel it in every sigh. In every restless shift. In the aching pause between his breaths. In every attempt to let himself sink into you and fail because his haunted mind would not let him. In the places where he grips too hard and then lets go too fast, afraid of hurting you with his weight. With his presence. With his past.

His eyelashes are dark, damp, tremulous against the half-light, and the blue shadows under his eyes. His brow twitches. His jaw clenches and unclenches. His lips are parted, about to whisper something, maybe your name, maybe something else. But he swallows the words. He always does.

And then he flinches. A little. A muscle in his leg jerks. His shoulders lock. He shifts again, his breath hitching - sharp and terrified - as if he’s trying to run from something chasing him behind his own eyes. And then he lets out a sound. An echo resembling remorse. Maybe a confession. Like something broken opening wider and bleeding out between you.

Your hand finds his hair. Soothingly, you card your fingers through the tangled strands, gentle, gentle, untangling what you can. He shivers against you, caught in the kindness of your touch, his breath snagging on a sound he does not let escape.

He buries his face lower, burrowing into the hollow of your stomach, like he’s trying to disappear into you. To live there. To hide there. To heal there.

You set the book aside.

You weren’t reading anymore.

Your free hand drifts down the curve of his back, over the soft black cotton that clings to him, that fails to hide the history beneath it. Your fingers map the scars you cannot see. Your nails drag lightly, and he shudders, his sigh dissolving into something that almost sounds like a sob, almost a whimper, something caught, something trembling.

“Bucky,” you whisper, trying to keep him grounded. Trying to keep him here with you.

His hand tightens, sudden and intense, around your ribs - his grip a question that forgot how to be gentle - but then loosens just as fast, immediately, as though ashamed of itself, as though remembering what his hands are capable of and scared he could be leaving bruises. You feel his throat work against your skin, the muscles jumping as he swallows the pain. His eyes stay closed, but you know he is not asleep. They are moving fast under the lids, as though he’s chasing something running from something, something you can’t see.

Pulling your knees up, you tilt your hips, cradle him closer. Hold him together. Massaging the back of his neck with your palm, you press your lips into his hair, breathe him in. “It’s okay,” you whisper, your voice threading into the dark.

And something in him gives.

He exhales - one of those broken, bone-deep exhales that feels like it takes something out of him - and his arms wrap tighter, pulling at you, his face pressing harder into you, like he wants to tie himself to this, to you, to now.

His legs shift, twisting the sheets, and the movement drags the blankets lower, cool air kissing your skin, making you shiver. But you don’t care.

He doesn’t look up, but you feel his mouth, warm and trembling, press soft kisses into your skin - your stomach, your side, your hip. Not sensual. Not urgent. Just grateful. Just desperate. As if he’s apologizing for every second he’s brought his ghosts into your bed. As if he doesn’t realize that he is the peace. That he is the quiet you’ve been craving. That he is the thing you want.

“Baby,” you murmur. So soft it could almost be a secret.

His breath catches, again. You feel it shake through him. For a moment, you think he might cry, but he doesn't. He never lets himself cry. He only holds - holds tighter, holds harder - because that’s the only language his body still remembers.

You keep stroking his hair. Over and over. Repetitive. Like a metronome. Like heartbeat. Like love in motion.

He is still trying to match your breathing, the slow in, the slow out, but he keeps missing, falling off, catching himself again.

But your hands do not falter.

Your thumb brushes over the curve of his ear. The soft baby hairs at his temple. The strands of damp hair stuck to your skin. You feel it all - his war with himself, his stubborn fight against his own body and mind, the ache sewn into his spine. He’s trying to let go. But doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what letting go might cost him.

You think about the way he always looks at you. The caution. The affection. The want. The way his eyes go soft around the edges, the way his mouth always twitches as though he’s trying not to smile, as though he’s afraid smiling too hard will break the world in half. As though joy is too sharp a thing for a man like him.

You think of the ways he’s let you in.

In the quiet. In the closeness. In the details. Piece by piece. Day by day.

How you’ve been learning each other in coffee cups abandoned on the counter. In stitched-up wounds after a mission. In laughter shared on rooftops at 3 am after a mission that almost killed you both and didn’t. In glances. In stillness. In trust.

You want him to feel safe.

You want him to feel whole.

You want him to feel loved in ways that do not require explanation.

And more than anything you want him to feel good. In this moment. In this body. In your arms.

“Bucky,” you breathe again, softer than silence, softer than sleep, and he makes a sound that isn’t quite a word - it hums against your ribs, a low vibration that curls through your belly like the slip of something sacred, something monumental. You feel it buzz inside the cage of you, behind your lungs, inside your bones. It isn’t loud, but it is everything.

Your fingers find his jaw - tired stubble and shivering skin - and you guide him up, gentle, like lifting a wounded thing out of water. His face tilts, hesitates, and then his eyes open. Glassy. Heavy. Blue like the end of something. Blue like the part of the ocean that forgets how to let light in.

And it hurts.

God, it hurts to look at him like this.

“Hey,” you whisper.

“Hey,” he echoes, equally soft, a hazy half-smile, a sleep-heavy voice, but there’s panic behind it. Hope. Fear. Love. Hunger. Anguish, fraying at the edges like an old wound that never healed clean. His gaze darts, a nervous animal trying to decipher your shape in the dark.

You inhale slowly, pulling air into a chest that feels too weak to contain it. Your lungs tremble against your ribs. Your heart knocks on the inside of your sternum, asking permission.

“I was thinking,” you say, voice made of glass. “I know we don’t always have a lot of time. And I know we’ve been waiting. And I want to keep waiting. I do. But-”

But.

It catches in your throat. The moment, the need, the wanting of something that isn’t just physical but spiritual, emotional, some cosmic aching to give him a moment he can keep.

You swallow. Your thumb drags across the plush curve of his lower lip, and he shivers beneath it like you’ve touched something more than skin. Like you’ve touched nerve. Memory. Fear.

He shifts, chin nudging your belly, so he can look up at you better. His pupils are wide. His lashes are damp. There’s a quiet behind his gaze that feels like standing on the edge of something endless. Someone that goes deepdeepdeep down. Without a ground. But the fall still hurts.

“I want to make you feel good.”

And that’s when he goes still.

Still in the way buildings are before they collapse. Still in the way a soldier freezes when the landmine clicks. Still like he’s afraid any movement might ruin this.

His hands tighten around your hips. Reflexive. Instinctive. Terrified. He draws a breath and you feel it - his chest stuttering like a clock that’s lost its gears. He looks up at you with a caution you wouldn’t wish on anyone.

You let your hand drift lower. Trace the fine line of his jaw. The day-old stubble like sandpaper, the patch of softness at his throat. The vein that pulses just beneath the skin.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” you say, and you know it should be obvious, but maybe not for him.

His throat works as he swallows. His lips part, close, part again.

His eyes are wide, a little uncertain, nervous, and so full of something you almost can’t look at. Holding back a huge tide of things. Shame. Want. Guilt. Terror. Hope.

“I just want to take care of you,” you say, quieter now. More intimate. As if the words aren’t just sound but touch, as if you could press them into him. “I want this to be about you tonight.”

That’s when he truly reacts. When he shakes his head. Quick. Frantic. Eyes widening a fraction.

“No- no, doll, let me- ” His voice is hoarse, breathless, almost begging, and his hand is already slipping up under your shirt, warm palm trembling where it finds your skin, always giving, always giving, because that’s the only way he knows how to survive love. To turn it into service. Into penance.

“Bucky.” Your fingers slip into his hair again, the strands damp with the remnants of his shower, of your shampoo, your scent. You tug, not harsh, just enough to make him look.

“Please. Let this be about you.”

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking, his eyes darting away like he’s afraid you’ll see the thoughts he’s been hiding. He’s trying to crawl out of his own skin, trying to rearrange his instinct to serve into something resembling self-worth.

He climbs higher, up your body, until his forehead leans against yours. You feel him everywhere now. The press of his thigh between yours, the heat of him melting into you, the war of him pulsing through every inch.

He still smells like your shampoo, like your lotion, like your soap, like the tiny pieces of you he steals just by being near. His hand comes up to cradle your face, calloused fingers trembling, thumb resting just beneath your eye.

“I can’t-” he manages, voice breaking at the seam. “I can’t just- baby, I want to- I need to- ”

“I know,” you say, softly, lovingly, and your hand slides down to cover his, pressing his palm into your cheek like a seal, letting him feel your warmth, your devotion, your need. “But you can, baby. I promise. And I need this. I need to take care of you. I need you to let me love you, Bucky. Not for what you do. Just for being here with me. Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good. You deserve that.”

His eyes flutter shut as though the thought is too much. As though it burns. And keeps burning even behind his eyelids.

And you can see it - that fight between the soldier and the man. The soldier who only knows how to take orders, how to protect, how to hurt himself to help others. The man who just wants to be touched like he matters. Who wants to say yes. Who’s terrified to say yes.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. His cheeks flush pink, and it is so achingly tender you want to cry. “You don’t have to,” he whispers. It’s so quiet, it could break in half.

“I know,” you soothe, sweet and sure. “But I want to.”

His metal arm is still hooked around your waist, his grip just shy of desperate. You feel the hesitation in every inch of him, the restraint, the guilt, the trembling hope. He’s holding back like he always does - afraid of hurting you, afraid of being too much, afraid of taking, afraid of letting himself be wanted.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and his voice cracks open on the last word. Breaks right in your hands.

“Yes,” you answer sweetly, forehead still on his. “Only if you want it, too.”

He exhales. A ragged thing. A sound that feels like exorcism. His eyes close. His lashes kiss your cheeks. His breath shudders against your mouth. Then he opens them back up and fixes those blue babies on yours, so serious.

“Promise you’ll let me take care of you after,” he says, so heartbreakingly soft, pleading, as though he’s asking if the world will still be here when he opens his eyes. Like the only way he knows how to exist is in reciprocation.

“I promise,” you coo, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth. A kiss made of patience. Of safety. Of yes.

The silence settles again. But it’s not leaden. It’s important.

He is so quiet you can hear the clock ticking in the bathroom, the city sounds far below, the pulse of your blood in your ears, and the love for him in your heart.

Then a small nod. A breath, cracked open.

“Okay,” he whispers.

And you smile.

You smile as though something holy just revealed itself inside this moment. As though you just found a piece of him he thought he’d misplaced. As though the world - your world - just angled on its axis.

Because this isn’t about sex. Not just that. Not even mostly.

This is about trust.

This is about healing.

This is about saying yes to being loved.

And tonight - you’ll show him how.

You start with kissing him softly.

Once. Then twice. Your lips brushing over his like the wings of something delicate, something fluttering in silence, trying not the break the stillness. You take your time. Let him feel it. Let him learn the temperature of your mouth, the curve of your upper lip, the warmth of want steeped in tenderness. You kiss him as though you are offering him something he doesn’t have to earn.

Then deeper.

Your tongue, slow and exploring, presses gently against the seam of his lips until he opens for you, a sigh slipping into the small space between your mouths. And it is not just a sigh, it is a soft and aching sound that tastes of your name. His hands find your waist, clinging like a man dropped into a dream he’s afraid to wake from.

You push gently at his shoulders with coaxing hands, rolling him onto his back, and it is like watching a fortress crumble into sand.

His eyes go wide. Disarmed. As though he doesn’t know what to do. As though he is waiting for the sky to fall. His hands hover in the air, uncertain, but then they land on your hips. Cautious. Unsteady. Holding you as though he’s never held something that was allowed to be his. Holding you there like a man afraid to lose his most important piece.

You straddle him.

Your knees bracket his hips, thighs flush against the warm sides of him. The heat of him bleeds into you. Your hand slips beneath his shirt, fingers grazing over the rigid landscape of muscle and memory. You feel the shivers that tremble underneath his skin.

You push his shirt up, up, up, until he lifts his arms to let you pull it over his head, compliant and trusting. You toss it somewhere onto the floor.

The moonlight catches him like a painting.

Silver striping across his chest, glinting off the sharp, cold curve of his metal shoulder. His skin, dappled with scars that are pale against the warm tan, maps of history you’ve never asked him to retell. His body is a battlefield dressed in soft shadows.

And never have you seen something more beautiful.

You smooth your palms flat against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your hands. Violent. Loud. Flapping against his ribs. You lean down and kiss him again - slow and full and sure - letting him feel your affection, the depth of your desire, how nothing about this is rushed.

His lips tremble against yours. His breath is broken at the edges. He kisses you back as though he’s afraid this might be the last time. Starved. Grateful. Desperate.

You pull away from his mouth to let your lips trail lower. Dragging them down his throat, along the column of it, to the hollow where breath gathers. You pause there, breathe him in. Then you let your tongue trail over the curve of his collarbone, tasting salt, heat, him. You let your nails scrape lightly against his skin, just enough for him to feel it, to ground him in the moment.

He exhales sharply and inhales shakier.

His grip on your hips tightens, then loosens, then tightens again. He’s trying not to pull you closer, not to be too greedy, but he wants to. His thighs twitch beneath you. His fingers flex. Needy, wanting, but afraid to want too much.

You kiss lower. Down the center of his chest, along the dip between his ribs. You pause at every scar. Let your mouth linger on each one. Your tongue traces them. Your lips offer gentleness in every place where pain once lived. You worship him in pieces. And he feels it. You feel him feeling it.

He’s already a mess.

His breath chokes. He gasps at every flick of your tongue. His legs tense. He arches under you without meaning to, his body speaking a language he hasn’t yet agreed to learn. Your hands glide down his sides, soothing and calming. Your thumbs find the sensitive hollow of his waist and press lightly - and he shudders, a breathless groan slipping out.

His eyes squeeze shut and his teeth catch on his lip. His whole body is thrumming, taut with restraint.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your mouth warm above his sternum. “You know you’re allowed to make noise, right?”

His eyes blink open.

Wet. Drowning. Glossed over with something close to disbelief. His lips part around a broken breath, and he nods. His throat bobs, and he looks at you as though you’ve offered him permission to exist.

You smile and lean down to kiss the center of his chest again. Then further, your lips tracing down the line of his stomach, the shapes of his abs, pausing to let your tongue dip into his navel. Your hands smooth over the tense muscle there, feeling him jerk under your touch.

You flatten your tongue against the line of his abdomen, following the part of hair that disappears below the waistband of his sweatpants. His body curves toward you. Hard. He quivers. A sound rips out of his throat. His hips surge up, involuntarily.

When you reach the waistband of his sweats, you pause. Right there at the edge. Let your fingers gently hook into them. Let your eyes lift to meet his. Let him see you. The intention. The want. The care. The certainty.

His cheeks are reddened - pink spilling down his neck, painting and accentuating the curve of his collarbones. His hair is a jumble of dark curls encircling his head, knotted into your pillow. His chest quickly rises and drops. He is panting.

“Is this okay?” you make sure.

His eyes are drooping, but his pupils are blown. His lips are parted, and he nods, shaky. Swallows.

“Yeah,” he breathes, biting his lip. “Yeah, sweetheart.”

You slide his sweats down carefully, kissing the skin you uncover, the sharp jut of his hipbones, the soft skin of his inner thighs, letting him adjust, letting him suck in a sharp breath and feel that you are here. You let your fingers brush over the fine hair, the places he’s tried to hide from everyone.

He is hard already.

Dark, flushed, curved against his stomach. The cool air makes him whimper - a small, broken sound that barely makes it into the air before his metal hand flies up to cover his face.

You smile. Not smug. Not seductive.

Tender.

And you lean forward. Kiss the edge of his hip. His thigh. Let your tongue drag along the sensitive skin there, feeling him twitch, hearing the soft, desperate sounds he makes.

“It’s okay, baby,” you coo, your breath warm against him, making him feel your heartbeat in your mouth. “Let yourself feel it.”

You take him in your hand first. Patient. Slow. Thumb brushing over the tip, collecting the moisture there, sliding and smoothing it down, down, down the length of him. With a deep groan, he jolts beneath you. Hips lifting off the bed in a stuttering motion before he forces himself back down as though he’s apologizing for taking up space.

“Fuck,” he breathes. A word, a plea, a desire - punched out of him, muffled behind the fist still pressed against his mouth.

You keep stroking him.

Slow. Unchanging for the first part. Watching his chest rise and fall, the way he writhes just a little, the way his brows knot together and his beautifully parted lips tremble with the effort of being good, or being quiet.

“Breathe, Bucky,” you remind him softly. “You’re okay. You’re doing so good.”

He gasps. Inhales as though he forgot how. Shaky. Shattered.

You lower yourself to the tip and kiss it faintly. A soft brush of your mouth, a sweet lick of your tongue - and he cries out, body lifting, a gasped groan torn from somewhere deep and his hand flies from his mouth to grip the sheets. His hips buck.

“Oh god,” he chokes. His head drops back against the pillow. His neck long and exposed. His throat tight with his attempts at holding himself back. You see the tendons stretch. The bob of his Adam’s apple as he tries not to fall apart.

Your other hand rises to press lightly against his hip, grounding him.

And then you take him into your mouth.

Slow. Inch by inch. Let him feel the shape of your lips, the warmth of your tongue, the way you make space for all of him. Your mouth is wet and soft and home around him. Your tongue swirls as it slides along his underside. Your lips seal around him.

“Sweetheart-” he gasps, breaks off, groans. “I- shit. Please-”

His flesh hand flies to your hair. Tangled. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just holding. Anchoring himself.

He is trembling.

Coming undone beneath you.

You begin to move, slow, with gentle intention. Your tongue swirls around him, warm and purposeful, tracing every sensitive ridge. And oh is he sensitive. It would make you smile if your mouth weren’t so full of him.

Your hand curls at the base, stroking where your mouth cannot reach, a duet of tenderness that makes him feel. You are giving him all of yourself - your softness, your safety, your desire.

He is releasing rumbling and pleasured sounds. Gasping. Moaning. It’s fervent. It’s unclaimed. He tries to swallow them back, but you hear them. You hold each one like treasure, feeding them back in kisses that say, I’m here.

You draw him deeper. Your tongue traces the tender underside, coaxing an arc of sound from him - so unguarded, so full of release that it reverberates in your lower belly, kindling a heat between your thighs that is waiting to burn. But this is not about you. It’s about him.

Your cheek hollows, creating a vacuum that pulls him in. Your tongue flicks against the tip in an easy, deliberate rhythm. He cries out. He shudders, thighs trembling, his hips convulsing beneath you - an unwilling but eager wave.

His hands clamp into your hair - gentle yet full of need. His metal hand claws into the sheets, as though trying to hold down his own unraveling. He is trembling from head to toe, every muscle tight in an exquisite struggle not to break.

“Oh- shit, baby,” he rasps, voice ragged, body arching even as he tries not to. His restraint is a pulse and it's beating tremendously.

You ease your mouth away just enough to whisper, breath still heated on him. “It’s okay, Bucky. I’ve got you.”

“Please…” he whimpers, voice cracking. “Please, baby, I can’t-” His words catch. He gasps. “I’m- I’m gonna- You-”

You look up at him, thumb brushing the delicate spot beneath the head, your hand stilling around him. Your eyes hold his. “It’s okay,” you repeat softly. “Let go, baby. Let me take care of you.”

Those steel-blue eyes, blue and shiny with something fierce and vulnerable, meet yours. They are tear-filled. He lingers there - on the brink - then they flutter back shut. His head tips back. His mouth splits open, and a fractured, beautiful sound breaks free as he comes forcefully.

You don’t stop.

You let him come apart in your mouth, let him call your name in gasps, let his hips buck, let him surrender. He pours himself into your warmth. Crashes like waves against you.

He comes hard and long, trembling into release, filling your mouth while a canopy of sounds leave his own and they have you shivering yourself.

His body arches, then collapses. You swallow carefully, taking your time, tasting him - with devotion. Your hand continues its rhythm as your tongue slides away - until he pulls back, whimpering with sensitivity, covered in a vulnerable, gleaming sheen.

When he finally stills, you give him a moment to collect his thoughts and brush soft kisses along the map of him - down his stomach, over his hipbone, across that sharp pelvic ridge. Each kiss whispers you’re safe. You’re held. Each kiss calms the tremors further.

Licking your lips, you rise to kneel above him again. His gaze is heavy-lidded. His breaths are uneven shards of air. Tears have dried on his flushed cheeks, leaving the echoes of salt and release on his skin.

Immediately, his arms move to wrap around you, pulling you down, making you slightly fall into his chest. He holds you tight against him and buries his face in your neck.

He smells of surrender - soft, smoke, vanilla, comfort. You let him hide in the softness of you, stroking his hair. He melts into your chest, finding something steady in your heartbeat under his ear. And you smile at the way he nuzzles in.

You feel him press a kiss to your throat - a soft, sloppy thing - and he mumbles quietly into you. “Gonna- gonna take care of you… swear- gonna make you feel so- so good…” But his words already slur into half-sleep. His body softens. The rumble of his breath evens out. His arms slowly loosen, and you feel him start to sink into you. He goes warm and heavy against you, complete and comforted, weighting your world in the best possible way.

And then he’s asleep.

Completely gone, breathing even and warm, wrapped around you as though you are the only home he’s ever known.

You stay awake a little longer.

Your fingers trace circles into his skin, threading through his hair. With closed eyes, you press your lips to his temple, and you let yourself smile, only for you, in the darkness. Listening to his soft snores against your throat. Feeling the way his relaxed breath hits your skin.

Because you know tomorrow will come and he will keep his promise.

But tonight, you let him rest.

Tonight is about him.

Because he is safe.

Because he is home.

Because for once, he let himself be loved.

“To love and to be loved is to feel the sun from both sides.”

- David Viscott

[cheekybarneslibrary]

this is a shorter one but i like the idea of (beefy)!bucky hating other guys ogling you and thus making him assert himself as yours

warnings/tags: fluff, bucky is protective, implied curvy!reader, implied!beefy bucky, soft!bucky

beefy!bucky x curvy!reader masterlist

It was supposed to be a simple grocery run. Just you and Bucky, a half-scribbled list Tony made in red ink—and then annotated in blue by Bruce—pushing a cart through the giant warehouse store while debating things like almond milk versus oat milk, and whether Natasha actually needed six kinds of hot sauce.

You stood in front of the cereal aisle, scanning the shelves. “Okay, Steve likes plain corn flakes, but Sam always buys something that has chocolate in it and pretends it’s ‘high protein.’”

Bucky was behind you, a few steps back with the cart, casually flipping through his phone for the rest of the list.

“I think we’ll just get both,” you decided out loud, reaching up to grab a box from the top shelf. Your t-shirt shifted slightly with the motion, revealing a flash of skin just above your waistband.

A man down the aisle paused—noticeable only because Bucky noticed him.

The guy wasn’t subtle. Not in the slightest. His eyes dragged over you, lingered on your ass, and then flicked up your legs and back again.

Bucky’s jaw ticked. “Need help, sweetheart?” His voice cut through the air, warm and familiar, but with a hard undertone that had your head tilting curiously.

You glanced back at him, oblivious. “Yeah, can you grab the one on the top shelf? This brand’s for Sam.”

He was already walking toward you.

As he passed the stranger, he didn’t look at him—just moved a little closer than necessary. Not enough for a bump. Just enough to make a point.

He reached above you with ease, plucking the box from the shelf and handing it over with one hand while the other settled possessively on your lower back.

You smiled at him, then leaned up and kissed his cheek in thanks. “You’re the best.” His hand stayed where it was, even as you turned to place the box in the cart. “You okay?” you asked him. “You’re acting weird.”

He just grunted. “Guy down the aisle was staring at you.”

Your brows knit. “What guy?”

Bucky jerked his chin toward the opposite end of the aisle. The man had quickly made himself scarce.

You blinked, frowning. “Oh. I didn’t even notice.”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s hand curled slightly at your waist. “I did.”

You leaned into his side, thinking he was just being sweet. “Well, I’m with you. I know nothing’s gonna happen.”

Bucky looked down at you. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, voice low: “Doesn’t mean I won’t rip a guy’s throat out if he looks too long.”

You blinked. “Bucky.”

He kissed your temple. “What? You think I don’t see how good you look in these jeans?”

You flushed immediately. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Uh huh.” He smirked, steering the cart as you walked together. “And you’re mine. Let’s get the hot sauce before I start a scene.”

[cheekybarneslibrary]

no bc this version of vampire bucky has permanently rewired my brain. dark and broody but so weirdly gentle. terrifying and obsessed and soft in the creepiest little way. literally perfect!!!! like thank you for giving me everything i didn’t know i needed 🩸🫠

also your writing is already phenomenal but this was UNREAL. i was so immersed i forgot how to blink. you built this whole creepy little world that crawled under my skin in the best way. this take on bucky too feels so specific and fresh and creepy-hot and i need it injected directly into my bloodstream and the second i saw you were turning this into a series i blacked out ngl. i will be eating up every part of this with my bare hands. you’re so talented and it is a pleasure to read your stories!!

Beneath the Bones of the Land

Pairing: Vampire!Bucky x Reader (Farmer Au)

Summary: Inheriting the old farmhouse of your grandmother, you move to a town that watches you from the fields and makes the pines lean too close, and it isn’t long before you begin to fear you’ll lose your mind the way she did.

Word Count: 6.4k

Warnings: mild violence (supernatural); blood and injury description; town lore; implied death; non-consensual mind influence/compulsion (vampiric); gothic vibes; feelings of isolation, grief, depression (reader’s backstory, though nothing graphic); stalking; minor gore; implied cannibalism themes; emotional manipulation under supernatural influence; Reader is lonely

Author’s Note: Uh, I honestly have no idea what to even say here. This fic is so unlike anything I’ve ever created, but truthfully, it motivated me so intensely that I even intended to write so much more for it. However, I felt a little anxious about how people will even react to this, and I finally wanted to share something again, so I thought I’d provide this for now and see if y’all are interested in more. Anyway, this is written for @artficlly ’s Spin the Trope Event! My prompts were Vampire and Farmer Au, and I sure hope I succeeded in merging them in an intriguing way.

Masterlist

Maybe your grandmother wasn’t so crazy after all.

You used to think she was. Everyone did.

Her nails looked rusted and she always used to stir her tea with a chipped spoon at the very same kitchen table you are looking at right now with her pale-eyed stares and ink-blot dreams, her words dripping from her cracked lips down the sides of your childhood.

She’d sit on the porch with her knitted shawls and feral cats, whispering about dead things that breathed and soil that listened, and something - always something - watching from the cornfields with shining eyes.

Your parents would hush her, sharp and sudden with heated glares and tight smiles that left lines in their cheeks. “Stop scaring her, mother.” “Enough with the stories.”

They would tell you not to listen. Would tell you she was old, tired, her mind gone thin and fuzzy.

But standing here, in the kitchen space of her rotting farmhouse, you think maybe you should have listened. That maybe those stories weren’t stories at all.

Because Gallows Fen is not at all the town you had expected to move into.

It’s a town that exhales mist into the dawn, sighs when the wind rakes through the fields. The corn grows too tall, too fast, as though it cannot bear the stillness. The dirt is too dark, too soft, engulfing your boots whole when you step off the path. You have seen the crows lined along the telephone wires, and they all but stare down with glassy back eyes when you walk past. Sometimes you think they are whispering to each other, sometimes you think they’re laughing.

You moved here three weeks ago, grief clutched in your ribs like something refusing to die, and everything else in your life crumbling too quickly for you to mourn it properly. You packed up your small life with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, you signed papers you don’t remember reading, and now you are here, in this farmhouse you’ve inherited that smells of your grandmother’s citrus soap and something even older, like iron and earth. It leans to the side ever so slightly, a little crooked, so imperfect, enough to worry you - but not enough to fall.

It has two chimneys, one working and one sealed shut with brick and rust. A front porch sagging. Windowpanes that blink in the night if you stare too long.

Inside, the walls talk to you when it rains. The attic door opens by itself on Tuesdays. And every morning at 5:47 am, the grandfather clock chimes once, even though it hasn’t worked in decades.

You’ve told yourself it’s the wind. Or mice. Or that your mind, feral with exhaustion, is inventing things.

You unpacked your sweaters into her creaking dresser and found salt sprinkled in the corners of every drawer. Found tiny jars of herbs hanging from the rafters. Found a lock of hair, tied with twine, in a small box under her bed, and you put it back without looking at it too long.

You thought small towns would be warm, curious, breezy, kind. But the people here stare too long. Their smiles are too wide, their teeth too pointed and white. They ask you how you’re settling in, how the house feels at night, how your grandma is doing although she died months ago. They ask if you’ve heard the sounds yet. You don’t ask what sounds. You don’t want to know.

Gallows Fen is small. Perhaps a little too small. The kind of place where the post office shares a roof with the barber shop, and the only grocery store sells both tomatoes and tombstones. It smells like burnt leaves and rotted fruit everywhere you go. Everything is quiet, but not peaceful quiet. More like something that’s waiting, something that’s anticipating, something that’s watching. A pressed-flower-under-glass way.

The people are nice, or something like it.

But they are definitely not normal.

There’s the woman who runs the bakery and she’s always wearing a red scarf, even in the heat, her teeth a little too sharp when she smiles. The boy who rides his bike in circles every dusk, not speaking, not stopping. The man who runs the inn but never opens it. He just sweeps the steps. All day. The butcher you saw wiping his hands onto a cloth that was already stained. You saw the florist snipping the heads off roses before they even open, dropping them into a jar of cloudy water. You saw the old woman at the diner stirring honey into her coffee, and when she pulled the spoon out, it dropped red.

And they always seem to hide in some sense. They all stay under awnings, behind curtains, under shadows like it’s a community thing.

Your grandmother’s stories don’t feel so far-fetched now.

And then there’s the farm next door.

Your neighbor.

You’ve never actually seen him. Not in daylight. Only the outline of him, moving behind curtains, moving through the fog that hangs low over his fields, turning the soil at night when the moon is heavy in the sky. Sometimes you see his shadow in the looming glow, standing there, like he’s waiting for something. Once you made out a gloved hand and a long black coat - just a flash - pulling shut a barn door at dawn. And that barn. That barn. Too tall. Too narrow. Always closed. Always breathing.

You feel it watching you.

And sometimes - though you’d never admit it aloud - you feel like someone is standing just beyond the treeline, holding their breath when you hold yours.

The fence between your properties is broken in places - iron posts strung with copper wire - and you thought about fixing it the first day, but ever since, every morning you find it mended with new wood, nails so clean they shine, only to have it broken again at night.

The field next to yours is sprawling, wild in its organization. Rows of wheat that sway even when there’s no wind. Trees with bark the color of dried blood. A scarecrow in the far corner that never seems to be in the same place twice.

You thought about knocking on your neighbor’s door.

But you haven’t dared to cross the fence.

Something holds you back.

Because sometimes, when you walk to the edge of your fields, the air stops its flow, the crows stop their crying, and you feel something pressing against your spine, like a hand that isn’t there. Sometimes, you think you hear your name on the wind, soft and mournful, as though spoken by lips no longer warm.

And other times, at night, you wake up with the taste of honey and iron on your tongue, and you hear footsteps on your porch that never knock, footsteps that wait until dawn before fading away.

You tell yourself it’s just your imagination, that the grief is making you see ghosts.

But you remember your grandmother’s words, soft and cracked, the night before your parents took you away for the last time.

“The land remembers, little doe. The land remembers what it is owed.”

And maybe she wasn’t so crazy after all.

Or maybe you’re just growing crazier.

Because you have been afraid before.

You have known the kind of fear that is patient and cruel. You’ve known the feeling of it tiptoeing around in your bones while you pretended you were fine, while you sipped coffee with trembling hands, while you counted your breaths so you wouldn’t fall apart in public. The kind of fear that leaves fingerprints on your throat and bruises on your mind, that sits on your chest while you try to sleep, whispering the names of the dead you couldn’t save, the ones you couldn’t keep.

You have known fear like an infection, muddy and rotting, turning everything you love into something sour.

You came into this mysterious town that breathes in the dark, to this house that smells of citrus and rust, to these fields that shift under your feet - all with the feeling of knowing fear.

But this isn’t what you know.

This fear tastes like ivy and oil. It wakes you up in the middle of the night, but it doesn’t choke you. It makes your blood move, makes your hand shake, but not with weakness, with something that’s sharp, alive.

You look out the window in the dawn and watch the fog slip across the fields like a hand stroking the earth. You see shapes move in that fog, sinister and lurching, and it frightens you, but it is a fear that feels like a clean wound, bright and stinging, something that might heal if you knew how to tend to it.

You think of all the places you have been afraid before - bathrooms with locked doors, hospital waiting rooms that smelled of bleach and sorrow, car rides that felt as if the air was already breathed into too much and every shift you made was a question.

You think of all the nights you lay awake, afraid of what tomorrow would take from you, afraid of who you were becoming, afraid that nothing would ever change.

And then you stand here on this creaking floor, staring at the fields that move when nothing should be moving, and you realize you are afraid again, but for whole other reasons.

This fear comes with the wind that smells like rain and soil, with the crows that call your name from the wires, with the footsteps on your porch that leave no dents in the wood. This fear comes with the possibility that there are things in this world older and stranger than your grief, that there are things worth being afraid of, things that demand your attention in a different way.

And it surprises you, how your heart beats under your ribs, how it wakes up in your chest as though it remembers what it was made for.

You catch your reflection in the window as it gets darker by the hour, hair falling around your face, eyes bruised with old sadness, and you almost laugh because for the first time in so long, you look almost alive.

Even if it’s in a place where the ground has lungs to breathe with, where the townspeople smile too wide, where the neighbor you have never seen mends your fences in the dark and leaves you with nothing but shadows to glimpse.

Even if you feel watched.

You breathe in the air, and you let the fear sit in your chest, let it warm you from the inside, let it tell you that something is coming, that you are standing on the edge of something you cannot see.

So you sit down on the couch chair your grandmother once ruled like a throne, legs pulled up under you, blanket around your shoulders, wondering just how much of what she said was a metaphor, and how much of it was a warning.

Because there certainly is something wrong here. But it is beautiful in its wrongness. Like a corpse with flowers blooming from the ribcage.

The town is too quiet. The sky is too black. The stars too close.

And somewhere out there, past the fence line, past the thistles and pitted steel, past the moon-glint bones buried beneath the pear tree-

Someone is watching you.

And he hasn’t blinked in a very long time.

****

You bleed so easily.

It’s stupid, really. A careless slip of the knife, a shard of porcelain from the chipped teacup your grandmother used to swear could never break - but now it’s in pieces on the floor and so are you, breathless from surprise, your skin open like a door.

The cut is thin but long, slicing across the pad of your palm, and the blood beads up like it’s proud of itself, dripping down your wrist in a shy line.

Warm. Red. Singing.

You curse softly under your breath - you need something to stop the bleeding. The farmhouse is full of books and dust and silence but nothing useful. No first aid kit. No rags. Just mothballs in drawers, and threadbare towels that smell as if they’ve been left there too long, and the sound of the walls exhaling behind you.

The floorboards creak under your feet as you wrap your bleeding hand in the corner of your sweater, feeling it warm and pulse, the fabric darkening.

So you step outside. On your way to the cabin. That strange little shed by the edge of the woods.

There’s a rose bush growing near the fenceline now. It wasn’t there yesterday. Thorns like bone fragments. Petals the color of dried blood and gold.

You haven’t touched them. But you’re tempted.

That’s the thing about this town - it invites you to reach out, knowing it will hurt when you do.

You’ve learned to keep your hands to yourself.

You’re carrying the old oil lamp from the house, the one with the cracked chimney glass and the moths trapped inside. They keep fluttering, even though the flame is long gone. You don’t know what that means.

Nothing makes sense here.

Not the trees that lean in, listening. Not the rain that falls only on Sundays. Not the mirror in your hallway that shows things behind you that aren’t there when you turn around.

The air is cold around your skin, the sky darker than it should be, the moon is a milk-pale witness and you clutch your hand to your chest as if to hide the blood from the night, as if it’s something shameful, as if it’s something holy.

The cabin crouches there, at the end of the field, in front of the woods, as if it’s waiting for you, wood swollen with rain from last Sunday, door creaking when you push it open. It smells like the breath of something that’s been sleeping too long.

The lantern casts its honey-colored glow across the old wood walls, lighting up dust motes that float with nowhere to go. You step inside, breathing too loud, heart too fast. You don’t even notice how the air thickens. How it tightens around you like a noose.

A breeze shivers through the small space, like a sigh that had lost its body and was looking for a throat to borrow.

Shapes form in the dark that weren’t there before.

You are not alone.

You know it. Not by sound. Not by sight.

But something presses.

Not footsteps. Not a whisper.

Just presence.

Like a second shadow peeling itself from your spine.

Like eyes you can’t see, blinking in the dark behind your bones.

It touches you first through scent.

Smoke. Winter. Iron.

Something burning, but long after the fire has died.

“You're bleeding.”

The low voice comes from nowhere. And everywhere.

You freeze and then stumble out of the cabin. The flashlight trembles in your grip, skates wildly over the trees. Empty.

“Who's there?” you call, heart thudding too fast. Too loud.

No reply. Not right away.

Then, behind you. Close. Too close.

“You shouldn't be out here.”

You spin with a panicked gasp, and he’s there.

Leaning against the frame of the cabin like he stepped out of the shadows, born from them. Not a sound. Not a warning. Just here, and your breath leaves you so fast you feel lightheaded.

Shadows hunch over his boots, the outline of him drawn in darkness, just outside the glow of your lantern.

His silhouette is tall and unspeakably still. His face carved from the kind of sorrow that leaves bruises, all sharp cheekbones and dusk-shadowed stubble. His eyes catch the light and hold it - gray and silver, depthless. Hungry.

He doesn’t move, and yet the air around him feels like it’s rushing toward you, collapsing into the hollow of your chest.

You blink, and his face is clearer - but not clearer. Pale skin. Eyes like ice, or mirrors, or graves. You’ve seen his shadow at a distance before. In the corner of your eye. Behind trees. Watching. Waiting.

And now he is here.

Your neighbor.

“You’re hurt,” he says again. His voice is syrupy-slow, smooth, and you think you hear hunger in it, something feral pressed behind the consonants, the vowels slipping around your throat like cold hands.

You press your palm to your arm. “It’s fine. Just a cut.” Your voice is small, and the lantern trembles in your other hand, throwing him in and out of light.

But his gaze is locked there. On your hand. You glimpse his eyes, dark and too bright, burning a cold blue that should not be named a color.

The wind moves, and so does he.

He is closer now, without a sound, without a footstep, the scent of pine and something older mixing around you, the lantern light glinting off the edge of his jaw, his lips parted just enough for you to see the sharp white of his teeth.

“You need to stop it,” he remarks lowly, voice turning rougher. His voice is pouring over you, dark and sweet nectar, like something you’d drink before realizing it was poison. “The bleeding.”

“I was trying,” you reply, your fear changing the tone of your voice. “There's nothing in the house.”

His eyes are still on your hand, and his nostrils flare. He swallows, throat working, and you can almost see him fighting with himself, the way his fingers flex, the way he tilts his head as if listening to something.

You take a step back.

He steps forward.

“You should be more careful,” he notes, but it doesn’t sound genuine. His eyes snap to your lips, your throat, your hand, back to your eyes. His pupils are wide, swallowing blue, swallowing reason.

You gulp down a harsh breath.

Your lantern flickers, dies, plunging you both into darkness so thick it tastes like earth on your tongue. Your breath hitches audibly.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispers, sinful and decadent, sounding closer once more, and you feel it, the words sinking into your mind, sodden with gloom, soft and shadow-draped. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

And you don’t.

Your fear falls through the floor of your own body, drawing tight into silence, and your mind follows, quieting like a pond gone still. Your heart still beats too fast, but the fear is gone, replaced by a soft, strange trust that feels like it’s dead but still knows how to brush your hands.

He steps forward again and you’re too slow, your body lagging behind. His hand comes up, gloved fingers brushing your wrist

His other hand lifts, almost tender, to the crook of your elbow. He draws you forward an inch.

And another.

You’re not sure you gave permission.

You pull in a sharp breath.

You open your mouth to speak, but the words don’t come. His eyes catch you, and your tongue goes still, your limbs go quiet, your thoughts begin to dissolve at the edges like paper set on fire. It’s not fear. Not exactly.

It’s awe. And heat. And something blooming in your bones that you don’t have a name for.

His gaze falls back to your hand.

You forgot about the blood.

But he didn’t.

His breath catches, and you feel it in your spine like a chord being plucked. Something in his face shifts - falls apart. Like he’s fighting something inside himself and losing.

He leans in.

Too close. Too near. His face sharp in the moonlight, jaw locked, lips parted. You see it now, fully - the edge of a fang, just barely pressing into his bottom lip.

You can’t explain it - you don’t even think to try - but there is something pressing on your mind. Not a shove, but a caress with purpose. Like something smooth soaked in shadow, slipping across your thoughts. Like fingers dipped in fog, tightening gently around your mind until even your silence isn't yours anymore.

“Shh,“ he whispers coaxingly, voice sticky and laced with something sweet. “Be still.”

Your body does exactly that.

Not out of fear. Your muscles ease. Your fingers uncurl from the fabric of your shirt. Your lungs move but you don’t remember telling them to. A calm seeps into your bones that isn’t yours.

Your thoughts slow. Gentle. Muted.

And your heart - the part of you screaming to run - fades into a hush, like a song turned down in another room.

He leans in further, his lips almost at your throat now. His breath ghosts across your skin. You shiver. But your feet don’t move.

Because he told you not to.

And your body listens.

“God,” he whispers, voice so quiet. He presses his nose to the curve of your neck, inhales deeply, and you feel it in your knees, feel something inside you coming undone.

He parts his lips. Pulls back ever so slightly.

Your skin tingles.

You watch, dazed, as he lifts your hand to his lips, his fingers cold. His eyes flutter shut. You feel the warmth of his breath on his skin, the cold press of his mouth over the cut.

Your mind is an echoing cathedral of soft, drifting thoughts. You know you should be afraid. You should scream. You should run. Why aren’t you running? Why does this feel like a blessing, why does this feel like a sin?

You feel the sharp scrape of his fangs against your skin, just a kiss, just a threat, just a promise. His mouth opens, and you feel the tip of his tongue, cold, lapping at the blood.

A sound escapes him, low and broken, something escaping in a breathless exhale, and his grip on your hand tightens, his other arm sliding around your waist to pull you into him.

Your breath stutters and you find yourself arching forward, something like heat, like lightning, like terror tearing through your veins.

You are not afraid.

You should be.

Then he freezes.

You see it, but you don’t understand it - the sudden panic that blooms across his face, the way his eyes widen, blue and blazing and terrified of themselves, of you, of this moment.

He tears his mouth away from your skin so fast it makes you gasp. He is breathing hard, eyes locked on yours, and you see the blood on his lips, your blood, glinting in the moonlight.

He backs away instantly, as if scorched.

His eyes fall down to your hand again, then back up to you, and something deep and haunting grips his expression. He stares at you as though he doesn’t quite know what you are, as though he doesn’t know what he is.

“I’m sorry.” It's not quite human, the way he says it. There's too much ache in it. Too much weight.

You are still floating in the hush of it, blinking slowly back at him, your fear still absent, replaced by something soft, something aching. You want his mouth back on you.

Your neighbor curses to himself, jaw tightening, eyes closing for a breath, two.

He turns from you. Runs a hand over his face like he could scrub the want out of his bones.

He has already put distance between you and you don’t like that. So you take a step toward him again, and his eyes immediately snap open. His eyes are still storm-tossed, a warning within them. With fumbling hands, he retrieves something from his pocket. A cloth so it seems. He holds it out to you.

“For your hand.” His voice is hoarse.

You take it.

Your fingers touch his.

He shudders and jerks away.

The fabric is warm. You don’t ask questions, you just press it to your hand.

The man in front of you lets out a rough exhale that shakes just a little. His eyes flash back to you. Hook into your mind. They are cold now, resolved. A hand of his lifts up to your face, brushing a strand of hair from your face with an intimacy that breaks something in you.

His gaze is searing. You cannot look away.

Slowly, your voice seeps back into your throat. “Who are you?” Your voice is soft, slightly slurring.

He hesitates. The wind dances around his shoulders. His voice is quieter this time. A confession.

“James Barnes,” he says. “Most call me Bucky.”

You stare. “You’re my neighbor.”

A nod. Slow. He doesn’t blink. Just keeps staring into your eyes with a gaze so intense, your body trembles from it.

His eyes tighten again. “Go back inside,” he commands, voice rough, darkened by something.

You don’t want to. The thought of leaving him feels like pulling your heart out of your chest. You want to ask him why you’re not afraid, why your pulse is singing, why your knees are weak not from fear but from something like wanting. You want to ask him what he is.

But the words don’t come up. They don’t even fully gather in your mind. They get suppressed by the remaining soft warmth that still glows in your head.

Your body turns on its own, your feet carrying you back toward the farmhouse as the shadows take him, hiding him from you.

But he watches you go.

You feel his stare even after you’ve turned.

Like the woods are watching.

Like he is still inside your veins.

But you still don’t feel afraid.

You don’t feel anything at all except the soft echo of his voice, telling you not to be afraid, telling you not to move, telling you to go back inside.

And you obey.

Because you cannot do anything else.

Because something in you wants to listen.

Because something in you wants him to come back.

But all you do is walk.

Across the field.

Back to the porch, up the steps, one at a time.

The door creaks open.

You step inside.

Close it.

Lock it.

You don’t blink.

You don’t cry.

You don’t think.

You go upstairs.

You sit on the edge of the bed.

Your arm is still bleeding, a little, but you don’t notice. You just stare at the wall and feel strange.

Like waking from a dream someone else wrote for you.

Like you’d been dancing with something that didn’t have a shadow.

And deep down, beneath your skin, under your ribs and wrapped tight around your spine lingers the haunted trace of his words.

****

You wake to voices.

Muffled, cracking through the dawn the same way they crack through your mind.

For a moment you think it is a dream, the ones that leave you gasping into your pillow, but the voices keep biting at your sleep, dragging you into the cold air of your room, into the sound of cicadas looming near the windows.

You blink, slow, your eyes dry and your body heavy, the imprint of sleep leaving you in layers. Your grandmother’s quilt is tangled around your ankles, the shape of your nightmare still caught in the folds.

The voices grow sharper, closer, arguing beneath your window.

And you know one of them.

It rattles you how you know it, how it settles in your bones.

His voice is different when he is not talking to you. Deeper. Rougher. Like pebbles dreaming beneath glassy depths, like thunder rolling in the well of your chest.

You have not seen him properly since that night, since he took your wrist in his hand and gave you a cloth to stop the bleeding, since the lantern light caught on his too-bright eyes, and how terrifying he looked.

You don’t know why you didn’t turn around the second you saw him. You don’t know why you weren’t put off by the fact that he seemed to have appeared out of nowhere and in the middle of the night, and on your ground.

He is strange. And mysterious. Perhaps crazy. But you think you might be going crazy as well. Just like your grandmother.

You’ve only seen him in glimpses since then. A shadow moving across your porch when you forget to close the curtains. The sound of footsteps behind you when you walk into town for milk. The shape of him leaning against a fence post as you hang your laundry, his eyes hidden beneath a shadow that shouldn’t be there, watching, not watching, maybe both.

Since then, you’ve watched your step.

You’ve noticed things.

Small things.

Shadows in windows that shouldn’t be there. The postman leaving letters without making a sound. Children playing the same game, every day, always in a perfect circle, always silent. People never walking through the middle of town square.

And Bucky’s barn light - glowing red, only once, the night after your encounter.

But no one talks.

No one knocks on your door.

You feel the world breathing down your neck, like the old walls are leaning closer to listen to your thoughts. You feel eyes on you in the grocery store, in the post office, on the cracked sidewalk. You hear the creak of footsteps around your house at midnight, but when you look, there is nothing, only the dark, only the pines gossiping with each other in a language older than your bones.

Sometimes you think you see shapes in the tree line.

Sometimes you think the ground itself is more alive than it lets on.

You are tired. You are scared. You are pretending you are neither.

Languidly, you slip out of bed, floorboards cold under your feet, the night air brushing against your skin like a damp hand. You do not turn on the light, letting the moon guide you, the silver glow falling across the floor in soft lines, the shadows watching you between them.

The voices are clearer now, just outside.

“What, you already claimed her as your own personal blood bag?”

A voice you do not know, smooth and oily, words twisting through the wood.

“Rumlow.” It’s a single word. But it’s a dangerous purr. “You don’t want to do this.”

You press closer to the window, trembling fingers sliding the curtain just a breath aside, and you peer out, down.

Two men on your porch, shadows on shadows, the moon carving out their outlines in silver. Your neighbor stands between the door and the other man, his body tense, braced, like he’s about to rip someone in half. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in nearly a week. And even now, you don’t really see him. His face is turned away from you, the moonlight only brushing the edge of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone.

“I heard she’s sweet,” the other man goes on, his eyes black holes that refuse to let in the moonlight. His movements are snake-like, too smooth, too hungry. There’s something in the way his head tilts as he looks at the front door. Your door. As though he’s listening for your heartbeat. “You can’t keep her for yourself, Sarge.”

“Back off.”

“Oh, come on. It’s just a taste-”

“I said, back off.”

But the other man laughs, low and rotten, like the creak of your old farmhouse.

And he steps forward. Toward your house. Toward you.

Bucky moves.

“Don’t,” he snarls, and you freeze because it is not a human sound, not a sound you have ever heard before, not something that should live in a voice.

He shoves the other man back, hard, his face twisting into something monstrous, something beautiful, something that makes the air snap around them.

You see it before you understand it.

The way Bucky’s mouth pulls back, lips curling, and there are fangs - sharp and white and glinting, illuminated by the moonlight as he hisses, and the sound rattles your windowpane, freezes your blood in your veins.

Your gasp is loud, horrified, a bird’s scream in the dark.

And Bucky’s head snaps up, to the window, to you, eyes wide, bright blue, blazing, finding yours across the dark, locking onto you. His face shifts. Just slightly. The fury melts for a second - something flashes through his expression. You don’t know what it is.

You yank the curtain shut so fast the rod clatters. You stumble back, your pulse crashing against your ribs, your breath coming too fast, too erratic, the room spinning around you as you trip over the edge of the rug and catch yourself on the old dresser, the mirror shaking, the glass shivering with your fear.

And then it is silent.

Too silent.

You don’t know how long you stand there, pressing your hand to your mouth, eyes blown.

Suddenly, there is a tremor running through the stillness, through the pounding of your heart.

And then he is there.

Inside.

James Barnes stands in your bedroom, moonlight draped across him, shadows winding around his boots. He lifts his hands, as if to calm you, as if to tell you he is not what you saw.

With a startled shriek, you fall back a step, crashing into the side table, your knee knocking into wood, your hands trembling. You shake your head, mouth open, your body screaming with the need to move, to escape, to breathe.

“How- how did you-” you choke, voice wobbly.

His palms are open. He looks softer now. Not harmless, but less edged. Like he put the monster back into its cage.

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “You’re okay.”

Your head moves side to side rapidly. “What- no, I-” Your voice is a cracked whisper. “How did you get in-”

“Shhh.” His voice is a soothing cadence. Not a sound. It’s a command. And you obey. Your mouth stills. His voice is thick and slow and deep as midnight. “Don’t worry about that, doll.”

Your mind slows, the panic draining away, your breath evening out against your will, your muscles softening even as your eyes stay wide, watching him, unable to look away.

“Don’t be scared,” he eases, and the warmth drips through you, relieving, honey-thick, comforting. A lullaby of rot, impossible to resist, and sweet with ruin.

Your fear dissolves like sugar in hot coffee.

Your mind quiets.

Your shoulders drop.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, so soft, you almost don’t hear it.

His boots are silent on the old wood when he takes a step closer, the shadows around him listening to his body. He studies you with a gaze that is too piercing, too knowing, as though he is reading the very essence of your soul from your skin.

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” he states softly, almost to himself, and his eyes move over your face, down to your neck, back to your eyes, and there is something shimmering there, something nearly vulnerable and alight, something that feels like the sun rising in winter.

You don’t move.

You don’t want to move.

His hand lifts, almost touching your cheek, stopping just shy of it, shaking slightly.

You feel the heaviness in your mind, the gentle brush of something against your thoughts, the soft hand ready to close your memories like a book.

But he doesn’t.

He stands there, looking at you, seeing you, and you see him too - see the sharp lines of his jaw, the blue blaze of his eyes, the way his lips twitch, almost a smile, almost a sorrow.

You swallow, your mouth dry. “What are you?”

His eyes darken, but the warmth remains, a strange, impossible comfort.

“Nothing you need to be afraid of.” It is almost a whisper, a little bitter, a little haunted.

“Are you going to hurt me?” The words are small, frail as moth wings.

“No.” He says it too quickly, too fiercely, the word a promise that tastes like blood and ashes in the air between you. “You’re safe. I’m not here to hurt you.”

You nod. Because of course, you do. Your mind is syrup-slow, like the room is full of honey and sleep.

But even through the haze - you know something is wrong.

You feel him in your head.

Like a shadow trailing your thoughts, a breath on the nape of your mind.

And still - you don’t look away.

His gaze dips to your hands, your breath, the corner of your mouth. His hand lifts again, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips faintly running along your cheek with an odd tenderness that makes your breath tingle in your throat.

He steps closer and lifts your head up to keep your eyes on his. His other arms slides over your waist to your back, palm flat against you. He holds you tight.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he whispers, and the heaviness in your mind grows, warm and soft, like being wrapped in a quilt by a fire.

Each word brushes the inside of your skull - not loud, but inward, elegant, like something you’d dreamed before it was said.

Your eyelids flutter.

Outside, the wind howls.

Inside, you are alive.

“Sleep,” he repeats, even softer, closer, lulling, the scent of cold pine and iron washing over you as his arms hold you tighter, pressed into his chest.

And, as before, you fold, melt, sleep.

Because he wants you to.

Because as the darkness pulls you under, and your limbs give in to him, the last thing you see is his face, watching you with that deep, ignited blue, the awed shimmer in his eyes.

You do not know that he has saved you tonight.

You do not know that the land is hungry for you.

You do not know that your blood calls to them all, calls to the ancient pact made beneath the pines, beneath the soil, beneath the bones of this strange, breathing town.

You only know the softness of his shadows.

The kind of calmness of his presence that feels like sinking.

And the way you do not feel afraid.

Not with him.

“My loneliness is the black canvas on which you paint your tenderness.”

- Franz Kafka

[cheekybarneslibrary]

not to be dramatic but i would personally lay down in traffic for this version of bucky barnes. like the protectiveness and the sass and the ✨lawn yeeting✨?? this was EVERYTHING i could’ve hoped for in a little tiny bit sized drabble and more. thank u bestie for bringing this vision to life with such flawless execution i’m unwell 🫠💘

"he has 5 more minutes before i throw his shit on the lawn," bucky mutters as he brings a cup of coffee to his lips. he's standing by the window overlooking the street, his brows furrowed together as watches the cars pass on the street.

you roll your eyes at him, bucky had a flair for the dramatics - even if his idea did sound tempting.

you had been dreading this day for a while - your ex was coming to pick up the last of his things. finally.

it all fit neatly into a box: an old t-shirt, a reusable water bottle, a beat up copy of to kill a mockingbird and some other miscellaneous trinkets that you just wanted out of your place. out of your life.

bucky clears his throat and turns away from the window, the sign to you that your ex was here - the knock on the door a few moments later confirmed it.

you walk to the door, bucky only a few steps behind you with his arms crossed over his chest watching as you open it up to reveal the man on the other side.

not much is said as you let him in besides a few pleasantries - though you can tell your ex is biting back some choice words as he sees bucky standing behind you.

the box is sitting on the kitchen table waiting for him, but he doesn't grab it right away. his hands rest on his hips as he eyes the contents.

"where's my sweatshirt?"

"i gave it back to you already," you say, a frown on your features. you remember it being the first thing you gave back when you broke up.

"what about my phone charger?"

"you took that when you left. this is all i have."

"and my -"

"enough. this is all you left," bucky's voice cuts him off.

"this doesn't concern you," your ex snaps back, his head turning in bucky's direction. "this is between us, alright?"

a scoff leaves bucky's lips as he grabs the box off the kitchen table with his metal hand, not listening as your ex tries to get him to stop. there was no stopping bucky barnes.

"you can take your shit and your attitude somewhere else," bucky says, opening the front door and throwing the box. it explodes across the grass, leaving all of your exes stuff in a million pieces.

a few curses are yelled as he leaves in a hurry to grab his things, you watching with your hand over your mouth as you try your best not to laugh.

"i told you," bucky says with a smile as he slams the door shut. "i'd throw his shit on the lawn."

- hurt/comfort prompts

[cheekybarneslibrary]

i don’t even know where to start, this was a wonderful read for my lunch break today. you write with so much care and emotion that i literally have to stop myself from anxiously reading ahead just to see what happens next. like i have to force myself to slow down and take in every word because you build sentences in a way that wrecks me and i need to soak up every single detail!! everything feels so intentional and beautiful and soft and painful in all the best ways 🥺💔

i need to put this here because it completely leveled me, like brb crying:

She's always loud, but it fills up his deaf places, the places that died in the quiet ice that's held him captive for well over a century. Every laugh, all her syllables hack away at the tomb James Barnes had been buried in for most of his adult life. She holds together the things he's tried to break apart, has shattered all his glass ceilings.

also your note made me want to crawl through the screen and give you the biggest hug. the fact that you were feeling like that and still managed to create something this thoughtful and full of love… it means so much! i hope tomorrow is softer!! you deserve that and more 💗 (and we all deserve to find an irl bucky barnes, honestly)

— Together with You

Congressman Barnes x fem!campaignmanager!reader

Summary: What started over years-ago Chinese has both of them in places they never thought they'd be, and Bucky is determined to hold back the wolves she doesn't let him see.

MCU Timeline Placement: pre-Thunderbolts*

Disclaimers: some angst, established relationship, Bucky's girl is a little emotionally closed off, him being the most understanding partner ever, maybe some themes for my upcoming Miss Congressman Barnes series, maybe Bucky a little OOC what do you think?

-> feeling just really overwhelmed, unloved, and sad today. Could use the man himself to be my anchor, my rock. So enjoy this dump of emotions while I cry into my coffee and attempt work.

Energy in the room is not unlike something wild out of the desert. Like a Sahara wind that burns long and slow, drives hard against the skin a smothering heat that's unparalleled to any kind of air worth breathing. It takes up all the space in his ears, howling loudly. It's suddenly warm in the apartment as the door falls hard back into its frame, rattling the wall, the bolt, and the chain.

Two heartbeats, maybe, and he clocks the rustle of shoes coming off. Probably nudged off to the side beside the door, the dance of keys connecting with the marble countertop of the kitchen island. The soft padding of sore, bare feet on the cool wooden floor. The peel of the fridge door parting from its other half. Everyday sounds that herald the arrival of the only thing he lives for, into a house that feels midnight dark without her here.

"I'm home," From her chest, her tone strong as it echos through the house. Lilted in that way that lets him know she's locked in, on some mission confidential to her alone. "Subway was late, again. How much construction does one line need, anyway -- please tell me you're ready to go, I don't even have time to change!"

The soft hiss of what can only be a Diet Coke can fills up the space of her words, and Bucky slips out of their shared master suite, fingers fumbling around the ins and outs of a tie he's worn no less than a dozen times but may as well feel newborn around his neck.

She rounds the corner from the kitchen into the hallway, pulls up sharply on the carpet. "Oh. Hi." Eyes scanning him up and down, she gestures with the drink condensating through her fingers, cheeks a little flushed in the way they always are when she's flustered and running the clock.

"You look wonderful, B," it's smooth, and reverent. Like witnessing glory.

And her eyes narrow in the way he loves when she smiles big and bright, and she pushes the glasses low on her nose back into place. They're new in a way he can't describe, does things to her features he finds it painful to look away from. A pale blue that matches the arctic of her eyes, his throat bobs when she takes a step forward, gesturing for him to take the drink from her.

"Hold this," she inserts softly, and he does. Almost without thinking. Her hands move to the silk of his tie, lithe fingers going about the business of tying it into place with a pointed, knowing grace, "Still haven't mastered the art of the Windsor, huh?"

"Not exactly my forte," he mumbles, "and you're better at it. That's what I keep you around for." Her eyes flick up to his, lips pursing into an amused line that he knows. Trying not to chuckle, but the effort is lost as the color on her cheeks deepens to a blood red that lights up his spine, makes his chest crescendo with pride unlike any way he's ever felt.

Once it's finished, she pats it into place against his chest, plucking Diet Coke from his hand to pop back another drink of it. Her eyes cut over him like an intimate knife, like a slow killing. Head tipped lightly to the side, she smiles and brushes shoulders with him, moving towards the door.

"We gotta jet," she calls over her shoulder, more loudly than necessary. "But let me get shoes, my feet are killing me." The maw of their shared quarters swallows her, but she continues speaking all the same, "Buck, remind me to email my professor tomorrow. I still can't get that stupid assignment to send over, and I'll cry if he docks me for a late submission."

She's always loud, but it fills up his deaf places, the places that died in the quiet ice that's held him captive for well over a century. Every laugh, all her syllables hack away at the tomb James Barnes had been buried in for most of his adult life. She holds together the things he's tried to break apart, has shattered all his glass ceilings.

Rustle of the closet door tells him she's dived in, and somehow, Bucky knows what shoes she's searching for. She'd wore them on their first date, all those years ago. When he'd been a freshman candidate, and he'd hired her to salvation his campaign messaging into something believable - when they'd worked late in the long after-daylight shadows of the lamps in his prescribed office, half starving and half exhausted.

"Chinese," he'd stood up, grabbed his phone, and ripped open the top drawer of his desk to rummage for the familiar, stained-with-Soy takeout menu he'd squirreled away within the folds of legislation and printed pitch decks.

"Um, what?" she'd taken a beat, pen poised over a notebook, eyes casting up to him from careful writing. Eyeliner askew, makeup long since lifted with the day and effort, he'd never thought someone looked so fulfilled. Dedicated. Lovely. "That's such a random thing to just....say, Barnes."

He'd tried not to chuckle, but it had come out as a barking sigh. "Takeout. I'm starving," flicking the menu across the desk, her hand slapped down to stop it's skip across the strewn paperwork and trinkets of his desk, "I currently need about four orders of noodles, and I am not planning on sharing, so order anything. You like Chinese?" On the borderland of rambling and making a complete idiot of himself, her smile had been sharp. Tired, real. Pretty.

Her brows had lifted as she'd set aside her pen. "So is this a company dinner on the campaign, or Barnes money?"

He'd hesitated, hand slipping into his pocket while trying to appear busy with a pen. "Is there a difference?"

She'd slipped off those ridiculous heels, glanced at the menu. All but demanded the saddest, most basic order of sweet and sour that could be equated to a tragedy, and rose from her chair to round the desk.

Pressing the menu against his chest before reaching for the deck he'd all but abandoned beside his laptop, she looked up at from the rim of her glasses, and for the first time, he'd actually felt light rip through his soul from within their depths.

"There are connotations at play here, Mr. Barnes," she'd never called him Mr. Barnes a day in their working relationship, said it didn't sound like him. Not the kind of man that walks around with a title. Best Friend of both men to carry the shield doesn't do that kind of formality.

"Connotations," he'd hummed it, allowing her hand to linger on his chest. It took herculean amounts of effort not to rest his hand over hers against his breast, but he'd just stood there, hands in his pockets, holding her gaze.

"Mhm. If the campaign buys, this is your standard working late relationship. After hours and on the clock, I definitely get overtime pay," it was subtle, but her slight shift to turn into him had changed the tension between them to a thickness he'd only ever imagined, now as tangible as anything he'd ever felt slip between his fingers, "but this isn't that, is it?"

His brows had lifted, waiting. "And you, naturally, know what it is?" Of course she knew. She'd known everything the minute she'd sat across from him in the interview and told him he needed her. Him, the Winter Soldier. Without flinching.

The corner of her mouth, still a fierce, camera-ready red, ticked up into a small smirk, one that men had been writing about since the dawn of time, he thinks. The beat that had skipped between them had a pulse, it felt like, but settled in the blood roaring between his ears.

"Sounds to me like you're asking me to dinner, Bucky."

Sure enough, she slips out of the bedroom with the heels in question. Nude, with a scuffed stiletto heel. Pointed toe and a faux alligator leather that have put more miles on in Congress than most seated officials. She'd told him once they were at least a decade old but had somehow survived the worst she'd had to offer.

Wore them like a badge of honor, though. With nearly everything. Jeans, shorts. Pencil skirts. Dresses that left little to the imagination, others that belied the simple life they led in a small DC apartment they'd both signed the lease to. There were a dozen other heels politely situated beside his dress shoes and boots in the floor of their closet, others that, probably, would've been more appropriate. But these are, in a way, home. Familiar, comfortable, stable. There in her hand like an extension of herself, a layline to which she can return.

Way more of a metaphor than he thought possible.

And tonight, they pair alright with an off-the-shoulder black bodycon that hugs every curve of her God had designed for him; what she'd flown out the door wearing this morning to catch the train for a press hearing and PR cleanup. No jewelry, simple hair and makeup. For the opening of an art installation downtown; the last place he wants to be on a Wednesday night before a day of meetings and public hearing.

"We need to get going," she huffs, shaking her head while checking the time on her phone, "if we miss the first train, we'll be late, and I don't want to walk in late -- shit! I forgot to call Marc about that stupid hearing pushback!"

Under her breath, and he still hangs on every word.

And Bucky can feel the thrum of her heart from here, a zip of adrenaline and schedule in her blood. The last six months have been a whirlwind. She's gone back to school, uprooted her life across the country to follow him to DC. Opportunities beyond managing his team have littered her inbox, demand her time. Pull her in directions she doesn't share, isn't sure how to.

And Bucky knows why, he knows the prison of self-management and independence. Survival and functional intimacy.

"Hey," with gentle strength he hooks her elbow, adding pressure that brings her to a stop beside him. Turning into her, he presses close, scans the features of her face that look up at him a little confused, but mostly opened. Like a flower uncertain of how to shine under the attention of the sun, he watches the line in her jaw tighten a little under his focus.

"We're okay, sweetheart," he checks his watch, finger slipping home beneath her chin to angle her attention to him, "why don't you take a second and look at me, maybe breathe? You've been running roughshod around here for two weeks," his other hand gently brushes some of her hair behind her ear, "I'm worried about you, y'know."

He watches her swallow and shift a little uncomfortably at the contact, until her eyes skip to hold his for a few beats. Her nostrils flare a little with an attempt to control an uneven breath, and the effort ticks at the muscle in her jaw, trying to hold it all together without splintering apart, like a falling star. An inferno of trouble skips in the dark of her eyes, mirrored in the shadows under her eyes from too little sleep, too many nights she'd tried to match his insomnia diagnosis like it's a game.

Her hand come to rests on his arm, squeezing. Her nails turn into the polyester blend of his suitcoat, like she's anchoring in something unwilling to move. Desperation there balances on the edge, hanging on his maybe words, his closeness. Her slow breathing is controlled, but haggard.

"I'm just tired," she says softly, looking away. And that maybe breaks him more than the exhaustion, more than the diversion. "It's been a busy week," her jaw tightens nearly to the point he thinks bone may snap, "And I'm just --" she sighs, shoulders pitching forward a little before her spine straightens against with a resolve stronger, maybe, than the length of vibranium at his side.

"Tired. I'm just tired, B." And it's there, unspoken. I'm sorry.

It's in her eyes, a hollowness that wants to discuss it but isn't sure. Her lower lip rolls in, and he watches her bite the inside of her cheek beneath his attention. Anxiety swells between the small universe between them, and he knows this is all he will get. This is all she'll let him see in her little world.

He receives glimpses but craves more, and parts of him knows. The Winter Soldier knows what it is like to hold back the wolves, to survive them. He'd never asked anyone to see them, to hold them back. Personal demons, a hell he resolved to deconstruct on his own. It had taken losing Steve, the Avengers, to know it wasn't meant to be done alone. In some ways, it couldn't be.

But words mean little when the hurt is that deep, when it is at home in the marrow that keeps you alive and upright. When it's tangled with the adrenaline that tells you to run but you stay instead. He knows. It's a close lover but a lethal one, and hell if he knew of a way to fully be atoned.

But what makes the difference? Being seen. The willingness to see and stand. When all else fails, to stand. And stay. She can be tired, and short, and frazzled. And all the little things that come with trying to balance not only the world, but him, and everything attached while trying to carve her place into it.

And he'll see it, always. He'll choose to.

"That's okay," he presses a light kiss to the corner of her mouth, traces another along her jaw to the sweet, soft place behind her ear. And her breath hitches, her head angles to rest against his as his hand falls to her hip, adding a firm pressure there that welcomes her forward, into a hug. "We can stay home, if you're up to it. The Institute will still be there in the morning when I call to thank them for the invitation."

Arms slip home around his shoulders; her warmth breaks a little against his chest as she angles her head to press a soft brush of her lips against the juncture of his shoulder. Bristling, Bucky senses the tears before he sees them. Allows her hand to guide his other arm around her waist, lingers in his when it finds its way.

"I want to go," she murmurs quietly between sweet kisses at the hollow of his throat, "I want people to see you," arching further into him, her nails gently drag down the spine of the suit, not in a way that is inherently sexual, but in more of a determination, a grounding. Like he is home, like he is here. A tangible thing that belongs to her, and will be ripped from dead hands before being given of her own will. "I want people to see us. Me. Together, with you."

And like a child, a deep breath manages, "Is that okay?"

He releases an amused breath from his nose, as if anything else were even possible under the weight of such an admission. She giggles, squirming from the scratch of his beard against the soft of her shoulder as he turns to gently take the shell of her ear between his teeth, lovingly. Playfully tugging, her laughter dissolves beneath a firm kiss to the pulse galloping against the arterial line so sharp in her neck.

"That's just fine, honey," he hums it low in her ear, and gently swipes the shoes from her before taking her hand, placing a soft kiss against her knuckles, "Us together sounds perfect."

[cheekybarneslibrary]

just getting into bob reynolds fics and already he owns my whole heart. the quiet care. the softness. the way he immediately abandoned monopoly the second he saw injuries like i’m in LOOOOVE you are such a phenomenal writer 😭🫶🏻

“I declare bankruptcy! Good luck auctioning off my stuff!” Bob called from down the hall nonchalantly, his priorities instantly shifting towards taking care of you.

peak boyfriend behavior!!!

also this whole part ruined me in the sweetest way, i’m screaming, crying, throwing up:

You let out a breathy chuckle, "You know, my cheek kinda hurts too."

"Oh really?" He smirked, his thumb skimming across your jawline.

"Yeah... Hurts real bad." You teased.

Bob smiled, tenderly kissing your cheek. You grinned, feeling a pleasant warmth bloom under your skin.

"How about the other one?"

You nodded, laughing as Bob didn't miss a beat, giving the same affection to your other cheek. Your heart fluttered in your chest, feeling Bob's smile on your skin, his lips lifting lovingly.

"Actually, I think my lips hurt the most..."

Affection is the Best Medicine

Summary: When you come back from a mission injured and in need of assistance, Bob drops everything to take care of you.

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x gn!reader

Words: 2.1k

Content/Warnings: Injuries/wounds, blood, hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship, half of the team playing monopoly gets its own warning (don’t worry, it won’t ruin their friendship… maybe)

A/N: I felt nostalgic and decided to rewatch Markiplier’s monopoly series with Bob (Muyskerm) and Wade (LordMinion777). Somehow, my brain came up with this amalgamation of self-indulgent comfort and Monopoly causing unnecessary drama in friend groups lol.

Exhaustion sank deep in your bones, your muscles feeling stiff and completely worn down.

You, Yelena, and Bucky stood in the elevator in silence, looking worse for wear, dust and dirt scuffed on your suits. Frustration and annoyance lingered in the air, not at each other, but all of it was being harbored collectively, all aimed towards Valentina.

You tried not to shift too much, feeling your injuries starting to bloom in pain. A few bruises were starting to form on your arms and a small cut was visible above your eyebrow.

The three of you were supposed to extract a crate from a shadow organization, rumored to have Kree weapons stashed in a warehouse. It was a simple evening mission, take out agents if necessary and Bucky would carry the crate out.

But that would have been too easy, right?

Valentina failed to mention the padded security, both in the number of guards and the hidden security alarms that the three of you accidentally tripped. It was an ambush of people and weapons, and you got overwhelmed by the numbers. The weapons were secured, albeit after a terrible strike on the warehouse.

Bucky had a few scrapes, but nothing too serious. Yelena had a cut across her cheek and was clutching her side, someone had managed to get a strong kick on her. No broken bones, thankfully, but a big bruise was probably forming.

Unfortunately, the worst injury was inflicted on you.

Someone got the upper hand during the fight with a knife and slashed it behind you, the cut running from the middle of your left shoulder all the way down your shoulder blade. Luckily, it wasn’t a super deep laceration, but it still swelled with pain. 

After making it back to the jet with the package secured, Bucky got into the pilot’s seat and immediately got the aircraft taking off. Yelena helped clean your gash and bandaged your wound with the medical supplies you had on hand, using medical tape and gauze to temporarily protect the cut and try to stop the bleeding. The top of your suit was removed, leaving you in the tank top you had underneath. 

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open with a mechanical whir. As soon as you took a step off the elevator, your ears were met with a commotion, echoing off the halls and emanating from the common area. You could only assume that the bickering was coming from the rest of the team who stayed behind.

“I’m going to give Valentina a piece of my mind. Want me to yell at her on your behalf?” Bucky asked, his tone dripping with irritation as he fished his phone out of his pocket. 

“Please do.” You sighed through gritted teeth as Yelena gave a tired nod. 

You and Yelena bid your goodbyes to Bucky then trudged towards what you could only assume was the rest of the team who stayed behind, the arguing becoming louder with every step you took. 

Reaching the common area, your eyes were met with Bob, John, Ava, and Alexei arguing with animated hands thrown about, the group huddling around the coffee table with Monopoly laid out. The dots connected in your mind, understanding the fighting unfolding in front of you.

If there was any game that was going to tear apart the team, Monopoly would probably do it. 

Suddenly, all of the shouting came to a halt, all of their eyes widening in shock at the current state of you and Yelena shuffling into the room.

“Shit.” John muttered under his breath.

Yelena kept her hand resting against her side as she trekked to the couch, plopping down on the cushions with a groan. 

Bob glanced between you and Yelena, his sight locked onto your wearied figure before springing up from his spot, racing towards you.

Concern filled Bob’s eyes, his hands slowly reaching out towards your face. His fingertips barely grazed your cheeks, hands hovering around your face as if you were delicate porcelain held together with lousy tape. You weren’t going to lie, it really did feel like you were barely held together, the pain blooming behind your shoulder and the fatigue really weighing your spirit down. 

“What the hell happened?” Ava asked.

“Valentina failed to mention that there was an entire third-party security detail stationed at the warehouse. We got the weapons, but we got our asses kicked.” Yelena fumed. 

Your lips lifted into a sad smile as Bob’s eyes quickly trailed down your body, examining the extent of your injuries. The bandage on your left shoulder caught Bob’s eye quickly, a quiet gasp caught in his throat as he stepped towards your side, head peering and zeroing in on the back of your shoulder. 

“You’re bleeding through your dressing,” Bob worried, noting the red starting to seep through the gauze. “C’mon, we need to change it.” 

You didn’t need to be told twice. You sluggishly walked by the table, heading towards your bedroom through the halls. While the medical vicinity would have been the better choice, your bedroom was closer and more convenient and you desperately wanted to change out of the rest of your suit. Bob followed behind you, his hand hovering over your lower back. 

“Wait, Bob, it’s your turn next.” Alexei pointed to the shoe piece. 

“I declare bankruptcy! Good luck auctioning off my stuff!” Bob called from down the hall nonchalantly, his priorities instantly shifting towards taking care of you.

As his last word resonated off the walls, the bickering resumed again, this time even louder.

“I should have stayed in the warehouse!” Yelena tried to yell over the team, pinching her nose bridge with annoyance.

You shook your head with a chuckle. “Do I even want to know how your game went?” 

“I actually got both park place and boardwalk,” Bob smirked, his hand gently resting against your lower back as the two of you walked, “And there’s a few houses on each of them. So you can imagine the state of the game I left it in just now.” 

You can visualize the frenzy and fighting between Alexei, Ava, and John right now, disputing and trying to win Bob’s very valuable properties. 

Reaching your bedroom, Bob opened the door for you. You thanked him, immediately getting to work on removing your gear. Closing your door, Bob quickly made his way to your bathroom, rummaging for the first aid kit you kept in your cabinet.

Carefully bending down, you slowly untied your boots and pulled the side zippers down, chucking them off to the side haphazardly. Shimmying out of your pants, you left them on the floor without a care and pushed through the aches, making a beeline to your comfortable pajamas in your dresser. 

You found a small amount of solace in your cozy pants, a sigh escaping your lips as you closed your eyes in relief. You stood by your dresser, leaning against it with your right arm to recollect yourself. The sound of rustling items pricked up your ears, before the running water from your sink pulled you out of your thoughts, pushing away the frustration you were still feeling from the mission. 

Dragging your feet, you slowly made your way to your bathroom. Bob had just finished washing his hands when you arrived, making sure his hands were clean before touching around your wound. The first aid kit was laid out on the bathroom counter and a new adhesive dressing sat beside it, waiting to be opened and applied. He tilted his head towards the closed lid of the toilet as he dried his hands. 

You plopped down with a quiet grunt, your head hanging low and your back hunched. Realizing that Bob would need room and access to your shoulder, you turned yourself in your seat, situating yourself closer towards the edge of the lid. 

With a feather-like touch, Bob placed a light hand near the top of your shoulder. He scanned the rest of your back, ensuring there weren’t any other injuries he wasn’t aware of. With the gentlest of touches, he hooked his fingers under the strap of your tank top, carefully dragging it off your shoulder. Peeling off the adhesive and the gauze, the focus in Bob’s eyes slightly faltered, worriedness briefly fogging up his sight as he stared at your cut.

No sign of infection, thankfully, but he hoped the bleeding would start clotting faster. Shaking his head, he refocused on the task at hand, trashing the soiled bandage. 

A comfortable silence surrounded the bathroom as Bob grabbed the adhesive dressing, opening the package and peeling the backing off. With steady hands, he lined up the bandage, making sure it covered your entire injury. Pressing the edge of the adhesive above where your cut started, Bob slowly and carefully smoothed the dressing down, pressing the adhesive around your cut and ensuring your wound was properly protected. 

After a quick once-over, Bob shifted his position, standing in front of you and in between your legs. Combing through the kit, he found the antiseptic wipes and tenderly hooked his fingers under your chin, lifting your head up to view the cut above your brow.

“This might sting.” He muttered under his breath.

As the wipe swept across your brow, you slightly winced, feeling the sting quickly bite your skin. Bob quietly apologized, cleaning the area around the cut. Covering it with a small bandage, Bob ran his thumb across it, caressing and pressing it down delicately. He cradled your face in his hands before leaning down, pressing a kiss over your cut. 

Your lips raised into a tired grin as Bob bent further down beside you, kissing the top of your shoulder where the edge of the dressing began. 

You let out a breathy chuckle, “You know, my cheek kinda hurts too.” 

“Oh really?” He smirked, his thumb skimming across your jawline. 

“Yeah… Hurts real bad.” You teased. 

Bob smiled, tenderly kissing your cheek. You grinned, feeling a pleasant warmth bloom under your skin. 

“How about the other one?”

You nodded, laughing as Bob didn’t miss a beat, giving the same affection to your other cheek. Your heart fluttered in your chest, feeling Bob’s smile on your skin, his lips lifting lovingly. 

“Actually, I think my lips hurt the most…”

Bob rolled his eyes at you, chuckling in disbelief before dipping his head, kissing you softly. This kiss was sweet and tenderhearted, a comfort you needed after the mission. The warmth of his lips gently caressed against yours, drawing your senses away from the aches and pains you were feeling in your body. Bob held your cheeks in his hands as your mind turned fuzzy, his kiss taking your breath away. 

Pulling away, you snake your arms around Bob’s waist, being mindful of your shoulder as you embrace him. You pressed your face into his stomach as Bob cradled the back of your head, his arm wrapping around your non-injured shoulder.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” Your voice muffled, your head nestling into the fabric of his shirt.

“Any time.” Bob promised. 

You stayed enveloped in Bob’s embrace, letting his warmth engulf you as you sighed. You unfortunately couldn’t stay longer as you felt pain bloom  from your shoulder. Reluctantly, you pulled away from Bob, your eyes shutting and wincing from the pain. 

Bob’s eyes flickered over your face. “What’s wrong?” 

“Shoulder’s aching,” You lightly hissed, your voice slightly strained. “I think I need some ibuprofen.”

Bob nodded as you slowly stood up, trying not to move your injury. “I’ll be right back.” He assured.

Just as he stepped out of the bathroom, you stopped him, “Bob?”

Halting in his tracks, he turned around. 

“Love you.” You professed. 

Bob's eyes softened as a faint flush tinted his cheeks. He gazed at you with admiration and affection, causing your heart to flip in your chest. Quickly glancing at his feet then back to you, he gave you a warm smile, a hint of sheepishness peaking through.

“Love you too.”

You grinned back, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom with your good shoulder.

When Bob opened your bedroom door, it was suddenly like Pandora’s box, a multitude of voices jumbled into one big cacophony of noise. Bob recoiled, furrowing his brows at you with confusion before he jogged down the hall, making his way back to the common area. You peeked your head out, trying to decipher what was happening.

“What the hell is going on!?” Bob’s voice roared over everyone.

“They’re not letting me have boardwalk!” John complained.

Alexei chastised him, “Your reason is dumb!” 

“Just because your name is Walker and there’s ‘walk’ in boardwalk doesn’t mean you automatically own it!” Ava retorted.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs are highly appreciated!

[cheekybarneslibrary]

no because i knew i was done for you hit me with this right at the beginning:

Because the gentle press of your palm over gauze was somehow louder than the sting of antiseptic. Because—though he’d never admit it—he trusted those hands more than the vibrating hum in his own metal arm.

i was giggling and kicking my feet like this was a romcom and then suddenly i was holding my breath. you write bucky so well like he’s trying so hard to act unaffected but he’s aching under the surface and i FEEL it in my bones 😭

i’m gonna be thinking about this fic forever. it hit all the soft spots and then some

adding this line here purely to ruin my own day:

And maybe, just maybe, you were becoming the safest place he’d ever been patched back together.

two sugars

chapter summary: As the Avengers team medic it's your job to take care of everyone. So why does Bucky feel like he gets special treatment? Surely a medic wouldn't know the exact way he likes his tea. word count: 4.0k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: this is sometime post civil war but the avengers are a big happy family :) i just love the idea of medic!reader, and a reader who take cares of bucky even when he thinks he doesn't deserve it warnings/tags: medic!reader, mentions of violence, mentions of blood/injuries, fluff, angst, possible inaccurate depictions of medicine

The quinjet’s rear ramp hissed open onto the compound’s flood-lit tarmac. Everyone scattered toward post-mission routines—Thor to the kitchen, Natasha to the debrief, and Tony already complaining about “arrow residue” in his repulsors. Bucky tried to drift with the crowd, jacket pressed close to hide the dark bloom seeping through his side.

“You can limp faster than that, Barnes.”

You fall into step beside him, sweatshirt sleeves shoved to your elbows, med bag bumping your hip. Bucky answered with his best frown. “Took a scratch, that’s all.”

“Scratch?” You tugged the jacket hem and the fabric stuck to his ribs with an audible peel. “That’s shrapnel and at least two stitches.”

“Good thing I only need one.”

“Math is not your strong suit tonight. Med bay—now.”

He could’ve kept walking, you’d seen him yank bullets with pliers before. But the way you were already cataloging his breathing, the way your fingers hovered without quite touching—something in him unclenched. So he followed.

---

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you snapped on gloves, murmuring absent comfort. “Top bunk’s free if you need to crash after.” Bucky eased onto the exam table, metal fingers curling off the edge.

“You really hate me, don’t you?” he grumbled while you cut away the ruined shirt.

“I don’t hate you,” you said, then winced theatrically. “I just hate that you treat medical like a voluntary suggestion.”

“That’s a lot of sugar-coating for ‘pain in my ass.’”

“Sugar-coating? You take two sugars in your tea.” You sterilized the wound, and he hissed. “Hold still.”

He did, but only because you asked. Because the gentle press of your palm over gauze was somehow louder than the sting of antiseptic. Because—though he’d never admit it—he trusted those hands more than the vibrating hum in his own metal arm.

“Shrapnel’s shallow,” you said finally, suturing. “You’ll live to brood another day.”

“Lucky me.”

You tied the final knot, slapped a gauze pad over it, then—softly—tapped his knee. “Go shower. I’ll re-dress it in the morning.”

“Thought you were off tomorrow.”

“Barnes, I saw you take that hit through a concrete wall. I’m not clocking out until I know you didn’t bleed through the mattress.”

He opened his mouth—some dry retort about over-caring—but you were already disinfecting the tray, back turned, humming off-key.

---

Bucky padded into the kitchen wearing sweats with damp hair, intent on pilfering chamomile. The compound was dark but for the fridge glow and the soft blue of tablet screensaver fish.

A lone mug waited by the kettle. Steam coiled up, lazy with two sugars stirred in.

There was a sticky note with your handwriting: “For not bleeding on the mattress. —Night watch”

He stared and noticed the tiny doodle of a star in the corner with five uneven points. The soft spot in his chest, poorly armored, thudded once.

He made himself a second mug—because the first felt too much like you standing there—and carried both down the hall.

---

The only light came from the vitals monitor you’d dragged over “just in case.” You were slumped in the visitor chair, hoodie hood halfway over your face, but awake—eyes on the empty bunk you assumed he’d take.

Bucky set the untouched mug on the table and slid the other toward you. “I figured you could use a refill.”

You blinked up, sleep-rough voice. “I thought you hated chamomile.”

“Growing on me.”

A beat. Then your gaze dropped to the clean bandage at his ribs, then to the tea. “Vitals look good,” you said quietly. “Pain level?”

“Manageable.” He nudged your foot with his socked one. “Go sleep in a real bed.”

You made a face. “Orders?”

“Suggestion.” His mouth twitched. “I hear those are optional.”

You laughed—soft, tired, the sound a little cracked around the edges. But you stood, stretching. “Fine. Wake me if it starts hurting worse.”

He saluted lazily. “Yes, doc.”

Before you left, you hovered in the doorway, studying him like another chart to file. Bucky lifted the mug in thanks.

When the door whispered shut, he exhaled into the quiet. The compound was never truly silent—vents sighing, arc reactor pulse traveling the pipes—but tonight it felt close. Close enough that he could hear the scrape of your chair being pushed into a corner, the distant thump of your sneakers heading for the dorm wing.

He took a sip. Too sweet, like always. But he didn’t mind.

Across the room, the monitor’s soft beep kept time with his heartbeat—steady, unhurried. Unusually calm.

Maybe he’d never say it out loud, maybe you’d never ask, but the truth sat warm in his hands—for someone who used to be a weapon, he was surprisingly okay being someone’s patient.

And maybe, just maybe, you were becoming the safest place he’d ever been patched back together.

He lay back, closed his eyes, and let the steady beep carry him toward sleep. No dreams, no ghosts—just chamomile with two sugars cooling on the bedside table.

---

When you walked into the kitchen, Wanda was already massaging her temples. Before you could ask why, she spoke. “Apparently, Clint’s midnight snack was the last of Thor’s Pop Tarts.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow from the coffee machine. “That man has a death wish.”

You shrugged out of your hoodie, sleepy grin in place. “‘Again’ has to be implied. What flavor?”

“Frosted cherry,” Wanda muttered, as if reciting a crime scene. “Thor’s favorite.”

Bucky whistled. “Clint better start running now.”

You laughed, then popped open the cabinet beside him and grabbed a mug—one of the few without cracks or Stark-brand snark printed on it. You poured coffee for yourself, then, almost absently, reached around and refilled Bucky’s too. Two sugars and a quick stir. Your left hand remained braced on the counter while your right did the pouring. He noticed the way you didn’t ask if he wanted more—you just did it, then dropped a tiny packet of vitamin C gummies next to his mug like it belonged there.

He blinked. “Uh… thanks.”

“Breakfast of champions.” You nudged the gummies closer. “Take those.”

Wanda smirked into her own cup. “Mother hen back at it?”

“Hush,” you said without heat, already fishing in the fridge. You snagged strawberry jam—he liked that brand, the one with whole berries—and set it next to the toaster before sliding two slices of rye into it, same as last time.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to Sam and Steve, who were locked in an animated debate over training schedules and paying zero attention to you. No one else seemed to be getting stealth-medic treatment.

The toast popped. You buttered it, then passed the plate his way. “Eat. Protein shake later if you’re still looking pale.”

“I’m not pale,” he muttered.

You tapped the inside of his right wrist, just where yesterday’s IV line had been. “Humor me.”

Steve reached for the jam and found an empty spot—your hand was there first, sliding it to Bucky. Steve redirected to peanut butter without comment.

Bucky sipped. Sweet, perfect. “You remember how I take it?”

You shrugged. “Memory’s my job.”

“Don’t see you memorizing Clint’s coffee,” he mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” He bit into the toast.

Thor stormed in then, cape swinging. “Who has eaten the sacred pastries of Pop-Tart?” he bellowed.

Clint darted behind Vision like a toddler hiding behind a sofa. Chaos erupted—Wanda sighing, Vision tilting his head, and Tony strolling in with an energy bar and an amused grin.

You, unfazed, passed Bucky two ibuprofen tablets, whisper-soft: “Take with food.” Then you patted his left shoulder once, and crossed the room to break up Thor’s thunderous rant before it hit Category Five.

Bucky watched you go, tablets warm in his palm. Nobody else got those taps, that quiet voice.

Steve elbowed him. “You spacing out?”

Bucky slid the pills into his mouth and chased them with sweet coffee. “Just thinking.”

“Anything good?”

He watched you over by the fridge, coaxing Thor into accepting a toaster strudel peace offering. You glanced back once, checked the bandage line beneath his tee, subtle as blinking, then returned to the thunder god.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Good.”

Sam squinted. “Why’re you smiling like that?”

Bucky’s face smoothed. “I’m not.”

Steve chuckled. “Sure, pal.”

The kettle hissed again—fresh water. You were already setting out a chamomile bag beside it. Just one cup this time. For him. Bucky swallowed more toast and decided maybe gummies at 0800 weren’t so bad.

---

Tony paced, ranting about arrow residue again while you stood on a step-stool rewiring Bucky’s prosthetic calibration dock.

“This will cut recharge time by half,” you told him, finishing with a screwdriver flourish. “Left side ports were overheating.”

Tony paused. “You don’t do house calls for my suits.”

You shrugged. “Your suits don’t bleed.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He flexed the metal fingers experimentally and they were already smoother.

---

You nearly collided with him outside the med bay, arms full of supply boxes.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He took the heavier crate with his left arm while you kept the lighter. Inside, you labeled shelves while he stacked gauze packs. “Dinner?” you asked without looking up. “Kitchen has turkey chili. I set aside a bowl, no beans.”

He stilled. “You remembered that?”

“Try forgetting a thirty-minute rant about legume betrayal,” you teased.

He coughed, embarrassed. “Wasn’t a rant.”

You just smiled, scribbling a date on a vial.

He noticed: no one else had personalized bowls waiting. No one else’s preferences pinned to sticky notes.

---

Bucky exited the shower, his shoulder stiff. You were leaning against his door with a pill bottle in hand. “Forgot your evening dose,” you whispered. “Take with water.”

He accepted it. “You chasing everyone around like this?”

“Only the stubborn supersoldier who forgets he’s breakable.”

A beat hung between you. He swallowed the pill and handed the bottle back. “Thanks,” he said, soft.

You patted his metal wrist—short, warm contact that didn’t clang like steel should. “Sleep. I’ll check the bandage tomorrow.”

You pushed off the wall, heading for your quarters. Bucky watched you go, mind replaying the day’s subtleties: the mug, the toast, the custom dock fix, the bean-free chili, the midnight meds.

He’d been trained to notice patterns—threat vectors and escape routes. Tonight, all he saw were gentle fingerprints no one else seemed to receive.

He brushed the healing edge of his sutures, feeling the ghost of your careful pressure. The soft spot inside his chest thudded, confused.

With a quiet sigh, he stepped into his room, door sliding shut behind him. The compound settled, vents humming. Somewhere down the hall, your laugh floated out of a late-night movie with Wanda.

He found himself smiling at the sound—unbidden, uncomplicated—then shook his head, still not quite understanding why any of it felt different.

But he noticed. Oh, he noticed.

---

The mission had been small. Routine, even. Just recon, in and out. But somehow, recon turned into a shootout, the shootout turned into a building collapse, and the building collapse turned into Bucky sitting on a gurney again, shirtless, with dried blood streaked down his spine.

You weren’t saying anything.

That was the part that made him nervous.

You were always talking. Even if it was just quietly—nagging, joking, grumbling about the lack of gauze. But now you were just… cleaning.

“I’ve had worse,” he offered.

Your latex gloves snapped as you peeled them off and tossed them into the waste bin. “You didn’t say you were hit,” you said flatly. “You walked off the quinjet, sat through debrief, and then I found out from Steve that there was blood on your back.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. “…It didn’t feel like a big deal.”

You grabbed a new pair of gloves, and didn’t even meet his eyes.

He winced. “Okay, maybe not the best choice of words.”

“I’m not mad,” you said, finally stepping forward with fresh antiseptic. “I just—if there’s something wrong, I need to know. That’s literally my job.”

“I know,” he said. Then quieter, “Didn’t want to make a fuss.”

Your fingers slowed. You sighed. “You never do. That’s the problem.”

The sting of antiseptic burned, but he didn’t flinch. Just watched you—how focused you were, how your brow furrowed when you worked, how you used your bare palm to gently steady his vibranium shoulder without hesitation.

---

Bucky wandered in, shirt finally replaced, hair still damp. You were at the stove, humming. Something savory simmered in a pot, and when you turned, your expression softened. “Sit. You look like hell.”

“I feel like it,” he muttered.

You slid a plate across the counter. Roast chicken, soft rolls, roasted potatoes. All stuff he actually ate. You didn’t even ask.

“No peppers?” he said quietly.

You shot him a look. “I learn.”

He glanced toward Wanda, who was eating leftover takeout. Sam was microwaving a burrito. Steve had a protein shake. Natasha wasn’t even around.

Just you, making an entire meal—for him.

“Did you… cook this just for me?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You didn’t answer right away. Just poured him water, nudged it toward him, and said, “you didn’t eat after the mission. Figured you’d need something.”

That was all.

No smile, no brag. Just facts.

He stared at the plate. Then the water. Then you.

And suddenly, it clicked. Really clicked.  You didn’t do that for anyone else. He watched as you turned back to the stove, scooping out a second helping for him without asking.

---

“Left arm up.” You raised your voice slightly over the compound’s gym speakers, watching Bucky jog to a halt near the sparring mats. He’d been training with Sam—light footwork drills, nothing too intense—but you’d caught the wince when he landed on the wrong foot. Twice.

Bucky didn’t argue. Just stood still while you tugged his sleeve up past his elbow. The metal gleamed under the overhead lights, scuffed from friction burns. You pressed your fingers to the joint just above his wrist.

“Feels fine,” he said, too quickly.

You didn’t look at him. “You ever consider letting me finish an exam before making declarations?”

“Not really.”

You held out your hand. “Knife.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Back of your waistband, Barnes. Don’t pretend it’s not there.”

With a grunt, he pulled the hidden blade and handed it over. You set it beside the med kit you’d brought out for him, then gently tilted the arm back and forth, checking the rotation.

“I adjusted the resistance last week,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Feels like it’s dragging again. Could be a wiring imbalance.”

“You’re the only one who notices stuff like that,” he said before he could think better of it. You glanced up. He didn’t move. “…I mean,” he continued, “I don’t think Tony even knows how this part works. But you always—”

“That's because you clench your fingers when you're in pain,” you interrupted, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Metal doesn’t bruise, but tension still shows.”

You flexed his hand slowly with both of yours, checking the motor response. Warm hands on cold vibranium.

Across the gym, Sam watched for a beat before wisely deciding now was the time to disappear.

---

He came back from the shower and found the bandage drawer in his bathroom neatly restocked. Same with the small jar of the eucalyptus balm you’d quietly started using on the nerve scars along his shoulder. He never asked for it. Never mentioned when it ran out. But there it was.

A sticky note sat on the lid, folded in half.

“Start with a thin layer. Don’t overdo it or you’ll smell like a tree. —Y/N”

Underneath was a doodle of a tiny pine tree with a frowny face sat in the corner. He set it down, sat on the edge of the bed, and rubbed his hand over his face.

You were everywhere, quietly.

In the gym, reminding him to stretch after missions. In the kitchen, always placing the sugar on his side of the table. In the med bay, adjusting the light so it wouldn’t buzz when he sat under it. In the way Wanda handed him a book and said, “Y/N thought you’d like this one.”

You never called attention to any of it. Never asked for anything back.

And somehow, it all hit him right now, in the silence of his own damn room.

You weren’t just being kind.

You were being kind to him.

He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. The balm sat next to him, untouched.

And suddenly, all he could think was: When did I start needing her?

Not just the medical part. Not just the stitches and the vitamins and the “take your painkillers or I’ll sedate you myself” threats.

But you.

All of it.

He grabbed the sticky note again, turning it over in his hand.

Then grabbed the balm, because yeah, maybe he did smell like a tree. But if it meant you’d still be hovering nearby tomorrow, clipboard in hand and eyes soft with concern?

He didn’t mind at all.

---

You were in the med bay, updating reports and reorganizing supplies. Calm, routine stuff. A protein bar sat on a napkin next to your tablet, but you hadn’t even taken a bite.

The team had been deployed on a perimeter sweep near Budapest—low threat, minimal risk. You hadn’t worried… until the comm crackled to life.

“Y/N.” It was Steve. His voice was tight. “We need med bay prepped. ETA fifteen minutes.”

You were already standing. “What happened?”

There was a pause. “Bucky’s hit. Left side. Took a hit shielding Nat from debris. We’ve stabilized him, but he’s not great.”

Not great.

Your stomach dropped. “Vitals?”

“Still with us. But you’ll need to dig deep.”

You were already moving. Vitals cart on, sterilizers heating, IVs prepped, and sutures laid out. You opened the drawer with the trauma shears and had to stop—both hands braced on the metal edge as your throat locked tight.

A cold rush of adrenaline prickled your skin.

He’s still with us.

But “not great” was a hell of a distance from okay.

You scrubbed your hands, twice, and blinked hard. A few tears fell anyway, streaking silently down your cheeks before you wiped them off and pulled your gloves on. No time for panic. No time for feelings.

You weren’t his person. But somewhere along the line, he’d become yours.

---

The rear ramp dropped. Tony hovered in with the stretcher as Sam helped guide it. Natasha’s jaw was set, her hands smeared with blood—his blood.

And there he was.

Unconscious. Pale. Lips slightly parted like he was stuck in a breath. His vibranium arm was twitching involuntarily.

You snapped into motion. “On the table—now. Hook up the monitor. Nat, give me the full report while I—damn it, someone get this vest off.”

Natasha rattled off the damage as you cut open the combat suit. Shrapnel through the lower left ribs. Vascular trauma. Debris burn across the shoulder. One lung likely bruised.

“Vitals are dropping,” Steve muttered. “Y/N—”

“I know.” You clamped gauze to the worst bleeder, then barked, “Steve, scrub in or get out.”

The room cleared fast.

You didn’t notice your hands trembling until you felt the blood pooling under your glove, hot and sticky. You dug in anyway.

---

He was stable. Bandaged and hooked up to monitors. His chest rising and falling, slower now. Normal. You sat beside him, stripped of your gloves and gown, hands raw from scrubbing, and eyes blurry.

You hadn’t left. Hours had passed. Everyone else had, but not you.

“You okay?” His voice rasped through the quiet.

You startled, looking up—Bucky’s eyes were half-lidded but open, watching you.

You sniffed, tried to smile. “You’re awake.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” You exhaled, shoulders dropping. He blinked slowly. “Your eyes are red.”

You rubbed your sleeve across your face. “Long day.”

His brow furrowed. “Y/N.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were crying.”

“No, I—”

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low but steady. His vibranium arm, clumsy but precise, reached up and caught your hand. Gently tugged.

You tried to resist, just a little.

“C’mere.”

You let him pull you. One second you were sitting stiffly in the chair, the next you were curled against his good side, your forehead tucked under his jaw, cheek pressed to the edge of his shoulder.

He held you. A warm, real, heartbeat under your ear.

“I told you not to be a hero,” you whispered into his collar.

“Wasn’t trying to be. Just saw Nat about to get flattened.”

“You took a rebar to the ribs, Barnes.”

“Still breathing, aren’t I?”

You let out a weak laugh—half sob, half laugh. His hand came up and cradled your head gently before he pressed a kiss to your hairline. “I’m okay.”

“You weren’t,” you said, voice cracking. “Not for a while. You weren’t.”

His hand never stopped stroking your hair. “But I am now. Because you’re here.”

You gripped his shirt harder, hiding your face. “Don’t do that again.”

He didn’t say anything. Just held you closer. And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—you finally let yourself fall apart. And he didn’t let go.

---

The med bay was quieter than usual.

Bucky was sitting up now, monitors off, bandages fresh. He’d been cleared for light movement earlier that morning, and now he sat on the edge of the bed, tugging awkwardly at the edge of his hospital tee like it was itching.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him. “Looks like you’re getting ready to make a break for it,” you said lightly.

He looked up, lips twitching. “If I had my boots, I might try.”

“You’d make it about ten feet before collapsing.”

“Worth it.”

You pushed off the frame, stepping into the room. There was a new cup of tea in your hand—same chipped mug, same two sugars. You set it down beside him on the table without a word.

Bucky stared at it for a second, then up at you. “I’m getting the feeling you’re trying to fatten me up,” he said.

You shrugged. “Easier target.”

That earned a quiet laugh. He picked up the mug and sipped, but his gaze didn’t leave you. “You didn’t sleep,” he said after a beat.

You blinked. “I did.”

He gave you a look. “Y/N.”

You sighed. “Okay, maybe not a lot.”

“You stayed with me. Again.”

“I always stay with patients.”

“No, you don’t.”

Silence. He set the mug down, slow and deliberate, and reached for your wrist—not fast, not demanding, just enough to make you stop retreating. You let him take your hand.

“I remember,” he said quietly. “When I woke up. You were crying.”

You swallowed. “You were bleeding out. I didn’t know if I was gonna lose you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I could’ve.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “But you didn’t.”

Your breath hitched. “I can’t lose you, Buck,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I can’t.”

He tugged gently, pulling you between his knees, one hand still cradling your fingers, the other resting lightly against your hip.

“You’re not gonna,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. Not from you.”

Your eyes were glassy again. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It is,” he said. “Now it is. Because this—” his vibranium hand tapped his chest, just above the fresh bandage “—hurts like hell. But not half as bad as seeing your face when I woke up.”

Your breath caught.

And then he leaned up, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Your lips met his—warm, careful, steady. Like a promise being made in real time.

When you pulled back, your forehead stayed pressed to his. His eyes were half-lidded, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“You kiss all your patients?” he whispered.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Only the ones who try and disobey medical orders.”

He grinned, a little crooked. “I wasn’t gonna disobey.”

You arched a brow. “Liar.”

He kissed you again. This time a little firmer, more sure. And when you pulled away again, his arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you close.

“Stay a little longer?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

[cheekybarneslibrary]

how is this so soft and sweet it actually gave me a cavity!!! bucky stumbling through it and still managing to be the most sincere man alive 🥺 i’m holding this fic so close to my heart, i needed the wholesome fluff this morning, thank you for this gift!!

james "bucky" barnes x reader summary: bucky brings you flowers. word count: 1.2k warnings: a bit of language notes: this is a rewrite of something I have already posted here. but it was my first attempt at a one-shot since 2017, and I wanted to try again :)

Bucky knocks, three quick taps on your door, and he immediately regrets it. 

It’s too late, too sudden; he doesn’t even know you that well. 

His left hand clutches a bouquet of red roses tightly, glove securely hiding the vibranium fingers beneath. His right hand lifts to adjust his short hair, and fingertips quickly fall to brush over his lips. And just as he turns to leave, he hears the lock click and the squeak of the hinges long left unattended.

You peer through the crack, and Bucky clocks the small furrow of your brows as you look him over and suddenly remembers why he came to your door tonight. He feels a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he notices the fluffy purple robe tucked tightly around your body, and then his eyes shoot up toward the ceiling before they can linger on your bare legs.

“James?” you ask, recognizing the brooding neighbor who moved in next door a couple of months ago.

He ignores the heat at the tips of his ears and forces his gaze back to yours. “Hey,” he mumbles and clears his throat, “you’re up… that’s good. I mean, I’m sorry — to be bothering you so late…”

“Oh,” you mumble and lean against your doorframe, crossing your arms tightly across your chest. Bucky thinks his heart might melt as you tilt your head slightly. “It’s okay,” you assure him. “Is — Are you okay?”

He’s almost shocked. No one asks him that, except for Dr. Raynor and maybe Sam.

“Yeah — yes,” he answers quickly and adds, “I shouldn’t even be here. I shouldn't have woken you up.” And promptly, he’s turning again as if he might just walk off and leave you standing there, alone and confused in your doorway.

But he’s stopping again when you say, “James, wait,” and those steel blue eyes are almost desperate as they meet yours again. “I —,” and now you’re stumbling for words. You have only ever spoken to James in passing — a hello as you pass in the stairwell, a smile in exchange for his tight-lipped grimace, and once an apology as you noisily fumbled to unlock your door after one too many drinks. Your eyes flick down, noticing for the first time a small cluster of roses held tightly in his hand, and your arms drop as you gesture lightly toward them. “Um, what’s with the flowers?” you ask. 

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, and then the roses are under your nose as his hand shoots out toward you. “They’re yours. I mean, I got them — for you,” he says, and he gives you a shy smile almost as if it’s a second thought offered to set you at ease.

Your eyes dart between that hesitant smile and the flowers you’re already reaching out for, and you ask, “For me?”

“Yes,” he says, but then he’s quickly pulling the flowers back to his chest, and muttering, “This is weird. Fuck, this is weird. I didn’t —.” He clears his throat again, rubbing a hand over his forehead as though he can force the wrinkles to relax, and he continues, “It’s just that the doc — she said to nurture relationships. And Yori — he tried to set me up. I don’t know — he asked this waitress out on a date for me.”

You stick your hand up, halting his rambling, and you shake your head in confusion. “What — Are you talking about the grumpy old man who lives downstairs?”

Your neighbor’s brow furrows, only deepening the creases in his forehead. “Yes,” he answers, “he — he’s not so grumpy once you get to know him. I — that’s not the point. That’s what you got from this?”

You release a nervous chuckle and shrug, saying, “I — I don’t know… I’m sorry, please continue.”

He swiftly brushes a hand through his hair, and you note the piece that falls limp against his forehead before he proceeds. “Yori tried to ask this waitress out for me, and I realized… I — I realized that I didn’t want to go out with her.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, stunned, and suddenly you can hear your pulse pounding in your ears. 

“James, what is going on?” You ask.

Bucky’s palms are sweating, and he shifts from one foot to the other, and you think you hear him utter your name under his breath. “I — I realized that I didn’t want to date her. I…” he trails off, his tongue darting over his lips and his eyes falling to the ground before darting back to yours with an intensity that wasn’t there before. “I want to date you.”

You inhale sharply, eyes going round and jaw falling slack. 

And Bucky is rambling on before you can find anything to say. “And this — this is fucking weird, but I had to try.” He chuckles, shaking his head as his eyes flick from yours to the floor and back again. “I tried online dating, but that was — I don’t even know what I was looking at. And I thought about this date with the waitress… but I kept coming back to you.” 

He extends the flowers again, and you hesitantly reach for them, still uncertain of how to respond. Your fingers brush lightly over his as you take them, bare flesh meeting the dark leather of the gloves he always wears.

You bring the flowers to your nose as he speaks once more, “You… you brought me cookies when I moved in, and — you’re nice… you’re so nice, even when I can be a dick, and sometimes — sometimes, I can hear you singing that song you always sing through the walls…”

Your cheeks grow warmer by the second, nerves skyrocketing, and you bury your nose further into the flowers in an attempt to hide your growing smile.

“And, I —,” he swipes his left hand across his mouth quickly, offering another nervous smile. “I’m here… making an absolute fool of myself — just to ask you on a date.”

“James —,” you begin before he cuts you off. 

“I know I’m acting fucking crazy,” he adds, “but I couldn’t just see that other woman without knowing that… that I didn’t have a chance with you because — ‘cause it’s you…”

“James,” you interrupt, more firmly this time. He finally stops, seemingly taking a breath for the first time since you opened the door, and his shocking blue eyes flick to yours — the nerves showing in his voice reflect more clearly in those eyes. The smile tugging at your lips is obvious now, and you tell him, “I work Saturday, but meet me here that night — how does seven o’clock sound?” 

Now you watch, amusement flickering clear in your eyes, as Bucky’s eyes widen. “Seven? Yes, I — Seven, Saturday. Yes,” he nods once, eyes flicking between the flowers and your eyes. Then he’s shaking his head, seemingly shaking a thought free before confirming, “Saturday — I’ll see you at seven.” 

Then, he’s turning away again, leaving just as quickly as he came, but you call out just before he turns the corner towards his own apartment. “James!” 

He pauses, tilting his head back so you know he’s listening. 

“Thank you for the roses,” you say.

You swear you see a smile on his lips before his hand shoots up in a small wave. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

[cheekybarneslibrary]

come back to me | b. barnes

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ synopsis: it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did.

-> pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

-> disclaimers: so much angst that it’s sickening, yearning, cursing, minor use of y/n, reader and bucky are exes, the thunderbolts are a found family and i make sure of it, bucky has relationship insecurity, unresolved tension, i got carried away with angst (peep word count), bucky and his beautiful dyson airwrap blowout, happy ending.

-> word count: 10k+ (BYEEEE)

-> song rec: cardigan by taylor swift

-> a/n: first ever fic on this blog and it’s angst. i thrive off of tense silence and painful longing. it’s long but worth it (this deserved length)

The knocks come close to midnight. You’re still awake, folding all of your laundry you’d tackled on your day off. You aren’t tired by any means, however, you definitely weren’t expecting the company behind those three even raps on the wooden door of your apartment.

You approach the door with rightful caution—something your years of fighting crime, aliens and evil villains had taught you—but nothing you’d faced before could have ever prepared you for what was on the other side of that peephole.

You almost didn’t open it, backing away with a heartbeat that pumped too quickly for you to keep up. Your breathing grew heavy, like the weight you’ve spent so long trying to lift off your shoulders came crashing down on you again. Yet, there’s a part of you inside that desperately wants to swing the door open, which only makes you angrier—that after all this time, your heart still fails you in the presence of him.

Despite the voices in your head screaming at you from every angle, your body betrays you. Fingers switch the locks and you’re pulling the door open, a small gust of wind following in its path.

Bucky Barnes looks different from the last time you saw him—in person, at least. You’ve seen the new prince charming hair and scruffy beard plenty of times on your television but after a while, his face grew harder to look at so you stopped paying attention. Something once familiar became foreign and you convinced yourself you accepted that.

But there he stands at your front door. Only he isn’t alone, because behind him are the rest of his team of bandits turned heroes; bruised, bloodied and battered.

For a second, you don’t think you’d be able to speak but then your mouth moves faster than your brain. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It’s silent, and you’re pissed. The goddam Thunderbolts are at your front door in the middle of the night and none of them have the decency to speak. Not even the man who brought them there.

“Is this a joke?” You say, blinking.

Bucky, as if your words snap him out of some sort of daze, raises his chin. “Hi Y/N.”

His voice was as gruff and deep as you remember and the sound of his name rolling off your tongue triggers something you thought you’d long gotten rid of.

When you don’t respond, out of equal parts shock and anger, Bucky continues, “We’re on a mission and it hasn’t been going well. We need,” He pauses. “We need some place to stay. Just for the night.”

There was no way, you think. Maybe you passed out and hit your head, hard enough for your brain to conjure up this sadistic nightmare.

“Seriously?” You breathe, fingers clutching the door with an effort that makes your knuckles turn white.

Bucky opens his mouth but is unable to come up with any words—shame and guilt flickering in every corner of his eyes.

You use the silence to glance around at the other five strangers standing at your front door. They look like they’ve all gone through the ringer; dirty and exhausted. When your eyes land on hers—Yelena’s—your breath falters.

She looks exactly like Natasha under the harsh fluorescent light of your hallway, with a deep gash on her lip and those same rich blue eyes. She stares back at you, tired in a way that makes your heart hurt.

Suddenly, you felt like shit for contemplating slamming the door right in their faces.

When your eyes meet Bucky’s again, that thumping in your heart is undeniable—the one that reminds you of just how much he’d once meant to you, of how you would’ve pulled him inside without question had he knocked on your door years earlier. It was yelling at you to let him inside. Them.

Because that part of you, the one that once loved him and everything that came with him, wasn’t entirely gone. No matter how much you tried to get rid of her.

With a sharp inhale, you step to the side for them to walk through.

Bucky hadn’t expected you to. Of course, he knew the kind of person you once were but he didn’t know the kind of person you are now—you had every right to turn him away and yet, your apartment door was wide open.

His feet feel frozen in place. After a moment of waiting for him to move, and sharing confused glances when he didn’t, the rest of The Thunderbolts begin walking through your door giving you murmurs of appreciation.

Bucky was the last one to step inside.

He feels the energy shift the second he walks through the threshold of your apartment. He hasn’t been inside since the breakup—since the day he practically ripped your heart out with his hand and tried to move on like nothing had happened.

You hate the way he doesn’t bother to look around like the rest of his teammates because he already knows the apartment like the back of his hand. More so, you hate locking the door behind him because that makes the situation all the more real.

Clearing your throat, you spin around despite the fact that your brain still feels as if it’s melting. “I’m Y/N.” You don’t know why you bother telling them your name when surely he beat you to it.

“Oh, we know who you are.” The big man—Red Guardian, you think—laughs, a smile stretching across his face in admiration. “You are Avenger. I see you fight on television. Big fan.”

You blink. “Well, I’ve seen you all fight on TV too,” Your words are laced with bitterness and you resist the urge to side-eye Bucky in the process. “The New Avengers. That’s taken some getting used to.”

Everyone in the room can feel the tension between you and the man who stands near the archway of the hallway, attempting to remain out of the way.

They know you and Bucky used to be a thing, the whole world does. The details of said separation are unknown to most but people have their theories and the creation of The New Avengers is rumored to be one of them.

“For us too, believe it or not.” The woman with a short brown bob and thick accent steps forward. “Thank you for opening your home to us. I’m Ava.”

You give her a simple nod of acknowledgement before the room falls back into quiet.

Then, John Walker who leans against your wall cockily, clears his throat. Your head shoots towards him and you resist the urge you have to drop kick him out the window of your apartment.

You knew him, of course. You’d been there when Sam and Bucky took down the Flag Smashers, and when the same shield that once belonged to Captain America was dripping with blood on live television at the hands of the very man standing in your living room.

“Ma’am.” He nods, offering a mock salute.

“Right.” Your voice is clipped when you look everywhere but at him, disregarding him sassily.

“Is this,” an unsure voice interrupts. It belongs to the brunette man with the shy face whom you hadn’t heard speak until now. He stands near the side table, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of intruding by just asking. “Is this you?”

He’s looking at one of the various picture frames on the table, stopped in front of one in particular—a slightly worn photo in a gold frame. It’s of you, sitting cross legged on a rooftop during golden hour. You were laughing, with your head thrown back happily and wearing his sweatshirt that was slightly too big for you. The city behind you was blurry but glowing, making your smile look radiant.

You swallow. The laugh in the picture still echoes in your head and you remember every second up to that photo being taken.

Years ago, Bucky and you sat on the rooftop of a building in Prague. The two of you had been on a mission, a long and exhausting one where you’d figured you both needed a moment of peace among the chaos. On the roof, you watched the sunset together and you practically begged him to take a photo with you to commemorate the night. He refused nonchalantly, and you teased him that he’s never in any photos. He joked that he can never sit still long enough to take them.

“Gives me cramps.” He smiled.

You’d thought that was the funniest thing you’d heard all day. Your laugh was genuine, pure and sweet sounding in his ears as it bounced off the rooftop of the building. At the sight of your easy smile, Bucky lifted up his phone and snapped the photo. You’d scolded him for taking the candid without giving you a warning, but he absolutely loved it.

“‘M gonna frame this,” He stared at it in admiration between your laughter. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Bucky.” You’d whined, a flush gracing your face.

“Seriously.” He turned to you, eyes softening. “Always so damn beautiful.”

The next time he’d come into your apartment, the first thing he had done was place the framed photo on your table, insisting you keep this version because he’d already printed out one of his own.

Now, the picture sat still and quiet, collecting dust because it hadn’t been appreciated since he left.

“That’s me,” You confirm to the man. “A few years back on a mission. Someone told a joke and I guess I laughed hard enough to be worth remembering.”

He nods, a gentle smile on his face. “It’s a good picture. You look happy.”

You blink, the photo staring back at you almost mockingly. “I was.”

Bucky shifts on his feet where he stands the farthest away in the living room. He knows exactly what photo it is without even having to see it because it’s still the lockscreen on his phone, only he never lets people get close enough to question it.

The younger man’s gaze flickers up to you like he can sense the sadness you feel by looking at the photo. He steps towards you, offering you his hand meekly. “I’m Bob.”

Maybe it’s something about his face, or the attentiveness with which he holds himself, but you smile back—small and sweet. “Nice to meet you, Bob.”

You’re still holding Bob’s hand when another voice speaks from behind you. “You’re a lot quieter than I imagined.”

You twist around and there she is, staring at you with sharp but exhausted eyes.

“Yelena,” She says, stepping forward and offering her hand too. “Belova.”

You take it, her grip steady, and fight the urge to say that you already know who she is. It appears she caught onto the fact that you recognize something in her.

“Y/N.” You nod your head back, taking the moment to analyze her face because it looked so much like the one you’d grown to miss.

She swallows, eyes flickering between your own, like maybe she wishes she knew you like her older sister had. “I like your place. It smells like coffee and books.”

The comment makes you huff, a quiet and gentle laugh. “Thank you.”

When you pull your hand away, you take a moment to scan the room full of standing guests, waiting to be told what was appropriate of them by you, who was now their host. You rarely have people over anymore so you aren’t entirely sure how to do this. Your eyes linger in the direction where Bucky stands for only a second, before you clear your throat and shake him off of you.

“Can I get you guys anything?” You ask no one in particular.

“Change of clothes.” Yelena.

“Water.” John.

“A first aid kit.” Ava.

“Snacks, please.” Bob.

“Tequila.” Alexei.

A small “oh” leaves your mouth as The Thunderbolts speak over each other, staring at you with hesitant grins and eager eyes.

“Yeah,” You nod your head. “Uh, the bathroom's down the hall and the kitchen’s through those doors. I don’t have any tequila but I do have snacks, water, and vodka in the top left cupboard.

Alexei practically threw his fist in the air with a joyous, “Yes!”

Bob almost did too at the mention of free snacks.

“There’s also blankets in that basket right there and the remote for the TV is on the coffee table,” You explain, motioning around with your hands and entirely unaware of the way Bucky’s softened eyes fixate on you and your natural hospitality. “I’ll go get the first aid and clothes, but uhm, help yourself to anything. Except if you’re Walker, which in that case, you can sit on the couch and not speak.”

It was a sarcastic joke—one that earns a snort from Yelena and a soft chuckle from Ava. Even Bucky, who remains behind you at a far enough distance, feels his lips curl up in a grin.

“I deserve that.” John nods, plopping down on the couch with an exhausted huff, ultimately just happy to have somewhere safe and comfortable to rest for a little.

Bob and Alexei remain still, neither man wishing to overstep boundaries, especially yours, though they so desperately want to get into that kitchen. Sensing their eagerness, you nod towards the kitchen once more in reassurance. Both of them immediately set off for it, seemingly racing each other to see who can get to the goodies first.

You blink, shaking your head in what was still disbelief before twisting around on your feet to head towards the hallway. Unlucky for you, Bucky still leaned against the doorway to the hall and when your eyes meet his, you nearly freeze in your spot.

You almost forgot he was there.

After so long of him being gone, you eventually got used to not having his physical being pressed to the couch or sleeping in your bed. However, his presence straggled in every corner of your apartment, haunting you in a way that kept you up at night because of how strongly you felt it—felt him. The fact that he’s back inside feels extremely surreal, but something you’d secretly imagined for years whenever you looked at a photo of him for too long or smelled the lingering scent of his cologne on one of your pillows.

You open your mouth, as if you instinctively want to speak, but shut it equally as quickly. You have nothing to say to him. Not right now.

You can’t pinpoint when it starts to feel normal. Not entirely, but just enough so that the silence in your apartment isn’t uncomfortable anymore. Just enough that their boots by the front door and empty water glasses on the table don’t feel like clutter but rather, signs of life.

Maybe it’s when you toss back a shot with Red Guardian, because he insists it’s his way of saying thank you, and his laugh almost physically shakes the apartment with how happy he is to be “drinking with an actual Avenger!” Or when Ava and John sit on the couch, fighting over the remote and arguing about what movie they should watch for the night.

Maybe it’s when you catch Bob carefully folding up one of your throw blankets into a comfy square, before plopping on the ground to eat a granola bar like it was a five star meal. Or when Yelena clamors all over your kitchen in search of microwave popcorn and shortly gets distracted in a conversation with you about your makeup routines, so the first batch burns. You both laugh about it extensively and even more so when Alexei insists you let him eat it instead of throwing it out.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s when Bob—sweet, innocent Bob—asks where your glasses are so he can get some water, and before you can even get up from your seat on the couch, Bucky’s already on his feet.

“Bottom cabinet, to the left of the sink.” He says over his shoulder, though he’s already halfway there.

You hesitate, lips parting like maybe you mean to say something but no words are capable of coming out. You merely watch him as he moves with ease–like he still belonged, like nothing has changed.

He doesn’t look at you either, not when he opens the cabinet and pulls out the glass without question. Not when he passes it off to Bob like it’s completely normal. Not when he walks right back to his seat on your arm chair in the corner of the room without so much as glancing in your direction.

Suddenly, you’re angry again–that same heat bubbling up in the middle of your chest and threatening to spew out with every second you spend staring at him.

How dare he? Your brain screams. How dare he float around your apartment after everything that happened? How dare he bring his team to the place where you live and just expect you to let them in? And how dare you be so completely and utterly helpless as to fall for it.

You curse yourself and your stupid heart; the one that still reserved a spot for him despite all that you’d done these past years to try and relinquish him. It was impossible to forget Bucky Barnes and you learned that the hard way. Even more so, it was impossible to unlove him. You realize this the more you look at him sitting, with his idiotically beautiful prince hair and uniform that he hasn’t bothered to change out of yet.

As if he could feel your eyes on him, he glances up from where he fiddles with a ring on his finger and your eyes meet for what feels like one too many times that night.

This time, though, you really can’t find it in yourself to look away. Not yet.

His breath hitches in his throat and you notice the way his body goes still under your gaze. He leans back in his seat, slowly but softly, like he’s tired and no longer wants to hide it from you. His tough, soldier demeanor falters for a second, his eyebrows softening at the distant expression in your face.

It was killing him inside, that he was this close to you physically, but so, so far away from you emotionally.

Bucky had been the one to call off your relationship around three years ago. After the whole ordeal with the Flagsmashers was over and Sam had finally gotten the shield back, you and Bucky had decided to move on together. He’d completed his book of amends, having made peace with all of the people he’d harmed and finally feeling like he’d made peace with himself.

The two of you were good–perfect, even—for months after that. You were settling down, taking things slowly, but beginning to live a life that didn’t always require missions every other day and constantly fighting off evil villains.

He’d practically moved in, falling asleep and waking up beside you in your bed, limbs tangled in the sheets like you could stay forever that way. He’d make you coffee in the morning after you’d smothered his face in kisses to wake him, then you’d spend all day together because you couldn’t bear to be a minute apart. You’d walk around town going to restaurants, or shops, or little book stores where he watched you scan the shelves with such admiration, you thought he might’ve jumped out of a romance novel himself.

He took you on dates and never once forgot flowers, no matter how many times you insisted you didn’t need that many bouquets of lilies. He’d stay up late with you while you binge watched one of your ridiculous reality shows, sitting behind you on the couch and pretending he wasn’t engaged though you knew he secretly loved it. He’d smile whenever you danced around the living room of your apartment while you were cleaning, and complained, but ultimately gave in when you’d tug him by the arm and insisted he slow danced with you too.

That was the life you’d dreamed of and just when the both of you started to get it, things began falling out of reach.

Bucky still struggled, hell, you did too, but adjusting to the simple life was a lot more difficult for him than it was for you. He’d still wake up with frequent nightmares where you’d then hold him until he felt safe enough to fall back to sleep in your arms. Sometimes he’d go silent, leave to get some fresh air and not come back for hours. When he did though, you’d always be waiting with a gentle hug and a warm cup of tea—ears open if he wished to speak about it, which he never really did.

Each time he felt like maybe he was getting better, he always fell back into old habits. You helped, of course. In fact, you were the only thing making him happy in his own life and the knowledge of that made Bucky overwhelmed with guilt.

He knew you wanted to settle down, wanted to slowly begin living a life of peace and quiet, with the occasional ‘saving the world mission’ here and there. Yet, he was worried you would never be able to achieve that tranquil lifestyle with him attached at your side. He was used to the chaos, to the noise and restlessness, so it was only a matter of time before he began feeling like one giant burden to you.

Your kindness, your hope, your ability to love without condition were all things that Bucky felt completely undeserving of—wonderful things that you were wasting on him. He’d felt selfish asking you to wait beside him while he tried to fix himself over and over again, so he convinced himself that letting you go was the most selfless thing he could do.

“Bucky,” You had stepped forward, with a frown and tears that threatened to spill over your waterline. “I just, I want to be here for you.”

“I know,” He nodded, trying his best to make you understand though he didn’t quite understand it himself. “But you shouldn’t have to. I don’t want to hold you back anymore. I don’t want you to keep bending yourself backwards for me, it’s not fair to you.”

“This isn’t fair to me,” You shook your head in disbelief. “I want to be with you. None of it bothers me, not if it means I get to have you, you know that right?”

“And what about the life you want to live?” He hummed, water brimming his own eyes. “I’m not going to be able to give you that–none of the peace or the quiet–not when I can barely go to sleep on my own without waking up from these fucked nightmares. There’s, just, so much more out there for you than this.”

Every word that slipped from his mouth was equivalent to someone taking a knife that was freshly sharpened and lodging it in your chest repeatedly. “So what,” You blinked up at him. “You’re gonna leave? After all of this, you want to leave because you think you’re too difficult?”

“Y/N, you don’t get sleep anymore because of me. You say it yourself, you’re so exhausted and it’s because of me. You stay up, waiting for me to come home and I feel like shit the moment I step through that door and see you still awake on the couch. It kills me that you feel like you have to do that, because you don’t and you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have to wait for me anymore.” He continued.

“That doesn’t matter to me. I’ll do it, I’ll wait for you no matter what.” Your words come from your gut—genuine and determined. “When we started dating, I told you that I’d be here to take care of you regardless of the circumstances. I meant that because I love you too much to let you do this alone.”

“And I love you too much to drag you down with me.” He blurted, just as a stray tear rained down his cheek.

Your body faltered and you paused at the feeling of your heart crack away in your chest. The reality of the situation had weighed on you, and you needed a moment to catch up—to understand that Bucky was being serious.

Sure you’d argued before, over little things that you resolved with a second of alone time, some communication and a shared kiss. However, this didn’t feel like the sort of conversation that could be fixed with a kiss. The expression on Bucky’s face started to make you think that he had already made up his mind.

“So,” Your voice cracked. “So what, this is it? You’re just gonna leave after everything we've been through, after all the time we’ve spent here? This is your home.”

“And it was your home first.” He breathed. “You opened your door to me and so I came in, with all of my bullshit and problems. I intruded.”

“You did not intrude–”

“I did.” He pressed, sternly. “I don’t want to ruin this for you, I can’t. Not when you’re so bright, and full of life, and good. God, you’re so good, that I don’t want to be the one responsible for taking that away from you. You deserve better than me, better than this.”

Had your knees not locked, you thought you might’ve collapsed right there on the floor of your living room. It was a horrible dream, a sick one even. Except, the more you stared into the depths of his, once, vibrant ocean eyes to find them darkened to a storm blue, you realized just how real this was.

Bucky approached you slowly, his gentle hands finding their places on the sides of your hips, holding you up and simultaneously closer to him. “I’m sorry,” He whispered, it sounded more like a whimper past his devastated lips. “I’m so sorry.”

You sobbed almost immediately, dropping your head and letting it fall against his chest. He didn’t push you away, only wrapped his arms around you and held you like it was the last time he was going to—which in this case, it was.

It didn’t feel the same though. His grip was tight around you but his hold was loose, like he had already checked out by the time he’d placed his chin on top of your head and ran his hand down your back in comfort. Regardless, you savoured the moment, melted into it for as long it took to commit his touch to memory. Unfortunately for you, the feeling of his skin on yours would linger like a tattoo for all the years that he’d be away.

Your sadness was shortly accompanied by anger, a feeling completely foreign to you, especially around the man you loved. You were wiggling out of his grasp, and pushing him by the chest to increase the distance between the two of you.

He watched with knitted eyebrows as you wiped the tears off of your face on the sleeves of the hoodie you wore—one that belonged to him. You tried to regulate your breathing, make it as leveled as you could so you could spit out the words, “Fine. Go.”

This time, it was Bucky who felt like he’d just gotten stabbed in the chest.

“If giving up on our relationship is easier for you than sticking around, there’s no reason for you to be here anymore.” You hiss, sudden resentment dripping off of your tongue.

You had every reason in the world to be upset about this, he knew this. He also knew that it was hypocritical of him to be hurt by your words because this was his doing, after all. He deserved this, he reminded himself, your anger and your hatred as opposed to your patience and love. Because Bucky’s days as The Winter Soldier had trained him to be unloveable–to be cruel, and sad, and lonely. That was all he knew and sometimes, he felt it was all he was made for.

“Go.” You snapped when he couldn't find the dignity to move his legs. “Please. Just, please get the hell out, and don’t come back.”

With an empty void where his heart should be, Bucky left that night, for good this time. He didn’t quietly enter again at two in the morning to be greeted by the love of his life carrying a warm cup of freshly brewed tea. He didn’t climb into your bed with you so you could comb your fingers through his hair and lull him to sleep. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t because he knew the distance was the only thing good for you. It was the only thing that would keep you free from him.

That distance held true for three years. No matter how many times you’d see him on your television, whether it was under the guise of Congressman Barnes or now, New Avenger Bucky, you never once ran back to him. It was something you’d thought about many times because god, you missed him more than you’d missed anything in your life, but you weren’t going to fall victim to your own heart.

Instead, he eventually ran back to you–standing at your front door with his new team, his new friends, his new priorities. None of which involved you. Up until the moment he needed a place to stay for the night.

Your attention finally flickers away as you turn back to the rest of The Thunderbolts that gathered in your living room despite the fact that it was well past midnight. Yelena, who sits beside you on the armrest of the couch, immediately jumps into storytime about what went wrong on their mission that resulted in them camping out at your place.

Alexei however, sprawls out on the floor with a small bowl of trail mix in his lap, tossing back peanuts into his mouth like a sport. His focus seems to be on Bucky. With a curious head tilt, he asks during a pause in Yelena’s story, “What’s up with this guy?”

The room falls into a beat of silence and all eyes flicker over to the super soldier, including yours, but you look away faster than any of them can notice.

“What?” Yelena hums.

“He has not said anything at all for the past hour.” Alexei continues.

“He doesn’t talk much, you know this.” Ava shrugs simply.

“Yeah, but he is talking a lot less than usual.”

Bucky inhales, leaning back in his seat and offering the room a small but sarcastic smile. “Just tired. Long day.”

The Thunderbolts nod in agreement, all except for Alexei who tilts his head between you and Bucky curiously. “Well, there is an elephant in this room and I think it is very big.”

“Dad.” Yelena hisses, nudging him in his foot with her own.

Your body tenses on the spot and you swallow the lump in your throat harshly.

“What? I am just curious,” He says genuinely. “They were a thing, no? Her and Barnes?”

As badly as you want to chuck one of your throw pillows directly at the Red Guardian’s head, it’s clear to tell that he was sincerely asking. He’s horrible at reading the room though, you’d give him that.

“There is a time and place,” Yelena mumbles under her breath. “We talked about this, remember?”

“I think this is the place,” he argues. “It feels so heavy in here, like I am crushed.”

You don’t want to look up to catch Bucky’s reaction to his teammate’s words, though you were sure it mimicked your own. Desperately needing to put an end to whatever this was, you straighten your shoulders in an attempt to be casual.

“It wasn’t really a thing,” You say lightly, like it’s not a carefully crafted lie. “We worked together for a long time, that’s all.”

A beat.

“So it was not anything more?” Alexei continues, in between crunches of trail mix. “Because I watched the news and the news said you were dating. But it can be wrong, the news can be wrong.”

Your stomach was churning quickly, like your ribs were bruising from the inside out. You hated talking about it because the wound was still fresh, like a cut that never scabbed over properly.

“We were partners who got close, but that's it. It was work, ” You respond simply, reaching for your glass of water like it would save you from this confrontation. “That’s all it ever was.”

And it hurts to say it like that—to minimize everything that once was between you, but it was the one thing you learned how to do since he left. It made the loss of him easier to manage.

Alexei, finally seeming to have caught on, frowns into his snack bowl and mutters something under his breath about Americans being too vague. Bob clears his throat, totally uncomfortable by the silence and tension, just like Ava and John who focus their attention on the television screen though it was obvious they were thinking about something else. Yelena gives you a small glance–not pitying, but knowing.

Bucky doesn’t say a word, but his hand is curled tight around the glass he sips from, so much so that his knuckles have gone completely white.

It pains him, so much more than he’d like to show on his face, to hear you diminish your relationship to simply business. Because he remembers it all; the early mornings and late nights, the dates and bouquets of unnecessary flowers, the slow dances in the very same living room you were gathered in. Despite having been the one to walk out, he thought about those moments every day of his life and it killed him to know that it was all just passing to you.

In your peripheral vision, you catch it; the way he gazes at the floor like if he stares at it long enough, he might just be able to sink right into it—the look on his face as if he’s watching the life he could’ve had disappear all over again.

The damage had been done and while it should’ve felt like a weight lifting off of your shoulders to say, it only makes your lungs close up even more. Your breathing begins to feel dense and the longer you sit in the living room, the more it feels like its walls are closing in on you.

You push yourself off of the couch to turn towards Bob on the ground and hold your hand out for his empty glass. “You want a refill, Bob?”

Truthfully, he doesn’t but he notices the desperation in your expression for a way out so he nods his head quickly.

You take his glass and set off towards the kitchen. The second you step inside, you immediately put the cup down to grip the edge of the counter. Dropping your head, you close your eyes and try to regulate your breathing but your chest is so heavy, it almost feels impossible.

You feel ridiculous for letting this bother you as much as it was, but how could it not? You’re trying so hard to fight the collapse of the walls around your heart but, god, they’re shaking. Buckling. Breaking. It’s only a matter of time before they crumble completely under the weight of every memory you’ve tried to keep buried.

Why does it hurt so much? Why does it still hurt so much?

You want to cry, your throat burning with the pressure of holding it all back. You inhale a deep breath, one that rattles on the way down. You keep your palms flat against the countertop, like maybe if you hold onto it hard enough, it might keep you from crashing to the ground.

A creak sounds from the floor behind you, soft and careful, indicating that someone has stepped into the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” Yelena’s raspy voice asks.

You don’t turn around right away, but open your eyes with a heavy breath. “Yeah.”

The lie was weak and perfectly unoriginal. Yelena doesn’t call you out for it. She just waits, unmoving.

Finally glancing over your shoulder, you see her—arms crossed over her chest as she leans against the doorframe, watching you with equal parts sympathy and intrigue.

“I feel like an idiot.” You admit, wearing your feelings right on your sleeve. “When I saw him at that door, it was like everything came rushing back and, and I couldn’t do anything but let him in. God, I’m so pathetic.”

“You are not pathetic.” Yelena tilts her head.

“Yes I am.”

“No,” She steps forward with knitted eyebrows. “You are not.”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment. When you can’t find the words to speak, she exhales a soft breath.

“We were in deep shit on this mission,” She explains. “Bucky told us he knew a friend who might be able to help but I had no idea that it’d be you. I don’t think he was even sure you would be willing, but you were the first person he thought of anyways. You didn’t have to open the door but you did because you’re good. Doesn’t sound pathetic to me.”

The admission makes your head pound and you nearly wince at the ache you feel around your temples.

Yelena watches you lean against the counter, your eyes darting around as if searching for an answer that wasn’t there. She swallows and asks cautiously, “What happened with you two?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, the sensation of lingering tears itching the back of your throat. You hate talking about it, but it’s been so long since anyone bothered to ask, that you think you might be able to get through it this time.

“It was his idea,” You say with a shaky breath. “To end things.”

Yelena doesn’t respond right away, doesn’t push—she just gives you room as your gaze fixates on the tiled floor, like it might offer you some clarity.

“He told me I deserved better,” You continue, the bitterness in your soft voice laced with sadness rather than spite. “That I was too good. Didn’t want to hold me back, or burden me. He said he wanted me to live a life where I wasn’t constantly trying to pull him out of the dark.”

Yelena’s gaze is quiet, unflinching as you move to sit across from her at the table with a sigh.

“The worst part about it is, I don’t even think I fought hard enough. I mean, yeah, I begged and I cried but, then I just got mad,” Your brows furrow as you recall the memory, like it physically pains you to do so. “I let him leave—I made him, and he did it like it was the easiest thing he’s ever done.”

You finally look up to meet her eyes.

“So yeah,” you say. “I’m still so angry. Angry that he left and found a new group of people to rely on, angry that I let him and didn’t fight harder for us, angry that I still—”

You stop yourself short, the words halting in your throat because saying them out loud terrified you.

Yelena blinks, softly nodding her head in understanding. “You still love him.”

Hearing her say the exact thing you were thinking makes the back of your eyes sting with tears that have been hiding themselves all night. You pause for a second, because she’s right, and you can’t stand it.

“I remember everything, Yelena. Every single fucking thing and I hate that I do.”

Yelena leans closer on the table, catching your eyes with sincerity. “He remembers too.”

You pause, breath tight in your throat.

“He never talks about it, but I can tell, we all can.” She continues gently. “There’s this bracelet—gold and braided with a star charm—you made that for him, didn’t you?”

Swallowing, you nod, remembering the one night where Bucky couldn’t sleep and you’d insisted on staying up with him, claiming you could do crafts to pass the time. He taught you how to make little animals out of origami and you taught him how to make friendship bracelets.

“He still wears it. Everyday, on every mission.” She explains. “The other day he forgot his phone on the kitchen counter. I tapped it to check the time and that photo of you, the one Bob saw in your living room, it’s still his wallpaper.”

You think your heart might give out right then and there. A single tear drops from your eyes and you dig your nails so far into the skin on your palm, it’s enough to make you bleed.

“Y/N,” Yelena speaks softly, reaching out to carefully place her hand on top of yours. “I do not think he has ever stopped thinking about you—loving you.”

This time, more tears fall before you have the chance to hold them back. Softly, you let Yelena unclench your fists so she can slip her hand into yours to hold.

“Then why did he leave?” You whisper between a small sob.

Yelena frowns, shaking her head. She didn’t have the answer.

You did though, so it was silly you even had to ask.

The night Bucky left replays in your head like a film reel, and his words echo in every corner of your brain.

“I love you too much to drag you down with me.”

It was ironic, you thought, because you’d only started drowning when you were without him. He was not your anchor but rather your life jacket—pulling you out of the deep end when you got too tired to swim. These last three years without him were the longest moments you’ve ever spent with your head submerged underwater.

When he left, you sank all over again.

The quiet chatter has slowly dissipated to a still, and the only noise comes from the gentle hum of the television.

From where you sit in the corner of the couch, you glance around the room at the silence. On the couch, Yelena lays with her head on your lap and her feet tangled with Ava’s, whose sleeping figure matches Yelena’s on the opposite end. Near your feet on the floor was Bob, resting comfortably on top of one of your throw pillows. The rest of the floor is occupied by Alexei and John, who sprawl out with outstretched limbs—Alexei face down as if he’d just passed out from a three day bender, and John using his backpack to rest his head because he refused when you’d offered him a pillow.

You let yourself glance briefly in Bucky’s direction, where he still sits on the armchair in the dark corner of the room. You can make out the silhouette of his fully clothed figure. His head leans back towards the ceiling, a tell he had to be sleeping.

While you don’t want to risk waking any of them up, you’re beginning to grow uncomfortable squished on the couch.

Gently, you lift up Yelena’s head just enough to tuck a throw pillow beneath it so she doesn't recognize your absence. Slipping off of the couch, you adjust her head atop it, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face to as she hums in delight before sinking further into the pillow.

Reaching into the wicker basket beside the couch, you unfold a fleece blanket and delicately drape it over Bob who’s curled up like a ball. He, too, makes a soft noise of satisfaction, and you swear he mumbles something under his breath that you can’t make you.

Of course he talks in his sleep. You can’t help but smile to yourself at the observation.

Twisting around, you step over John’s feet and over towards Alexei, whose snores are so deep, he seems to grumble with each step you take. With a hushed chuckle, you pick up the bowl of trial mix beside his body so he doesn’t knock it over in his sleep.

Backing away slightly, you falter in admiration at the scene before you. Your apartment has never been this full and you can’t remember the last time you had people over besides that time you hosted dinner for Joaquin Torres and Sam Wilson. Other than that, you’re always by yourself.

Except for tonight.

The team of heroes occupy so much space in your living room, it makes the walls feel less empty—less sad. Regardless of how you felt about them before they entered the threshold of your apartment, you knew how you feel about them now. They’re chaotic, and messy, and unbelievably new to this whole “working as a team” thing, but in the few hours that they’ve kept you company in your place, they’ve offered you more joy and comfort than you’ve experienced in a while.

Beside you, Bucky shifts in his seat. He’s been wide awake the entire time—enough to see you give Yelena the pillow and Bob the blanket, enough to watch you observe his team with a soft, longing expression. The same one he carried whenever he looked at you for too long.

It was endearing, to say the least. To watch you care for his team like they were your own, despite not knowing any of them at all. You’ve always been that way—sweet, nurturing, and just plain kind. It makes Bucky’s heart swell, knowing that at least you didn’t lose that part of yourself when he left.

At the sound of movement, you glance in his direction and, once again, your body tenses at the sight.

“I didn’t know you were awake.” You say quietly, before your brain really registers you’re speaking to him.

He replies, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Blinking, you nod quickly before moving to carefully pick up the empty water glasses from the table. “Me either.”

You struggle to gather all of the cups so Bucky pushes himself out of the seat and moves to help you—against his inner monologue that tells him you’d likely be much happier if he sat down and didn’t move at all.

“It’s okay,” You stutter. “I’ve got it.”

“No, it’s alright, I’ll help.” He answers, picking up the remaining cups that you can’t.

You try to swallow the lump forming in your throat but it’s nearly impossible as you spin around to walk towards the kitchen, and Bucky follows hot on your trail. It’s silent when you place the glasses in the sink and you hate how natural it feels to watch Bucky do the same.

“I can clean these when I get up tomorrow,” Bucky nods. “Before we leave.”

“No, it’s fine.” You shake your head.

“I’ll just do it real quick so you don’t—”

“Seriously,” You interrupt more sternly this time as you finally look at him. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

He visibly swallows at your harshness, but nods nonetheless.

Then the two of you fall back into an odd quiet, where neither of you know what to say to each other but both understand that a conversation was inevitable from the moment he walked inside.

Blinking, you motion towards the sleeping bunch in your living room. “They’re, uhm,” You say. “They’re really great.”

Bucky purses his lips at the casualness with which you speak. “Yeah, they try.”

“Even Walker,” You continue, grabbing a towel to wipe down the counter because you so desperately need something to do with your hands. “He seems different.”

“He is.” Bucky nods, watching you intently. “I think we all are.”

His words have double meaning, this you know, and you hate the way you want to press him for details. Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek and focus on the counter you were cleaning.

Bucky knows he has to talk to you—keep the conversation going—because he knows this is the only opportunity he might get. It really is now or never.

“I’m sorry for asking you that favor.” Bucky says suddenly, sincerity laced in his soft but gruffly voice. “For showing up unannounced.”

You nearly pause, your knuckles squeezing the towel in your hand like it was the only force keeping you on earth. “Would you have shown up announced?” You ask, your words holding a hint of hostility.

Bucky stills. “Y/N,” He breathes, his voice just above a whisper, like he can read all of the sarcasm you speak with.

He watches you intently with a burning desire to fix all of the wrong he’d caused that day he left—to mend what was broken between the two of you because he’s not sure he can live anymore knowing you’re angry with him.

You shake your head quickly because not only was it stupid to have this conversation in the kitchen where a few feet away, his entire team slept, but also, you were petrified of the words that were going to leave his mouth once the two of you finally worked up the courage to talk it out.

“Bucky,” You breathe.

He pauses, waiting for you to go on.

Only you don’t. Instead, your eyes flicker down to the uniform he still has on. With a sudden blink and a change of demeanor, you tilt your head. “Do you want to change clothes?”

He pauses. “I didn’t bring any.”

You don’t know why you suddenly cared whether or not he was comfortable in his clothes. A lot of things, you notice, got confusing when you were around him.

“I,” You pause, hating yourself for thinking of what you were. Deciding it would simply be way easier to do instead of say, you twist around on the balls of your feet and begin walking down the hallway towards your room.

Bucky blinks, until you glance over your shoulder at him.

“C’mere.” You say quietly, your suggestion soft in his ears, whether you intend it to be or not.

His feet move faster than his brain can even process. His head gets foggy as he maneuvers through the hallway. He knew exactly where he’s going because he’d been to your room so many times before in the past. It almost made him sick to his stomach when he realizes that’s where you’re taking him.

When you turn that corner into your bedroom, Bucky stops just outside the doorframe. He glances inside, immediately overwhelmed by the familiarity of it all. It’s practically exactly as it was when he’d walked out that day, reminding him of just how much he’d left behind—a happiness he’d pulled out from right under your feet.

He watches you rummage through your closet, reaching high onto a shelf in search of something. You mindlessly glance in his direction, chest clenching at the way he stands frozen outside of the threshold. He's too afraid to step foot inside which is so weird, because the Bucky you knew once took up space in this room like it was his own.

Tugging down two articles of clothing from the shelf, you twist back to him and hold them out. “Here.” You say. “You left these here.”

The navy blue hoodie and black sweats are folded neatly in your outstretched hands in such a way that almost makes them look brand new. Only they aren’t. You wore them for months after he left because it felt better to sleep in his clothes than it did your own.

Bucky looks from your face and back down to the clothes. He doesn’t want to step forward to grab them—feeling entirely undeserving of walking back into your room after all this time. But you aren’t going to him. So you stand frozen in the middle of your room, waiting for the moment he musters up the courage to come inside and retrieve them himself.

Eventually, his feet make their way slowly over to you, taking the clothes with a gentle ease. He can’t figure out what to say so he gives you a small nod of appreciation before turning back around, heading down the rest of the hall towards the bathroom.

Without him in the room, you’re finally able to take a deep breath. It’s shaky and long as it leaves your chest like you've been holding it all night.

You can’t stand it but somewhere deep down, this entire ordeal feels normal. You’re beginning to realize just how much you’ve missed it—missed him, and that thought alone keeps you wide awake because if being awake means more time with him before he leaves all over again, you’d have to take it.

Minutes pass of you bouncing your leg up and down where you sit on the edge of your bed, when the bathroom door clicks open and a newly changed Bucky emerges. It makes your stomach twist into a pretzel, to see him in the same hoodie you wore that day he left.

You press your hands into your knees, hesitating even more at how ridiculously good he looks in it. “Are you,” You hum. “Are you alright?”

Don’t ask that, I don’t deserve it, was what he wanted to say but he merely nods as he lingers in your door’s threshold again. “Why’d you keep them?”

Swallowing, you shrug. “I was gonna set them on fire, but the hoodie was too comfortable.”

For the first time that night, the corners of Bucky’s lips almost twist up into a smile. “Really?”

“Really.” You nod, glancing at him when he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “That and, I guess I always hoped you’d just come back to get them.”

Bucky falters with an expression that you can’t quite read. A silence washes over the two of you before he exhales, “I wanted to.”

“Did you?”

“I did.”

“Okay.” You hum sarcastically.

Bucky purses his mouth shut with a tilt of his head. “Y/N,”

“You know what,” You say with squinted eyes. “I don’t actually believe that, like at all, but it’s fine. Doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

“Why?” Bucky breathes. “Why don’t you believe it?”

“Because you left, Bucky!” You snap, your anger finally cutting through the surface after brewing all night. “You left and we never spoke again. I waited for you for months—to call or to text but you never did, so yeah, maybe I did believe you’d come back at some point but then I just got tired of waiting.”

“You moved on.” Bucky points out. “That’s good, that’s what you were supposed to do.”

“Yeah, except I didn’t.” You huff, pushing yourself off of the bed to glare at him. “You left because you wanted me to be happy but I wasn’t happy, I’m still not. The life you wanted me to live for myself was only possible if I lived it with you.”

Bucky’s face tightens in guilt as you let your words slip from your tongue.

“Then, I have to watch you on my television screen with your new team, the new people you have to take care of, and it kills me inside.” You don’t bother wiping away the stray tear that slides down your cheek. You look up at him, dead in the eyes and ask, “Are you happy?”

The question catches him off guard. He steps into your room with hesitancy, maintaining his distance but needing to be close to you to shake his head.

You nearly wince as you watch his face contort into a sadness much similar to your own.

“Not happy in the way I was when I was with you.”

The words are genuine, making your ears ring in disbelief. You swallow, but the lump in your throat feels like it might be permanently stuck.

“I have never been the same since the moment I walked out that day. I thought I was doing the right thing, I swore I was,” He admits. “I threw myself into work because I believed that somehow it would make up for what I was missing, but I learned right away that none of this could ever fill the gap that you left.”

You don’t seem to notice when you instinctively take a step closer, your body drawn to his as if your hearts were magnetized.

“You followed me everywhere, Y/N,” He exhales a defeated breath. “There were so many times when I just wanted to run back here, back to you, but I couldn’t because I figured you’d be doing better without me—without my burden.”

“You were never a burden.” You add, shaking your head with a furor you hope makes him understand. “Neither were any of your problems or trauma, and I hate that you think you were. I took care of you because that’s what you do when you love someone.”

Bucky takes a step closer too, though neither of you seem to notice with the way your eyes are trained on the other pair.

“Love someone?” He asks, his voice the most quiet and careful you’ve heard it all night.

It took years, and Bucky Barnes standing in front of you again, to finally admit it: you did still love him. What you felt for Bucky had never been surface level affection. You loved him desperately, like he was the air you needed to breathe and the light against all of the darkness that you’d hid from your whole life.

Loving him had never been easy. It came with deeply shared fears and anxiety of vulnerability and closeness. Though, you never desired an easy love anyways. You wanted a love that was complex and passionate, where obstacles were something you could leap over together if your relationship was built on a foundation of sincere care and respect.

Your love for him was so rooted in your veins, you always believed that your souls were destined to merge—surpassing time and change. You knew for a fact that you’d love him no matter how far apart the two of you were; your heart was his across states, countries, planets, timelines.

There was a vast multiverse out there, much bigger than your brain could even comprehend, and you were positive you loved Bucky Barnes in every single one of them.

“Love.” You nod, the most confident you’ve been about anything in years. “I’ve always loved you, James. I’ve never been able to stop.”

The sound of his name on your lips makes his heart swell, desperately wanting to jump out of his chest and towards you—where it knew it’d finally be at home.

Bucky can no longer deny the way he feels either, only he’s never really been able to. He loved you like you were the only thing on this planet of any importance. Sam saw it, Yelena saw it, hell, so did the rest of the goddamn world. He’d never been the same since he left and nothing ever felt right, not until he stepped back into your apartment where the walls remembered him and whispered stories of memories he’d never forgotten.

He lets out a shaky exhale. “I messed up so badly.”

“I did too.” You nod. “I shouldn’t have let you leave, I should’ve tried harder to-”

“No, hey, no,” Bucky shakes his head immediately, stepping forward so you two are the closest you’ve been in years. His fingers brush against yours, and when you don’t flinch away, he links his pinky with your own. “None of this was your fault, don’t blame yourself. I fucked up, I’m the one who left. This is not on you.”

You remain quiet, the small act of physical contact rendering you speechless.

“You were on my mind everyday. Whenever I got up to speak at congress, whenever I did press for the team, on every mission, every late night and early morning,” He whispers, eyes scanning your face like it was the first time he was getting the privilege of looking at you. “I hate myself for making that decision for you, for thinking we’d be better off. You were my world, still are.”

Everything comes flooding back, the walls around your heart breaking like a dam that was doomed to fall from the beginning. You want to cry, want to break down right there in his arms and hope the Bucky you still knew would be there to hold you.

“I can’t change what I did, but I can tell you what I want to do,” He goes on, hand coming up cautiously to cup the side of your face. “I want to love you all over again, the right way this time. I will spend the rest of our lives trying to rebuild what I tore down, if you’ll let me, and I promise to do better this time and give you whatever it is you want—”

“I want you.” You interrupt. “All of you. I want to know how you’re feeling or the things that keep you up at night because I want to be the one to help you through them. Don’t hide yourself from me.”

Bucky swallows at the desperation in your tone. How lucky was he to have your unconditional care once, and then all over again now, even if he still feels like he doesn’t deserve it. You’re still too good—far too good for him—but this time, he’s determined to be just the same for you.

“I promise.” He nods, his thumb rubbing your cheek like you’re a porcelain doll he’s afraid of breaking.

You place your own hand on his hand cupping your face, before running your other hand through his beautifully blown out hair. He grunts out a soft noise of delight, one that makes your stomach twist.

“God, I’ve missed you so much.” He says.

This almost doesn’t feel real; his touch or the words that leave his mouth, but it is—he is. He’s unbelievably real beneath your fingertips and it suddenly feels like you’re falling in love all over again as you stare at him.

“You came to me first.” You hum, your voice just above a whisper. “Yelena told me.”

Bucky lets out a small chuckle but his eyes still hold traces of disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re running your hands through his hair the way you are. “She did?”

“Mhm.” A smile begins to curl its way onto your lips, one you can’t deny.

“She’s a rat.” He grumbles, his hands dropping to your waist to gently run his palms over your sides.

“She’s sweet,” You correct, reaching down to grab his non-metal arm and gently pull his sleeve up, revealing the bracelet on his wrist. “And she also told me you still wear this.”

Bucky watches your fingers run over the braided material before his eyes flicker back up to you. “I’ve never taken it off.”

Your gaze meets his soft blue eyes where you can read the longing all over them. It’s been so long since you've seen it and yet, it’s still capable of sending a cacophony of butterflies through your stomach like something out of a dream sequence.

“I love you.” He says out of the blue.

The three words have your breath hindering in your throat.

“I’ve loved you every moment I was here and every moment I wasn’t.”

You don’t know what to say, how to express how much you reciprocate that love, so before you have the opportunity to think about it, you stand up on your toes and press your lips against his.

Bucky wastes no time. He wraps his arms further around your waist and tugs you closer to his chest. With your hands placed on the sides of his neck, you sink deeper into the kiss.

Kissing him feels just like it had all those years ago. It’s warm just like you remember it to be but more passionate, if that’s even possible. For Bucky, kissing you is still sweet but delicate in a way that reminds him of just how lucky he was to be able to press his lips against yours.

You kiss each other with a burning desire to make up for all the lost time, to fill the gap of what was once missing between the two of you—not lost but something simply misplaced. The two of you wished to stay forever that way, and maybe now you would.

“I fucking knew it.” A voice whisper shouts from the frame of your open door.

Pulling apart, you and Bucky both turn your heads in the direction of the hallway. Yelena stands with her hands in the pockets of your sweatpants, a knowing smirk stretching across her face.

You look down like you just got caught doing something you shouldn’t have, all while biting back your smile. Bucky’s face turns red and he purses his lips with a small nod. He side-eyes you as you cover your mouth with your hand, suppressing your small hysterical giggles. Your laughter made him grin helplessly, and he squeezed your hand, gently moving closer to your side where he intended to stay for good.

Yelena smiles. “Ava owes me twenty bucks.”

[cheekybarneslibrary]

If We Talked

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: After overhearing some choice words between Bucky and his best friend, you make the difficult decision to avoid him. For a week. Bucky loses his mind in the process.

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: Some angst and miscommunication

a/n: I love this trope!! It was so fun to write a little one and I loveee reading it. I hope you enjoy!! Thank you for reading ily ❤️❤️

Masterlist

~~

You fought off the swell of your throat with tight lips, stirring the contents of the pot with unnecessary care. He was staring at you. He had been staring at you from the moment he came inside, but there was nothing you could do about it—nothing you should do about it. 

The spices from the haphazardly thrown-together dinner were beginning to burn your eyes. This felt awful. The past week had felt awful. 

After overhearing Bucky call you intense, everything you felt was amplified. 

It had been an accident, you being at his apartment at that exact moment. You were dropping by unannounced, but you hadn’t even knocked on the door before his words had vibrated past the locked threshold of the door. And then you had left. 

You had taken great care to be less intense over the past week. This was the first time Bucky had been in your apartment since that day, and that hadn’t been without struggle. He asked to come over several times, even showing up and knocking on the door while you pretended to be asleep. It all felt very juvenile—the ignoring and avoiding and missing calls. But you didn’t know how else to respond. 

You loved Bucky. You loved him and it felt intense, but, apparently, things had moved too fast for him. A few months of dating were not enough. You were too much.

You had told him you loved him for the first time just days before you overheard his confession, so connecting the dots hadn’t been very hard.

You were too much. 

Avoiding him had been made easier by your intense work schedule. You stayed overtime and texted brief excuses. That had worked for a time. But last night, Bucky showed up at your office with a bag of takeout and an uncomfortably furrowed brow, and you knew it was probably time to face this. 

You gave him space for a week, and now it was time to practice being less intense in person. You couldn’t avoid him forever. And it hurt—being away from him for too long. Not that you would admit that. Not now. 

“I don’t know how good this is going to be,” you huffed out a laugh, ladling noodles into two bowls. “It’s a new recipe, and I’m kinda low on groceries.” 

When you glanced up at Bucky sitting on the couch, his smile looked strained. “‘M sure it’ll be great.” 

You replied with a short smile, glancing down at the bowls as you joined him in the living room. You sat far enough away for it to make sense—one cushion over, not halfway in his lap like you used to. The television created a soft backdrop of some show you weren’t paying attention to, but the meal was otherwise silent. 

You missed kissing him.

When he came in, you gave him one quick press of your lips and then darted back to the kitchen, ignoring the feel of his hands on your waist as they rushed to grab you. He was only doing all of that to appease you—the calls and trips to your office and the affection. 

If you let him do what he didn’t want to do, you would lose him. 

“Well,” you prompted, your teasing smile almost wobbling over the bowl. “How is it?” 

Bucky caught your eye from the other side of the small couch. His expression narrowed on your mouth, and then he winced, almost imperceptibly. 

Something dropped in your gut. 

“It’s good, sweetheart.” 

You kept up your smile, but as you turned back to your meal and pretended to watch TV, everything felt final. Your jaw was stiff as you took your next bite, the food tasting like nothing and curdling in your stomach. You hadn’t done enough. You hadn’t given him enough space. He had been so adamant about coming over because this was the end. 

You left your bowl half-filled when you placed it on the coffee table, the smell of it nauseating. The inside of your cheek was bleeding from where you bit into it. 

“Done already?” Bucky asked. He had finished a few minutes before you, his dish next to yours, and his arm looped back behind the couch. He wasn’t touching you. Almost, but not. 

“Yeah,” you replied. The single word sounded unstable, and you cursed your throat for feeling so thick with anxiety. You looked at Bucky from the corner of your eye, only to find his eyes closed and his expression pinched. 

Your lips parted. Were you going to beg? That would only make it worse, surely. Too intense, too much. 

Maybe this would be for the best. Some time for a break would—

“Please, tell me how to fix this.” 

You blinked at the TV, and then you blinked over towards Bucky, lips still parted but no words escaping them. 

A pause as breath was caught in the heaviness of your chest, and then, “What?” 

Bucky moved his tongue to his cheek, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. He was wearing a hoodie today, and it felt so uncharacteristic that you had almost been distracted at the door. 

“I can’t… I can’t lose you, okay? I don’t know what I did, but you gotta tell me or I’m—” his hands came up to run over his head and fall at the nape of his neck. “—just tell me what I did, sweetheart. Please.” 

He turned to look at you then, only a foot of space between you but the distance almost stifling. Your hands clenched atop your knees, and he watched them, eyes flickering to any movement you made. He tracked your unsteady breath, the way your gaze couldn’t stay rooted in one place, and each minute shift in your features. 

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” you offered, because it was the truth. 

Bucky’s jaw rocked to the side. “You barely said three words to me this week. You didn’t want me over—didn’t want to see me. I fought through your building security to bring you dinner, and you looked… Baby, I walked through the door and looked about ready to cry. I mean, you didn’t even—you barely even kissed me today.” 

Your gentle sigh weighed down your chest. You dropped your gaze down to the couch, unaware that Bucky was desperately trying to find himself there, leaning his head down to no avail. This didn’t make any sense. You really couldn’t do anything right, it seemed. 

“It’s just—baby, I thought you said—” Bucky started, speaking in such disjointed sentences you looked up to try and parse them out. His shoulders untensed as you did, but then he said, “Thought you loved me, is that still true?” and the confusing swirl of emotions turned to devastation. 

“I do,” you fervently replied, shaking your head as if that made sense. “Of course I do, Bucky, but you…” 

“I what?” Bucky rushed to get clarification, the vulnerability so clear on his face it made you ache. 

“I thought I was too much for you. I was trying to give you space. I thought you were going to end things tonight.” 

“Why in the hell would you think that?” he exasperated, the words harsh but his delivery of them so gentle. 

You bit into your bottom lip and let out another breath, the pressure on your chest looming down into your ribs. The fists on your knees moved to pick at a loose thread on the couch. 

“I came by on Saturday—to your apartment, I mean. You left your jacket in my car, and I knew you were going to be out late with Sam.” 

“But I didn’t—” 

“I never actually got inside your apartment,” you revealed, knocking your head to the side, still unable to fully meet his gaze. 

A tick of silence passed. 

“You heard me.” 

This was the worst part. It made you seem immature, eavesdropping from the hall of his building. It made you seem immature, and you were also petty because you avoided him for a week. You fought the urge to allow the couch to swallow you whole.

“I didn’t mean to hear you,” you stressed, pulling and tugging at the loose corner of your cushion. “I left pretty quickly. I didn’t—” 

“Hey,” Bucky interrupted. He placed fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. The concern in his features masked lingering hurt, and you moved your hands into your lap to squeeze them together instead. “What did you hear, baby?”

You flickered your gaze between his eyes. “I’m not mad at you. I understand, you know? I wouldn’t want—” 

“Y/n. What did you hear?”

“That you think I’m too intense. That this—us—is too much, maybe.” 

Bucky kept you in his hold, but he closed his eyes. The hurt melted from his face only to be replaced with something akin to regret. He shook his head slightly, jutted out his jaw, and then he looked at you once again, his features strained. 

“Damn,” he whispered. The fingers under your chin moved to cup your cheek, rubbing soothing shapes there. “Thought you were leaving me, did you know that? Whole time this has been my own fault. God.” 

Bucky shifted forward on the couch until your legs were pressed close. You untucked yours to accommodate him, greedy for the contact despite your confusion, and he only got closer. When his forehead touched yours, you gave in to the burn in your waterline, vision blurrier than it had been. 

“I love you so goddamn much,” Bucky began, moving back only an inch to find your watery gaze. “When I said you were intense, I meant that this is the most I’ve ever felt for someone. That the intensity was mutual. That maybe, at the rate we’re going, it would be too much for you. I was asking Sam for advice—seeing if he thought I should back off.” 

“You?” you asked, the word crackling in your throat. 

“Yeah, me, sweetheart. Not you. I was afraid you were gonna bolt one of these days. I’m not exactly the easiest to get along with, according to quite a few people, and I know that loving you means that I’m probably the worst around you.”

The muscle at the corner of your mouth twitched, and along with it went the stress that had settled in every nerve ending in your body. The tension in your jaw released, your chest began to ease, and the only remaining negative was the sadness at Bucky’s confession—at his fronted vulnerability. 

You reached up to catch his wrist in your grip, and he responded by bringing his other hand up to hold you fully.

“I love you,” you affirmed. Bucky’s own smile was sad. “I’ve never thought about ‘bolting.’ I spent this entire week sad and lonely because I was afraid you were going to leave me. I was trying to show you that I could be… chill, I guess.” 

“Chill?” Bucky repeated with a scoff-like laugh, brows shooting up as he brushed his thumbs along the dampness of your cheeks. “I drove past your apartment every night this week. I used that shampoo you left in my shower just to make my bed smell like you again. I wrote…God, I wrote you this letter because I figured maybe if you got something in the mail—” 

“You sent me mail?” you interrupted. 

Bucky’s face blushed a bashful pink, his mouth open in a defensive smile. “We can forget about the mail, okay? Now that we’re talking it out.” 

“Right. I’m going to check my mail when you leave.” 

“Hey,” he demanded, his playful, pointed look reorienting you to the reason behind the tears now drying on your face. When you settled back into his gaze, Bucky readjusted you in his hands, bringing your head into his shoulder until you were fully in his arms. “I love you, you got that? I’m sorry you heard what you did and thought—thought that wasn’t true. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I never want to feel like that again—like I’m losing you.” 

You tightened your fingers into the material of Bucky’s hoodie, taking a moment to relish in his arms around you. You nodded against him, hoping that would suffice, and it did. He kissed the side of your head and leaned back against the couch, bringing you with him. 

“Can’t even check the mail,” Bucky eventually grumbled out. “You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving any time soon.”

[cheekybarneslibrary]

okay no because YOU ATE. like??? i already knew you were about to snap with this one but i still wasn’t ready 😫 i’m obsessed with how you write ruthie, she’s so sharp and tired and so real and bucky???? don’t even get me started. incredible work bestie i’m yelling!! can’t wait for the next part 🫶🏻

—Thunderstruck (part II, Small Eternities)

Bucky Barnes x fem!Stark!reader

summary: There is no such thing as a late Stark when it comes to their own press conferences—until there is. Even for bad reasons, and Sam Wilson. She isn’t exactly sure if that qualifies.

MCU Timeline Approximation: TFATWS, pre-Thunderbolts*

master ✪ part 1 ✪ part III

series warnings: main character death (Stark), established relationship but it's friends to lovers, leadership insecurity, John Walker, grief, PTSD, probably some religious undertones.

-> And finally, it's here! I've been soooo nervous to get this off the ground, not really knowing what to expect. But here I am, biting bullets and taking a leap of faith. I'm really excited to delve into the idea of this, and I hope to stick with it long enough to get through the events of TFATWS because I have MEGA plans for the Thunderbolts* era of these two. I definitely don't expect anything from anyone, but if you could comment, reblog, or like, I really does move mountains. love you 3000.

-> -> edit to add, I do have to dedicate this to @cheekybarnes. getting to know her and reading her library has inspired me to press back into a style of writing I haven't played with for a long time. she's one of the most talented writers I've encountered on this platform, and I don't for a second regret copying her works into Google Docs and printing them off for my library. her Bucky is more alive to me than most characters in fanfic have ever been, and I hold him dearly in my vast arsenal of coping mechanisms. you're amazing, if you're reading this note, cheeks.

It shouldn't be like this. 

The concrete of these walls should not scream at her like demons, rattling her bones as they creep up on either side of her peripheral. Tunnel vision claws at the acuity of sight, light little more than white-hot branding irons to either of her eyes. Chest heaving behind the weight of the ‘46, armor that was not made for her. That suffocates her within a tomb that will fast become the rest of her life, that has ended everything she thinks she’s ever known to feel. 

Armor that is too heavy to carry, in more ways than one.  

Somewhere, harsh Siberian wind cuts against the strength of this building like a knife. Every howl of it against the structure grates down her spine like claws ripping away at her marrow. Nerves burn. Her stomach has become a cesspool of acid and nausea, and her legs may as well each weigh the weight of the world as she struggles to stand, tunnel vision blurry not but six feet in front of her face, watching. 

“He’s my friend.” 

It takes multiple seconds longer to compute than necessary as she tries to stand, legs under her, staggering forward like a clumsy foal. Heaving for air as her chest expands against the armor, FRIDAY says something in her ear that swims between the pulsing blood and oxygen deprivation smothering the senses from her brain. Shaking her head, the visor falls away — exposing the sweat rivering down her face to the sharp smack of cold that seeps in from the concrete. 

Air is thin as she stands straight, the Mark 46 finally solid beneath her feet. AIr punches into her lungs like the speed of light, and the fire in her throat falls away. Still breathing, her eyes move between the three figures taking up air not but a few strides in front of her as the arctic laps at the heat tied up in her bones, like slavering dogs. 

“So was I.” 

Bitter, hating. Exhausted. Enraged, hurting, betrayed. It is almost as cold as the virgin snow beyond the blood painting the floor like an exquisite Michaelangelo, the sweat on the walls of this prison, this hell that has become the slaughterhouse for the last decade of friendship these men have endured. 

He looked at the man on the floor, and there was no mercy. Nothing but the shroud of blind rage. It’s all-consuming, omnipresent power in the universe that is Tony Stark, consuming unto the very half of his soul. She watches it happen in real time, sees the memories biting away the last bleeding edge of his soul as reality strikes. 

Her blood jumps. Cold, but somehow also on fire, she reacts — five steps. Maybe less, she doesn’t know – muting FRIDAY in her ear, the Mark 46 armor is heavy as she plants herself between Tony Stark and what is left of the man on the floor — what remains of the Winter Soldier, James Barnes, bleeding out slowly at her feet. 

Like an altar, he looks up at her as her hand lands hard against Stark’s chest. And she can barely breathe when his eyes find hers, landing home in her soul like they have in days long before this one. Days when he was alive and not dead in the grave of hate and betrayal, buried in grief. There’s an emptiness to him when his chin lifts to the side, studying her cautiously — like a scared animal, a confusion she’s never seen paint him before replacing the once brilliant eyes of a man she, for the better part of her memories, loves wildly. 

“This isn’t right, Tony,” her throat fills with emotion, and she can’t swallow it. It’s thick on her tongue, sticky. Like blood. Or maybe it is blood, she can’t tell the difference. “Please, don’t —”

“Move, or you will be moved,” his eyes moved past her, welded on Barnes. “I’m not asking, Ruth.” 

Ruth. It stings. Swallowing a hitch of breath, her fingers curl against the reactor’s chamber in his chest, now gouged from impact. From war. Even beneath the armor of her hands, she can feel the scrape of metal in her bones, it snags there against her spine. Adding more pressure to arm, she plants a foot behind her — over Barnes, between the living and the dying. 

“I’m sorry, Tony —” 

Tony grabs at her wrist, armor against armor, and it makes her gasp. And beyond him, Steve Rogers is up. Barely alive on even less certain footing, but rushing them like a stirred bull. With a shove, she throws full force of the suit against Iron Man, and sends him back a half step from the man beneath her feet, now struggling to stand himself. 

Her blood doesn’t move as fast as Steve does, Captain America ripping Tony away to continue their bludgeoning deathmatch across the floor. Heart against heart, flesh against steel — her pulse rabbits in her neck, fingers itching with indecision. Paralysis welds her to the floor, eyes watching the exchange of blood while her ears fill with the ringing of pain, agony of two worlds slowly ripping apart.

Not realizing she’s taken a step forward, a hand on the shoulder of the armor adds enough pressure to give her pause. James Barnes – Bucky. A man she knows by paper only, a man Steve Rogers had been willing to turn the Earth outside itself for. Blood makes up more of his features than skin, hair matted to the side of his face as bruising already sets deep in the line of what she suspects could well be a broken jaw. 

“Don’t,” it’s quiet, withdrawn. Pleading. “You’ve done enough.” His eyes lift to find hers as she angles to lift his arm over her shoulder, taking on whatever weight he must offload to stand. It’s microscopic, perhaps, but she can feel a ripple of relief float across his muscle, a faint sigh beneath the grunt of pain as his boots catch the floor, rough.

And it’s small, but there all the same in her ear as she attempts to guide him from the bloodbath of a floor beneath their feet. “Thank you,” it’s a breath, warm against her cheek as his head all but hangs there, hair curtaining his face behind shadows and matted blood. 

“Thank yo—” 

“ — you ready to rock, boss?” 

Happy Hogan is not a man known for the strength of his voice in reverent moments, not usually. It does not stop the question from ringing above her head in high cathedral ceilings, ricocheting between the stained glass of the crucifix and Virgin Mother on either side of the church. His shadow stretches long as sunlight streams into the cool dim of the church, center aisle, like it’s seeking. 

And in a way, it does. Much like all shadows in places like this, among red velvet and stained glass. The thick swirl of incense. The dark wood of ancient confessionals have heard more secrets than perhaps God Himself, if one would pause to listen – secrets that will burn such holy ground to ash, should heaven linger. She herself had seen the world burn for less, had seen hell rise on the mere promise of opportunity, of fate. 

Ruthie Stark’s gaze does not leave the confessional, attention welded on the quiet of its presence a few heartbeats more until it’s given to the altar at her feet. An altar which, not long ago, she’d found herself at again in her life — a holy place that, for the better part of a year, has not been unfamiliar. For much different reasons than her first blush with this church, with this air. 

Two years ago, she’d stood here, surrounded by a city, making promises to God and divinity that she would’ve staked her life on. Two years felt like an eternity backwards, in some respects — Tony had only been gone eight months. The world had barely started breathing again of the life it had lost, settled only so much as a house of cards could be atop the blade of circumstance.

Eyes closed, she breathes in the thick air of incense, ancient carpet. It burns in a familiar way that isn’t unwelcome as her chest fills, spine straightening. And as soon as it fills her it’s gone, in more of a sigh than anything — in more of a reality than she would sooner accept. 

“Boss,”  it’s more urgent, but doesn't cross a line. “We gotta go.” 

Eyes cutting to the ring on her finger, her thumb absently smooths over the steel band. It’s cooler than she remembers, usually warm from her constant fidgeting. An anchor that keeps her tethered to reality around her, but far from the pull of ache between her ribs.

Inhaling a steadying breath, she releases a heavier sigh, turns on the heel of her stiletto, and makes her way down the cathedral’s center aisle.

Shadow crossing into his, he hands her the phone she’d left with him upon entering the church. It’s heavy in her hands, heavier than she remembers, and she flips it to DND without so much as a second thought. There are no less than a hundred things that could use the attention of a Stark, but little of them actually matter on Friday morning —if they ever matter, at all. 

The city is as quiet as fate allows the sky bright with blues she never remembers as she steps out of the massive Trinity doors, heels ticking off concrete as she cuts down the stairs, in the direction of the car parked at the curb. Happy falls in behind her as she plucks sunglasses from the cut of her dress, slips them into place. All the anonymity she needs among quiet graves and greenery hedges, steel buildings. 

Checking the watch at her wrist, she consults the time on her phone before slipping it back into the pocket of her long coat, hand smoothing over the front of a Bergdorf sheath dress she doesn’t remember actually buying, but somehow managed upon in the vault of her vanity closet. A brilliant neon orange that takes up more room than God, it pairs well with the shine of stilettos, a brilliance only known amongst Vegas neon, and perhaps saints. 

Happy reaches for the door as she steps up to the Bentley, hesitating a beat to consider either direction of the street. Pulling it open effortlessly, she considers the street — there’s a subway entrance not two blocks from where they stood, taking up space. Breathing air, acting like gods but more peasant in will than anything. 

“Subway isn’t far from here,” she looks at Happy, who tries to find her eyes behind her Roka’s but can’t. His forehead becomes a cavern of lines so deep they could hold water, his cheeks darkening with the beginnings of confused heat. “It would be faster than driving,” her head tips to the side, hand lingering on the door, “haven’t taken the subway in years….” it dies. 

Carried away beneath what she catches is an Uber driver cursing in, what she thinks, is Portuguese, somewhere on the tar. Trying not to smile, the scene is fleeting, a moment in history before the car fades in the vein of traffic, lost. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

Attention cutting to Hogan, it occurs to Ruthie that she's talking half to herself, half to Hogan as she lingers in the open door of the Bentley. An amused smile at the frustrated look on Happy’s face teases the corner of her mouth, her tongue filling the pocket of her cheek as she chuckles, amused. 

It would be easier to take the subway downtown. More human, less elitist. Easier, certainly, but hardly appropriate for the woman of the hour — late to her own press conference as she, inevitably, will be. 

“Never mind,” shaking her head slightly, she shifts to step into the Bentley, slipping in easily while minding the leather as she settles in.  Crossing her feet at the ankles, Happy smacks the door into place and she shifts comfortably along the seat, adjusting the Roka’s farther down her nose.

Happy’s pulling away from the curb when his phone chirps. Pulling it from his pocket, he tosses it to the seat, “Kid’s calling again,” he shakes his head, sighs, merges into the line of cars as if this isn’t a car that costs more than either of their lives, “you’d better answer him before he  prematurely blows his wad or whatever the hell kids call it these days."  

Biting her lower lip, she plucks her phone from her pocket, swipes away DND, ignores the notifications, and rings up the contact from her log. In times before it could be akin to speed dial, but Peter Parker lives at the top of her call logs. Natural, probably for most Executive Assistants — not so normal for a would-be Avenger moonlighting as a neighborhood vigilante on Stark’s dime. 

It doesn’t even ring. 

“Mr. Parker,” her tone is light, almost laughing before he can spit out a barrage of nervous anxiety over the line, “I heard you and the rest of New York are struggling to live without me,” smiling at Happy peering at her in the rearview, she slides the Roka’s up into her hair to clap a hand on her thigh, leg slung over the other as her foot bobs, entertained, “please tell me the lobby’s on fire and CNN is having a field day headlining the coverage, because that would really make the rest of my afternoon,” 

“Ha ha, uh —you’re funny,” he tries to sound light, but everything about the warble in the back of his tone says that Peter is on the brink of nervous breakdown, much less levity, “no, everything’s….nothing’s on fire – ‘scuse me,”

Background noise takes up the air of the call, Ruthie ringing up traffic estimates on GPS as Peter steps away from the buzz of MSM and what could only be nagging questions for Friday morning deadlines and expectations.

“I’m just, uh, wondering wh–where are you exactly, Mrs. S?” His voice nearly cracks in that not-quite-out-of-puberty way. “The press won’t stop asking me questions, and Mr. Hammer —” 

Ah, yes. Hammer. The lovely CFO of Stark, the not-so lovely millstone threatning to pull her under her last shred of waking sanity. The apostle's abdominal thorn hadn't been so vexing, and he'd complained to God.

“You just steer clear of the hacks if you can, Mr. Parker,” head cocking to the side, FRIDAY maps a way downtown that shaves off at least eight minutes of redline. Sending it to Hogan with a swipe of her hand, she switches to Facetime, brow falling in a calm, albeit confused, wrinkle. “And Hammer – I gave him talking points, in my morning brief," she sighs, "he never reads my briefs."

Half the time Peter doesn't either, but it's easier to excuse an angel than forgive the devil.

She leans forward over the console of the Bentley and taps Hogan’s shoulder, gestures for him to cut a hard right, and points down to the phone discarded to the dark leathers of the passenger seat. Nodding, he sets the phone in the cupholder as she gestures to the floor of the passenger side, for the vintage Adidas waiting patiently for commission.

Her favorites, regulars plucked from her closet that go with any pants suit, any dress in her arsenal of “public appearance appropriate” attire. They’d survived years of chasing Tony up and down hallways in the Tower, battling the apocalypse, and that unfortunate YMCA throwback at Barton’s reception. 

Hogan stretches for them, snatches the shoes with two hooked fingers, and passes them to her in the back without his eyes ever breaking from FRIDAY’s improved route. Ruthie’s already out of the stilettos, tossing them to the seat beside her and working into the sneakers by the time Peter has switched his phone to Facetime and navigated away from the mull of reporters, live streamers, and press influencers no doubt humming about the conference space. 

She can hear Peter’s heartbeat from here, the light flush on his nose bordering on sweat as he lowers to the mouthpiece of the phone, looking away from the screen as if scouting the perimeter of some unforeseen terrain. 

Watching him swallow a quick breath, for a second, she wonders how he’d ever managed Queens alone, even as Spider-Man. 

It explained the high output of ventilated air readings in the biometrics of the armor. 

“Yes, yes you did, but those—” 

A wry smile tugs at the corner of her mouth “Peter,” she chuckles, and it silences any protest, his mouth closing politely. Ruthie watches him collect himself, release a deep breath out of his nose. She swears to God she can see him rock the tension out of his body back on his heels, and her gaze softens at him, a little. It wasn’t long ago she was livewired so tight she feared snapping — Peter had only been working the beat of Stark for six months. 

And that wasn’t even mentioning the loss of his mentor, his best friend – he didn’t talk about Tony.

Choosing instead to quietly fall on the sword of memories every morning he walked through the doors; beneath a name that meant more to him, she thought, than breathing most days. Often, she could see the life Peter didn’t get to live in the shadows of his soul, of a life Tony could’ve given him – he hid it well. Most often behind a mask and in a quiet, suffocating hope that things would change.  

Neither did she. It was an elephant swept under the rug of convenience, making noise and taking up space in a relationship she wasn’t sure how to navigate. Parker wasn’t her protege, he was Tony’s — had been.

Tony had seen in Parker potential that she didn’t even think Peter had the bandwidth to believe himself, much less articulate, but in the quiet moments of early morning coffee runs and late-night conversations over New York slices and sparkling apple juice, she’d seen it. 

Peter had slowly been coming back to life. The decision to bring him on as her assistant had been instantaneous, one she hadn’t even thought to extend to anyone else. Tony had wanted Peter close, had intended to offer him an apprenticeship before the entire world fell apart with Thanos and the ending of everything they’d ever known — they’d planned, severely.

Parker was as much of a son as Tony had ever dreamed, she’d never seen him offer his high horse to anyone else like the way he had this boy, this…. man. 

Beyond their call in cyberspace, she can hear the click of heels on the floor.

“Mr. Parker, that wouldn’t happen to be —” she’d know that voice anywhere.

Blood slams forward in her ears, and her spine burns in the way it always does when the press gets a little too close, asking one too many questions that knife between the ribs. 

Tony had called it the bristle.

Shoulders back, chin up, spine straight and don’t let them see the armor that’s held together with spit and twine behind the scenes. Keep a straight face, a silver tongue, them guessing. Keep them guessing, “Geometry is your best friend, sweetheart,” he’d told her once, “talk them around circles, spheres, cylinders. Give them enough to dig but go nowhere — and they’ll be eating out of your hand, front page. Guaranteed.” 

Guts twisting at the memory of his smile brushing along the line of her jaw, the protective hand at the small of her back — she half remembers Peter is watching her get lost in memories until the screen blurs with movement that’s too fast, too sudden. Her gaze snaps back to the device, and she cranks the volume. 

Christine Everhart. Somehow, she was everywhere and nowhere all at the same time — a wolf relentlessly stalking the lines of anything and everything Tony Stark, even in his death. Often, she swore that, if given the opportunity, the woman would seance Tony back to life just so she could just to beat him to death with her Pulitzer. 

She can hear the press pivot to consider Peter, the rustle of equipment and bodies on a deadline a Spidey sense of its own, almost. Panic snatches any color Parker’s face has managed to produce, and he looks between her portrait on the phone and what has to be a mob of MSM and live-stream ready professionals considering him like prey. 

Muting herself, she looks to Hogan in the rearview. “ETA?” 

“Minutes,” his shoulders lift, helpless to the mercy of traffic, “we’re two blocks out, at least,” gesturing through the windshield, “I don’t —” 

She’s already popping the latch on the door, reaching for her bag. Stepping out of the Bentley as she flips the call back to her earpiece, lowering sunglasses back into place as she shoulders her bag. Bats the door closed without a second thought as she balances the phone between her fingers and gestures for Peter to look back at her with a snap of her fingers. 

“Peter,” her tone is firm, Parker’s attention snapping back to her like a once-distracted dog, “Focus, please? I’m en-route on foot. Don’t engage with Everhart, ‘No Comment’ is your best friend at this point in time,” hustling through the line of cars stacked bumper-to-bumper on pavement, she’d never thanked God more for sneakers in her life until she hits the curb, pace kicking up to blend in with foot traffic of the mid-morning coffee variety, “If things get too out of hand, I’ll just have FRIDAY block them out of the system.” 

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” out of frame, she listens to Peter inform the group of her ETA, “But I think you should know that, uh, well —” 

“You got this, kid?” 

She pulls up, sharp. Brow in a hard line, brain space spinning for all of a second. The phone feed cuts with movement again, too quickly. Without so much as a beat, Sam Wilson smiles back at her, entertained as always with a casual smile and unimpressed smirk lighting up the mirth in his eyes. Suspicion drops out of her spine almost immediately, replaced instead with an amused chuckle. 

“Sam Wilson,” her brow lifts, head tipping to the side as she manages a small shake of her head, “The man with Captain America’s shield. Wonders never cease—I got your invite to the ceremony.” Pausing, she takes a corner, cuts through a crosswalk, and nods to the driver who pops his brakes and manages a shrill wolf whistle through a cracked-open window.

“So, tell me. What the hell are you doing at my press conference?” 

“Would you believe me if I said I was invited?” 

“Sure,” she snorted, lowering her chin to peer over the top of her glasses, “Last I knew you’re still on the mailing list, though I can’t believe you’re the kind not to unsubscribe.” At his laugh, she adjusts her bag on her shoulder, eyes lifting to consider the height of Stark Tower not but a few blocks from her current position, coming up quickly as she cuts across another semi-moving vein of traffic.

“Where’s your better half?” She smiles. “Doesn’t seem like Bucky to let Steve’s shield too far out of sight,” and it hangs there, deadpan, for all of a heartbeat.

Where there’s a Wilson, a former Winter Soldier is never far behind. Or so the urban legend went.

They’d been almost inseparable since the passing of the proverbial torch—well, shield. She’d received the call the day Steve had gone dark, Shuri privating her away in her own secluded quarters in Wakanda sunlight, a dutiful sentinel of quiet, knowing support.

Sam had been looking for answers, for leadership — for things she’d never imagined giving. She didn’t have answers for herself, much less a fractured group hemorrhaging so much loss. Bruce had vanished; Natasha was gone. Clint had retired home to his wife and children; Thor had disappeared to the stars. Tony, six feet buried in a not-yet chilled grave. 

“He’s gone, Rue.” Bucky Barnes. The man who never quit saying goodbye, who didn't stop outrunning demons.

That “better half” had walked the line of the conversation cautiously, sensing the broken glass of her shattered ceiling of hope, of tomorrow. Ruthie barely remembered talking to Bucky on the phone, though his quiet strength she’d never thought to forget. 

He seemed to respect the thing about Wakanda that often went unsaid – how it is a place removed from the world, that bleeds the grief from your bones.  

It’d been almost a year since hearing from either of them. 

Movement form Sam snaps her vision back to the frame. “Well, you know how it is,” he skirts the question of their friend with ease, the corner of his mouth lifting with an amused grin, “You always late to your own press conferences, Stark? I thought that was a Tony thing.” 

“It’s a these-things-can’t-start-without-me-anyway-so-what-does-it-matter thing.” Rolling her eyes, she tries not to sigh, “Give my assistant back his phone, Wilson, or I’ll have you arrested for being the ass you always have been,” it’s mocking, but true.

He hasn’t changed in almost a year, and she isn’t sure if it’s relief or embarrassment that takes up space in her chest at the idea. 

He laughs, hardly put off, and before he can pass the phone back to Peter, she adds quietly, “It’s good to see you, Sam,” taking another corner, she dodges a mother and stroller, toddling youngster alongside before her eyes lift to the behemoth titan of an A that nearly strikes her on her ass as it takes up space in the air. Robbing her of the ability to pull in a full breath. Like it always had, like it never ceased to do. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” it’s quiet, familiar. Reverent, nearly. I’m glad you haven’t left me too, Wilson. 

His smile is softened, eyes understanding. And in a way, he knows — he’d always known. She wasn’t like them, never had been. It burns like a slow poison against the base of her spine, eating away at any confidence she's been fighting to build for nearly a year. Wonders, sometimes, if there's anything to build with bloody hands and loneliness.

“Never could say no to a pretty face,” winking at her, he nods, “see you when you get here. Be safe, Rue.” And she hasn’t been addressed so casually in what feels like small eternities, and it punches home in the depth of her gut like a bullet she doesn’t mind taking. 

“Be there shortly,” moving to swipe away the call, she fights the urge to smile, “And Sam?"

Doesn't even hesitate. Falcon never did. "Yeah?"

"You’re still an asshole, by the way.” 

His teeth nearly sparkle as his smile grows, the light in his eyes trapping shadows, briefly, with amusement she barely recalls from their times together as friends, before the world stepping in the way.

“And you’re still too good for Tony, but we all make mistakes.” 

He laughed at her when she ended the call. 

thank you so much for commenting, liking, and reblogging!

[cheekybarneslibrary]

oh my god. this was so beautiful i actually had to stop reading halfway through just to clutch something. i don’t even know how to explain what this did to me. i’m not someone who usually cries at marriage fics, i’ve read a hundred of them and written a bucky proposal fic myself and they’re always sweet and lovely, but this?? i was blubbering by the time the vows hit. like ugly tears. sniffly. it was humiliating.

you captured bucky SO perfectly it hurts. the way love sits in his chest like something he's not sure he's allowed to ask for! how it slips out of him not as a performance but a need!!! of course he proposes like that! of course it just happens! no big plan, no audience (love that sam was there tho)

and the vows. the vows. the fact that they both wrote them without telling each other. the way bucky had been carrying his around for YEARS, i’m DEAD. “my life has been a constant tidal wave and you were the only one to swim me ashore” actually took me out like seriously 😭

i don’t even have anything coherent to say. this was so soft and so intimate and so full of love that it physically hurt to read in the best way. thank you for writing this. i’m going to be thinking about it forever. ahhhhh!!!

one and only

pairing: husband!bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky decide to take the next step, afterwards you both reflect on your choices, and your love.

word count: 3.3K

cw: thunderbolts* spoilers

a/n: i was recently in a wedding and forgot how much i love true love, this is inspired by that. this is just straight tooth rotting fluff! enjoy!!! ✨

Marriage was always in the cards for Bucky — well, it was when he thought that life had a time limit and wasn't something that could be delayed. He had imagined returning from the war to find a partner, a house with a white picket fence, maybe 2-3 kids, and, hopefully, a good paying job.

None of that came true.

None of that would ever be the case for him.

So he gave up his dreams and realized that life had dealt him a brand new hand. He had spent many years running, hiding, now it seemed like all he could do was try to make his way back to at least some of his old life. Marriage didn't seem to align this time around, and he was okay with that.

Or at least, he pretended to be.

Imagine his surprise when you made your way into his life. Bucky didn't know if the universe was playing some fucked up trick on him, or if he had been reading this new hand of cards wrong this entire time. He knew you were special. Life changing, even.

There was never a doubt about it, that you were someone worth fighting for — someone that he was meant to love. It felt foreign at first, he had gone so long without the kind touch of another human being, but the two of you eased into it as if it was the most natural thing in this world.

Because it was.

You never explicitly spoke about marriage, not even when things shifted from fun to serious.

There was always a reason not to:

Bucky dealing with the loss of Steve

Him and Sam weren't seeing eye to eye for a while

He decides to have a midlife crisis and become a Congressman (which you happily supported, even if you weren't entirely sure where it came from).

Now, he was finding his footing with a new group, the Thunderbolts — er, New Avengers (there were some legal issues with the name that Bucky didn't want to get into, he was usually too tired, too stressed, it wasn't important enough).

Which is why it surprised you that one night, after dinner, Bucky's leg seemed to be shaking more than usual — a clear sign that he had a lot on his mind. He was pretty good at not wearing his emotions on his sleeve, but tonight seemed different

"Everything okay?" you ask, your hand resting on his knee under the table.

Bucky turns his head in your direction with a look that said he saw you, but that his brain was in an entirely different place. There were dark spots on the shoulders of his gray t-shirt, he had taken a shower as soon as he got home and the droplets of water were falling from his still damp hair.

For a man so large and brooding, Bucky looks so small. He's hunched inwards, his elbows resting on the table as he holds his head in his hands. He barely touched his food, instead just moving it around with a fork. Holding secrets to himself.

"Things have been crazy," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Walker's been driving me up a wall every single day asking the dumbest questions. Alexei asked me if we could experiment with doing a double dosage of the serum. Yelena's been talking me off the edge so I don't bust everyone's heads in."

Your lips curl into a soft smile as you squeeze his leg, offering him your silent support. The team was still semi-new and most days Bucky didn't have the patience to deal with them — even if silently he enjoyed their presence.

"You're all still working out the kinks."

"It's been a year, you'd think we'd have it figured out by now. Sam does, Steve always did."

"Sam didn't for a while," you remind him. "And Steve never did, he was just confident. You will work it out, you always do."

Bucky's head lolls to the side to look at you. Even in the smallest moments you never gave up on him, you always told him it would find a way — you were usually right, he just hated waiting for it.

"I love you, you know that?" he asks quietly, his hand moving to grab yours and bring it up to his lips. He presses a soft kiss against the palm of your hand before he intertwines your fingers together.

"I do," you nod. "I love you, too."

Bucky uses his free hand to push away his plate of untouched food, then he grabs the bottom of your chair and drags you over until you're next to him. Leaning over his hands wrap around the underside of your legs and lifts them up, letting them drape over his lap. He watches you intently, always memorizing your features — always scared one day he won't recognize them anymore.

"That's not the only thing that's on my mind tonight," he admits, his voice soft.

"Care to share?"

"Maybe."

You chuckle as you lean your head against the back of the chair, the amount of love in your eyes could make the Earth shatter.

Whatever is going on in that big, beautiful brain of his is taking a toll on him, his fingers playing with the tips of yours as he purses his lips. It's obvious he's trying to figure out what exactly to say, or how to say it.

"We should get married," Bucky finally comes clean, exposing his thoughts right then and there.

You wish you could say you were surprised by his admission, but the truth is you and Bucky had known from the very start that this was where your lives were headed together. It didn't need to be said audibly, no one needed to make sure. This was it.

"When?" you ask.

"Now."

"Right now?" you chuckle again, shaking your head with a playful eye roll. "The courthouse is closed, we'd need a witness."

"Too many logistics," he huffs. "Tomorrow, then."

"I'd have to check my calendar."

It was Bucky's turn to laugh, his head tilts back as he lets out a hearty bark, one that he only reserved for you. His hand runs up and down your leg, you can feel the calluses on his hands from where he held his gun or gripped his knife too tightly, but you didn't care. You loved the feeling of him.

"Mean."

"Tomorrow might work," you say, your eyes examining his features. "I don't have anything to wear."

"I don't care. You could wear that ratty old t-shirt you've been hanging onto for too long. I just want to marry you."

So that's exactly what you and Bucky did.

The next day the two of you called Sam and asked (pleaded) with him to meet you at the courthouse that afternoon and be the witness. He put up a little bit of a fight about the whole Avengers thing but you managed to remind him that this wasn't about petty arguments.

Bucky managed to scrounge up a suit from his time as a Congressman and you found an outfit that would work — it was slightly off white, maybe a little less traditional, but it did the job.

"Wow. And you we were worried about having nothing to wear" Bucky says as the two of you meet at the top of the steps in your home. "Give me a spin." You take his extended hand and he spins you around, whistling in admiration as he does. "Beautiful, as always."

"Not too bad yourself," you say as you face him again, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. "Are you ready to marry me, Barnes?"

"I've been ready since the day I met you," he whispers your name before he kisses you again, his lips lingering a few seconds longer this time.

Deep down he doesn't want to leave, he wants to take those clothes right off of you and worship the ground you walk on. He wants to hear you moan out your vows and promise to be with him forever. He'll settle for the courthouse instead.

The wait is longer than you had anticipated, apparently trying to get a marriage license was more of a hassle than either of you had expected (which wasn't very high since you both did a quick search on the computer the night before than hoped for the best).

Sam showed up as promised, albeit a little late, and now the three of you waited in the lobby of the courthouse, your leg bouncing in anxious anticipation.

"You're going to start an earthquake," Sam teased, earning a playful nudge from you.

"It's not everyday that you get married, Wilson."

"Can't believe R2-D2 over here found a soulmate," his chin nods over in Bucky's direction.

Bucky flips Sam off in a way that's both brotherly and full of hate, a perfect balance that only the two of them could master. You turn your head to the side to hide the amused smirk on your face, Sam was always getting you in trouble with his jokes.

"Don't egg him on," Bucky mutters.

"I'm sorry, R2-D2 is funny."

He grumbles something under his breath about being lucky he was going to marry you, but it doesn't matter because at the same time you hear your names being called out by one of the staff members.

It was time.

You wish you could say that you remembered every detail of what happened. That it was this beautiful, over-the-top ceremony filled with tears and wishes of love. In truth, it was quick and your mind sort of blanked out during it. There were no rings, no exchanging of pre-written vows, Sam watched a few feet back, with a quiet smile. It was intimate, quiet, exactly what you wanted.

A few signed documents, one cranky judge and a kiss later and the two of you were officially married. Not in the traditional sense that everyone grows up to dream about, but in a way that still promised each other the world and more.

"We're married," Bucky says.

It was hours later, the sun had now set, the world was dark and still. The two of you were now sitting on the floor of the kitchen, your legs draped over his. There was a skylight on the ceiling that let the moon and stars shine through illuminating the floor.

Bucky had gotten rid of his tie and suit jacket at some point in the night, the first button of his shirt was undone and his hair was a mess — but he was your husband, and he was beautiful. Your own hair was a mess and your strap had fallen down your arm, though you didn't care to fix it, there was a mysterious stain right under your chest and for all intents and purposes it was exactly how you pictured your wedding night.

A few feet away were a few empty bottles of champagne and a cake that you picked up from the grocery store on the way home. The white box was opened revealing what was left of a chocolate cake (which was now some crumbs) and two forks because of course you and Bucky fed each other and laughed about how weirdly dry it was.

"You keep saying that," you tease, biting down on your bottom lip.

"Can you believe it though? We're married." He grabs the open bottle of champagne by the neck and tips it to his lips, taking a long sip. It's not like he would ever feel the effects of the alcohol, but getting time to sit here with you and bask in your love made it feel like a celebration. What was a celebration without a little booze? "I never thought I'd be married, not after everything that happened."

You nod your head and give him a sad smile, grabbing the bottle that he was now holding out for you and taking a much smaller sip, the bubbles popping in your mouth.

"I wrote vows," you say, wiping your lips with the back of your hand.

"When did you have time to write vows?" he asks, his eyebrow raising.

"Not last night, a while ago," you admit. "Do you want to hear them?"

There's a knot in Bucky's stomach at the idea that you had laid everything out on a piece of paper. He thought of his name in your neat handwriting, and how you must have taken time to reflect on this relationship — this love. He doesn't tell you he's done the same, that sitting in the breast of his suit pocket is his own set of vows. Ones that he wrote years ago.

But right now he wants nothing more in that moment than to hear what you have to say, so he nods his head. You stand immediately, using his shoulder as leverage, and patter over to the steps, soon finding your way to the bedroom. You kept the vows in the nightstand next to your side of the bed, a folded up piece of paper that you scribbled on the nights he was away.

They served as a constant reminder of his undying love for you.

The paper is tight in your hand as you make your way back to the kitchen, taking a seat on the floor in the same position that you got up from, your back now resting against the cabinets. Your eyes find Bucky's and when he gives you a soft smile you unfold the paper and begin to read:

"I'm not going to pretend that these are perfect, or even close to describing the love that I feel for you, but I would be a fool not to reflect on our story, and hope that I've had nearly a fraction of the impact on your life as the one you've had on mine.

"When we met for the first time, I knew at that moment that I would never be the same. Neither of us were searching for the other, but there we were, standing a few feet apart at that dirty dive bar that Sam brought us to …"

Bucky laughs.

"And the world seemed just a little bit brighter — like something had changed. Well, something did change. We were both scared of the world, of each other, and of falling in love. But we ignored those little voices, we leapt into this and no matter how scary or hard it was, we did it together. Hand in hand. Head first.

"Life isn't linear and our stories are never what we expect them to be, but with you by my side I know that we are unstoppable. You've shown me how to be brave and what true unconditional love looks like. If I've never said it before, then I am saying it now: thank you.

"I promise to be your partner, your best friend and your soulmate in this lifetime and every one. We will find each other no matter where we are or who we become, because our stories are now one. It's not just you and me, it's us.

"And at the end of our days you will not just be Bucky Barnes the hero, you'll be James Barnes, my husband, my one true love. And I hope by the time I'm reading this that we decide to get married, or calling you my husband will be kind of awkward."

Bucky laughs again, you join him as you try to get the rest of the words out, trying to hold back tears. Your voice is now shaking.

"And if we did get married, then I hope we did it like we do everything. Together, hand in hand, head first."

You fold the paper in your lap, a few tears sliding down your cheeks as you meet Bucky's gaze. His eyes are glossed over and there's a fondness on his face that he only reserves for you — like most of them are.

"I love you, Buck," you whisper.

Bucky nods his head a few times as he leans back, reaching out for his suit jacket that was behind him on the floor. If you were going to read him your vows, it was time for his. He pulls the crumbled paper out and holds it up. Your eyes widen in surprise, you did not expect him to have his own ready.

"I keep this thing with me wherever I go, I think I've crossed off a lot of things that didn't sound right," he says, showing you the paper for a moment. "May I?"

You nod your head. Bucky clears his throat, then begins:

"I'm not a man of many words, though I'd like to be, because life has passed me by and my only regret has been not telling you that 'I love you' enough. I know that you'll argue and say that I do, but I don't, because I should have told you the second we met and every moment after. Every single silence should have been filled with me saying those words to you.

"I knew it, I always did. What is there not to love? Your kindness? Your intelligence? The way you make sure to always keep my side of the bed warm when I get home late because you know I hate when it's cold? If I am the man worthy of your love then I have done something right in this world. I'll never take this love for granted, not ever.

"Maybe in another lifetime we found each other sooner, but in this lifetime we found each other exactly when we needed it. I always needed you. My life has been a constant tidal wave and you were the only one to swim me ashore. Now I can breathe, and you and I sit in the sun and bask in the warmth, where we belong.

"I'm sorry there aren't many words to explain how deep my love for you is, but I hope that every single day I can show you instead. I promise to be your partner, your best friend and your protector. And from now until my dying days I love you, I love you, I love you and I love you."

The paper in Bucky's hand is now splattered with teardrops, the once black ink now smudging across the off white paper. But it doesn't matter, none of it does, the vows are just a promise, one that the two of you had already made years ago.

You crawl over to him and wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you into his lap. There's a few silent tears shed as you hold each other close, but nothing neither of you haven't seen before. It’s a rare moment of intimacy between lovers.

When Bucky pulls away to look at you there's a smile, not a sad one, but a grin so wide the corners of his eyes crinkled.

"We forgot rings."

"I know," you nod. "Do you have a pen?"

Bucky nods, reaching back into his suit pocket again and pulling out a ballpoint pen. You grab his hand and click the pen to expose the tip, writing your initials on the inside of his ring finger. He does the same shortly after — not a permanent solution, but a symbolic one.

He kisses the back of your hand a few times then begins to stand, lifting you to your feet and into his arms. Neither of you untangle from each other, instead opting to slowly sway back and forth in the middle of the kitchen, never wanting to let go. There was no music playing, there didn't need to be.

You and Bucky were starting your forever with whispered I love you's, hand in hand, head first.

[cheekybarneslibrary]

absolutely life-changing behavior when a fic delivers emotional damage and ends with a dog photo. like thank you for the story and also for enriching my soul 😭 truly a win on all fronts!!!

i hate it here

chapter summary: You meet Bucky at therapy where Dr. Raynor shares a small office with Dr. Cole. You two slowly connect over mystery books and coffee outings. Until one day you don't show up. word count: 3.4k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: i've mentioned a few times offhandedly that i have depression (and anxiety) and i that i have attempted - i don't want pity or anything, just stating a fact. i started therapy like 4 months ago and have been doing much better! anyways, i got to thinking about how one of the only characters who has been in therapy (in the mcu) is bucky. i guess you could kinda count tony, but he was talking to bruce so idk. anyways, that's how this came along. it was kinda my version of journaling, since i suck at it. please read the warnings/tags! warnings/tags: post tfatws, therapy, allusions to depression, alpine mention!, reader has a dog, mentions/allusions to a suicide attempt, some fluff, two people finding each other through trauma, insomnia, nightmares, slight angst, depressive spiral

The Brooklyn office is small—four hardback chairs, a scuffed laminate floor, and walls the color of old oatmeal. You’re already there when Bucky shuffles in, early as usual, hood pulled low despite the July heat.

You’re curled over a paperback, thumb smoothing the crease in the spine. He recognizes the look: concentration hiding nerves. He clears his throat, drops into the chair opposite you.

Silence stretches. Tick-tick-tick from the receptionist’s keyboard. Bucky counts each tap like gunshots until— “Chapter’s not great,” you mutter, not looking up. “It’s supposed to be a detective story, but the villain is obvious by page three.”

Bucky blinks. Small talk, right. He hunts for something non-awkward to say. “Maybe the detective’s just slow,” he offers.

That earns a tiny huff of laughter. You glance up, eyes warm but tired. “You ever read mysteries?”

“Not since… a long time.” He swallows. “But I used to like Agatha Christie.”

“Classic.” You close the book, mark your place with a Metro receipt. “I’m Y/N.”

He opens his mouth—hesitates—then sticks out a flesh-and-blood hand. “Bucky.” The metal one stays shoved under his sleeve.

The receptionist calls your name first. You stand, shoot him a quick, encouraging smile. Something inside his rib cage gives a startled twitch.

---

“Still having trouble sleeping?” Dr. Cole asked. She shared an office with Dr. Raynor, you were just lucky to find a therapist close to your place.

You shrugged, “yeah. It’s just insomnia. I did a sleep test, had to put the mask on and sleep with it for 2 nights. Doctor found nothing, so...”

"Let's talk about what happens when you try to sleep," Dr. Cole said, pen poised.

"I stare at the ceiling," you answered. "Count cracks in the paint, listen to Sparky snore, think about—stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Classes, rent, whether my brother’s eating decent food at school—everything that isn't restful."

Dr. Cole nodded. "Nightmares?"

"More like reruns. Same memories on loop." You rubbed your eyes. "They don't even change; they're just… loud."

She clicked her pen. "Medication helping?"

“I guess. Not with the sleep part though. But nothing helps with sleep.”

Dr. Cole tilted her head. “What do you do between the moment you turn off the light and the moment you give up?”

“Phone. Crossword. Sometimes I Google ‘why can’t I sleep’ like it’s gonna give a brand-new answer.”

“Ever try talking instead of scrolling? Out loud, I mean—narrate the day, get it out of your head.”

You snort. “My dog’ll think I’m confessing state secrets.”

“Sparky might surprise you.” Dr. Cole’s smile is small but real. “Okay, homework: pick one night this week, no screens after ten, narrate the day to Sparky, then lights out. Deal?”

“Fine. If she tattles, that’s on you.”

“Noted.” She scribbles, caps the pen. “Same time next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” You stand, tugging your bag onto your shoulder. The chair legs squeak; the sound feels louder than it is.

---

Bucky’s still in the waiting area, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it owes him money. He glances up when the door clicks shut behind you.

“How’d it go?” he asks, voice low.

“About as fun as a dentist with feelings.” You fish the Metro receipt-bookmark from your book, wave it. “But I got homework.”

“Therapists love homework.” He shifts, pats the chair beside him that you’re about to vacate. “Good luck.”

“You, too.” You nod toward the closed door. “Raynor doesn’t bite, right?”

“She’s thinking about it.” His mouth twitches. “You really hate that book?”

“Detective’s got two brain cells, both fighting for custody. I’m gonna finish it just to spite him.”

“Want a recommendation when you’re done?”

“Only if it’s Christie.” You step backward toward the lobby doors. “I like the classics.”

He lifts two fingers in a mock salute. “Deal.”

The receptionist calls, “Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky pushes up, metal hand still hidden in the sleeve. As he passes, he murmurs, “see you next week, Y/N.”

Your pulse trips over itself. “Next week.”

---

Raynor doesn’t wait for him to sit. “Early again. You practicing small talk in the hallway?”

He drops into the chair. “Maybe.”

“How’s the loneliness doing?”

He thinks of a paperback clutched between your hands and the way your eyes lit when he said Christie. “Less loud.”

“That’s new.” Raynor flips her notepad open. “Let’s talk about it.”

---

A week later you’re back, five minutes early for once. Bucky’s already there—of course—thumb tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh.

“You beat me again,” you say.

“I’m competitive.” He nods to the paperback in your grip. “Finished?”

“Killer was the dog walker. I want my money back.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles. “Brought you this.” From his jacket pocket he produces a scuffed copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.

You take it, thumb the brittle spine. “Vintage.”

“So am I.”

You sit—this time in the chair beside him, not across. Your shoulders almost touch.

Receptionist looks up. “Y/N?”

You rise, clutching the book. “Hold my spot?”

“Always.” He watches you disappear behind the door, heart beating a little less like a war drum. Raynor will call it progress. He’ll call it something quieter: hope.

---

July heat’s worse a week later—New York humidity that sticks to your lungs. You and Bucky leave your sessions at the same time for once, shoulders brushing as the door swings shut.

“Raynor let you out early?” you ask.

“She thinks negative five minutes counts as progress.” He eyes the battered copy of Roger Ackroyd in your hand. “Any good?”

“Ten times smarter than last week’s disaster. Thanks for the rec.” You nudge his elbow. “Coffee? There’s a cart across the street.”

He squints at the sky. “Gonna melt anyway. Sure.”

---

The cart umbrella rattles in the breeze. You order an iced latte and Bucky sticks to plain drip, black.

“Old-man coffee,” you tease.

“Watch it, I’m sensitive.” He sips, winces. “So—you do the Sparky homework?”

“Yeah. She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, then fell asleep halfway through my monologue about rent.”

“Did you sleep any better?”

“Hour, maybe two.” You shrug. “But hey, progress.”

He nods, knocks a knuckle on the paper cup. “Nightmares kept me up. Raynor wants me journaling.”

“Journaling, narrating—therapists love verbs.” You dig in your tote, pull out a slim notebook. “Take mine. Blank pages intimidate me anyway.”

He turns it over. “Purple glitter stars?”

“Judge and I take it back.”

He clutches it to his chest. “No, no—precious now.”

Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it. A beat passes; his smile lingers. Something warm hangs between you—comfortable, tentative.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, tapping the notebook. “For the… sparkly lifeline.”

“Anytime, Barnes.”

You check your phone. “Gotta run—class in fifteen. Same time next week?”

He hesitates, then, “Actually—Raynor’s moving my slot. Thursday, four?”

You scroll your calendar. “I can swing that.” Smile. “I’ll bring a better bookmark.”

He salutes with his coffee. “Deal.”

---

The waiting-room AC’s broken. You fan yourself with your Metro receipt as Bucky strides in, hair damp from a shower that didn’t stick.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey.” He holds up the notebook—half the pages now filled. “Turns out journaling’s just talking on paper.”

“Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

The receptionist calls his name first this time. He freezes. “Switch with me?”

You shrug. “Fair’s fair. Go.”

He exhales, heads in. As the door shuts, you spot the corner of a page sticking out of the notebook—your name scrawled at the top. Your heart skips and you look away fast.

---

Bucky’s session is short—fifteen minutes. He steps out, cheeks pink.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Raynor… uh, suggested social exposure therapy.”

“Meaning?”

“Coffee that isn’t from a cart.” He scratches the back of his neck. “With a friend.”

You grin. “I know a place that sells donuts bigger than your hand.”

“Sound dangerous.”

“Live a little, Barnes.”

He offers an arm—the flesh-and-blood one. You loop yours through without overthinking.

“Hope they have purple-glitter donuts,” he mutters.

You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

Street noise swallows the rest, but the silence between you feels easy, not heavy. Two insomniacs, two notebooks, one slow, stumbling orbit.

And maybe—just maybe—sleep won’t feel so impossible tonight.

---

You push the shop door open, tiny bell chiming. The smell of fried sugar and espresso hits like a hug. Bucky’s already at a corner table, sunglasses perched on his head, studying the menu like it’s classified.

“Morning,” you say, sliding into the seat across.

He looks up, relief softening his shoulders. “Saved you the last maple-bacon monstrosity.”

“You get a medal for that.”

“Working on it.” He nods at your iced coffee. “Still cold-brew loyal?”

“Ride or die.” You sip. “How’s the notebook?”

He pulls the purple-star journal from his jacket, thumb tapping the cover. “Halfway through. Raynor says I’m oversharing—‘but in a good way.’”

“Therapist code for ‘keep going.’”

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “I wrote about… the bridge dream. First time on paper.”

You lean in. “Any lighter?”

“Maybe a gram.” He flicks his gaze to the donut display. “Your turn—sleep narration working?”

“Managed four hours straight on Wednesday.” You raise the coffee in salute. “Progress.”

He grins. “Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

A server comes by to hand off the plates: his chocolate-glazed, your maple-bacon slab.

You rip off a chunk, point it at him. “So—social exposure therapy. How exposed are we aiming?”

“Raynor suggested a museum. Crowds, but no one expects small talk.”

“I’m free Sunday afternoon. Think you can handle the Met?”

He pretends to weigh it. “If they still allow grumpy ex-assassins.”

“Only if they don’t touch the art.”

“No promises.”

---

You both pause at a sarcophagus. Tourists swirl around, soundtrack of camera shutters. Bucky leans close. “Mummies have it figured out. Eternal rest.”

“Jealous?”

“A little.”

You smirk. “Try counting cracks in the ceiling. Works great.”

“Smart-mouth.” He nudges your shoulder. Metal—the sleeve’s rolled up. First time he hasn’t hidden it.

You glance at the vibranium, then meet his eyes. “Cool arm.”

He exhales—some tension you didn’t know was there. “Thanks.”

A kid nearby gasps, whispers to her dad. Bucky stiffens. You step slightly in front of him, blocking the view. “Ignore them. They’re staring at the arm, not you.”

“Same thing.”

You tilt your head. “To me it’s just… part of the package.”

He blinks. “Package, huh?”

“Don’t get cocky, Barnes.”

He chuckles, shoulders loosening. You wander onward, conversation dipping from art to worst cafeteria food, back to sleep tactics.

---

Apartment’s dark except for phone glow. Sparky snores at your feet.

Your screen lights: Bucky Barnes – New Text

“Tried narrating to Alpine. She walked off mid-monologue. Rude cat.” “You asleep?”

You smile, thumbs flying.

“Wide awake, obviously.” “Want to test a theory? Phone call, five minutes max. Talking’s supposed to tire the brain.”

Three dots… then your phone rings.

“Hey,” you whisper.

His voice is low, scratchy. “If this puts you to sleep I’ll be offended.”

“Then be interesting.”

He snorts. “No pressure.”

Minute one: weather complaints. Minute two: misheard song lyrics. Minute three: you yawn.

“Tired?” he asks, softer.

“Keep talking.”

He does—about the Met gift shop, how the snow-globe pyramids looked fake, how he bought one anyway.

“Why?” you mumble.

“For you,” he says. “Figured you could narrate to it when Sparky’s bored.”

Warmth floods your chest. “That’s… weirdly sweet.” There was silence for a few seconds, except his breathing. You blink, heavy-lidded. “Still there?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Don’t hang up yet.”

“Not planning to.” He pauses. “Sleep, Y/N.”

“Night, Bucky.”

Phone still against your ear, you drift. First dreamless night in months.

Bucky listens to your steady breaths, eyes finally closing. Tomorrow’s problems can wait. Tonight, two insomniacs found quiet on the same line.

---

Dr. Cole taps her pen lightly on the pad. "You seem brighter today."

You shift slightly, feeling oddly caught out. "Actually slept last night. Whole five hours."

She raises an eyebrow, gently amused. "And what changed?"

You consider the phone call, the quiet voice on the other end, and shrug. "I think talking helps more than I realized."

Dr. Cole nods knowingly. "Having someone listen tends to do that."

"Yeah." You pick at your thumbnail. "I might be figuring that out."

"Good," she says simply. "Keep figuring."

---

Bucky’s waiting outside when you finish, leaning against the brick wall in sunglasses and a worn ball cap. He pushes off as soon as you step into the sunlight.

"Stalking now?" you joke, nudging his shoulder.

"Just passing by." He falls into step beside you. "Coffee? I need advice."

"Advice?"

He grimaces. "Raynor wants me attending a group session next week. Apparently, that's my next exposure step."

You glance at him. "Sounds terrifying."

"It is. Hence the advice request."

You smile softly. "I don't do groups, but… you handled crowds at the Met fine."

"That was because of you." He shrugs one shoulder, eyes ahead. "You distract me."

Warmth blooms in your chest. "In a good way?"

"In the best way."

Silence lingers, comfortable this time. The coffee cart is in sight, heat shimmering off pavement.

"Maybe… I could wait outside the group room," you offer quietly. "Just for moral support."

He stops, turns to you, eyes bright behind the lenses. "You'd do that?"

You tilt your head, fighting a smile. "I’d even bring a bad detective book."

"Deal."

---

The hallway smells faintly like industrial cleaner. You’re on a metal folding chair, feet kicked up against the wall, paperback open in your lap, Sparky dozing at your feet.

The group-room door opens. Voices murmur, shoes shuffle. Bucky emerges last, eyes slightly wide, tension in his shoulders. He spots you immediately, relief clear.

You shut the book. "You survived."

"Barely."

"Anyone bite?"

"Only verbally." He nods at Sparky. "She allowed?"

"Emotional support dog," you deadpan. "Completely legit."

He crouches slowly, metal fingers gentle against Sparky’s fur. She yawns, entirely unconcerned. Bucky straightens, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. "Thanks for waiting."

"Always."

You start walking toward the exit together, his pace matching yours easily. "Was it worth it?" you ask.

He exhales deeply. "Yeah. Sort of. I talked. Once. About nightmares."

"That’s huge."

"Didn’t feel huge."

"It will tomorrow."

He looks sideways at you, hesitant. "Can I… call tonight?"

Your heart thuds softly. "Every night if it helps."

"It does," he says quietly. "It helps a lot."

The sunlight fades gold over the city as you step outside. Bucky pauses, hands in his pockets.

"You know," he says carefully, "I started therapy because the government made me. I stayed because… I thought it was the right thing to do. But now—"

"Now?" you prompt softly.

"Now I'm staying because it led me to you."

You swallow, suddenly shy. "That’s… nice."

He chuckles gently, shaking his head. "Yeah. Nice."

You bump his shoulder. "Don't mock my vocabulary."

"Never." He smiles. "Call you later?"

"Better."

He watches you walk away, heart steadier than it’s been in months.

---

Your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, vibrating against your toothbrush holder. You squint at the caller ID, toothbrush in your mouth.

Dad.

You spit toothpaste, rinse quickly, and swipe to answer. "Hey, Dad."

"Y/N," he starts, tone already tense. "Got a minute?"

You sigh quietly, gripping the sink. "I have therapy soon. Everything okay?"

He pauses. You hear him clear his throat—never a good sign. "Look, I just got your mail. Bill from the hospital came again."

"Yeah, they keep sending it even though I set up payments—"

"I read it," he interrupts, voice clipped. "You know how it feels to read 'psychiatric hold' on a bill addressed to my kid?"

You close your eyes, jaw tightening. "I didn't ask you to open it."

"You're my kid. Of course I opened it. Y/N, we never talked about it. You just went silent, moved on like nothing happened—"

"I didn't move on."

"Then explain it," he says sharply. "Explain why you'd do something like that. Was it us? Your mom? Me? You never gave us a chance—"

"Dad, please stop."

He doesn’t. "We raised you to be stronger than this, Y/N. What happened to you?"

Your chest aches. Tears sting your eyes, hot and furious. "I have to go."

"Y/N—"

You hang up, tossing the phone onto your bed. You sit down hard, head in your hands, breathing jaggedly until your lungs ache. "Fuck," you whisper, wiping at tears you don't want to fall. "Fuck."

Your phone buzzes again. You don't pick it up.

---

Bucky checks his phone again—fourth time in ten minutes. The receptionist taps at her keyboard, and the clock above ticks louder than usual. Still nothing.

He types out another quick message:

"You close? Saving you a seat."

Five minutes pass as his knee bounces. Another text:

"You okay?"

Raynor opens her office door. "Barnes?"

He stares at your empty chair, then back at her. "Can we reschedule?"

She frowns slightly. "Is something wrong?"

"I gotta check on something." He stands abruptly. "I'll call."

Raynor just nods slowly. "Alright. Call if you need anything."

He’s already out the door.

---

He knocks gently at your apartment door, listening closely. "Y/N?"

No answer.

Bucky knocks again. "Y/N, it's me. You missed therapy. Just checking in."

Silence. Anxiety creeps up his spine, icy and familiar. He tries the handle. Locked.

He pulls out his phone again, sends a text:

"Outside your door. Please open."

Nothing. He leans his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes briefly. "Please," he murmurs.

Then, faintly, your voice comes through: "It's unlocked now."

---

Your apartment’s dark, curtains drawn tight. Sparky is curled on the couch, lifting her head as Bucky steps inside. You’re sitting cross-legged in the corner of the couch, eyes swollen, a blanket draped over your shoulders.

"Hey," he says softly, approaching slowly. "Mind if I sit?"

You shake your head silently, eyes fixed on your hands.

Bucky sits carefully beside you, keeping a cautious distance. "You wanna talk about it?"

You don’t answer. He waits, watching your profile, noticing the tightness in your jaw, the subtle trembling in your hands.

"My dad called," you say finally, voice thick. "He got a bill from the hospital. From… a while ago."

Bucky nods slightly. "Didn’t go well?"

A shaky laugh escapes your throat. "He blamed me. Said… said they raised me stronger. Like I chose to be weak."

Your voice cracks on the last word. Tears spill over, quiet and unstoppable. "I didn’t choose this."

Bucky’s throat tightens. "I know."

"He asked what happened to me," you whisper, voice breaking. "I don't know how to answer that."

He moves closer, gentle and slow. "You don’t have to know right now."

You swallow hard. "I keep trying to be better. Therapy, homework, all the fucking talking—but it’s never enough." You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to—"

"Hey," he interrupts gently. "Stop apologizing."

You cry harder, trying to hold back sobs that spill through your fingers. He doesn't say anything more—just reaches out slowly, carefully pulling you against him. You tense at first, then melt against his chest. His arms circle you gently but firmly, his hand stroking your back as you tremble.

"You don't have to do this alone," he says softly, his voice steady in your ear. "I promise."

You nod, unable to speak. Sparky whines softly, shifting closer, pressing warmth into your side.

Bucky holds you until the tears slow, until your breathing evens slightly, his grip never loosening.

"You don't have to explain anything," he whispers finally. "Not to him, not to me—not until you're ready."

You sit up slowly, wiping your eyes, embarrassed. "Sorry," you whisper again.

He squeezes your shoulder gently, shaking his head. "No more apologies."

You sniff softly, leaning your head back against the couch. "I missed therapy."

"Cole'll forgive you. I skipped too."

You glance at him, eyes tired but softer. "They’ll kill us both."

"They’ll deal." He smiles gently, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. "You hungry?"

You shake your head slowly. "Not yet."

"Then we'll wait." He leans back beside you, Sparky settling between you both. "We have time."

You let out a breath, lighter now. The ache still lingers in your chest, but it’s quieter, bearable. "Thank you," you whisper.

He looks at you, steady and calm. "Anytime, Y/N."

sparky is actually the name of my one of my dogs, so you can tell i'm super creative, lol. to lighten things up, here's a picture of her:

we've had her since i was in elementary, so like 12-14 years? she's also around the same age. we think she's have golden retriever, half chihuahua. i know that sounds insane but google that and look at the pictures - a few of them look exactly like her. she's a rescue, so we aren't sure about age, etc. anyways, thank you for reading!

[cheekybarneslibrary]

Milestones

Summary : Bucky feels guilty for missing three months of his baby’s life while on a mission.

Pairing : Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!reader (she/her), You have a baby named Jamie.

Warnings/tags : little bit of angst, Hurt/Comfort, domestic!Bucky, Baby Jamie, Tower fic! Lots and lots and lots of fluff!!!!

Word count : 5.4k

Note : This could be read as a sequel to Elevator, Baby! Or on its own as a one shot. Enjoy!

You stood at the base of the jet ramp, your heart in your throat and Jamie in your arms, bundled in a little blue jacket with bear ears on the hood. Bucky had been holding it together all morning—packing, checking gear, getting briefed—but the second he turned around and saw the two of you standing there, it all fell apart.

His eyebrows relaxed, lips parting just slightly as he took you in—your tired eyes, your little smile, the way Jamie was chewing on his tiny mitten.

“C'mere,” Bucky said, voice already threatening to break.

He pulled you both into his arms in one sweeping motion, pressing you against his chest, his metal hand cradling the back of Jamie’s head. He kissed your forehead, then Jamie’s cheek, then your lips, then Jamie’s nose—over and over, like he was trying to memorise the feeling.

This mission was unavoidable.

A Hydra remnant had resurfaced— and the team decided on a stealth op, one man in, one man out. No comms except for daily status checks. It had to be someone with experience, someone who knew Hydra, someone who could disappear without a trace and still come home.

It had to be Bucky.

But it killed him to go.

“I love you,” he whispered into your hair. “So much. You take care of Mama, alright?” he said quietly to Jamie, who blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You tried to smile, even as your eyes blurred. “We’ll be right here, Buck.”

Bucky kissed your lips again and lingered there, forehead to forehead afterward. “You’re my whole world,” he said quietly. Then he pulled back, crouched to Jamie’s level, and pressed a hundred tiny kisses to his son’s chubby cheeks.

“Love you, Jamie,” he cooed. “I’m so proud of you already,” he whispered, his voice cracking just a little. “Don’t grow up too fast while I’m gone, okay?”

Jamie laughed, squeezing his father’s vibranium fingers with his mittened hands.

Bucky kissed him one more time. Then you.

Then he stepped away— like if he turned around too quickly, he wouldn't want to go.

—

You and Bucky had a cosy little house in the suburbs just outside the city on a quiet street with a fenced-in backyard and a nursery Bucky had painted himself in. It was your dream place to raise Jamie. But when Bucky got called in for the mission, he insisted that you and the baby stay in the Watchtower while he was gone. 

“It’s safer,” he had said with his hand on your back. “Security’s tighter. You’ll have people around if anything happens. Please, honey,” he had puzzled into your neck, placing gentle kisses there, “It’ll help me sleep at night.” 

You couldn’t argue. With Yelena and John both on recovery, Bob always nearby, and even with Ava and Alexei in and out on missions, you wouldn’t be alone. There was always someone to lend a hand, and the reinforced security systems at the Tower made your alarm system look like a toy. So, for Bucky’s peace of mind—and maybe yours, too—you agreed.

But you were only supposed to be here for four weeks.

That’s what Bucky said—“Just a month, sweets. They won’t even know I was there.” He had smiled when he said it, trying to hide how hard it was to leave you. “It'll go so fast.”

It didn’t.

The days passed like honey, slow and sticky. Jamie was teething, waking every couple of hours with red cheeks and a heartbreaking whimper. Every time you soothed him back to sleep, you whispered stories about his daddy—how brave he was, how much he loved him, how every mission he ever went on was just so he could protect you both.

The New Avengers had your back. Bob made you meals, even when you weren’t hungry. John insisted on installing baby gates. Yelena would hold Jamie when your arms got tired. Alexei insisted he remembered how to swaddle (he didn’t), and Ava had access to the baby monitor— because realistically, if there was an emergency, she would get there the fastest by phasing through walls.

And every night, at exactly 2200 hours, the comms come to life with a single message from the field. 

“Alive.”

That was all you got. Nothing more. You weren’t allowed to respond, couldn’t ask if he was warm, if he’d eaten, if he missed you—though you knew the answer.

Then, at the 30-day mark, a second message came.

“Need more time. One month.”

You had to sit down. Your heart beat so loud and quick it muffled the silence that followed.

John placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’re doing great,” he said. “And he’s gonna be okay.”

But you didn’t feel great, though. 

—

Around week six, it happened.

You’d just finished changing Jamie into his footie pajamas—the yellow ones with little moons and stars—and were placing him on the playmat in the middle of the living room when he surprised you. He’d been trying for days, wobbling like a baby penguin with a mission, always toppling sideways or collapsing onto his belly with a frustrated huff.

But this time… he did it.

With a determined little grunt and a proud scrunch of his brow, Jamie pushed himself upright—his pudgy hands planted firmly on the mat, his legs bent in just the right way—and he sat…. unassisted.

You froze, blinking in disbelief for a full second before the joy hit you like a wave.

“You sat up on your own, Jamie!” you squealed, your voice high and overwhelmed with pride. You rushed forward, scooping him into your arms and covering his chubby cheeks with rapid-fire kisses. “You’re so clever!”

Jamie laughed a delighted giggle that made your heart explode—and you clapped for him like he’d just graduated from college. You kissed him again and again, whispering praises, brushing his hair back, watching how his eyes lit up from your joy.

But then you looked up— just for a second.

Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the doorway, half-expecting to see Bucky there leaning against the frame. You could practically picture it—the way he’d whisper "Atta boy..." 

But the doorway was empty.

Oh, right. He wasn’t here.

Still, you held Jamie close to your chest, rocking him gently as his small hands gripped your shirt. “Daddy would’ve loved that,” you whispered into his hair, kissing the top of his head. “He would’ve clapped louder than me.”

—

It was around week seven when it happened— a quiet afternoon in the nursery, rain pattering against the Watchtower’s windows, and you were in the other room folding laundry while Yelena played with Jamie on the floor. You heard her voice, delighted. “Wait—wait, wait! bozhe moy—he’s doing it!”

You dropped the stack of baby onesies and rushed in just in time to see Jamie, your seven-month-old bundle of determination, wiggling forward on his hands and knees, his little face scrunched in focus as he crawled for the first time— straight toward his favourite stacking rings.

Yelena already had her phone out, camera rolling, grinning like a proud aunt. “Look at this strong little soldier,” she said, laughing. “He has places to be!”

You dropped to your knees beside them, your hand over your mouth as laughter and tears bubbled up all at once. “Oh my God. Oh my God, Jamie,” you whispered, scooping him into your arms as he squealed, triumphant. “You did it, baby. You did it!”

Later that night, after Jamie had drifted off in his crib, you sat in the Watchtower kitchen surrounded by avengers and half-drunk mugs. You played the video again (complete with Yelena’s commentary, Jamie’s babbling giggles, the sound of his tiny palms slapping the play mat) as everyone gathered around—Ava and Bob peering over your shoulder, John and Alexei leaning against the fridge.

“He did this today?” Ava said, visibly impressed.

You nodded. “He just… took off.”

“Bucky would lose his mind,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. “He’s been waiting for this.” You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, glanced toward the nursery monitor on the table.

“He’s growing up so fast,” you said softly. “Too fast.”

And though no one said it aloud, you could feel it in the way Ava gently touched your shoulder, in the way Yelena squeezed your hand, in the way even John stayed silent for once— Bucky was missing moments he would never get back.

—

Around week eight, the daily message finally came through on the Tower comms, blinking with the same buzz it always did. You dropped what you were doing and hurried over, hoping that today would be the day he said he was on his way home.

But the screen displayed:

“Need more time.”

That was it.

No follow-up and no time estimate. 

You stood there in the dimmed hallway light, heart sinking into your stomach. You pressed a hand to the monitor screen like it might somehow pass through, like it might reach him— like it might let him know how much you needed him now.

You hadn’t realised just how much hope you’d pinned on hearing something different today.

After you got Jamie down for the night, you sat in the rocking chair by the window in the nursery. You clutched one of his worn t-shirts to your chest—washed too many times but still faintly smelling like him—and glanced at the small framed photo on your nightstand.

It was a candid shot of Bucky holding Jamie the day after he was born. His metal hand was cradling Jamie’s head so delicately, his human hand around his little body.

You looked at it every night— and lately, you’d started talking to it.

“I swear, Buck, he’s got your attitude,” you murmured with a smile. “Fights nap time like he’s trying to break out of a prison transport. He’s teething now, too—two little teeth on the bottom. He bit my shoulder today and then laughed.”

You laughed to yourself, but it was tired. “And he crawled up two stairs today. Alexei nearly had a heart attack. I’m fine. Totally fine. Totally not freaking out.”

You rested your head against the back of the chair, tears burning your eyes as you looked over at the crib.

Jamie was sound asleep, arms spread, a tiny fist curled around the edge of his blanket. You got up and tiptoed over.

“Wanna say goodnight to Daddy, sweetheart?”

As part of your nightly routine, you’d started showing Jamie a few photos of Bucky—his favorite was the one of Bucky grinning with sunglasses on and Jamie strapped to his chest in a carrier.. You’d hold it up and say, “That’s your daddy. He loves you so much.”

Then you’d pull up the recording Bucky had made weeks before the mission of him reading Jamie’s favourite bedtime story— Goodnight Moon. It had been his idea, something he insisted on recording “just in case.”

As his voice filled the room—“Goodnight comb and goodnight brush…”—Jamie stirred, but only to sigh and snuggle deeper into the mattress, soothed by the sound of the man he hadn’t seen in more than three months.

—

By the time week twelve rolled around, the days had started to blur into each other. You weren’t sure if it was Tuesday or Saturday, or if you’d eaten lunch or just forgotten again. Your life was just Jamie’s routine and the single nightly message from Bucky.

“Alive.”

That was all he was allowed to say. It wasn’t much, but it was everything to you.

But then came the night the comms didn’t crackle at all.

You’d finished Jamie’s bedtime routine—bath, bottle, story—and sat in the control room with the monitor nearby, watching the clock tick past the usual transmission window. You waited one minute. Then ten. Then twenty.

Just as your chest began to tighten, Ava appeared in the doorway, still in half of her mission gear.

“Delay in transmission,” she reassured. “There’s been some disruption on the line. It doesn’t mean anything bad. Happens sometimes.”

You nodded, even though your stomach had already sunk halfway through the floor. “Thanks.”

But sleep didn’t come that night. You tried to lie down, tried to close your eyes, but your body was on high alert.

So instead, you padded barefoot to the nursery and lifted Jamie from his crib. He stirred in your arms, but didn’t fully wake— just tucked his head against your shoulder the way BUcky often did when you cuddled, tiny fingers curling into your sleeve like he knew you needed him as much as he needed you.

You curled up in the rocking chair with him, forehead pressed against the fuzz of his hair.

“Daddy’s okay,” you whispered, rocking slowly,“He’s coming home soon. Any day now, sweetheart. He promised.”

—

One night, while you rocked Jamie through the tail end of another teething fuss, the Tower’s main comm crackled to life.

You weren’t expecting much— maybe the usual “Alive”, maybe nothing at all. But then you saw it.

“On my way back. ETA: 2 hours.”

You stared at the words for a second, blinking once they sank in.

Oh.

Oh. Oh my God.

Your heart started racing, hands trembling around Jamie’s warm little body. You pressed a kiss to his hair, eyes filling with tears. “He’s coming home, baby,” you whispered to him.

Two hours later, almost to the minute, the Watchtower’s hangar doors hissed open with a mechanical sigh. The team had decided to give you privacy, so you were the only one there. 

Still, your lungs had forgotten how to work the second you saw him.

Bucky.

He stood at the top of the ramp, his tactical gear scraped and worn, smeared with dust and bloodHis hair was tied back, a little longer than when he’d left. His face was gaunt with fatigue—like he’d lived a lifetime in the past three months—but none of that mattered.

Because his eyes were on you.

And then he ran.

You barely had time to react before he barreled into you, boots slamming against the floor, arms wrapping around you in a grip so tight it stole the breath from your lungs. His body collided with yours and you stumbled back a step, arms coming up around his shoulders like muscle memory.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—” he whispered into your neck, his voice cracking. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your hair—frantic and tender.

You curled your fingers into the rough fabric of his jacket, fisting the front of it. He smelled like dirt and ash, but beneath it, he still smelled like home. You closed your eyes and breathed him in like oxygen.

“I made sure Jamie was napping,” you murmured, “Wanted to have you all to myself first.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. He cupped your face in both hands, gently brushing your cheekbones with his thumbs, as if you were something precious and fragile.

“You did?” he chuckled playfully.

You nodded, eyes wet. 

“Sweetheart…” His breath hitched. “God, I missed you. So much.”

You pressed your lips to his in a kiss— and there was no rush, no frantic edge— just pure love, poured from the cracks in your heart into hisYou melted into him, every part of you screaming finally.

“I don’t care what Val says,” he whispered against your lips. “No more long missions. I don’t care if I have to clean the Tower bathrooms with a toothbrush— the longest I’ll ever go without you is a weekend. That’s it.”

You smiled through your tears, resting your forehead against his.

—

Later, once the team greeted him for a debrief and he got checked up in the medical bay, Bucky walked through the corridor to the nursery, your hand in his. You stopped just outside the door, letting him step in first.

The glow of the nightlight spilled across the room like moonlight, Jamie was fast asleep in his crib, one tiny hand curled near his cheek.

Bucky stood in the doorway.

For a long time, he didn’t speak. He just stared, glassy-eyed.

“He’s so big…” Bucky whispered, voice breaking. His metal hand tightened around yours just slightly. “I mean, I knew he would grow—but…”

“He did,” you said, wrapping your arms around his waist. “He grew up so much.”

Bucky leaned down, resting his chin atop your head, eyes never leaving his son.

“I missed him,” Bucky murmured. “I missed everything. His face… He’s changed.”

You nodded, pressing your cheek against his jacket. “He looks more like you now.”

Bucky gave a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, still watching Jamie’s chest rise and fall. “I wanna hold him so bad,” Bucky said. “But I should shower. Get the dirt off me before I touch either of my babies.”

“He’ll be up in the morning. He’s become a morning person, like his dad,” you whispered, “But I don’t mind the dirt.”

Bucky finally turned, pulling you into his arms again, a bit more relaxed now. “Don’t you, now?” he chuckled, dropping a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw.

You grinned, fingers curling into his jacket as he leaned in closer.

“I missed this,” he said, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “Missed you in our bed. Missed the sounds you make. Missed waking up with you. Missed touching you—loving you.”

Your breath caught as his hands traced your sides. “Bucky—” you whispered, heart racing.

“Let me love my girl,” he said, eyes burning into yours. “Let me come home to you properly.”

You nodded.

He took your hand in his, and with one last glance toward the crib before closing the door as he led you to your shared tower bedroom.

—

The hum of the baby monitor filled the bedroom — until it didn’t. You heard a faint rustle, the scrunch of fabric, and a sleepy little sigh followed by the unmistakable pat-pat of tiny hands against the crib mattress.

You stirred beneath the blanket, blinking awake. “He’s up,” you whispered, barely a breath.

But Bucky, excited to finally see his son, was already halfway across the room.

You sat up as he disappeared into the hallway as you followed behind watching him pause outside the nursery door.

He reached for the handle and then he opened the door.

The morning light spilled across the floor, filtering in through the curtains, and there—right where you'd left him—was Jamie. Blinking drowsily, legs kicking beneath, his cheeks still warm.

“Hey, buddy,” he said gently, crouching down beside the crib. His voice was rough, quiet—like reverence wrapped in gravel. “There’s my boy.”

Jamie blinked once before a high-pitched squeal erupted from his little body, his whole face scrunching into a gummy, delighted grin. He kicked hard, flailing his arms like he might fly right out of the crib.

Bucky let out a laugh that sounded half a choke, half a sob. “You remember me, huh?” he whispered, almost amazed.

He scooped Jamie up with both arms, holding him against his chest like he was made of spun sugar.

You leaned against the doorframe, a smile tugging at your lips. “Of course he did.” 

Bucky pressed a kiss to Jamie’s hair and shut his eyes. “God, he’s heavier,” he said.

Jamie babbled something unintelligible, tugging at Bucky’s collar like he had a lot to catch up on and no words to say it.  

The three of you curled up on the couch not long after—Jamie nestled in Bucky’s lap, clutching his bottle with sleepy fingers while Bucky held him close, murmuring nonsense. Jamie giggled, tugged gently at his hair, and babbled like they were resuming a conversation that had never ended.

You sat beside them, then you pulled out your phone.

“Here,” you said, shifting closer until your thigh brushed his. “You missed a few things. I saved everything.”

Bucky glanced at the screen as you pulled up the first video.

It was Jamie crawling. Wobbly and determined, launching himself forward from the rug to the couch as you cheered and Yelena laughed in the background.

Bucky’s breath caught. “Look at him go,” he whispered, brushing Jamie’s hair back. He kissed his son’s temple.

You smiled and swiped to the next.

This one was Jamie sitting up all by himself, beaming proudly, clearly so proud of himself.

Bucky’s smile was gentler this time.

Clip after clip, moment after moment—Jamie waving at Bob for the first time, babbling nonsense as Alexei tried to teach him the Russian word for “banana” — These were three months worth of milestones, one after another.

You were too busy watching the screen to see the way Bucky’s teeth clenched, the way his metal hand flexed against his thigh.

“And here,” you said, “this was last week. He figured out how to hold the bottle himself.”

You tapped the video: Jamie lying on a blanket, gripping his little bottle with both hands, gurgling contentedly between sips. It was three days ago.

“That’s… that’s great,” he whispered, barely audible.

You turned your head to look at him, resting your hand on his thigh. “You okay?”

He met your eyes with a sad smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m good, sweetheart. Just… taking it all in.”

You nodded, comforted by the answer, and turned back to the next video..

You didn’t see the way his eyes lingered on the screen long afterwards, the way his hands tightened around Jamie’s. 

He kissed Jamie’s cheek again.

Because while you saw memories, Bucky only saw his absence from an entire chapter of his son’s life that he could never get back. And even as Jamie cooed against him, Bucky couldn’t help but think—

I should’ve been there.

—

That night, sometime past 2 a.m., the baby monitor crackled to life—a fizz of static followed by the most heartbreaking cry.

You stirred beneath the covers, still half-asleep, but before you could even lift your head, Bucky was already sitting up, one hand brushing your thigh.

“I got this, honey,” he reassured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Go back to sleep.”

You gave a groggy hum of thank you and rolled over, already sinking back into the mattress.

Bucky moved down the hallway and into the nursery, easing the door open. 

Jamie was wriggling in his crib, face red and scrunched, little fists clenched tight as he let out another frustrated cry— the particular pitch that could only mean one thing.

“Hey, hey, alright, buddy,” Bucky soothed, already reaching in. “You mad about the diaper again? I get it. Nobody likes soggy pants.”

He changed him on the table— hesitant at first, but it came back to him like muscle memory. Tape, wipe, fresh diaper, blanket with the faded cartoon stars— he one Jamie always settled best in.

“There we go,” Bucky whispered, swaddling him up with care. “Better?”

Jamie hiccupped, then let out a sleepy little sigh. His eyes drooped.

But neither Jamie nor Bucky headed straight back to bed— it was as if they were both awake and in this together now..

So, he drifted into the Watchtower’s common room, where the city lights bled in through the windows and walked around the kitchen tower. He reached and pointed to the fridge, most likely for a bottle.

“You hungry, too, huh?” he asked. He quickly warmed up the bottle before slipping it gently into Jamie’s hands.

And Jamie… gripped it. He adjusted it and found the rubber nipple on his own like it was second nature.

Bucky didn’t help anymore, he didn’t have to. Jamie had it handled.

Tears pricked his eyes as he sank into the couch.

“You’re so good at that now,” he whispered, voice cracking as he brushed a hand over Jamie’s brown curls. “You don’t even need me to help.”

Jamie drank peacefully, his little hand patting absently at Bucky’s chest.

“I should’ve been here for that,” Bucky continued. “Should’ve helped you figure it out. And now I come back, and you’ve already moved past it.”

He looked away, wiping at his face, “What kind of dad misses that?”

“Someone who is trying,” came a gravelly voice behind him.

Bucky twisted to look behind him.

Alexei stood in the doorway, travel-worn, duffel bag still slung over his shoulder, just coming home from a mission. He smelled like pavement and engine grease, and he was careful not to get too close to little Jamie.

“Hey there, malen’kiy medvezhonok,” he greeted Jamie. Then, with a smirk, he said, “And bol’shoy medved,” he added, nodding to Bucky with dry amusement— his long-standing nickname for Bucky’s bear-like devotion to fatherhood.

Jamie made a sleepy gurgle and blinked up at him, unimpressed.

Bucky sighed. “He figured out the bottle on his own.”

Alexei nodded, stepping inside and collapsing into the nearby armchair with a grunt. “Babies do that.” he said, dropping his bag, “But I think my girls skipped it and went straight for knives.”

Bucky huffed a chuckle, but it faded quickly.

“Be honest with me, Alexei.”

Alexei raised a brow. “Always.”

“Am I a failure of a father?”

Alexei blinked, frowning like Bucky had asked whether water was optional for survival.

“What? No.”

“I missed him crawling, sitting up. All the big firsts. I keep telling her I’m fine, that I’m proud, but I’m already behind and he’s not even one. How do I even begin to catch up?”

Alexei sat on an armchair. Then he leaned back, stretching his legs with a groan. “You want truth?”

Bucky nodded.

“You are not failure. You are a man who had to leave but came back.” He gestured vaguely. “That alone makes you better than ninety-nine percent of men I’ve known—including my own father. It makes you better than me for most of Natasha and Yelena’s lives.”

Bucky frowned. “But—”

“Listen to me.” Alexei held up a hand, interrupting him. “I used to think I could fix everything with fists. I thought if I hit enough bad guys, it made me good by default. But then.... I stay— and Yelena likes me better now. We need to keep coming back, even when you feel like you don’t deserve it.”

He paused, then added, “John —he is not perfect. He missed much of his child’s early life. Now he gets weekend and playground visits. But he shows up. He tries. Do you think he is bad father?”

“No,” Bucky admitted, remembering when John’s kid got a tour of the tower, giggly and happy, “Not anymore.”

“Exactly,” Alexei said, “And John left for a year. You? You are holding your son and feeling bad about a bottle.”

Bucky looked down. Jamie was dozing now, the bottle half-full, his hand curled in the fabric of his shirt.

“You think he’ll forgive me?” Bucky asked.

Alexei snorted. “He is baby. He will forgive you before breakfast.”

That drew a real laugh from Bucky. He buried his nose in Jamie’s hair and closed his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said.

Alexei stood with a stretch. “I go find food. Or shower. Or both. In whatever order I hit first.” He gave Jamie a parting glance. “Good baby. Sleeps better than little Yelena.”

And with that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Bucky and Jamie alone again.

—

The light of morning spilled across the Watchtower’s windows. The city below hummed—cars drifting like whispers on distant roads, the sound of turbines blending into birdsong. Inside, the common room was warm and quiet.

You sat curled on the long couch, a travel bag at your feet and Jamie balanced in your lap, his tiny body still warm from sleep. He wore his little bear-print onesie, his cheeks smudged pink, fingers lazily wrapped around the last bit of his morning bottle. He blinked sleepily up at you, eyelashes fluttering like they were too heavy.

It was your last morning at the Tower, Bucky had just finished debriefing everyone he needed to and doing all the official paperwork. You’d be back often, of course—visits, Bucky’s (hopefully shorter) missions, and dinners with the team—but today, you were finally going home. Back to your own kitchen, your backyard, to your birdfeeder. Back to your quiet street and your swing and the scent of fresh coffee in your own kitchen. Back to your bed that no longer felt too big, because Bucky was coming with you.

He’d slipped out earlier, promising to pack up your things while you focused on Jamie. “Let me do something useful, sweets,” he’d said, pressing a kiss to your temple. He was still carrying this guilt in small ways— over-packing the diaper bag, refolding clothes you’d already folded, checking three times that Jamie had socks on.

And you let him.

Because this was how he stitched himself back into your life.

Jamie finished the bottle and gave a small, sleepy grunt. Then he kicked around, accidentally knocking your empty breakfast plate from the coffee table. 

CLACK!

It clattered to the ground with an echo that felt so much louder than it should have been.

Jamie flinched.

His whole body jolted as his eyes went wide, mouth pulling down hard. And then— like a dam cracking open— the cries began— the kind that came with a startled fear only babies felt, when they didn’t understand the world enough to explain it.

“Oh, baby—no, no, it’s okay,” you whispered, immediately rocking him. “Just a sound, it’s alright. Just a noise. Mama’s got you—shhh…”

But he was inconsolable. His tiny fists curled tight against your collarbone, whole face turning red as he wailed.

That was the moment the door slid open.

Bucky stepped into the room, a suitcase in one hand and a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, brow furrowed from some conversation he’d just had with John on the comms. “Hey, I found the monitor and that book you always—oh—”

He froze, watching you frantically try to calm little Jamie down

“What happened?” he asked quickly, dropping the bag before you could answer.

“He scared himself,” you explained. “He knocked the plate off the table and made a loud noise.”

You didn’t need to explain more. He was already reaching.

“Come here,” Bucky said, his voice a particular tenderness he reserved only for you and Jamie. “Come to Daddy. Daddy’s got you now.”

You passed Jamie over, and Bucky drew him in tight— one hand cradling the back of Jamie’s head, the other rubbing soothing circles across his little spine. His voice dropped to a hush. “Shhh… It’s alright now. Just a dumb plate, huh? Didn’t mean to scare you. We’ll kick its ass later, huh?” he said, and you playfully slapped his shoulder for saying a bad word. “Plates are overrated anyway.”

Jamie’s cries had quieted into little hiccups, no longer frantic. He clung to Bucky’s shirt, burrowed in under his chin like.

And then it came in his small, raspy voice “...Dada.”

Bucky stopped moving. You blinked.

And then, slowly, Bucky pulled back just enough to look at Jamie’s face. “What… What did you say?” he whispered in disbelief.

Jamie blinked up at him as a chubby hand reached up and curled into Bucky’s beard.

“Dada,” he said again, clearer now.  

Bucky’s knees almost buckled.

His mouth opened, but no words came out at first.

“Is this—has he...?” he asked, barely turning his head toward you.

You were already nodding, tears burning in your own eyes. “It is,” you whispered, kissing Jamie’s forehead. “That’s his first word.”

Bucky let out a stunned laugh, his voice cracking.  “That’s me. That’s me, Jamie. I’m your Dada.”

He kissed the top of Jamie’s head over and over again, before kissing you— gentle and sweet. 

Jamie giggled at the sight of his parents showing affection to each other, delighted with himself, babbling nonsense now and again, but punctuating it with another firm, proud “Dada.”

You smiled, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder.

All those nights you’d shown Jamie picture after picture of his father—telling him over and over, “That’s your Daddy. He’s coming home.” All those times you’d held your breath hoping Jamie wouldn’t forget him… It had all paid off.

Bucky kissed your forehead without even looking, still half in shock, like he couldn’t believe this little boy—this squishy miracle—was his. And yours.

And that his very first word had been Dada.

Jamie wiggled and tucked his head beneath Bucky’s chin, pressing close with a little hum of contentment. “Dada,” Jamie said again, sleepily this time. 

Bucky leaned down and whispered, “That’s me, buddy.”

—end.

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