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flowstatefic · 18 hours ago

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Spaces - Part 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 6.8k

Themes: assumed unrequited love, emotional distance, fear of rejection, neither bucky nor reader are capable of face-to-face vulnerability, emotional baggage, past hurt, regrets, what ifs, complicated futures, emotional angst (though not as much in this part, I think?), trying to move on

Warnings: Reader's nickname is Blitz, Emotional angst (ish), tension, loneliness, subtle trauma if you squint, abandonment issues, bucky is his own warning, bucky is COMPLETELY CLUELESS, he is digging himself a hole that he can't drag himself out of at this point, he's also jealous, misunderstanding relationship between bob x reader, you'll know what i mean when you get to it. I don't love this part as much but it was already getting to be too many words for me to be comfy with posting it lol, reader thinks that she's moving on, bucky thinks he's moving on, he keeps running his mouth like an idiot, PREPARE YOURSELF FOR THE ANGST IN THE NEXT PART, i don't think I missed anything, please let me know if I did and I will correct!

Summary: Once partners on the run, you and Bucky shared a silent bond that deepened into unspoken love—until you left without a word to escape the pain. Years later, he calls you back, and you’re pulled into a tense reunion neither of you expected. Lonely and guarded, you've already find solace in anonymous messages with a stranger, only to find yourself conflicted when you're reunited with Bucky in New York. Some feelings can’t be outrun, and some pasts never truly fade.

The Watchtower New York City Present Day

It was late. Not so late that unconsciousness was fighting you to sleep, but late enough that you were getting restless. This always happened. The clock would strike midnight and you would be staring at your ceiling, imagining the world slowly spinning as you rotted away in your bed.

What was everyone else doing? You sighed, closing your eyes and focusing your attention to the tower around you.

The television was on, in the living room. A western, you noted, knowing that it would be Alexei.

Soft music came from down the hallway, which you knew would be Ava’s room, and a soft thudding coming from Bob’s room, where he was likely bouncing a tennis ball off of the wall while he thought about…whatever he thought about in the middle of the night.

No sounds came from Bucky’s room, Yelena’s room, or John’s room. They still weren’t back.

The mission that they were out on, recon, simple, quick; had been plaguing you since they’d hit the 72 hour mark, and that was at least 8 hours ago.

Not that you were counting. Or that you should even be concerned. It wasn’t your place to be concerned. You sighed, turning over to your side, reaching for your phone.

You scrolled through your messages, finger hovering over Bucky’s name, before swiping out of the messages app and moving quickly to her anonymous dating app.

Dating was a joke, in your line of work, especially when someone found out about your chosen profession, but that didn’t mean that you couldn’t have a bit of anonymous fun.

Some flirting that would lead to nothing, a faceless name to vent about your day to, someone that you could spill your troubles to without worrying about a news article being published the next day.

At least, that was how you justified the fact that you were still on this godforsaken app, and still messaging noattachments.

Whoever that was.

The app was barren, in fact, for the most part, aside from that single chat that you couldn’t bring yourself to delete. The one person that you couldn’t bring yourself to cut out of your life. Your anonymous fling, your unknown therapist, the one who always knew how to make you laugh and take your worries away.

You clicked on the chat, typing out a quick message.

herghosts: Sorry for the late message, can’t sleep. Wanted to send you a quick check in and let you know I’ve been thinking about you. Hope your day today (yesterday?) was good. Miss you, kinda.

You clicked quickly out of the app, moving over to a game that John had downloaded for you, some kind of color-sorting game to keep your mind distracted. It didn’t work. A few seconds later, your anonymous Romeo responded.

noattachments: Hey, baby. Thinking of you tonight too. Been working a lot this week, sorry I haven’t checked in. Wish I could see your pretty face so I knew who took off with the piece of my heart that went missing.

You smiled, shaking your head, and tapping out a response.

herghosts: The anonymity makes it more fun, sweetheart. Anything fun for work, or just the usual nonsense? Any crazy meetings? I guess knowing who my sweetheart is wouldn’t be the worst, but at the same time, I’ve known you like this for so long that part of me thinks maybe that I should wait awhile longer. I’m sort of a nightmare person. Don’t want to scare you off.

You went back to your game, willing your brain to shut off, to stop thinking about Bucky, to just go to sleep. Another message.

noattachments: More of the same for me. Overnight business trips take it out of me. Should be home later tomorrow though, I hope. I promise I’m real nice, even if I’m not much to look at, darlin. Show you mine if you show me yours?

You chuckled and rolled your eyes. He was persistent, tonight.

herghosts: Overnight work trips always take it out of me, too. Hope you’re able to sleep well once you get to that point (: Maybe knowing you in real life wouldn’t be the worst thing. I’ve been told that I need to spice up my life, lately. Been a lot of mundane, hurry-up-and-wait around here lately. Driving me up the wall. Are you ever in New York?

You sent it before you could think about it. Not that anyone would care.

John went out once a week, everyone assumed to see his son. Yelena liked to go to the club down the street. Bob liked book stores. Bucky would disappear randomly, coming home late and hiding away in his room once he was back.

Everyone else had things of their own. Hobbies, people, dates, lovers. You were the only one that stayed put, stayed in, stayed home. Unless there was a mission that required your skillset, you were usually happy to be alone. Another message came through.

noattachments: I am usually in New York, actually. What did you have in mind, baby? A meet-cute? Coffee date? Dinner and a movie? Steamy make-out in the back of a car?

Another soft chuckle escaped your lips. You sighed, trying to think of something witty to respond with.

herghosts: Thinking more casual. Maybe meet up in a park. A public setting, despite my disdain for them. At least that way you’ll be able to escape if you see me and have second thoughts. I can bring a picnic.

You sighed. Your heart was picking up its pace at your own nerve.

Setting up a meet with an anonymous man that says sweet things is how women are serial-murdered, you chided yourself, shaking your head.

It was too late now, you’d already sent the message. Maybe he would decline your offer, maybe it would be futile for you to even be worried. Maybe he wouldn’t even show up.

A buzz in your hand broke you out of your thoughts.

noattachments: Picnic is right up my alley, sweetheart. Tomorrow afternoon, if I get home in time? There’s a nice little park that’s near that big bookstore you mentioned your friend liking. The one on 34th? We can plan for 3pm. I’ll bring you flowers. And a note telling you about my undying devotion. You can keep it under your pillow. I’m a gentleman, I swear.

She smiled.

herghosts: Perfect. 3pm. The park on 34th. I’ll bring a picnic. I was hoping you’d say that you’d read me poetry about your darkest secrets, but a note about devotion works too. (; see you tomorrow, lover-boy. Try to get some rest, before you travel home tomorrow.

A quick response from him, your heart flipping in your chest as you read it, face flushing.

noattachments: Sleep well, pretty girl. I’ll dream about you when I sleep.

You closed your phone, rolling back onto your back. The nerves were getting to you already. Truth be told, you liked the anonymity. The safety of it. There was no chance of anyone hearing about your late night rants, the fears and inadequacy that you felt, anything that you would tell her anonymous fling.

He didn’t know that it was you. All that he knew was the basics. Female, based in the United States now, and Romania before your seemingly inevitable return to America.

And all that you knew of him was the same. Male. Located in the United States. Now you knew even more than that, and knew that he was usually in New York. Your stomach twisted, knowing that he had been so close, this entire time. You had both always kept things vague. Almost as if you were both trying to protect yourselves.

Your heart was racing, your nerves starting to overwhelm you as she thought about finally having a face and a name to go with the person that unknowingly made your heart swell and made your bad days better.

You couldn’t pinpoint exactly when you had started to feel anything other than the thrill of the initial flirt, but you knew that you were playing with fire by setting up a meet. Your mind was reeling.

You heard the elevator whir, just loudly enough to jolt you from your thoughts as you sat up. They were back. You needed to feed them and make sure that they weren’t injured. You dashed out of your room, hooking your arm around the door jam and darting around the corner.

You took the stairs, two at a time, turning into the kitchen, yanking open the fridge door and pulling out the leftovers from dinner. You dumped them into a pot and pulled plates from the cabinet, reaching for glasses with your other hand.

They’d need to hydrate after a mission, you knew that they were all horrible at taking care of themselves.

You set the plates down, ripping open the drawer and grabbing a spoon to stir the leftovers in the pot and forks for them to use. The cups were set down at their typical spots at the counter bar, followed by napkins, the plates, and the forks. The elevator let out a soft ding as you reached into the fridge for the water pitcher.

You steeled yourself for the questioning glances that you would inevitably receive when they came around the corner, and set the pitcher down next to the nearest plate.

Bucky’s plate.

The footsteps that were moving towards you were getting louder, and the whispered bickering that they no doubt had lowered their volume to was rushed and aggressive.

“Stop it, both of you,” Yelena finally scolded, voice barely louder than the whispers that had been making their way closer to her. You quickly moved to the stove, and started stirring the pot that had begun to bubble.

You forced your focus to the pot, hoping that your exhaustion would remain at bay for at least another hour. Their footsteps came to an abrupt halt, with a soft chuckle coming from John.

“Well, the mighty Blitz is acting as our live-in chef, once again,” he teased, reaching for his chair, wincing as he sat down. You rolled your eyes at his comment, avoiding the questioning look that Bucky gave you as you reached across the counter to grip John's chin in your fingers, twisting his head to the side to look at the gash above his eyebrow.

You shook her head, gently poking at it with your free hand, giving him a stern look.

“Wouldn’t let them just patch you up in the van, huh?” you asked, glancing to Yelena, who shook her head, confirming what John refused to respond to.

You shook her head again, dropping his chin and turning back to the pot of food that was finally heated through. You gripped the handle with a gloved hand, carefully turning with it and spooning the food onto their plates.

“Eat,” you demanded, reaching across the counter again to set an oven mitt down before placing the pot on top of it.

“I’m going to get the med kit, then you’re all going to eat while I patch you up. We can debrief in the morning. I’ll be out tomorrow afternoon, so I’d like to be done with all of the paperwork before lunch.”

You didn’t give them a chance to respond, instead making your way down the hallway to the MedBay to get the medpack, noting the soft scratch of the chair legs as they were pulled away from the counter.

When you came back, John had nearly cleaned his plate, and was staring into it like it might have some sort of answer to all of the world’s problems.

You started with him, since he was the closest, pulling his face to look at you while you sterilized the gash that had clotted above his eye.

“What was it this time,” you asked, her tone as close to teasing as you could muster, “a superpowered teenager, or the butt of a gun?” He offered you a rueful smile, shaking his head, gritting his teeth through the sting of the antiseptic and the cotton swab that you were dragging across his face.

“Definitely not a teenager,” he quipped, “just another HYDRA junkie with a complex.” You shook your head again, reaching for the butterfly closure that you’d prepped.

“Tomorrow when the nurses are here, you’ll need stitches,” you said, your voice softer than it probably should have been, “but I can’t stitch you. Not tonight.”

Yelena’s eyes darted up to look at you, now watching the way that you slowly moved, precise, but careful.

“Rough night?” Yelena questioned from her chair, looking to Bucky, who was now watching you with the same concern.

“Rough life,” you responded, looking John over one more time to make sure that you didn’t miss anything obvious, handing him a sling for the clearly dislocated shoulder as you reached for the joint, “some nights are easier than others. Tonight just wasn’t,” you said, your tone clearly telling them that you weren’t in the mood for a therapy session.

“Ready?” you asked John, whose jaw was clenched. He turned, looking you in the eye, giving you a single, curt nod.

“Do it,” he mumbled, letting out a hiss as you cracked his shoulder back into place. You let her hand linger, a gentle comfort as you helped him into the sling, your eyes darting to Bucky.

“You’re next in line, Barnes,” you said, carrying the supplies over to where he sat.

“No need,” he said, holding up his hands, “I’m good. A few cracked ribs, some scrapes. Nothing major. Promise,” he said, offering you a small, timid smile.

You looked him over anyway, finding that there was nothing for you to patch up, finally looking to Yelena. Yelena sighed, slumping slightly in her chair.

“Alright,” she said, looking up from her plate, pulling off her gloves and jacket. A deep slash down her bicep on her left side, a gash in her shoulder. “I guess I’m next, Doc.”

Your eyes met. A silent question from Yelena. One that you decided to ignore, gripping the antiseptic and going to work on the shoulder gash. John carefully got up, placing his plate into the dishwasher, followed by the fork, and giving them all a nod.

“See you in the morning,” he said quietly, heading for the stairs.

“0600,” Bucky said, not looking up from his plate. John nodded, slowly making his way up the stairs.

Yelena was far more compliant, and far less talkative; as she was patched up.

“Stitches?” she asked, once the medpack was sealed back up. A silent nod.

“First thing tomorrow. Unless you want it to leave a horrific scar.” Yelena nodded, looking to Bucky again, before opening her mouth to speak again.

“So, you’re out tomorrow?” she asked, trying to sound as if she wasn’t fully interested, looking up from her plate to gaze at you, her friend, who was standing warily by the kitchen sink, exhaustion seeping from your bones.

Another nod.

“Just for the afternoon. I have some errands to run, I thought I might try touching some grass, I guess. Just, to get some air. Get out of the tower. I feel like I never leave,” you scoffed, moving to pack the leftovers back into the tupperware that you’d taken them out of.

Bucky nodded, taking his final bite.

“I’m out tomorrow too, actually. I’ve gotta be out of here before noon, though, so we’ll debrief early.”

Another silent nod, the leftovers placed back into the fridge, the plates and forks stowed into the dishwasher. He looked to you before turning towards the stairs, a quiet pause, his face slightly softer than you were used to seeing it.

“Thanks for making sure we ate,” he said softly, hand lifting tentatively, as if he wanted to place it gently on your shoulder, before pulling it back and walking up the stairs without making another sound.

Yelena sighed, placing her head into her hands.

“Errands, huh?” She asked, her eyes lifting to meet yours. You gave her a silent nod, gaze locked on the windows, on the lights of the city.

“Yeah, just some errands. Probably won’t be too long, but I’m going to go to that park by Bob’s bookstore. There’s a nice tree I want to sit under while I eat a snack. People watching, fresh air, grass… It might do me some good.”

Yelena nodded, watching your face, noting the exhaustion that was etched into your slouching frame.

“Are they at least fun errands?” she asked, a teasing lilt to her tone, “has someone finally talked you into a date?”

You release a scoff, followed by crossed arms and an averted gaze.

“Not a date. I may meet an old friend, if they get into town before I head back. Late flights, all that.” A soft but short tone, enough information to get her to drop it. Practiced. Direct.

Yelena accepted the answer with a nod, stretching as she stood up.

“Send me your location, in case you need backup,” she said softly, before adding another, softer, “just in case.”

A chuckle from you, followed by a shake of your head.

“Just in case?” you asked, chuckling, “Lena, I’m an enhanced being. I’m a former assassin, and a spy. I worked covertly for six countries at once, for years, before I even joined the team. If anything, the people that are going to see me out in public are going to be the ones that need backup.”

A chuckle left Yelena’s lips, now, and she shook her head. Her phone buzzed, and she opened it to see a message from Bucky.

Is everything okay down there? I assume that you two are talking.

She typed out a quick, short response.

All good, just tired. Want me to tell her you’re worried, Barnes?

She looked back to you, watching as you started the dishwasher. Another message.

Ha, no, that’s fine. All good on that front. She knows where to find me if she needs me.

She liked the message, locking her phone.

“Well, if you won’t tell me about your mystery friend, I guess I’ll just go to bed,” she said finally, earning a nod from you.

“I’m going to bed, too,” you said softly, turning towards the stairs.

As you walked up the stairs, you pulled her phone from her pocket, a message alert bright on the lockscreen. A twitch to your lips as you glanced over your shoulder to see Yelena watching intently.

“Privacy, Lena,” you scolded, pocketing your phone again, turning away. Yelena grinned, nudging your shoulder.

“I hope your date goes well,” she whispered, winking, and made her way up the stairs past you.

You grinned, pulling your phone out again, opening the message.

noattachments: Just landed. Can’t wait to finally get to see your face, pretty girl. I’ll have to get some things done in the morning, work stuff. I’ll be sure to be at the park by 3.

You smiled softly, leaning against the wall as you typed out a response.

herghosts: Sorry for the delay, my roommate came in super late tonight. Had to tell me about her day. I’m excited to see you too, sweetheart. Hope you like hugs, I’ve been needing one, lately. I’m heading to bed, finally. Sleep well.

You didn’t even notice the alert that came from Bucky’s room as you passed by it, or the quick sounds of him typing a response, that sent at almost exactly the same time the last message from your Romeo appeared on your screen.

You closed your bedroom door, unlocking your phone.

noattachments: Sleep well babydoll. I’ll hug you until you feel like the world’s alright. Just a few more hours. Counting them down.

You smiled softly to yourself, crawling into bed. You drifted into sleep slowly, peacefully, and only woke up when your alarm was blaring into your ear. Time for debrief. 0600.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You swung your legs over the side of your bed, reaching for the hoodie that you kept on the chair by the bed, pulling it over your head. You slipped your feet into your slippers, and made your way towards the door, opening it to see a bleary eyed Bob shuffling down the hallway, too.

“Get any sleep?” you asked him, voice barely above a whisper. He smiled softly, shrugging.

“My usual four hours,” he admitted, wrapping an arm around you as you both rounded the corner to the stairs.

"Think we have time for coffee?” he asked, eyeing the empty coffee pot on the counter.

You turned your head to look over your shoulder, noting that Bucky’s door was still shut tight, just like John’s. You nodded, smiling up at him.

“Yeah, Robby, I think we have time for coffee.”

He grinned, reaching into the cabinet for the coffee that he stashed beyond everyone else’s reach, just for the two of you. Your secret morning routine. You smiled back up at him, filling the tank of the coffee pot with water as quietly as possible.

“Bookstore today?” you asked, knowing his routine would say yes.

He would be out the door as soon as debrief was over, and he’d go browse for books, some new tea, and make a stop by his favorite cafe that was just hidden enough that nobody would come looking for him.

He’d be gone until well into the evening, making an appearance in time to watch horrible reality tv with Alexei before heading to bed.

He smiled, nodding.

“You can come, if you want. The Cafe has a fantastic pistachio creme croissant that you’d love.”

You smiled softly at the gesture, and at the fact that he remembered your love of pistachio creme, but shook your head.

“Actually,” you said softly, “I have plans this afternoon. I’m meeting a friend, touching some grass, following my therapist’s recommendations, you know. The basics.”

His face lifted, eyes locking on your face, eyebrows bunching as if he couldn’t decide if you were joking.

“Actually?” he asked, “you’re actually going to meet friends and go out in public?” His tone was incredulous, filled with disbelief. You rolled your eyes.

“Believe it or not, Bob, I do have friends,” you teased, winking as you pushed the Brew Now button on the coffee pot, smiling softly at him as it bubbled to life.

Bob smiled, nodding to you as he wrapped an arm around your torso, pulling you into a hug. “I hope it goes well,” he whispered, “I’m proud of you.”

You tensed at his words, but hugged him back, giving him a tight squeeze before pulling away and smiling.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” you whispered, leaning closer, “I’ll text you if I need to be saved.” He nodded, pulling two coffee mugs from the cabinet.

Bucky’s door squeaked open, and you heard him shuffle down the stairs. He came around the corner, hair damp and wild from the towel that he’d run through it after his shower. The smell of his soap and cologne filled the room, and you turned away, looking into the fridge for some cream to put into your coffee.

The initial tenseness that had festered between you in your early days at the tower hadn’t dissipated fully.

It had softened, in some places, primarily around the edges; primarily due to your constant proximity to one another. Some old habits died hard, it seemed, and didn’t care about hurt feelings.

Only the love for him that had never left you.

On bad days, you still felt bitter about the way he’d left. Leaving your memory behind in Bucharest, nothing more than a note on the counter, claiming that the fight called him back stateside.

You knew now that his fight never stopped. Would never stop.

On those days, you still kicked yourself for running back to him the moment he called.

He’d been colder when you’d arrived than you had had been prepared for. Distant, closed off. As if he barely knew you.

Now, though, you would exchange pleasantries, work together when necessary, and train, offering critiques and empty praises, but it was nothing like it used to be.

You’d retreated into yourself more, these days; avoiding any possibility where you’d be forced to say anything to him about anything real.

You turned, offering him a tight lipped smile that you were certain looked more like a grimace than a smile, and poured cream into your mug, then into Bob’s.

“Coffee?” you offered, reaching for another mug.

Bucky gave you a tight lipped, single nod. You poured the coffee into the mug, scooped two scoops of sugar into it, stirred it and handed it over, without even looking at him again.

You gripped your mug and started down the hallway to the briefing room, Bob hot on your tail.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice a whisper as you both turned the corner. You nodded.

“I’m good,” you murmured, “I’m just tired. I want to get this meeting over with.”

He nodded, his hand reaching for the small of your back, providing a reassuring weight as you both found your seats.

You both sat down, and his hand rested in your lap. You smiled softly, ruffling his hair with your free hand.

To some, it would look like a budding romantic relationship, just from your typical proximity to one another, but in reality, you were just two broken people that were able to see each other for what they were.

The closeness that could be confused for romance was just two kindred souls that held each other up when life got too rough. There’s a closeness that comes with trust, and that’s what the two of you had.

He brushed your bangs from your face, running his thumb along your jaw.

“So, date today, huh?” he asked again, smiling at you. You shrugged.

“It might be a date. It might backfire and be a nightmare. I might need to be saved,” you joked, sipping your coffee, eyes darting around the room, looking through the windows to see if anyone was on their way into the debrief yet.

Bob chuckled, moving his hand from your chin to your shoulder, nodding and smiling.

“I’ll save you every time,” he mumbled, sipping on his own coffee as John stumbled into the room.

“How's the head wound?” you asked as he collapsed into his chair.

“Please, I have the worst headache on earth,” John mumbled, hiding his face in the crook of his own arm.

You reached into your hoodie pocket and produced a bottle of migraine medication, tossing it into John’s lap.

“Take two. You can have my coffee,” you muttered, “I’ll get another one.”

Bob was already up, heading to get you another coffee as you pushed your mug across the table to John. He shot you a look of thanks, taking the medicine before handing the bottle back across the table, his spare hand gripping the coffee mug like a lifeline.

“So, what do you have going on today that you’ll be gone all afternoon?” he asked. Voice quiet after the silent pause, caused by Bob’s disappearance.

“I never got to ask, but I figured you weren’t keen to answer questions in front of Barnes, either way.”

You snorted, shaking your head.

“That obvious?” you asked, pocketing the medicine bottle. He chuckled, raising his brows as he nodded.

“You two hate each other, it’s common knowledge at this point,” he said, sipping the coffee that you had passed to him.

“We don’t hate each other,” you muttered, glancing towards the windows, “we just have an…interesting,” you trailed off, trying to decide what word would be appropriate.

“History,” you said finally, still avoiding eye contact.

He raised his brows again, looking at you over the mug.

“What,” he snorted, “friends with benefits gone bad?”

You felt your face flush as you shook your head.

“We just,” you trailed off again, looking around the room, trying to find anything else to focus on, “we knew each other when we were different, I guess.”

A soft shrug, a glance towards the door, a silent prayer that Bob would hurry up.

“It’s just, I don’t know, it’s a whole thing,” you muttered, looking at the table. He nodded.

“I know, I get it,” he offered, “it sucks to love someone that makes it impossible.”

Your eyes shot up, forcing a look of disgust to spread across your face.

“No,” you quickly forced out, “no, I’m not in love with him.” You shook her head, forcing a laugh.

“I have a date, today, with a long-time fling.” You felt the words tumble out, almost like you were confessing your sins to a priest.

John nodded, pursing his lips, brows still raised.

“I mean, good for you,” he chuckled, “but I didn’t say that you were in love with him.”

You laughed, now; a solid laugh, and shook your head.

“You’re ridiculous,” you snorted, a feeling of relief settling over you as Bob made his way back around the corner.

He made his way to the table, setting a new mug down in front of you and sitting back in his seat, his hand finding your lap, as if it had never left. You shot him a look of thanks as you gripped the mug, bringing it to your lips to blow and cool it down.

Yelena stalked into the room, a hoodie drawn up over her head, face mostly hidden as she gripped her energy drink, sitting down into the chair aggressively, propping her socked foot onto the table.

“If anyone says a single word to me, I will kill you,” she threatened, “painfully.”

Bucky followed her in, gripping his tablet, Alexei hot on his tail. Ava had appeared through the wall, although you weren’t sure when.

Bucky’s mouth was set into a hard line as he surveyed the group in front of him, eyes darting between all of them as they sat at the table, notably avoiding looking at you.

“Alright,” he said finally, “let’s get this over with. I have a date I need to leave for by noon, and it’s already 8:30.”

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The meeting felt like it would never end. Several hours of discussion about what went wrong, what intel had been inaccurate, and how they were going to track down the men that had gotten away.

16 of them, allegedly.

You had zoned out, an hour in; and started fiddling with your phone, hiding it under the table and attempting to look like you were paying attention.

You weren’t, but neither was Bob. The two of you rarely got selected for these missions anyway. You were, effectively, the live in maids for the group, at this point, unless something dire was going on, and it was all-hands-on-deck.

You opened the chat with your anonymous Romeo, as you’d started silently referring to him; quietly typing out a message, phone muted entirely.

herghosts: Hey, you. I’m in a meeting right now that feels like it will never be over. Do you like sandwiches? I feel like those are the typical picnic food, but I realized that I don’t know if you have any food allergies or sensitivities. Sorry if this is ridiculous, I’ve been overthinking it since you agreed to meet up… I’m excited to see you, don’t get me wrong, I just feel like a little kid, or a teenager. Anyway, I’m rambling. Only a few more hours!

You didn’t notice Bucky’s phone buzz in his pocket, or the way that his lips perked into a half smile as he read whatever came across his screen.

He was gently and discreetly reading it while listening to John drone on about getting his ass kicked in the middle of the night last night on their way out of their op, and texted back under the table.

noattachments: Hi, sweetheart. Working on getting out of here, I promise. I’ll eat whatever you bring, I’m not picky. Can’t really be picky with my lifestyle, I usually subsist on protein bars and adrenaline. I’m excited too. My coffee this morning actually gave me a little bit of anxiety about meeting you. If this work stuff doesn’t end soon, I’m going to spontaneously combust. Counting down the minutes until I see you.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, right as John asked you a question. Your mind went blank.

“Sorry,” you said quietly, “can you repeat the question? I was worlds away,” you muttered softly, offering him a timid, apologetic smile.

He raised his brows, and shook his head.

“Schedule one date and forget about the rest of us, huh, Blitz?” he teased, causing everyone’s eyes to dart to you.

You felt your face flush, and cleared your throat, turning back to John.

“What was the question, Walker?” you asked again, feeling Bucky’s eyes burn into the side of your face. Bob’s hand squeezing your thigh lightly as you tensed under the attention. John shook his head again, still smirking, before finally asking the question again.

“How many times this month have you had to stitch us up? Is it worth it to get a 24 hour nurse on staff?”

You shook your head.

“I don’t mind doing it, I prefer to know that everyone is back and in bed safely anyway. Might as well put myself to some use.” You shrugged, moving your attention back to your phone under the table.

Bucky’s eyes left your face and moved to John as you opened the message and felt your face flush at the sweet words and pet names. Bob’s hand didn’t leave your leg as the meeting continued, and you wrote a quick response, trying to remain inconspicuous.

herghosts: Thinking of you to get through my meeting. I think if I have to answer one more question about the statistical viability of making expensive changes that will affect our budget, I’ll lose my mind. I should have been an office assistant…or a store clerk…someone with minimal adult responsibilities.

You closed your phone, reaching for your coffee mug, sipping lazily at the now luke-warm liquid. You kept your eyes trained on your lap, and your hands busy with your mug.

You didn’t want to meet anyone’s eyes, in case they had questions about the date that had been so unceremoniously brought to everyone’s attention.

Bob gave you another squeeze as the meeting came to a close, and you looked up at him with a grateful smile as he pulled your chair out and ushered you towards the door.

It was an unspoken thing, if one of you was overwhelmed, or just not in the mood, the other would do everything in their power to keep everyone else away from them.

It seemed like this time, it wasn’t going to work, though, because as soon as Bob’s hand reached the door handle, Bucky’s voice broke the soft shuffle of everyone filing out of the room.

“Hey, Blitz? Can you hang back, for a minute?” You felt your shoulders drop as you froze in place, looking to Bob for some way to get out of it; but he looked just as surprised as you felt.

You sighed, taking a glance over your shoulder.

“Sure, Buck,” you said, your tone resigned, surrendering to whatever he was about to berate you with; giving Bob’s hand a tight squeeze, communicating silently that you would be alright.

He gave you a gentle nod, pointing to the kitchen.

You nodded, giving him a smile, and turned on your heel, stepping out of everyone else’s way as they moved toward the door. You took a tentative step towards the table that you’d just stood up from, back towards Bucky, almost refusing to meet his eyes as you gripped the back of your chair until your knuckles turned white.

You nearly flinched as the door clicked closed. You took a breath in and met Bucky’s eyes, cocking your head in mock-confusion.

“You needed me?” you asked, immediately wishing that you had chosen any other string of words.

He nodded slowly, running a hand down his face.

“A date, huh?” he asked, a polite smile schooled across his features. You rolled her eyes.

“Yeah,” you said softly, shrugging, “I’ve been talking to this guy for awhile, we decided on lunch.”

A lie. Anything to get you out of here as quickly as possible.

He nodded again, chuckling.

“I actually have a date today, too,” he said, his tone almost shy. You nodded in response, lips tight.

“Yeah,” you said softly, “you opened the debrief with that.”

He shrugged, moving his chair out of his way, moving towards you.

“Is it Bob?” he asked, voice quiet.

You felt the laugh bubbling in her chest before it even escaped your lips, but you let it tumble out anyway.

“Bob?” you asked, the giggle overtaking your attempt to speak, “no, not Bob. Why would you think that it was Bob?”

His face flushed at his own assumption, and he shook his head.

“Just read too far into it, I guess,” he mumbled, shrugging.

“I just assumed, because you two are close.” Another shrug.

“We just used to be close like that, so I assumed that he was smarter than I was back then and closed the deal. My mistake,” he added, almost too quickly, too quietly, as if he was embarrassed.

You shook her head, trying to ignore the way that he’d phrased his sentence.

Maybe he was smarter than I was back then, and closed the deal.

You blinked, forcing another chuckle out.

“No, not Bob,” you repeated, shaking your head, “can you imagine that HR nightmare? Horrible idea. Besides,” you started, fingers tapping on the back of your chair, “his therapist doesn’t think he’s ready for…any of that.”

Another curt nod from Bucky, his eyes schooled on the table in front of him.

“Is he from around here, or?” He asked, an irritated sigh escaping from you at his terrible attempt to sound genuine when you knew that he was just being nosy.

“Yeah,” you said, finally, “he’s from New York.”

He chuckled.

“Is that all I get?”

You smiled at him as if you had a secret, and shook your head.

“That’s all I’ve got, Barnes. He’s from New York, travels a lot for work, so I just assume that he’s in finance, or something. I don’t know a lot. I figured I’d just figure it out as I went. You’re the one that told me to loosen up and live a little, remember?”

He nodded, eyes on the floor, lips pursed as if he was trying to think of what to say.

“I did say that,” he whispered, shaking his head, “just didn’t really think you’d listen.”

You scoffed, shaking your head in return.

“And what about you? Would any of us know your mystery woman that you’re ditching us all for? Will you even be back tonight?”

Your tone was more accusatory than you meant for it to be, but he’d developed a habit of going out for the night and returning the next morning.

You knew that he was probably just crashing at his old apartment, needing some time away from the chaos, but nobody else knew that.

He winced, before letting out a chuckle.

“No,” he said softly, “I don’t think so.”

There was a pause, half a beat, barely perceptible, except for the soft smile that spread across his face.

“She’s so good to me, though. Even if I go radio silent for weeks, it’s like I never disappeared once we start talking again. She makes me laugh, she’s so funny."

He paused, eyes almost twinkling. Your chest ached at the sight.

"Her little quips will have me smiling at my phone like an idiot when we’re on the quinjet, or even if we’re all just in the living room, and I get a message while we’re watching a movie. She’s patient with me. And she’s kind.” his voice trailed off, and he shook his head.

“It’s like she just stole my heart without me even noticing it,” he chuckled, looking back up at you.

Alarms went off in her head at the familiarity in his tone, then; the way that he was talking to you like he used to in Bucharest, your chest aching at the fact that there was a woman out there that he thought so highly of.

But you quieted your mind, and nodded, a soft smile finding its way across your face.

“I hope that you have a great time, Bucky,” you said softly, forcing yourself to hold the gentle smile on your face.

He nodded, moving towards the door.

“I hope that you do too, you know,” he smiled, reaching for the door handle, “and if he ends up being a douche, you know I’ll come save you,” he offered, voice barely above a whisper as he pulled the door open.

You shook your head, smile faltering as you walked in front of him, lips quivering slightly.

“Bob beat you to that one, Barnes,” you quipped, voice slightly harsher than you meant for it to be.

You walked down the hallway then, not looking back to him, and made your way to the stairs, stalking up to your room without another word.

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flowstatefic · 3 days ago

Text

Spaces (B.B.) - Part 1 of ? (Prologue)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader Word Count: 4.9k Themes: assumed unrequited love, emotional distance and physical distance, fear of rejection, neither bucky nor reader are capable of face-to-face vulnerability, emotional baggage, past hurt, regrets, what ifs, complicated futures, emotional angst (i'm sorry i'm incapable of writing non-angst when i lock in) Warnings: Emotional angst, separation, isolation, loneliness, subtle trauma if you squint, abandonment issues, bucky is his own warning, THIS MAN CAN YEARN LIKE A MF and he's constantly just...he's bucky. you get it. random lowercase writing, I was too lazy to go back and fix it, i don't think I missed anything, please let me know if I did and I will correct!

Bucharest, 2016

The apartment was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels empty—but the kind that wraps around you like a secret. The kind that almost makes you believe that you might actually belong. The scent of simmering pasta sauce drifted through the room, mingling with the low hum of traffic from the street below. Your laugh cracked the stillness, soft and unguarded, as he smirked over a paperback romance he was reading aloud, every line more ridiculous than the last.

“You actually paid money for this?” Bucky teased, flipping a page with exaggerated judgment. His mouth twitched at the corner, amusement warming his voice. “These people say the dumbest things.”

You shrugged, trying not to smile too hard, attention fixed on the sauce. “Maybe I needed something ridiculous.”

He’d said nothing when you bought it. Just raised an eyebrow at the register while you tucked it behind a bag of pasta, pretending it didn’t mean anything. And maybe it didn’t. Maybe you wanted to believe you weren’t picking up some cheap daydream of the kind of love you’d never have.

Not with him.

He didn’t know.

Couldn’t know.

Your feelings were folded neatly into the cracks of quiet mornings and the space between his silences. Held tightly in every stolen glance, every half-swallowed laugh when he said something without realizing how much it meant to you. They were never his to carry. So you didn’t ask him to.

You just…loved him.

He made it so easy—on days like this. When his shoulders weren’t drawn up to his ears, when his voice wasn’t hollowed out by guilt or fear. When he let himself be, even if it was only for an hour. You clung to those scraps of softness like they might be enough to keep you here. But they never were.

“I don’t know,” you murmured absently as he read another absurd line. “The men I’ve been with weren’t exactly the romantic type. More…” You trailed off, braving a glance at him. “Rough around the edges.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, snorted. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

You smiled. It hurt. “Yeah.”

He didn’t see the way your fingers gripped the wooden spoon. Didn’t catch the way your voice trembled under the weight of restraint.

He never did.

He just turned away, tossing the book onto the coffee table as he moved toward the couch, mumbling to himself about twenty-first century dating, shaking his head like it was all just a joke.

But none of this was a joke to you.

Your chest ached. It always ached, especially on nights like this—when it felt like something was reaching for you, just beyond your grasp. When he was so close, so there, and yet still light-years away. You stared down at the pasta sauce—long done, long forgotten—pretending you weren’t falling apart inside.

Because you knew. Eventually, you’d have to go.

You couldn’t keep pretending. Couldn’t keep drowning yourself in this quiet ache, this illusion of safety that would never be yours in the way you needed it to be. Not when he didn’t look at you the way you looked at him. Not when he’d never asked you to stay.

You stirred the sauce again, for no reason at all, and swallowed the lump in your throat.

You were in love with a man who didn’t even know he was breaking your heart.

And soon—before it got worse—you’d have to leave.

Bucharest, 2016 Three Weeks Later

The apartment was too quiet.

It hadn’t always felt this way—sterile, echoing, hollow around the edges. But now, even with the sun bleeding through the windows, casting soft light across the floorboards, it felt like a room that had already been emptied of something important. Something invisible. Something like hope.

You sat on the edge of the bed, hands limp in your lap, eyes fixed on the cracks in the floorboards you’d memorized during too many sleepless nights. Your duffel bag sat half-packed beside you, gaping open, a silent dare.

He was gone. Out running errands, maybe. Or chasing shadows in alleys, following up on vague whispers of danger like he always did when the walls started closing in. He hadn’t told you where he was going. Not that he owed you that.

Not that he ever really said goodbye.

You stood slowly, your chest aching with the weight of the decision already made. It had been creeping in for days, weeks—this certainty that you couldn’t stay here. Not like this. Not loving him in silence, not waking up to the smell of his coffee and the sound of his soft breathing while knowing he would never look at you the way you looked at him.

You moved through the apartment like a ghost, pulling your things from drawers with practiced quiet. Shirts folded, toothbrush wrapped in a tissue, your favorite mug left untouched in the cabinet. You didn’t take much. Didn’t want to leave holes he might notice. You told yourself he wouldn’t notice anyway.

He’d think you needed air. A break. A walk to clear your head.

By the time he figured out you were really gone, you’d be far enough that he wouldn’t bother trying to find you.

And even if he did… he wouldn’t understand why.

There were no dramatic fights. No slammed doors or tearful confessions. Just a slow, aching absence of the thing you needed most. And how could you explain that? How could you say I loved you so quietly you never heard it?

You paused at the table. The one he used to read at, sprawled in his hoodie, socked feet propped up while he scoffed at the romance novel you’d left behind. It was still there, spine cracked open to the page he last mocked.

You didn’t leave a note.

What would you even write?

"You made me feel safe. You made me feel invisible." "I love you, but that isn't your fault." "Please don’t come after me."

No. Silence was cleaner.

You pulled your coat on slowly, fingers trembling just a little as you reached for the handle. You looked around one last time—not for anything you’d forgotten, but to commit it to memory. The worn couch cushion where he always sat. The crooked picture frame you never fixed. The warmth that no longer reached you.

Then, before you could change your mind, before your heart could betray you with hope— You left.

And you didn’t look back.

Bucharest, 2016 Later That Night

The door creaked open just after midnight.

Bucky stepped inside, boots scuffing against the worn floor as he shrugged off his jacket and dropped the bag of groceries onto the counter. His breath fogged slightly in the air, and he rubbed his metal hand absently against the back of his neck as he glanced around the apartment.

Quiet.

Not unusual. You were probably asleep, curled up in that ridiculous oversized sweatshirt he always pretended not to notice you stealing from his laundry pile. He usually found you that way after his long walks—book in your lap, a blanket kicked off halfway, face soft with dreams.

But something felt… off.

He moved through the kitchen, waiting for the usual signs—your mug in the sink, a light left on, the faint scent of whatever soap you used lingering in the air. But there was nothing. Just silence, so thick it felt unnatural.

“Hey,” he called out, voice low, careful. “You still up?”

No answer.

He crossed to your bedroom door—open. No light. The bed, made. Too neat. Not like you.

A flicker of discomfort pulled at his chest as he stepped inside. His eyes scanned the room, slow. The duffel bag you always kept under the bed—gone. The drawer where you kept your books—half empty. The hoodie you wore almost every night—missing.

He stood frozen for a moment, the air thinning around him. His brows furrowed as he turned back toward the kitchen, toward the coat rack.

Your coat. Your shoes.

Gone.

His heartbeat kicked up, slow and heavy. He pulled open a cabinet. Your mug—still there. But your favorite spoon was gone. He checked the bathroom. Toothbrush—missing. Shampoo—still here. He grabbed his phone, fingers unsteady.

No messages. No missed calls.

Nothing.

“Come on…” he whispered, rubbing his temple, pacing the living room now. He looked around as if he might find you sitting there, tucked into the corner of the couch, grinning at his confusion like this was some kind of joke.

But the apartment didn’t hum anymore.

It felt abandoned.

He sank onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of his mouth.

You left.

You really left.

And not even a note.

He let out a bitter breath, trying to keep the tremble from reaching his hands. Trying not to let his mind spin back through every moment—every time you smiled at him like he was worth something. Every quiet gesture he’d tucked away, unsure if they meant what he hoped they meant. Every almost-touch he pulled back from, afraid it would mean too much.

You’d sat two feet away from him for months, and he’d spent every goddamn day pretending he wasn’t in love with you.

Too dangerous, he told himself.

Too broken. Too far gone.

You deserved someone who could give you softness without flinching. And he didn’t trust himself to be that man—not without hurting you.

So he stayed silent.

And now, you were gone.

He sat there for a long time, staring at the place where your bag used to sit by the door. At the book you’d left on the table, spine cracked to the page he last mocked. He picked it up with careful fingers, holding it like it might still carry the warmth of your hands.

A soft, broken sound escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

“She loved this crap,” he murmured into the empty room. “Of course she did.”

He let the book fall to his lap, covering his eyes with a shaking hand. If he let himself say your name, he might not stop.

You’d left without a word.

And still, all he wanted to do was run after you.

Because what he never told you—what he never could tell you—was that every quiet moment you shared, every simple, stupid little domestic thing, was the closest he’d ever felt to peace.

And he’d loved you for it.

Silently.

Just like you’d loved him.

And now it was too late.

Bucharest, 2016 Two Months Later

The key still fit the lock.

You pushed the door open harder than necessary, the frame groaning in protest as you stepped into the apartment—if you could still call it that. It felt like a hollowed-out memory. Cold. Bare.

Empty.

He was gone.

You didn’t need to look around to know it, but you did anyway, fingers twitching at your sides as you scanned the room like you might catch a glimpse of him, like he might be lurking just out of sight, ready to pop up with one of those half-smiles and a smartass comment about the trashy romance novel still sitting on the shelf.

Except the shelf was empty.

Gone.

Of course.

You dropped your bag by the door with a dull thud, jaw tight as you stepped further in. No boots. No jacket. No faint smell of coffee and soap. It was like he’d never even lived here. Like you had never lived here.

Then you saw it.

On the kitchen table—bare except for a single piece of paper, folded cleanly in half.

Your stomach sank before you even picked it up.

I don’t know if you’ll ever be back, but just in case. The fight called me back to the States. —B

Your eyes scanned the note once. Twice. A scoff broke past your lips before you could stop it.

Just in case.

Like you’d swing by to pick up your book. Like you were a ghost passing through—some temporary fixture he hadn’t really expected to stick around.

You crumpled the note in your fist before unfolding it again, hating how your fingers trembled, how your eyes blurred at the edges. He was gone. Back to the States. Back to war, to danger, to being hunted again. At least here, he’d been hidden. Safe. With you.

But he left.

No goodbye. No warning. No explanation.

You clenched your jaw, throat burning, anger the only thing hot enough to fight the flood of worry rising beneath your ribs.

“Idiot,” you muttered. You weren’t even sure if you meant him or yourself.

You’d come back—not for closure, not for some cinematic reunion, but because something in you had fractured the day you left, and for weeks you’d been trying to pretend it hadn’t. You thought maybe seeing him again would help you stitch yourself back together.

Instead, you found a fucking note.

You shoved it into your coat pocket, heart pounding. You didn’t know where he’d gone exactly. You didn’t care. That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

He made his choice. You’d make yours.

You left the apartment an hour later, locking the door behind you without looking back. There were still jobs out there—contacts who didn’t ask questions, missions that paid just enough to keep you moving. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was familiar. It kept your hands busy, your mind distracted. That was all you needed.

You weren’t going to chase someone who didn’t ask you to stay. You weren’t going to wait for a ghost. If he wanted to disappear, so be it.

You could disappear too.

One Year Ago, BucharestThe phone rang once. Then twice.

You answered on the second ring.

“Yeah?”

There was a pause—just a beat too long—and in that breath of silence, something in your chest cracked open, a flood of memory rushing in before you even heard his voice.

“…Hey.” The voice made your chest tighten, and you forced a deep breath.

Bucky.

It had been years. No messages. No warning. Just a voice you hadn’t heard since you’d left that apartment, that you'd tried not to think about since you’d stood in a cracked hallway with his crumpled note in your hand and your heart in pieces.

You didn’t breathe. Not right away. You let the silence hang like a question, daring him to say more.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still have the same number,” he said quietly.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Your voice came out sharper than you meant. “Burning the SIM wasn’t on my list of priorities.”

Another pause.

“I need your help.”

You sat back in the narrow kitchen chair of your latest safe house, one foot hooked around the leg of the table, your half-eaten meal forgotten. Your eyes scanned the small apartment instinctively, though you knew that no one was listening.

“Help,” you repeated, voice flat. “That’s rich. Last I checked, you had no problem leaving without it.”

“I know.” He didn’t argue. Didn’t defend himself. “But this isn’t just about me.”

That made you sit up straighter.

“I’m working with a group now. People like us. Different… but good. They need someone like you. Steady work. A place to stay. Long-term.”

You blinked. Let the words sink in. A place to stay. It sounded dangerously close to a home.

Your instinct was to laugh. But it didn’t come out.

“Bucky,” you said, leaning forward, your tone cooling. “I’m currently working for three different governments, cleaning up messes that would make the evening news bleed red for a week straight. I kill people for money. People who matter. The kind of people that don’t officially exist. You think I’m going to drop that and sign up for... what? Some little superhero collective?”

“I don’t care what you’ve done,” he said. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t,” he repeated. “It’s a clean start. If you want it.”

That silenced you again.

Because he wasn’t offering judgment. He wasn’t even offering forgiveness. He was offering you a door. A quiet place to stand still. And it terrified you.

But of course, all you said was, “When do you need me?”

“Soon as you can. We’re based out of New York.”

Your throat tightened. “You still in trouble?”

“No. Not anymore.”

You didn’t ask what that meant. Didn’t ask if he was safe, or if they were safe. You simply stood, crossed the room, and started packing your bag with the kind of practiced efficiency that never left.

“Okay,” you said, one hand gripping your passport. “I’ll be on the next flight.”

He hesitated again. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t.”

You ended the call before he could say anything else. Before your voice could break.

You kicked yourself for running back to him, still running when he called. You knew that it was. You were in love with him. Had been, even when you hated him. Even when you’d gone cold and bitter and sharp with the ache of being left behind.

You tossed your phone on the bed. A new message notification blinked from the anonymous dating app you’d kept quietly alive in the background of your life—just once in a while. Just for that one guy. No name. No pictures. Just long messages at night, filled with the kind of honesty you couldn’t afford in the real world.

You didn’t open it. Not now. Not when your past had just called you back across the ocean. And not when part of you already knew, deep down in the softest, stupidest part of your heart… You would always go when Bucky asked.

Henri Coandă International Airport Bucharest → New York Gate 4B | 11:26 PM

The terminal lights buzzed overhead—cold, fluorescent, too bright for the hour. You sat tucked into the corner row of chairs, hood up, boots stretched out in front of you, fingers fidgeting restlessly with the zipper of your bag.

You should’ve been sleeping. Or eating. Or thinking about the mission ahead.

Instead, you unlocked your phone and opened the one app you never should’ve kept.

The anonymous one.

The one with the messages that you tried not to reread, but never deleted, either. Just in case. A year’s worth of late-night honesty, half-lies, and carefully worded truths with a stranger who somehow understood you better than most people who’d seen your face.

You tapped into the thread.

herghosts: heading out. long flight. not a job exactly, but… Someone needed something. going to be gone a while.

The reply came quickly, as it always did. Short bursts. No pressure.

noattachments: big move?

You hesitated before responding, then chose your words like weapons. Blunt. Controlled.

herghosts: just helping an old friend. things got complicated, i guess. I wasn't planning on it. but they asked.

Typing bubbles blinked. Paused.

noattachments: must be someone important.

You stared at the screen for a second too long, then leaned back in your chair and typed:

herghosts: old history. don’t really know what i’m walking into. feels reckless. probably is.

Another pause. Then:

noattachments: sometimes the reckless things matter more than the safe ones. you trust them?

You blinked. Your stomach tightened.

herghosts: doesn’t matter. already said yes.

A moment passed.

noattachments: well. try not to get killed. that’d ruin my week.

You smirked. Barely.

herghosts: no promises. you ever go back to something you swore you’d buried?

noattachments: once. still digging.

You stared at that for a long time. Then:

herghosts: guess we’re both idiots.

noattachments: yeah. probably.

Gate 4B lit up. Boarding call echoing overhead.

You stood, slipping your phone into your pocket without replying.

No goodbyes to say. No names that were attached to you. Just a long flight ahead and a city waiting at the other end, where your past lived with a steel jaw and blue eyes and a voice that still haunted your sleep.

The plane would take you back to him. Back into the turmoil you’d been trying to outrun for the past eleven years.

JFK International Airport New York City Arrivals | 4:12 AM

The baggage claim carousel groaned to life.

You stood back from the crowd, hands in the pockets of your jacket, watching the endless loop of strangers collecting their lives in pieces—suitcases, duffels, tired children draped over parents’ shoulders. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too clean. The air here smelled like coffee and bleach and jet fuel.

Your stomach was in knots. You hadn’t seen him in years. Not really. Not since Bucharest. Not since the silence and the note and the weight of everything unsaid. Now you were here. In his city. Answering his call.

You didn’t even know what you was doing.

Just that when he asked—you dropped everything. And ran to him. The irony left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Your phone buzzed in yourpocket.

You pulled it out, expecting a message from Bucky.

It wasn’t.

It was him. The anonymous one. The only one who’d made the nights bearable this past year. The one who never pushed. Who never pried.

noattachments: big shift happening at work. trying not to lose my mind over it. feels like i’m dragging the past into the present and pretending it’ll play nice.

You stared at the message, mouth dry as you tried to steady yourself enough to respond.

herghosts: same. currently in the middle of doing something i said i’d never do again.

The typing bubbles blinked. Then paused. Then blinked again.

noattachments: must be someone important.

You didn’t have the chance to answer. Because just then, you spotted him.

Standing off to the side of the crowd, hands in the pockets of his worn jacket, hair pulled back, jaw tight. He looked exactly the same and entirely different—like time had passed through him without asking permission. He hadn’t seen you yet.

You watched him for a moment longer than you should’ve, heart racing with the feelings that you’d spent the entire flight forcing down fighting to make an appearance, then typed one last message.

herghosts: i’ll let you know how it goes. the person who brought me out here… it’s complicated. might get messy.

You slipped your phone away, grabbed her bag off the carousel, and moved toward Bucky.

Across the Terminal

Bucky glanced down at his phone, waiting for her reply. The consistent figure he’d been messaging for the past year. The one that made his heart rate steady when he was on the brink of losing his grasp on himself.

He read the message twice, thumb hovering over the screen.

herghosts: might get messy.

His chest tightened, hoping that whatever she was up to would be easier than she was expecting. He didn’t know what to say, not with his mind racing the way that it was. So he slid his phone back into his jacket pocket and looked up.

And there you were. Walking toward him. Same eyes. Same gait. Same impossible pull.

“Hey,” he said, voice lower than he meant. You stopped just in front of him, bag slung over one shoulder. “Hey,” you echoed. The tension was eating at him, but he didn’t know what to do. It felt wrong to hug you, to say anything other than the short greeting he’d already said, so he just stood there, staring.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

In the car, the city passed by in dark, wet smears of light and movement, the windshield streaked with rain that hadn’t quite made up its mind. Inside the car, it was too quiet. The only sounds were the low hum of the heater and the soft squeak of windshield wipers. Bucky drove with one hand on the wheel, eyes straight ahead, jaw set like stone.

You sat beside him, curled slightly toward the window, as if trying to disappear into the glass. The silence was suffocating. The kind that made everything feel louder—the shift of a jacket, the quiet creak of leather seats, the inhale held a second too long.

Your phone buzzed. You glanced at it quickly, tensing as your thumb hovered over the screen. A new message.

noattachments: landed? how’s the start of your new… “thing”? You said it was complicated, but complicated how? like “used to trust them” complicated? or “might be in love with them but don’t wanna admit it” complicated?

You exhaled softly. Tilted the phone away just slightly. Bucky hadn’t looked at you, still staring ahead, still driving, but something about the stillness in his shoulders made you feel like he’d noticed.

You typed carefully.

herghosts: weird. heavy. it’s like walking into a room where everyone already knows the ending, and you’re just waiting to realize what page you’re on. I don’t know how to describe the complication, other than… yes. All of the above, maybe? It’s just tense. And uncomfortable. Weirdest airport pickup of my life. can’t wait to fill you in later when i’m not actively avoiding eye contact and trying to decide if i want to fling myself out of a moving vehicle on a bridge and drown myself in the ocean.

You smiled, barely, both amused with yourself and glad that you could tell him anything, glad that he would be there when you were inevitably spiraling, later tonight. You locked your phone, tucking it inside your sleeve like it might burn you if you held it too long.

Another few seconds passed, the tension building to a peak, and you started actually contemplating flinging yourself out of the car.

“You texting someone?” Bucky’s voice broke the silence, low and casual—but something about the way he said it made your throat tighten even more.

You glanced at him sideways. His eyes were still on the road.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just… someone.” He didn’t say anything. Just gave a small nod. But after another beat, you added, “Old contact. Worked a few things together. He checks in.” You could feel the lie in your mouth, but it didn’t taste like one. Bucky let out a small breath, half-laugh. “What’s his name?”

You stared ahead.

“….Luca”

A pause. Just long enough for you to hate yourself a little. “Well,” Bucky said finally, “tell Luca that he picked a hell of a day to text you.”

Your lips twitched. “Yeah. He has terrible timing.” Neither of you said anything else for the rest of the drive. You pulled out your phone after a few more minutes, typing out a quick message.

herghosts: death imminent. can’t take the awkwardness. avenge me.

You hit send, locking your phone again and turning to look out the window. Beside you, Bucky turned on his blinker. Said nothing. His phone buzzed quietly in his pocket. He didn’t check it.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, save for the occasional blinker or low hum of a turn. You pulled up to the Tower just before 5:30, headlights catching on the polished glass and steel, city lights reflected in a hundred gleaming windows.

He parked in the underground garage and killed the engine. You didn’t move right away. Neither did he.

“This way,” he said eventually, voice rough with sleep or nerves. Maybe both. He grabbed your duffel before you could stop him and headed toward the elevator. You followed, arms crossed over your chest, jaw locked tight.

The ride up was quiet. Too quiet. The kind where you can hear every flicker of your own heartbeat. When the elevator dinged, he stepped out, motioning to the left.

“Top floor’s mostly us. You’ll have space. No one’s gonna bother you,” he said, leading you down the hallway, not quite looking at you. “This one’s yours.” He stopped in front of a door and keyed in the code.

The lock clicked.

He opened it and stepped aside so that you could go in. You paused at the threshold. Something about it, whether it was the soft overhead lighting, the fresh sheets, or the still, almost sterile air, felt foreign. Like someone else’s life.

“Everything you need should be in there. Closet’s stocked, too. I didn’t—” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I kept it simple.”

You took the bag from his hand without looking at him. “Thanks.” Your tone was short. Clipped. The kind that made people take a step back. But Bucky didn’t move.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. You stopped in the doorway, your back to him, Your grip tightening on the strap of your bag. “I’m tired.”

A pause.

“Right,” he said, stepping back. You walked inside, didn’t look at him as you reached out, pushing the door closed between them. Hard. The latch caught with a sharp, final click.

Inside the room, you dropped your bag on the bed and let out a slow, tight breath, chest heaving just once. The silence felt heavier here, like the walls knew the weight you were carrying. You sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor.

Your phone buzzed. You pulled it out without thinking.

noattachments: ouch. sounds like a blast.still alive? if it gets too heavy, you can always tell me. even if i don’t know the details. i won’t ask. i’ll just listen. and stay if you need me.

You stared at the screen, pulse hammering, typing out a response.

herghosts: yeah. just got in. already hate it.

The reply came seconds later.

noattachments: want to disappear yet?

You smiled—small and bitter.

herghosts: always. but it’s fine. i’m fine. it’s just… him. it’s stupid. never ending tension. this will probably be over quickly.

Typing dots appeared. Paused. Then:

noattachments: say the word and we run. i’ll book two tickets to anywhere.

Your throat burned. You didn’t answer. Not yet.

Because Bucky Barnes was down the hall. And your chest was cleaving in two as you thought about him. You kicked yourself, wishing you’d stayed in Bucharest.

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