lokinks

[lokinks]

“You threw a flower pot at me, Metal Bug.”

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Female Reader Summary: After a mission doesn’t go as planned, tensions rise in the debriefing room when Steve criticizes your reckless methods. Bucky, who wasn’t on the mission, overhears and snaps—fiercely defending you and making it clear that he accepts every part of who you are. When you arrive, the tension eases as the argument shifts into teasing banter, ending with a nostalgic moment about your chaotic first meeting. Word Count: 2.1k Warnings: Established relationship, violent threats (not against the reader), throwing furniture implied, protective vibes, banters and y/n sarcasm. A/n: i made one shot of Bucky as a husband... giggling shit when i wrote this

The debriefing room was cold, sterile. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows across the concrete floor. Steve paced near the long metal table, his jaw tight, a hand pressed to his side where the dull throb of a deep bruise pulsed steadily beneath his uniform.

It hadn’t gone according to plan. Not even close.

They’d been tracking the Hydra remnant cell for weeks, narrowing in on a covert base tucked beneath an abandoned warehouse in Prague. Intel suggested there’d be one target—middle-ranking, armed, probably paranoid. Simple snatch and extract.

But the plan had started unraveling the moment they breached the perimeter. And it all came to a head when she got involved.

The worst part? The target had a suicide capsule tucked behind his molar. Steve hadn’t even seen it. You did.

Now, both of you are back.

“I tried to take them out clean, Bucky,” Steve snapped, breaking the silence as he turned sharply on his heel. “But your psychotic little wife beat me to it. I could've extracted the intel myself if she didn’t—wait. Buck—”

The air shifted like pressure dropping before a storm.

Bucky had been silent until now, standing near the wall, arms crossed, eyes locked somewhere distant. But now—his shoulders straightened. His jaw clenched. The metal plates of his left arm whirred faintly as his fist curled tight.

“My what?” he growled, low and dangerous. “WHAT did you just call her?”

Steve stopped mid-step, raising both hands instinctively. “Buck, I didn’t mean—”

But Bucky was already moving.

He shoved Steve hard—too hard with his vibranium arm, slamming him into the wall with enough force to rattle the filing cabinet nearby. Steve winced, more out of surprise than pain.

“No,” Bucky snarled, his voice a serrated edge. “You said it. Say it again. Come on, Rogers...say one more thing about my wife.”

Steve blinked, stunned. Bucky’s eyes were glacial and full of fire.

“You called her psychotic?” Bucky hissed. “You think I don’t know she’s a handful?”

His voice dropped to something quieter, sharper. A whisper full of threat.

“But she’s brilliant. And she’s mine. So watch your mouth, Cap. You think I don’t know how she is? You think I don’t see the chaos, the recklessness, the fire in her? I love her for it. And if you ever call her psychotic again… friend or not, I’ll put you through that wall.”

Steve didn’t respond.

How could he respond to Buchannan? He had known you for years. Since the Red Room, since your shaky defection. Since the first time you and Bucky had shown up to a debriefing arm-in-arm, bruised and bantering. He knew you were unpredictable. Likes to bend your own rules. 

You are lethal, yes. But calculated. Exacting. Controlled chaos, wrapped in sarcasm and steel.

Before either of them could speak again, the door creaked open.

You stepped in quietly, pausing just inside the threshold. The weight of the room hit you immediately—the way Steve was still pressed to the wall, the heat still burning behind Bucky’s eyes.

You freeze at the thick tension in the room. Taking in the two best friends on the verge of pulling each other's hairs. The wall behind the blonde man is cracked. You sighed, both hands on your hips ‘like a tired mom seeing a sugar high child zooming in the room’.

“I leave you with Steve for 15 minutes,” you said slowly, “and you put him through a wall? Look at that, Metal Bug, you crack the damn wall. Again…”

Bucky turned toward her, his face still hard with residual anger—but the moment his eyes landed on her, everything shifted. His posture eased slightly. His jaw relaxed. The edge in his gaze softened into something weary, something aching.

“You wanna tell me what really happened out there?” he asked, his voice gentler now. “Because I’m hearing you turned an intel grab into a one-woman demolition derby.”

He paused, deadpan.

“You knocked him out with a chair, didn’t you?”

You gave him a look. The kind of look that said you didn’t regret a damn thing.

---

The mission was supposed to be clean.

Infiltrate. Secure the target. Extract the intel. Get out.

Steve had outlined the plan in the hangar an hour before touchdown, standing in front of a projected layout of the warehouse with that familiar no-nonsense tone. You stood off to the side, arms crossed, eyes scanning the blueprint but already seeing the flaws in it. Bucky stood between you and Steve, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he shifted, his presence grounding—but tense.

“We go in through the southeast service entrance. No alarms, no explosives. It’s a low-tier Hydra lab. One mark, maybe two guards,” Steve explained, tapping on the map. “I’ll take lead. You stay up high,”—he nodded toward you—“in overwatch until the grab is clean.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So I babysit from a catwalk while you run in like it’s 1943?”

Bucky gave you a look—half-warning, half-amused. “It’s not babysitting. You’re backup.”

You snorted. “Sure. Backup. With no visual on the target’s hands, no intel on any implants, and no idea whether he’s even alone. Sounds solid.”

Steve’s jaw ticked. “The mission is recon and extraction. Nothing more.”

You didn’t need to look at Bucky to feel his eyes on you. He was used to this. The fire in your voice. The unwillingness to play it safe when people were at risk. You weren’t reckless—you were thorough. And if that made you a pain in the ass, so be it.

Steve sighed, clearly holding his temper. “We stick to the plan. Everyone stays in their lane.”

You didn’t reply, just gave a thin smile and walked off toward the Quinjet, braid swinging behind you.

The warehouse was quiet.

Too quiet.

Your boots made no sound on the overhead catwalk as you moved like shadow, eyes scanning the main floor below. The air was stale, metallic, tinged with chemical rot. A dim yellow light flickered overhead, casting long, twitchy shadows over the crates and rusting machinery.

Steve  moved along the lower level, voices low over comms. You watched from above, tracking the target: male, early 40s, lean build, pacing near an old generator bank. He was talking to someone over a burner phone, voice tense, shoulders rigid.

You didn’t like the twitch in his fingers.

“He’s nervous,” you murmured over comms. “Could be armed. Or rigged.”

“Let me handle it,” Steve replied.

“Copy,” you answered, but your fingers tightened on your sidearm.

The second Steve stepped into view, the target ran.

That was mistake number one.

Steve surged forward, too slow. You leapt from the catwalk, rolling into a crouch between rusted crates, cutting off the target’s escape.

The target froze—then reached into his mouth.

Your eyes widened.

“TOOTH!” you shouted.

There was no time.

You grabbed the nearest object—an old folding chair left near a crate—and hurled it.

Metal cracked against bone with a sickening crunch, dropping the man instantly. His head slammed into the floor, eyes rolling back as he went limp. You were already kneeling beside him, prying open his mouth.

The capsule was cracked… but intact.

He hadn’t swallowed it.

He would’ve.

You sat back on your heels, chest heaving, blood thundering in your ears. A shadow loomed over you.

“What the hell was that?” Steve barked, arriving two steps behind you.

“Improvised takedown, and you took long enough to react to throw that flying disk of yours, Rogs.”  you replied.

“You used a chair.” He deadpanned, gesturing to the dented metal chair beside the sprawled target.

“He was two seconds from biting down and dying, Cap,” you snapped, standing to your full height. “You wanted him alive? Now he is. You’re welcome.”

“Jesus,” Steve muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“No,” you said coolly, already pulling the flash drive from the man’s jacket. “Your plan didn’t work. Mine did.”

---

“He was going for the tooth,” you said flatly, walking in without hesitation. “Didn’t have time to get fancy. You told me to improvise if anything goes wrong, Sargeant.”

You tossed a small flash drive onto the table. “Intel’s there. Audio, data pull, partial encryption—we’ll need Nat to crack it.”

Steve stared at it for a beat, still catching his breath, still leaning against the wall from Bucky’s shove.

“You launched a folding chair at him,” Steve muttered, incredulous. “Who even does that?”

You didn’t blink. “A woman with good aim.”

Bucky’s lips twitched like he wanted to smile but thought better of it. He dragged a hand over his face instead, exhaling slow through his nose. “Jesus, doll…”

“What?” you asked, folding your arms. “You trained me, remember? Improvisation. Adaptability. Brutal efficiency.”

You gestured toward Steve. “He’s still breathing. 

That’s minimized.”

Steve let out a dry laugh, rubbing his ribs. “Barely.”

“You’re lucky that’s all you’re getting,” you shot back without even glancing at him. “You called me psychotic?”

Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly interested in the floor. “He did.”

“Wow.” Your voice turned syrup-sweet and dangerous. “Thanks, Steve. I’ll be sure to pass your compliments to the next guy I interrogate.”

“Doll,” Bucky warned, but the smirk you flashed at him made it clear you weren't angry, just amused.

Steve straightened with a wince. “Look, I’m just saying next time, maybe don’t use a folding chair as your Plan A.”

You turned on your heel. “Next time, I’ll use a stapler. Smaller. More precise.” More sarcasm from you towards Steve, habits to annoying him.

Bucky looked between the two of them, then rubbed a hand down his face like he was too tired to keep up.

“You ever think of not using furniture as weapons?” he asked.

You gave him a small smile. “Improvisation. You taught me that.”

His eyes flicked to Steve, then back to you. “Yeah, but I didn’t say use chairs like throwing knives.”

“I had good form,” you said lightly.

He shook his head slowly, then muttered under his breath, “I married a damn gremlin.”

You opened your mouth to quip back—but then his expression shifted, his shoulders lowering, the corner of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t quite help himself.

“Eh,” you said casually, watching him. “You remember when we first met? You tried to take me down and threw a flower pot at my head.”

Bucky blinked, caught off guard by the sudden memory. “God,” he muttered. “Yeah. I remember.”

“I fell because of that. Flat face on the ground.”

He couldn’t stop it this time,the smirk broke free. His arms crossed over his chest, metal fingers tapping against  his flesh arm. He looked at you like someone remembering a scar that no longer hurt.

“You were the most stubborn, pain-in-the-ass target I’ve ever failed to extract,” he said dryly. “I was trying to stop you, not give you a concussion. You’re lucky I didn’t throw something heavier.”

You grinned. “You were slow.”

“I was distracted. You were wearing that ridiculous train fuzzy sweatpants and screaming like I kicked your cat.”

You lifted a brow. “You broke into my safe house in the middle of the night.”

“Fury can’t reach you on his phone. He send me to get you.”

“Still, you threw a flower pot at my head.”

He narrowed his eyes, leaning in slightly. “Still told you not to remind me of that, doll.”

“Too late,” you said sweetly.

Steve groaned in the background, rubbing his temples.

“Please. Can you two flirt somewhere else? Or at least stop reminiscing about domestic battery?”

Bucky didn’t look at him.

He only looked at you.

Steve let out a low groan, still nursing the deep bruise on his ribs. “Look, all I’m saying is next time, maybe don’t treat the mission like a cage match.”

You stepped closer, arms crossed. “Next time, maybe don’t underestimate the target.”

Bucky held up a hand, exasperated. “Alright. Enough. You both did what you thought was right. Steve, you’re not bleeding. Doll, you’re not detained because of the throwing chair thing. So I’m calling this a win.”

He looked at you again, this time quieter. His voice dropped to something only you could hear.

“I just need to know you’re okay.”

Your expression shifted, some of the sarcasm slipping away.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, you fingers brushing against his briefly. “You always worry too much.”

Bucky sighed, brushing a gloved hand down his face.

“I married a damn gremlin.”

You smirked. “You chose this gremlin.”

As they turned toward the door, Steve lingered behind them, shaking his head, watching them go—two chaotic pieces that somehow fit together perfectly.

“…still a gremlin,” Steve muttered under his breath.

From the hallway, your voice echoed back without missing a beat. “I heard that, Cap.”

Bucky’s chuckle reverberates after her quip.

A/n: I appreciate any feedback and any requests/ prompts of Bucky or Logan accepted too, hehe <(♡•♡)/ thx for reading. Looking for moots🥲 hit me up PLEASE

[lokinks]

THUNDERBOLTS* 2025, dir. Jake Schreier

[lokinks]

the build a fic prompt list is so fun! for eddie:

dialogue: "i say this with all the love in my heart, but you look like shit."

emotion: fondness

place: at work, far later than you should be

petals on the moon

a/n: the new york boyfriend is back! honestly i can't think of anyone better to have adventures in new york with. i tried to stick with it being singularly at the workplace, but he's a menace and it's incredibly self indulgent. besides the song petals on the moon is the biggest inspiration. so i stuck with that vibe. i hope you enjoy it babes!

summary: the night hours at work were hours of the steady clack of his keyboard, the scent of burnt coffee from lunch, and yellowed lamps that needed an upgrade. you were the ghost that haunted halls of chipped paint and to do lists scrawled on extra pieces of paper. it might just take a miracle to bring you back to life, but thankfully eddie alden had a bit of magic on his side.

word count: 3.5k+

pairing: eddie alden x reader

warnings: fluff, romance, yearning + pining, eddie alden has a massive crush and is a dork about it, late night adventures, early 2000s romcom vibes, alcohol consumption, smoking, deep philosophical thoughts, smattering of angst.

Monotonous. Boring. Hours of wasted time, minutes of paperwork that dragged, seconds of stale air and ballpoint pens that always seemed to run out of ink.

Work was the last place you wanted to spend your free time—an endless loop of empty hallways you paced and rooms you haunted. Somehow at the end of each day you agreed to complete others tasks without hesitation. Others would claim that made you an idiot, you liked to say it made you the first in line for a promotion.

Really you did this to yourself. Cut off from the city beyond these cracked walls. Away from the possibility of adventures, from groups of strangers that could become your friends and allies. Isolation shouldn’t have crept up behind you, yet within moments you were trapped in its trap. Strung along webs of duties and responsibilities not of your own making.

Shuffling the stack of papers off your desk, you tried to lose yourself in the structure. This was your dream position, in a city you longed to remain in. A path you built with intent written in each brick.

So why were you so unhappy?

A notebook hit the floor with a bang, the noise filling the empty space of your office with ease. You flinched, reaching for the black moleskin with a sigh. The clock ticked above you, mocking the time you spent glued to a desk chair that held barely any support to keep you upright. Although you knew that in two hours time you would once again find yourself asleep against scratched wood and crinkled papers.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were a ghost.”

Surprise once etched your features at the sight of the office playboy staying late, but as the months went by you saw him for what he was. A man who valued his job more than anything else. He worked twice as hard for the same fucking pay. And a part of you wanted to hate him for it…if you weren’t exactly the same way.

“I am,” you said, balancing the journal atop an already precarious stack. “I died three years ago and apparently my unfinished business is still fucking paperwork.”

His laugh flipped a switch at the back of your mind, flooding the dormant body you’d grown used to with light. He woke you up like a shot of perfectly brewed espresso.

“Seems you got the shitty end of the deal in purgatory.”

“And yet here you are visiting me,” you retorted, biting back a smile large enough to ache. “So what kind of shitty deal did they offer you?”

Arms with a trail of veins you tried to ignore found a spot of clean space on your desk to rest on—his long body folding to collapse in your extra chair. “I was stupid enough to help create a new prime time segment.”

“Ah. Your first mistake was taking on more work. Even I could have told you that.”

He grinned, slightly overgrown hair curling towards his forehead. “Next time I’ll ask you. That is…if you’re still alive.”

“You know something I don’t Alden?”

“That’s classified.”

“Dick,” you scoffed.

“There is something I can say. Which I say this with all the love in my heart, but you look like shit."

Weeks spent alone in the office together gave you enough time to grow accustomed to his humor. The snide remarks and quips that held a reverence when said in the rasp of his voice. He shouted half the day, corralling people, fixing mistakes, but at night the glow of his brown eyes were lit with fondness. The low light of your office shadowed his face, drawing lines that weren’t there in his boyish charm. But you supposed that was the trick.

He gave the office—the world—what they yearned to see. A man who wrote off attachment. Alone in a world that seemed determined to breed solitude in beings who craved kinship.

Your brow raised, teeth finding a space on your cheek to mar. “Is this you being kind?”

The sigh lingered in the air—thick with worry and stress and the cynical words of a man who could barely fathom their taste. “This is me making you an offer.”

“Hopefully better than the crap they tried to sell me in purgatory.”

He laughed; your heart skipped. “Do you want to get outta here?”

“And go where?” you exclaimed. “This paperwork isn’t doing itself Alden.”

His groan rumbled from the bottom of his chest, his form hunched and brows knit. “Fuck the paperwork. We do enough for this shit hole anyways. They won’t care if we take one night off.” The desk shook as he surged to his feet, hand stretched—-eyes glimmering with something akin to hope. “Come with me.”

“Eddie I can’t just leave.”

“Come. With. Me.”

The paper would remain there haphazardly organized on a desk that shrunk by the day. What little space you had left vanished the longer you sat there hunched over meaningless periods and commas stuck in the wrong spot. Day by day you grew transparent to the eyes of your coworkers. A myth that roamed the halls, half a person in the eyes of those who got the chance to live.

What harm would there be in taking a night off?

“If I do this…”

“You won’t regret it,” he pressed. “I promise.”

His hand was warm, calloused beneath a thumb and forefinger that held pens far too tight and gripped equipment with the severity of a job that called for too much. A scar lined the side of his palm. Jagged and lined with a bump you could feel beneath your fingertips.

Scattered along every portion of his body existed pieces of his history. You longed to ask him about each mark. Each wound that once healed on the youthful body of a boy that still lingered underneath the outline of the man you knew.

In the harsh lights of an empty office that wouldn’t see life until dawn, you caught glimpses of that young twenty year old. The teenager who ran through his neighborhood with friends. The college kid dancing at frat parties he helped set up out of the kindness of his own heart (and free beer).

Eddie dragged you behind him with a boisterous laugh you could hear echo down empty hallways and vacant offices of your colleagues. “Are we going to roam the city?”

“Better,” he tossed over his shoulder. “You have yet to see the best view in the city.”

“I’ve been to the Empire State Building Eddie.”

He scoffed. “That’s a tourist spot.”

“And it was beautiful.”

“Sure if you’re a tourist.”

“I was a tourist-”

Whirling around you nearly slammed into his chest, his lips curled tight enough to crinkle the eyes that glowed even in the dim fluorescents of a stairwell. “That explains your lack of adventure.”

“Fuck you Alden.”

His teeth—that were far too straight and much too white—dug into his bottom lip, his cheek rounding. “I mean…we’ve got time.”

The swing of your fist thumped lazy and muted against his arm as he snorted laughed. His cheeks turned red, your body warmed beneath his gaze, and the definition of tonight changed thirty times in your head. Whether this was born out of friendship or tension you couldn’t discern, you enjoyed it nonetheless. Maybe you didn’t need to define this.

Maybe this would remain a silent memory shared between two lone souls both in need of connection.

“So what’s this supposed best view?” you asked, pushing the topic beyond what it would inevitably land on.

“You ever been to the roof?”

“The roof?” Your face dropped, humor dwindling as he unlatched the metal door you avoided on the daily. “That’s where we’re going on our grand adventure?”

He sighed, kicking it open with his boot. “Would you trust me?”

“You’re asking a lot of me tonight Alden. I might have to start taking note of all this trust.”

The groan you were rewarded with felt like victory in your eyes. “Just shut up and follow me.”

Following the command with ease, you clambered the last few stairs that entered to a dingy roof you’d only seen once before. During the daytime smog coated the sky, the sun glowed harsh and bruising along your long sleeved button down, and the scent of stale cigarettes had your nose scrunching before you could dart back inside.

At night the lights of New York flared to life with the brilliance of a New Years Eve display. Ordinary people living ordinary lives. Yet from a distance they resembled fireflies in the country—filling a darkened sky with hope and endless dreams you could practically hear shouted in the air. The scent of smoke dimmed with the view of humanity on display with all its wonders.

“Seven wonders forgot to include this,” he said with a smile, awe spilling past a grin you filed in the back of your mind.

“Is that…”

“You’re so called best view the Empire State?”

The towering building—the north star of the city—glowed with the light of all you came to this place for. “Holy shit. This is…incredible.”

“One thing about being at the Empire State is that you don’t get to see it in the view. That’s the whole point. Getting to see that beauty in the night sky.” He shuffled back, tugging something free from within a metal box that you knew belonged to the building’s super. “I swiped some wine from someone’s office earlier.”

“Eddie you can’t take shit-”

“Relax dove,” he cut in. “You’ll still make it to heaven.”

“I’m not religious.”

His head cocked to the right and for a moment you couldn’t rid yourself of the image of a puppy just learning to view their own reflection. “Well guess you learn somethin’ new everyday. Wine?”

There were no cups, no fancy acts of a rooftop meal that might inherently be viewed as romance, but you’d never been one for silly displays. He pulled the cork out with a shitty wine opener—using his teeth halfway through with a grunt of frustration—and passed you the bottle with a smile. Two souls lost to the depths of a late night job. To dedications that asked for far too much from people who deserved more than they were ever given.

You weren’t friends. You weren’t strangers.

But something tied the both of you together, looping around beating hearts and knotting in between rib-cages.

“I hate to say it. But you’re right Eddie.”

His head whipped to the side, lips pulling up high enough to blind you with his spectacular Eddie Alden smile. No wonder women fell so hard for his tricks. “Oh…say it again. Please.”

“Sorry. That’s a one time only deal,” you laughed, gulping down enough wine to burn the back of your throat. It filled your stomach with warmth, countering the chill that washed across bare arms and fresh faces.

“Mind if I smoke?” he asked, a cigarette already finding a home between his lips—his body leaning against the brick edging.

“Your territory. By all means.”

The snort echoed in your chest, ricocheting with intent. “My territory huh dove?”

“I figure you bring everyone you romance up here.”

“Is that what we’re doing here?” His brow quirked, lips still curled in that infuriating crooked shape of glee you could practically see a mile away. “Am I romancing you?”

You sipped at the bottle—avoidance tainting the moment. In the hopes that if you let him linger on the question a bit more he’d realize the absurd nature of his words. You weren’t his person. The other half of what seemed to be an overly filled soul. You were you and he was himself and there was no balance in that. No equilibrium within the chaos that was your lives.

Tonight was always bound to happen. Two people trapped with nowhere to go.

So where else was there to go but up?

You found the question leaving your mouth before it filtered through your mind. “Are you from here?”

“No,” he replied quickly. “Grew up in a smaller area than this.”

“Midwest?”

“East coast.”

“Learn something new every day,” you hummed.

Wine flowed with ease as you settled atop a stack of heavy boxes left out as storage. The city a backdrop you were already used to—drinking it down with each sip of that red liquid you felt wash down your throat.

Eddie leaned back with a trail of smoke curling around his head, eyes drooped with the buzz of a night spent in good company. “What about you? Why’d you come to New York?”

With a shrug, you took a gulp that nearly choked you—the burn of cool alcohol sliding down your throat. “Same reason most people come here. I had a dream to be working in films and L.A. felt too pretentious.”

“And this city isn’t?” The deadpan echo of his tone wasn’t lost on you even through the haze of alcohol.

“This city is whole. Do you know what I mean? It’s got different blocks that vary wildly in differences, but that’s the fun of it. You don’t know what’s coming, even if you’ve prepared for it.”

“The city of dreamers,” he mumbled, too fixated on the skyline to see how you trailed your gaze along his face. The curve of his jaw that lights played off, the curl of his lips wrapped around the butt of his half smoked cigarette.

You weren’t sure how it happened. Where two strangers suddenly found themselves in the territory of friendship, but half a bottle of wine and three cigarettes later you held loose tongues willing to spill just about anything. He handed over the cigarette without question, hazel eyes drinking in the way you sucked in the smoke with relief. As if you’d been waiting all day for someone to find this missing piece you didn’t know could exist.

“Alright I’ll go.” The cigarette tasted like him, the curve of his mouth and tip of his tongue. “What makes you cry? And just answer off the top of your head.”

He huffed. “Billy Joel’s song Piano Man.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m really not. It’s the first song I heard after I got the news I’d get to work here. Heard it in a bar where I grew up and even though the actual piano man was fucked up on scotch. He played it perfectly.”

“I guess that’s the power of Billy Joel.”

Eddie laughed, swallowing enough wine to spill past his lips, staining his throat with a red line you tracked breathlessly. “Maybe he possessed the guy.”

“Meh. I wouldn’t put it past Billy.”

“Yeah? You know somethin’ I don’t dove?”

“Wouldn’t you love to know Alden.”

Another puff and he stole it back, his fingers dragging along your chapped lips with a grin. “I guess it’s my turn. Alright…hm…if you could choose falling in love and you were guaranteed a lifetime of joy or the perfect career. Which would you go with?”

The answer surged to the forefront of your mind long before he finished the question. You knew what life had in store for you—a career, success beyond your wildest imagination. But the words stuck to the back of your throat. Sliding like acid along the soft tissue of your esophagus. You knew what you wanted. What you deserved. Yet dreams always found a way of making themselves known; a truth not even you were prepared for.

So it jarred you when you found yourself whispering love.

His eyebrows raised, cigarette poised along parted lips as if he couldn’t believe you would admit something like that. An unwritten rule of all New Yorkers who moved for their career. That allowing something else to interfere was a sin. The highest treason of dreamers who clawed their way to the top.

Suddenly meeting his eyes stirred something unknown in your stomach. A roiling storm that thundered in the base of your heart.

“I don’t know why,” you muttered.

“I do.”

Scoffing, you yanked a new cigarette from his pack and lit it with a shaky click. “Oh do enlighten me Eddie.”

“You want to be happy. And a career might satisfy that…competitive streak in your body, but it wouldn’t give you what you really want.” A shaky breath dragged your gaze back to the man who dug far too deep into your mind, yanking the thread of hopes and dreams out before you could beg him to stop. “You want what everyone hopes to have dove. A pathetic passionate love that has the chance to rip you a part.”

“Speaking from experience?”

He huffed, lips twisted into a wry grin. “At one point I would have thought so, but now… Listen you’re not the first to want love. You won’t be the last. Ain’t that what this whole thing is about?”

“What?”

“This.” He gestured to the city, the flickering lights that sparked with life. “Humanity wouldn’t have gotten this far if not for love.”

You wanted to kiss him. It wasn’t an entirely new revelation, nor a thought you never had before. You supposed everyone in the office thought about kissing Eddie Alden at some point, but few got the chance to grab his attention. But there he sat a few inches away, smoking lazily as if he hadn’t begun to rip you open with an unwarranted autopsy. You didn’t just want to kiss him—somewhere in the back of your mind you understood this would happen.

How long could strangers go on in the permanence of the unknown?

“Why did you invite me up here tonight Eddie?”

He paused, exhaling enough smoke to cloud his face for a brief second. “I like you dove. You’re…different.”

“Aw shucks I bet you say that to all the girls in the office.”

“They aren’t much for conversations at midnight.”

“Is it really midnight?”

“It’s really midnight,” he said with such simplicity.

Silence perforated the space between you, giving you a chance to breathe before he was shifting his long body closer. His cigarette was stamped out on the metal box, leaving a mark alongside hundreds more exactly like it. A fluid movement of second nature you longed to see again. When he cupped your chin you didn’t say anything, opting to find his gaze in the darkness of the roof—a place permanently etched with the memory of strangers becoming something more.

“Is it cliche to say let’s pretend it’s New Years?”

You smiled, fingers finally tangling in the hair at the base of his skull. “I don’t mind the cliches.”

“Hm,” he grinned. “You learn something new every day.”

“Are you gonna talk or are you actually going to kiss me-”

The taste of wine and menthol became an addiction off his tongue, his lips just as chapped as yours. Eddie didn’t kiss with overwhelming lust. Though he was capable—this you were sure of—he kissed you with a sigh. The release of all he ached for now spreading up and into the back of your throat. His lips molded over yours, tongue sliding deep, and you grew dizzy with it.

His taste, his touch. They dragged you through a dance your own dreams couldn’t imagine.

Maybe this was it. That lingering ache you searched high and low for all throughout New York. Maybe all you had to do was finally give yourself over to the man you least expected to want you. Eddie moaned into your mouth, a wet broken sound you burned into the back of your mind. You’d replay it over and over on the way home.

Licking into his mouth, you pulled him close enough to nearly tip over the edge of the boxes. The clatter of the wine bottle falling forced you to break away for a gasp of cold air. Only for his mouth to find a home at the base of your jaw.

“Happy New Year,” you smiled, shivering at the heat of his breath along your cold skin.

“Got a few months to go dove,” he mumbled, nipping hard enough to draw a yelp.

“Well…then we’ve got time to practice.”

He laughed, hands latching onto your hips to keep you from falling; you never wanted to go back downstairs again. “Practice huh?”

“I hear it makes things perfect.”

“Insufferable,” he groaned. “If only I’d have known.”

“Then you would have picked someone else?”

The brush of his lips silenced killed the humor at the back of your throat—a needy ache spreading down to the tips of your fingers. “Wouldn’t dream of it baby.”

Noise echoed in the background as he drew you into another round, but everything shone just a bit brighter in the hue of his love. You didn’t need the career, the success. Shit you barely even needed to find joy in this job. You were always searching for the one thing Eddie couldn’t bring himself to admit—someone to confess your dreams to.

The words were there, unspoken yet loud enough to ring in your ears. The truth of finally getting what you wanted.

You needed a dreamer like him, just as he did.

[lokinks]

[lokinks]

Between Sight and Silence ⋆°｡⋆

Chapter 1: Light Passes Through

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader summary: After years of hiding and surviving alone, you arrive at Xavier’s School. You keep your distance at first, using your powers to stay invisible. Over time, and with Charles’s quiet support, you begin to open up. You help students and control your powers. Slowly, after years of isolation, you start to take part in life again. Then, Logan arrived and disrupted her routine. word count: 2.9k warnings/tags: Slow-burn, soft angst, introspective mutant fiction a/n: welcome to this new series and my first fic in tumblr! i'm excited to start this journey with all of y'all! The entire premise of this chapter will be begin with y/n normalising in Xavier High School then meeting Logan { meeting plot inspired by X2 movie}. Anywayyyy enjoy reading. i hope my writing won't bored you half way huhu

masterlist

Timeline: Year 1995-2000

The rain had come in sheets that morning, washing the grounds of Xavier’s Gifted High School in a blur of grey and green. Summer hadn’t ended yet, but the clouds above Westchester didn’t care for calendars. Fog curled along the stone walls of the mansion, slipping through open windows and quiet corridors like breath held too long.

You sat alone in the corner of the third-floor library, eyes fixed on a prism of light dancing through the stained-glass window. You weren’t reading. You rarely did here, not when the words of others clashed with the noise inside your own head.

Outside the walls, they called it a school. Inside, it was a quiet war zone of teenage tempests, buried trauma, and powers none of you asked for. Some controlled minds. Some set fires. You could vanish.

And sometimes… that felt worse.

You dragged your hand slowly through the light beam. It refracted off your palm, splitting into soft streaks of color that shimmered along your fingertips. With a thought, the light disappeared, snuffed out like a candle. The room dimmed. You felt the air shift.

Someone had just walked into the library.

You didn’t need to see them. You could feel it, like a ripple in your force field, a static vibration at the edge of your awareness. You stayed still. Silent. Invisible.

Because being seen... meant being asked questions. And you had already learned that answers only made things worse.

The footsteps in the library faded.

Whoever it was had wandered off ,  maybe another student looking for quiet. Maybe not. You waited a few more seconds before letting your invisibility drop. The light curved back around your form like a silk sheet being pulled away. Your reflection returned in the window; pale, tense, eyes rimmed with a light you couldn’t extinguish.

He always said you had light in your eyes. Real light, he insisted. Not metaphorical.

“You’re doing it again,” came a voice from the door. Calm. Familiar. Almost amused.

You didn’t flinch. You never did around Charles.

He is on his wheelchair, with a book in his hands, eyes on you like he’d been watching the whole time. Knowing him, he probably had, not through cameras or footsteps, but thoughts. Echoes. Memories that drifted toward him like dandelion seeds on the wind.

“You’re always reaching into the light when your thoughts start spiraling.”

You shrugged, eyes on the stained glass instead of him. “Force of habit.”

He crossed the room in smooth, wheelchair hums low, setting the book down beside you. His fingers brushed the table, steady, grounding.

“I didn’t read you,” he said gently. “I wouldn’t, not without permission.”

“I know,” you murmured. “You don’t have to say that every time.”

He tilted his head. “You’ve been distant again.”

You gave him a small, crooked smirk. “I’m literally a disappearing act, Charles. Distant is the whole point.”

He laughed ,  the soft kind that came from the chest, not the throat. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re patient,” you replied. “Why do you keep trying?”

He paused, watching you like someone trying to read stars through smoke.

“Because you’ve been alone a long time,” he said finally. “And I know what that does to people.”

You looked away. “I’m older than you.”

“Not where it counts,” he said, facing you. 

“Emotionally? You’re still stuck somewhere between survival mode and ‘do not engage.’”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. He was right, and you hated that.

“Before this place,” you said, voice quieter now, “before you… I didn’t have anyone who looked at me like a person. Just… a ghost. A weapon. A science experiment. You know how many people looked through me and never at me?”

He was silent for a moment. Not out of discomfort, but out of respect.

“I was fifteen when I realized I’d stopped aging. Nineteen when I realized I couldn’t stay anywhere too long without questions. I’ve seen five lifetimes of change in twenty years.”

“And yet you still hold your breath when someone gets too close,” he said softly.

You nodded once. “Because I’ve learned that closeness comes with conditions. People want something. Power. Answers. Control.”

He turned to face you fully. “And what do I want from you?”

You looked at him then. Really looked, not through him, not past him, not with suspicion. Just eyes to eyes, soul to soul.

“You want me to stay,” you said. “Not as a project. Not as proof that your school works. But just… as me.”

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to.

You felt it in the space between you. The stillness. The absence of pressure. You didn’t have many safe places, but Charles was one of them. Not perfect. Not invincible. But safe.

“You know,” he said after a pause, “if I had a sister, I imagine she’d be like you.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “Stubborn and emotionally barricaded?”

He smiled. “No. Protective. Smart. Brave. A little reckless. And with a heart too big for her own good, even if she buries it under layers of sarcasm and caution.”

A long silence passed between you. The kind that didn’t feel awkward, just… full.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, eyes closing briefly. It was a rare moment of contact. You never touched unless you meant it. He didn’t move away.

“I don’t know how to be part of something, Charles,” you whispered. “Not without breaking it. Or leaving.”

His voice was soft, steady. “Then stay. And if you break something, we’ll fix it. Together.”

The rain softened outside. Somewhere on the first floor, a group of students burst into laughter. Life carried on. Time moved forward.

But in this moment, you let yourself breathe.

Let yourself be seen.

Let yourself stay.

You didn’t arrive at Xavier’s looking to belong.

Charles knew that from the start. You stepped through the wrought-iron gates not like a lost child, but like a blade sheathed in silence. Composed, unreadable, every step deliberate. You moved like someone who had survived things no one talked about. Who had learned to fold herself into invisibility not just with power ,  but with purpose.

The mansion was loud. Not just in sound, but in energy. Mutant children buzzing with emotion and electricity. You stayed on the edges. Always watching. Never engaging.

Charles didn’t push.

He’d see you in passing , sometimes cloaked in light, sometimes flickering in and out of view,  and simply nod, a quiet reminder that he saw you even when you didn’t want to be seen.

You never called him Professor. You just called him Charles. It was a strange comfort, like addressing the storm by its first name.

And somehow, he let you.

---

Day by day, you start to step out of your shell.

It started small.

A morning where you sat near others in the common room, not speaking , but not leaving either.

An afternoon in the greenhouse, offering to stabilize a shattered pane of glass with a force field until Beast could repair it.

A training session where Jean nearly lost control of her telekinesis, and you instinctively shielded the whole room ,  not because you were told to, but because no one else had moved fast enough.

Charles noticed each shift. He never praised you directly, you hated that , but he always made sure you knew: he was watching your progress, not your performance.

There were setbacks...

There were days your force fields pulsed too hard and cracked the walls. Nights when your light manipulation spiked with your heart rate and flooded the halls with blinding white. Students complained. Some avoided you again.

And then there were nights when you vanished completely ,  not just from sight, but from every mental trace Charles could follow. Not because he couldn’t find you. Because you didn’t want to be found.

But every time you came back, he was waiting.

Not with questions. Not with judgment. Just tea, and a chair beside his desk. Sometimes a chessboard. Sometimes just silence. A different kind of silence ,  the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

---

“You’re stronger than you know,” he said once, when you sat across from him in the library, eyes heavy with memory.

“I know exactly how strong I am,” you replied. “That’s the problem.”

Charles smiled softly. “No. The problem is you think strength only exists in destruction.”

You looked at him then. “That’s how the world taught me.”

“And how would you like to rewrite that lesson?”

You didn’t answer right away. But your shield dropped between you, translucent energy evaporating into thin air. It was the first time in weeks you let your defenses fall fully.

“Maybe I’d like to learn what it’s like… not to have to hold everything back.”

---

Students began trusting you.

They asked for help controlling their own powers. They called you by name. A younger mutant once asked you if you were a teacher.

You told him, “Not yet.”

He beamed anyway.

And you didn’t vanish.  

You no longer felt like a ghost.

Not completely.

---

Year 2003

The year turned over quietly.

No end of the world. Just frost on the mansion’s windows, The windows still caught morning light the same way, casting long streaks across the wooden floors.The campus filled with young mutants still trying to find themselves. Students still rushed through the halls, their footsteps fast and uncoordinated, voices echoing with laughter, panic, and too many hormones.

You stood at the edge of the lawn that morning, arms crossed, watching the sun rise through a prism of cold mist. The light bent itself instinctively around your fingers, dancing as if drawn to you. You didn’t even have to try anymore, your powers had become like breathing.

You’d spent years trying not to be seen in these halls.

Now they looked to you for direction.

You were no longer a student. Not for a long time.

Now, you were a teacher. A mentor. A guide for those whose powers hurt too much, burned too bright, or made them feel like monsters.

You didn’t do lectures — you left that to the traditional staff. Your place was in the field, in the Danger Room, or in quiet one-on-one sessions when a student couldn’t sleep and the nightmares made their powers spiral out of control.

You spoke their language — fear, silence, pressure, isolation — because you had lived it. They listened.

Not because you raised your voice, but because when you spoke, the air shifted. You understood them. 

Now they looked to you for direction.

“Eyes up,” you called calmly across the gymnasium. “Focus on your target, not the fear of missing it.”

A small cluster of students stood in formation. All teenagers. All raw power and emotion. One of them — a girl with silver eyes and trembling hands — flinched as sparks sputtered from her fingertips.

You walked toward her, slow and deliberate. Not threatening. Not maternal either. You never coddled. But you knew how to stand with someone in the chaos.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” you said gently.

“I can’t control it,” she whispered.

“I didn’t ask if you could,” you replied. “I said you won’t hurt me.”

Her lips parted, unsure. But she nodded. You raised your hand, just slightly, letting a thin force field hum into existence between you — not as a barrier, but a cushion.

“Now breathe. Don’t hold the power back. Let it move through you. Don’t fight it. Feel it.”

She released a pulse of energy... wild, brilliant, reckless.

Your field absorbed it like glass bending under ocean pressure, and when the wave passed, there was only silence.

Her eyes widened.

You nodded. “See? You’re not a bomb. You’re a circuit. You just have to close it right.”

Later, you stood at the window in your classroom, watching dusk crawl over the Westchester fields. The students had long gone to dinner. You stayed behind to reset the chairs, catalog their progress.

Behind you, you felt the familiar brush of presence before he even spoke.

“Still here?” Charles asked, his voice marked with that old warm timbre.

“I like the quiet,” you said. “You get used to it after the chaos.”

He stepped beside you. “You’re harder on yourself than you are on the students.”

“They’re allowed to be fragile,” you murmured. “I’m not.”

Charles turned to face you. “You’re allowed to be fragile. Even now.”

You looked at him — really looked. He was older. More wrinkles around the eyes, though his presence hadn’t faded. If anything, he was more solid now. Like oak, not marble. Still carrying the burden of hope like it weighed nothing.

“I don’t age like the others,” you said, softly. “What happens when they notice?”

“They will,” he said. “But they’ll also remember the light you carried them through. That’s what they’ll see — not your years.”

You exhaled slowly.

“I was never meant to be a teacher, Charles.”

He tilted his head. “Then why are you one?”

You looked back at the empty classroom.

“Because someone once sat with me when I had no one,” you said. “And didn’t ask me to be fixed. Just… seen.”

He smiled then. You turned away before your throat tightened too much.

“You’ve become more than even I expected.” Charles mutters.

You shrugged. “I just kept surviving.”

He shook his head. “No. You started living. That’s the difference.”

—

You didn’t like disturbances.

For years, the school had grown into something steady — students adapting, power control evolving, rhythms falling into place. You’d found your role. You taught, trained, observed. You didn’t lead missions anymore, not unless absolutely necessary.

But today… everything shifted.

You felt it the moment the jet landed. Not just the noise or the alarms — but something primal. A ripple in the atmosphere that didn’t come from psychic energy or elemental force.

It came from instinct. From blood.

You were already walking toward the med lab when Storm passed you in the hallway, her expression taut.

“They brought someone back,” she said. “It’s complicated.”

That was enough for you to follow.

The door to the lab hissed open, revealing chaos.

Jean was at the console, checking vitals. Rogue stood stiffly near the wall, pale and shaken. The boy — Bobby — hovered beside her while Storm assuring the situation for the female teenager. 

You stepped inside, and for a moment, time stilled.

The man strapped to the table was wild even in unconsciousness. Shirtless. Broad,tall and muscular. Dog tags glinted faintly at his collarbone. His hair was damp with sweat. His knuckles were bruised. His breathing was uneven.

“Who is he?” you asked quietly.

“The kid was with him when we found him, she told us that his name is Logan.” Jean answered.

“He saved Rogue,” Storm said. “Took a hit for her. He’s dangerous but he chose to protect her.”

You moved closer. Studied him. Not with fear. With awareness.

There was something about him, something familiar in the way he seemed… unmoored. Like a compass that had been spinning too long.

You raised your hand slowly, sensing the faint field of residual energy around him,the kind that came with mutants who’d lived in fight-or-flight for decades.

Then, without warning—

SNIKT!

Metal claws burst from his knuckles.

He woke with a growl, eyes wild, teeth clenched. half-conscious, all instinct. One moment he was down from the bed, the next he was standing on the floor. Jean shouted. 

You raised your hand, caught him mid-charge with a solid force field that curved between you like tempered glass.

His claws slammed into it, the claws met the barrier with a metallic screech.

Sparks flew.

His eyes locked onto yours, wild, animal.

Your voice cut through the air. Soft, but firm.

“Don’t.”

He didn’t listen, not at first. He didn’t know how.

But something about you, your stillness, your lack of fear, your presence made him hesitate. Just for a breath.

That was all you needed.

“Stand down. You are safe here.”

The claws hovered midair.

And then, slowly… they retracted.

Minutes later, the tension had dropped. Logan sat on the edge of the med-bed, hands gripping the sides like he might bolt again. But he didn’t.

You leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes steady.

He looked at you.

“You’re not scared of me,” he said, voice rough, like gravel.

You tilted your head. “Should I be?”

He gave a low, humorless snort. “Most people are.”

You offered the faintest hint of a smirk. “I’m not most people.”

Logan studied you, eyes narrowing slightly. You excuse yourself, leaving him with Jean who is monitoring the screen of his examination result.

Later, when the others had left, you walk in the observation corridor above the med bay. Charles approached beside you, calm as ever. “He’s staying. For now.”

“He’s dangerous,” you replied.

“So are we, he doesn’t remember what they did to him,” he said. “But they did enough.”

You didn’t respond right away.

“I saw his eyes,” you murmured. “That’s not just rage. That’s survival.”

Charles nodded.

“He won’t trust us,” you added.

“Neither did you years ago.” Charles chuckles, glancing at you with quiet warmth. You sighed heavily, a restless feeling starts to creep in.

A collision was coming.

Not yet. Not today.

But soon.

𓊖𓊖𓊖

it's slow paced. I know. Did you yawn??

just a little note for everyone:

Y/N Abilities:

Invisibility via light-bending: Can turn herself and others completely unseen to the naked eye.

Force fields: Can create transparent or tinted energy shields, dome-shaped or flat.

Light manipulation: Can bend, refract, or intensify light to distract, blind, or disorient enemies.

Unique twist: Can render someone's vision invisible, temporarily blinding them by bending the light away from their retinas.

more of like Sue Storm eh?

[lokinks]

Between Sight and Silence masterlist ⋆°｡⋆

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

summary: After years of staying hidden, you begin adjusting to life at Xavier’s with Charles’s quiet support. Just as you start to settle, Logan arrives—rough, intense, and full of questions. Your guarded nature clashes with his, but something unspoken lingers between you. You train together, argue, and face challenges that push both your powers and your limits. Feelings surface slowly, tangled in mistrust and restraint. Neither of you says it, but something is shifting. It’s not simple. It’s not easy. Will it happen?

warnings/tags: Slow-burn, soft angst, introspective mutant fiction

chapters:

chapter 1: Light Passes Through

[lokinks]

Novella for sure. Loving it.

pressure points | b.b.

✮ synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.

✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

✮ disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences

✮ word count: 10.6k

✮ a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo

main masterlist

The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.

He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearing—the kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months ago—when he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.

"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"

The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.

"Need a hand?"

You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.

"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."

He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.

"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"

"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."

Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.

"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"

"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."

He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.

"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."

"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."

"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.

"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"

He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.

Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.

It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.

He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.

"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."

"No problem."

He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"

He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.

"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."

It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."

He's so fucked.

The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.

When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?

So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.

But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.

You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.

"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."

"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.

"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."

You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.

Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.

He should stay away.

He doesn't.

"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"

"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."

"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."

"I smile."

"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"

Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."

"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"

The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.

"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"

"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"

"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."

Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.

"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."

"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."

Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.

But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.

"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.

Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."

The faucet thing turns into a whole production.

You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—

"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."

The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.

"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.

"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."

He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.

"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"

"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.

Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.

"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.

"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."

He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.

"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."

"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.

Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."

It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.

"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.

"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."

"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"

"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."

"So don't go."

"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."

He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You were going to ask me to go with you."

"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."

"I really don't."

"There's an open bar."

"Still no."

"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."

That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...

"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."

The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.

He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.

The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.

"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."

"Did it work?"

"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."

He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."

"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"

"I said no dancing."

"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."

"That's not a law."

"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."

The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.

You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.

"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."

His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."

Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.

"Bucky—"

"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."

You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."

But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.

He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.

"I'm sorry if I—" you start.

"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"

"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."

"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."

You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.

You pull back after that.

It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.

"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.

"I don't mope."

"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"

Bucky's silence is damning.

"What'd you do?"

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."

Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."

"...okay?"

"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."

"Why?"

"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"

"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"

"Then she's naïve."

"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."

"It's worked so far."

"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."

Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?

He's already standing before he realizes it.

"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."

Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.

"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."

He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.

"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.

"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."

"By what?"

You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"

"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.

You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."

The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.

"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.

"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."

Each observation feels like being flayed open.

"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."

"You can't know that."

"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."

"You don't understand—"

"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"

He kisses you.

It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.

The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.

You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—

Reality crashes back like ice water.

He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.

Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.

"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."

"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"

He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.

"I should go," he manages.

"Or," you say, "you could stay."

The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.

You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.

He leaves.

The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.

He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.

Now he wants to break his own.

You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.

It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.

"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"

He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."

Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."

Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.

It's fine. It's working. You're safe.

He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.

Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.

"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."

"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.

"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."

Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.

The mission goes sideways in minute three.

"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"

The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.

"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.

It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.

"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."

Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.

They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.

His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—

Your door is open.

Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—

The deadbolt is broken.

The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.

Bucky goes utterly still.

His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—

Blood.

Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.

"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—

Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.

Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.

He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.

His phone rings. Unknown number.

"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.

"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."

"Where is she?"

"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"

Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—

"What do you want?"

"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."

The line goes dead.

Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.

Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.

He's going to paint the city red for it.

"Buck, slow down—"

"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.

Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"

"Watch me."

"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"

"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."

Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"

That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.

"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."

"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"

"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."

"Buck—"

"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."

"So what, you're going in alone?"

Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.

"They touched her," he says simply.

"I know, man. I know. But—"

"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."

"Buck, come on. At least let me—"

"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"

"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."

"Too late for that."

Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—

Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.

"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.

Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.

The trail goes cold in six hours.

Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.

"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"

Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."

"We'll find her."

We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.

He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.

Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.

"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."

"Get out."

"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"

"I said—"

"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."

The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."

"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."

"I know that."

"Then stop giving them what they want."

Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.

"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.

"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.

"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."

"I am focused."

"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."

He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.

"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"

Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.

His blood turns to ice, then flame.

"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."

She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.

"Just me," he says. "Let her go."

"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."

The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.

You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.

"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.

You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."

The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.

"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."

You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."

Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.

"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."

"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.

This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.

"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."

Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"

The video cuts.

Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.

"That bad?" Yelena asks.

He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.

Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.

"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."

"I know."

"You can't just walk in there like idiot."

"I know."

"So what's plan?"

He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."

"Barnes—"

"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."

The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.

"Don't you fucking dare."

Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.

"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."

"Rooftop," from Yelena.

"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."

"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.

The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.

"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."

"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."

"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"

Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.

"Where is she?"

"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."

"We?"

The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."

"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."

The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."

Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.

Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.

"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."

"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."

"Sweetheart—"

"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."

"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"

The knife moves toward you.

The world explodes.

Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.

Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.

Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.

"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"

He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.

When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.

"Come any closer and—"

Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.

"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."

But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.

"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."

"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.

He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.

"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.

Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.

After that? After that, everything changes.

But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:

Never again.

Never fucking again.

The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.

"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."

"I'm fine."

Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.

"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."

He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?

"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."

Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.

"When will she wake up?"

"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."

"Sam already made that joke."

"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."

She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.

Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.

"You're spiraling again."

Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.

"You're awake."

"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"

"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"

"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."

"It's fine."

You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.

"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"

"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."

Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"

"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."

"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."

"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."

"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"

"That's not—"

"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."

"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"

"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."

You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.

"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."

"Stop."

"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."

The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.

"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.

"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."

"How can you say that?"

"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."

"I should have protected you better."

"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."

"I should have never let them take you in the first place."

"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."

"This isn't funny."

"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."

"You are—"

"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."

He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."

"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."

"I know."

"Like, incandescently furious."

"I know."

"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."

His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"

"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"

He kisses you.

There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.

The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.

His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.

The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.

When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.

Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.

"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"

"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."

You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."

"I'm already in therapy."

"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."

"...fine."

"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."

"Okay."

"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."

"Deal."

"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."

He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.

"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."

"I know."

"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."

"I can take it."

"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."

"Noted."

You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."

He freezes. You squeeze his hand.

"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."

His throat feels tight. "I can do that."

"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."

"It's not that bad."

"Bucky."

"Fine."

But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.

The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.

"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.

"Yeah."

"And stubborn."

"Definitely."

"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."

He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.

The least he can do is try to prove you right.

When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.

And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.

"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.

"Hey yourself."

You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.

It's terrifying.

It's everything.

It's enough.

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