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lovelyrecs · 15 hours ago

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JESUS i don't read for any of the batfamily but holy shit 😭 this was so good!! i couldn't stop laughing, your reader is so funny 😭😭 her constantly checking him out LMAOOO

and her indignation at him sleeping naked 😭 and his indignation at her indignation

this was so sweet!! and hilarious, I don't know who Jason Todd is but i will be coming back 😭

in the buff | jason todd

Summary: The one where you learn firsthand that Jason Todd sleeps in the nude.

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings/tags: best friend jason, awkwardness, nudity, reader hardcore thirsting over jaytodd, love confessions, humor (attempts at it, anyway), silliness. inspired by this post!

the divider

There's been a huge (blessed) development in the drug ring case that you and Jason are working on. You can hardly sleep now.

Normally, you'd call or text Jason, even though he's usually already in the know. It's possible that you just like having an excuse to call him, but who can confirm such a thing?

But it's late, probably too late to call, considering Jason doesn't answer his phone unless it's pinged directly to his helmet after a certain time, courtesy of his family being "a buncha jackasses" (his words, obviously).

But maybe it's not too late for a visit. After all, Jason patrols late, and has insane insomnia. He very well could be awake at this late hour. And he's never minded you dropping by before.

In truth, you haven't seen Jason in a few days and you feel restless now when you go longer than a day without seeing each other. You're not quite sure why that is.

So here you are, disabling the window alarm on Jason's apartment. Partly for a case, partly for your own benefit.

It takes a few minutes but you manage to open the window without anyone calling the police or whacking you with a broom. You slide open the window mostly soundlessly. Then you wait. The room remains dark and quiet.

You're pretty proud of yourself actually. It's not that you're green when it comes to spycraft, but you're certainly no Batman.

Still, you've managed to sneak into Jason's apartment without waking him. The Red Hood. You peek in to check if he's really asleep.

And he is, dark hair stark against the white pillow. It sticks out in messy tufts. You can't see past Jason's neck and his freckled arms, illuminated by the orange streetlight outside. You put your laptop bag on the floor.

He's sleeping on his stomach, facing away from you, but you're very endeared by how he's curled up under his sheet, hands tucked under his pillow. If you went really close to his face, you could count his eyelashes. Jason has such pretty eyelashes.

That's a perfectly normal thought to have about your best friend, right? Boys have pretty eyelashes. You're just making an observation.

You're bewildered by how cold the room is, surprised that Jason can withstand such a temperature. Maybe it's a Pit thing.

You watch him for a moment longer. Guilt pools in your gut. Are you really going to wake him when he's probably just gone to bed in the last hour? It takes Jason so long to fall asleep, you know that.

...

No, you should let him sleep. You can work on the case in the morning.

You bend down to get your laptop bag. In that time, the light flicks on.

You flinch, turn around, and find yourself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Said gun is held by an extremely naked Jason Todd.

"Oh my God!" you say at the same time Jason realizes his mistake.

"What the fuck!" he shouts, grabbing a pillow to cover himself.

But not before you get an eyeful of your best friend's, er, weaponry.

"Why are you naked?" you shout, gaze darting everywhere. Good Lord, it's seared into your retinas. You're never getting the image of Jason's dick out of your brain.

"Why are you in my apartment?" Jason snaps back.

"No, my question is way more urgent," you say.

"No the hell it's not! You broke in! I'm allowed to be naked in my apartment!"

"Okay. Alright. I came because there's been a development in our case. I thought we could work on it together but when I realized you were asleep for real, I decided to leave."

Jason rolls his eyes. "You know I'm a light sleeper. I just went to bed. I was up late.”

Realization strikes you. Could it be...?

"Oh my God. Do you have someone here?" you ask, voice sinking to a whisper.

"I have you here," Jason says irritably.

"No, like—" You make a hole with one hand and stick a finger into it. "Y'know..."

"Jesus, no!" Jason's face twists in disgust. "C'mon!"

"Okay, chill out, Jay-Jay. It'd be fine if you did. I can keep a secret," you say, shrugging. People have sex. You know that. You've never thought about Jason having sex, but you suppose it's possible. Why not? Just because you've never had sex and you always hoped that Jason would be your first doesn't mean that he would. If he's moved on in his life, then you should too.

Jason scoffs. "Yeah, okay. You think anybody would get into bed with a headcase like me?"

Hope rekindles. You're not behind. Jason's right there with you, virginity firmly intact.

He puts the safety back on the gun, squishing the pillow against himself with his elbow. You watch in fascination at his multitasking. Jason starts to turn around to put the gun behind the headboard before clearly thinking twice about mooning you.

"So... why are you naked?" you ask, respectfully keeping your eyes north of the equator.

"If you must know, I sleep in the nude. Now turn around."

You don't turn around. "In the nude?"

Jason's eye twitches. "Yes, nude. It's better for your body and it's more comfortable and I don't—"

You pull a face. "Who says in the nude? How old are you, a hundred?"

"That's what you're harping on?" Jason asks. "You broke into my apartment!"

You hold up a finger. "I didn't break in, I disarmed the alarm like you taught me."

"Yeah, which was only for emergencies. This isn't an emergency. Now turn around!"

So you turn around. You hear the pillow fall and the image returns. You recite the alphabet backwards. When that doesn't work, you think about the time you helped Jason on a mission in the sewers and couldn't get the smell out of your suit for a week.

Yeah, that'll do it. You shudder.

"Can't believe you just broke in," he mumbles. "Raised in a fuckin' barn, swear to God."

"Okay, I'm sorry. I'm truly, honestly sorry, Jaybee. From the bottom of my heart. Can I look now?"

"If you dare."

"Are you decent?" you ask.

"Too easy of a joke," he says. "Yeah, the jewels are covered."

You turn slowly. Jason's got red (ha) boxers on, so you turn all the way.

Huh. Well.

You've never really thought much about what Jason's got going on underneath his armor. Certainly, you've assumed that he's got a good physique and a lot of stamina, considering what he does. You've always assumed that. But Jason's Jason. Your best friend, Jason. Your best friend, Jason, who came back really tall, yeah, and with a deep voice and a super pretty face...

Well, anyway. He's Jason. That's all.

But now? Now you get to look in depth, and... whoa.

Jason's broad, stocky, heavily muscled with a soft layer of fat on top. His arms are huge, hands proportionally big. His pecs are full with pink nipples the same shade as his lips. That's a fact you're never forgetting. Your belly flutters.

Okay, what the fuck! No. This is peak creepy behavior, leering at your best friend like this, even if he does have shoulders you could sink your teeth into and thighs you'd happily get crushed between. No! Bad.

...You look some more. He's covered in scars. This is the first time you've seen his autopsy scar in person. It's white, noticeable but healed, like most of his scars. There's a dusting of dark hair from his chest to his belly button. It thickens as it dips beneath his—

Mm, nope. Not thinking about that again.

"Hello-o."

Your eyes dart back to his face.

"Are you listening to me?" he asks, forehead crinkled.

"What? Yes. Sorry. Yes." Your cheeks burn.

Something crosses Jason's face, too quick for you to read. But then his expression stones over. He glances at the dresser across from the bed.

"If you gimme a sec, I'll put a shirt on so y'won't have to look at all this," he says, gesturing roughly to his body.

You blink, lost in Jasonland. "Huh?"

"I know the scars are pretty gnarly. Lemme find a shirt."

Jason goes to the dresser and digs through the top drawer. His wide back is strung tight with tension, you can tell. You hurry to him, blocking the drawer with your arm. Jason looks at you, brows rising.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

"Um."

Words. You remember words, don't you?

"You..."

You haven't been physically close to Jason in a long time. He smells like soap and detergent and is all-encompassing. Your brain feels like slush. Don't stare at his pecs.

"I didn't—I'm not grossed out by your scars, Jason," you finally manage to say.

Jason raises an eyebrow. "Sure. You're just grossed out by everything else about me." He sighs wearily, like he's practiced this speech every night in the mirror. "Look, it's fine. I know I'm really—"

"No, it's not fine! I can't bear having you think I'm repulsed by your body, Jason. That's just not true," you say.

"Well, you were starin' pretty hard, so—"

"But it wasn't—I wasn't staring in disgust, I was—I..."

Jason crosses his arms. His pecs are pushed up as he does so. His stomach looks so soft. But you know he's strong. Way stronger than you. Strong enough to wield his strength against you, if you wanted him to. Strong enough to be gentle with you, too.

You wonder if he's still ticklish.

"You're doin' it again!" Jason says, and this time he really does look hurt. Fuck. Fuck! You're a shitty best friend.

"No!" You lock eyes with him. "No, no! I mean, yes, I was looking at you. But I wasn't looking in a bad, judgy way. I was, uh, taking in your physique. Because you have a... a very nice body. I've never seen you without clothes so I was looking at you. Sorry."

Yeah, you'll just go die in a hole after this.

Jason squints at you for a long moment. You start to shift in place. Sweat beads on your forehead. You lick your lips, hoping Jason can hear your honesty.

"Are you messin' with me?"

"Huh?" You shake your head. "No, why would I—"

"You're really telling me that you find this," Jason gestures to his body, "Good looking?"

This is worse than any physical torture. You'd prefer Batman beating you up on a roof to being here.

You rub your temple, cheeks aflame. "Oh my God. Yes, Jason, you're a good looking guy. Can we move on?"

"No, 'cause I think you're lyin', and I don't like it. You're always honest with me."

"I am being honest," you say, suddenly more annoyed than anything. Because what the fuck? "Are you kidding me? There's a whole forum dedicated to the Red Hood and how much people want you to step on them. And that's without seeing your face! I have eyes, Jason, of course I find you attractive."

And that should be the end of it. Jason's already slack-jawed like a dead fish. But no, you keep going.

"You make me nervous and I thought I had a lid on it because we knew each other as kids but it's becoming clear that I very much don't, and that probably has to do with the fact that you're the only guy I've been close to, and I never got over you. And now I'm gonna go drown myself in the Hudson. Good night."

You go to slip out the window. Maybe it'll shut on your head and knock you out. That would be a divine gift.

It doesn't, though. The universe isn't so kind. Instead, Jason catches your arm and keeps you rooted to your spot. His hand is cold. You wonder if the rest of him is warm.

"Wait, wait. Just hang on."

You groan. "Dude, I'm fucking mortified over the last five minutes. Please let me keep some of my dignity," you say without looking at him.

"Now when have I ever done that?" You can hear the smile in his voice.

And suddenly, the miserable reality of never being more than friends with Jason Todd comes crashing down. It's too late. You've always been too late.

You sag in his grip.

"We can just forget this ever happened," you say quietly. "Chalk it up to idiocy."

"Mm, yeah, we could. 'Cept I don't think you're an idiot. And I want you to hear what I have t'say first. Will ya look at me?"

Mopily, you look at him. His hand drops.

"I—"

"You've never slept naked," you say before he can get a word out. "That's new. Otherwise, I would've known, and then I would've used the door."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Can I speak?"

You cross your arms. "Yeah, okay."

"First of all, I don't think it's necessary for me to disclose that I sleep in the nude." You open your mouth to argue. "But I know it was a mistake. I'm not mad about that. Okay?"

You nod. "Okay."

"I won't lie and say I'm not surprised at your... reaction. I don't really... I've never... I'm not Dick or Bruce, y'know? I wasn't told my whole life what a handsome boy I am. And dying and returning didn't really help with that stuff either."

"I think you're handsome, Jason," you say quietly. "Honest."

He coughs and looks away, a tiny blush on his cheeks. "Yeah, uh, think you've made that pretty clear. For the record, I think you're really beautiful. Always thought so."

Your eyes widen. "Really?"

"Well, yeah. I mean... yeah."

"You're just saying that 'cause I saw your vein cane," you say, grinning.

"Don't call it that."

"How about—"

"No."

You're both quiet.

"How 'bout pork swor—"

"No!"

You smile, eyes squinty. Jason glares.

"Don't nickname my thing," he says.

You nod solemnly. "You're right. It's your thing. You should choose its name."

He shakes his head. "Sucha weirdo."

"Hey, I've never been with a guy. I don't know the rules of thing-naming."

Jason tilts his head. "Never?"

"Never."

"Why?"

You shrug. "Never found anyone I liked enough, I guess. I've pretty much had my heart set on you, Jason."

His face softens. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, uh, me too," he says. "You're it for me, honey. I just never... I mean, really, I never thought it would actually happen with you. Not then, not now."

"Huh. You really should've flashed me earlier. We could've sped things up exponentially."

"Yeah, why didn't I think of that," Jason says dryly.

"Dunno! We all know you're more than a pretty face."

His face reddens. You grin.

"Are you shy?" you ask, dancing on your toes.

"No. Shut up."

"You're shy! I make Jason Todd shy! Oh, this is wonderful. I should break into your apartment regularly."

"It's just new for me!" he says. "Lea' me alone."

You cozy up to him, confidence renewed by the mutual confession. You wrap your arms around his neck. Jason looks at you, hands slowly coming to rest on your waist. The rest of him is warm.

"Just teasing you, Jaybee," you say.

"Hmm." He slowly nudges your cheek with his nose. "Like y'always do?"

"Like I always do," you say sweetly. "But for the record, if we ever share a bed in the future, you're gonna have to keep the soldier in his tent."

Jason lets go of you, exasperated. "Oh, for—y'know what? Your visitation privileges are revoked. Get outta my apartment."

You put on the saddest face you can muster. "You're kicking me out? Into the cold?"

"It's eighty degrees."

You sigh loudly. "Okay, fine. Date tomorrow?"

"Seriously?" Jason asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Seriously! Why wouldn't I be serious?"

"You really wanna date me?"

"Never been more sure of anything in my life."

Jason's relief is palpable and bittersweet. You'll spend the rest of your days letting him know just how spectacular he and his pectorals are.

"Okay," he says, shy again. You don't tease him this time.

"Great!" You close the distance between you and peck him on the cheek. His blinks in surprise.

"I'll give you a proper kiss on our date," you say, winking. "Bye, Jasey-Daisy."

"Bye, honey. Don't break into anyone else's apartment on your way home."

"Never," you say, climbing out the window. "You're the only one for me, Toddy!"

#author rec

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lovelyrecs · 1 day ago

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the way i cannot recommend this series enough is insane. if you have a couple of hours and the want for some emotional damage but a very good time all wrapped up in a really great plot and very very good writing. this is it. this is all you need.

one of my top series ever, characterization is on point, writing never suffers not ONCE in a helluva lot of it. i love!!! i love!!!

also!! has extra little chapters/snippets to help you grieve when you finish it </3

time after time - masterlist

summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader

series word count: 130.7k (136.3k+ including bonus chapters)

warnings: f!reader; more or less canon compliant; time loops, canon typical violence, repeated major character death (in a russian doll/supernatural's mystery spot sort of way); slow burn, mutual annoyance to reluctant friends to lovers; negative self-talk; just a lot of angst (but with an eventual happy ending i promise!!); lots of banter; hella self-indulgent 💚

this series is set after the events of the falcon and the winter soldier and will include spoilers for marvel projects up to and including multiverse of madness

please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked

a/n: welcome to the fic i've been thinking about for almost a year!! i am beyond excited and terrified to finally start sharing this. if you want to get notified whenever i post a new chapter, you can follow @intrepidacious-fics and turn on notifications or follow along on my ao3 💚

✨ this series is finished as of 12 july 2025

my chapters are on the long side so they will also be posted in parts for easier reading in the app; the parts and the full chapters are identical contentwise

one: turn back the clock ↳ Bucky gets killed during a mission and you accidentally start a time loop | 6.0k

part one

part two

two: twice upon a time ↳ You struggle to cope with your new situation and meet a sorcerer | 8.2k

part one

part two

three: every day’s a holiday ↳ Ten days into the loop, you finally decide to ask for help | 10.1k

part one

part two

part three

four: groundhog day ↳ Library heists, bad ideas, and a decision | 9.2k

part one

part two

five: carousel ↳ Bucky has a secret and you have a revelation | 10.9k

part one

part two

part three

six: butterfly effect ↳ You go back to the start, and something changes | 12.8k

part one

part two

part three

part four

seven: spellbound ↳ There's a problem with this day | 11.1k

part one

part two

part three

eight: edge of tomorrow ↳ The truth comes out, and you scramble to fix things | 12.3k

part one

part two

part three

nine: out of the past ↳ Some ill-advised choices and a road trip | 12.9k

part one

part two

part three

part four

ten: about time ↳ The fallout, some truths, and time being really weird | 12.2k

part one

part two

part three

eleven: tomorrow we live ↳ How to end a time loop | 9.8k

part one

part two

part three

twelve: serendipity ↳ Something's weird about today | 11.2k

part one

part two

part three

epilogue ↳ Saturday: what a concept | 3.5k

bonus chapters

these are mostly set outside of the time loop; not required reading, but there will be some nods to these in the main story. bonus chapters can be read in any order and without knowing the main story

frequently asked questions about time travel ↳ Five times people asked you something about time travel, and one time you’re desperate for an answer yourself

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind ↳ One day in Bucky's time loop

57 seconds ↳ How Bucky met Twelve

somewhere in time ↳ a bantery little snippet that was cut for time from the main story

cause and effect ↳ How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.

alpine's pov ↳ set during chapter 8

fun stuff

🎵 series playlist

#️⃣ browse the series tag

moodboards by @barnesafterglow 💚

moodboard by @sweetascanbee 💚

moodboards by @idkitsem 💚

moodboards by @treatbuckywkisses 💚

#bucky barnes series rec #bucky barnes rec #marvel rec #marvel series rec #favorites: bucky barnes

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lovelyrecs · 1 day ago

Note

"I've yelped" I LOVE HIM LMAOO

sss: BEGGING ON MY KNEES FOR A SNIPPET OF BUCKY AND TWELVE

somewhere in time | b.b.

a/n: happy tumblrversary my love!! this scene had to be cut for time and also because it never really fit anywhere after i switched some things around so i thought this was the perfect opportunity to give it new life 😌💚 (part of time after time set somewhere between the sambucky flashbacks and the loop)

"Clipnotes again for everyone who clearly didn’t pay attention during yesterday’s briefing," Sam said as you busied yourself inspecting your nails, "evil organization makes things explode, stop them before they get the chance."

"Fun,” you deadpanned back at him, “and why are they doing this in a building full of civilians?"

"To get good yelp reviews,” Bucky supplied dryly, his head tilted towards you.

You raised both eyebrows with a snort, "Don’t talk about Yelp if you don’t know what it does, old man."

"I do," he said, like a liar, "I’ve yelped."

"No, you haven’t."

"Please flirt on your own time, people," Sam rolled his eyes, "we’re here."

#i LOOOOVE “lying like a liar who lies” i think it's the funniest thing in the world #bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

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lovelyrecs · 1 day ago

Note

oh man this is beautiful 😭

Bucky x reader for 7 sentence, maybe something hurt/comfort in a battle??

57 seconds | b.b.

a/n: i'm not sure if this fits the prompt 100% but it sure is where my mind went

The world around you was bathed in fire and explosions, but you barely noticed; your head was thrumming with adrenaline as you tried to keep track of your team, your numbers impossibly few next to the alien force you were up against. Your limbs were heavy with exhaustion and grief, but you still pressed on, and on, and on, refusing to give up, hitting and stabbing and kicking and—

Something hit you from behind and for a moment, everything went upside down; it was like you were floating, flying, almost, and for a few blissful moments, there was nothing to feel or think or worry about.

And then something caught around your waist and yanked you upright again, warm and heavy and solid, "Oh no, you don't," and there was a crash and a low gurgle somewhere above you and you stumbled as you tried to not keel over again, "Are you alright, doll?"

You knew what time stopping felt like and it was nothing and everything like this, because his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and dirt and blood, and still you could tell he had the bluest eyes you'd ever seen; somehow, that was the only thing you could focus on as you nodded slowly, as his gaze ran up and down your body like he didn't trust your words, which was ridiculous because you were fine. They widened just a fraction, and you didn't understand why, but then you pressed your palm against the spot above your neck that hurt the worst, and you felt something wet on your fingers, and maybe that was why; but really, you were fine, you had to be, you were needed.

You gave him a tired smile he didn't reciprocate, and then you joined the battle again; later, when it was over, you could only recall fragments of your interaction, most of it blurred in your memory except the stunning color of his eyes when he looked at you.

#bucky barnes blue eyes propaganda #i love his eyes they must be a focal point in every fic #it's realistic #bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

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lovelyrecs · 1 day ago

Text

Slowly, reality kicks back in and you remember snippets of what’s happened. The mission. Bucky dying. Crushing your amulet with the heel of your boot. Energy and power rushing through you, consolidating themselves. The time loop. Shit, the time loop.

SHE REMEMBERS THE TIME LOOP YES

“What day is it?” you whisper. Another hint of that smile you adore. “Pretty late on Saturday.”

THEYRE OUT THEYRE OUT AND THEYRE ALIVE AND THEYRE TOGETHER IM SO HAPPY

He tilts his head at you. “I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world.”

MY BEST GIRL

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

THAT'S WHAT WAS ALMOST THE SIZE OF A COIN?? I WAS WONDERING HOW THE FUCK DID SHE DO THAT

“We can rent a cabin,” you continue, “do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?”

our <3 Our Cat <3 because alpine loves her too now

“I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place.” You frown. “I’m not sure why it changed colors, though.”

okay thank you! she's so powerful i love her

“You know—going steady?” you wince. “Is that the right phrase?”

she's trying to speak his language LMAOO

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

she's just Doing That now? just pausing time with him? oh my gosh !! ohhhh my gosh!!!

Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!”

oh my god oh my god!! i was going insane trying to figure out who this could be, i thought maybe the person bucky was calling in that one chapter but then. one of the notes said nat?? you said in response to chapter 4?? where reader calls to tell her she misses her voice?? nat's responding?? from somewhere else?? where she has KIDS?? AND SHE'S ALIVE???? i got chills i genuinely got chills. ohhhh my god

holy crap! holy crap!! i can't even remember when i started reading this series and i'm sooo glad i found you on ao3 and even gladder i found you on here and i'm so so happy to have so many more chapters!! this series has been so incredible, you're a spectacular writer!!

i copy and paste a lot of the lines i scream at because they make me feel. a Lot, but there are so many!! in so many of the chapters, it's been every other line that's just so poignant in some way that i can't even describe!!

the amount of time and work that you have poured into this series is blatant, everything is so well thought-out! every single detail, from things that are going to happen later on in the series either referenced or foreshadowed earlier or just the whole time magic aspect of it, which is SO confusing LMAO and you've managed to understand it and explain it and use it to create this incredible thing!! thank you so much for coming up with it and writing it and finishing it!! even when it wasn't finished, it was one of the best things i'd ever read. imagine now!!

i adored this fic!! i love it so much, i love my dear twelve reader and grumpy bucky and sam and alpine and peter parker and i have just. had the time of my life reading this. i feel like i've gone through the entire spectrum of human emotion LMAO i was STRESSED and then i was happy and sad and gosh dang!! oh my gosh!!! can't even express how much i enjoyed it!! thank you so much!!

time after time [fin]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 3.5k

chapter warnings: a whole bunch of fluff and a couple of last minute cameos 💚 also a mid credits scene? gotta stick to the genre. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this is it, folks 🥺 it's been an absolute honour.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

epilogue

You can hear rain.

It’s a soft noise and you’re drowsy, but the sound lingers at the back of your mind, keeping you awake. Your limbs are heavy and, oh, so comfortable. It’s like you’ve been padded with marshmallows.

Breathing is weirdly difficult, though. It feels as though an elephant is sitting on your chest.

Unwilling, you blink your eyes open.

At first, you’re confused, because this isn’t your room. You’re in a hospital bed in a white and quiet room. When you turn your head to the side, you see a small bouquet of fresh flowers and a little box on your nightstand.

Next to it, Bucky is curled up in a chair. His limbs are too long for the position he’s in to be anything but uncomfortable, but he’s managed to nod off despite that. His hair is damp and he’s got several nasty cuts on his face; but he looks almost peaceful like this.

Shit, the time loop.

"Bucky," you croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s, raw and unused. You try and reach out for him when he doesn’t wake up, but your arms are just too damn heavy. "Bucky!" you try again.

He jolts upright, concern immediately settling into his features before he realizes it’s you who woke him. His face gets softer, then.

"You’re awake." You’ve never heard him sound so careful, so unsure.

A flurry of emotions rushes through you, and you can’t make sense of all of them because you’re still so sleepy. The past few hours—days? weeks?—feel hazy in a rather pleasant way, like they’re waiting for you to pick through and unravel them at your own pace.

Whenever you’re ready.

"You look like shit," you say quietly.

Bucky breathes a laugh that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Your fingers twitch towards him, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, studying your face like he doesn’t believe you’re really in front of him. It’s exhilarating, to be looked at like that.

"What day is it?" you whisper.

Another hint of that smile you adore. "Pretty late on Saturday."

The rush of relief that courses through you is enough to make your vision blur. "Are you sure?"

He takes a newspaper from a pile on the floor you hadn’t noticed. "They kicked me out for a while earlier. Bought every copy they had at the stand round the corner."

You gasp slightly, painfully, as you read the date printed on the title page. Saturday, July 5.

"It’s really over?"

"It’s really over," he confirms, solidly settled in this brilliant, magnificent new world that is Saturday. "And we’re both alive."

"Sam?" Hope tastes different without the bitter tang of things stuck in stasis.

Bucky’s eyes twinkle. "Went home about ten minutes ago. He’s gonna be pissed, he was here all night, too."

You really could get used to this warm feeling in your chest. "You were here all night?"

He tilts his head at you. "I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world."

"Hardly," you mumble, even though you feel your cheeks heat up.

Tentatively, you reach out for your powers. There’s a tired spark of acknowledgement you’re too exhausted to do much with; it lets you breathe a little easier.

Bucky’s chair screeches closer to your bed. "How’s your head, gorgeous?" he asks quietly, fingers trailing along the sides of your face.

"'M okay." You scrunch up your nose. "I can’t believe you made me stomp on my necklace and it worked."

His grin is easy, relieved. "I’ll buy you a new one."

"How did you know that’d work?"

"It was a calculated risk," he shrugs.

You groan. "Reckless idiot."

"Look who’s talking." He rests his forehead against yours. "You had me a little worried there, sweetheart."

You wince when his voice twists painfully in your stomach, guilt settling heavily.

"I’m so sorry," you whisper. "I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, and that I just—"

You can feel him shake his head. "Not right now. We’re gonna talk about you nearly giving me a heart attack another time, but not right now."

You swallow. "Okay."

"I might lock away our firearms for a while."

"That’s fair. I don’t plan to do that again any time soon."

"You better don’t," he growls.

You put your hand up to his chest, and there it is, the steady thumping you’ve never been able to let go. You feel that? it seems to say. It was all worth it.

"No dying for either of us for a while yet, alright?" you say quietly, and Bucky huffs.

"Deal."

"Are we good?"

He breathes you in, slowly. "We’re okay."

The monitor next to your bed starts beeping loudly enough for a nurse to rush into the room. She has to clear her throat twice for Bucky to finally sit up again.

"I see you kept the drip in and everything," she tells you with raised eyebrows. "Good job."

"Bucky?" you say admonishingly.

"Ignore Claire," he says. "I’m fine."

She sighs in exasperation. "Despite your best efforts. Now shoo, I need to look at my patient." Her hands are cool and efficient, and the way she ignores Bucky makes you think this isn’t her first time patching up lone Avengers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit boiled in the microwave," you mumble.

"Good. Then I did my job right." She takes your temperature and nods approvingly, referencing your vitals on her tablet. "You have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle as well as a couple of minor contusions, so we’re gonna keep you one more night just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds great," you croak sleepily.

Bucky looks at you warmly as the nurse—Claire—finishes your check-up and helps you sit up a little straighter.

"I’ll see if we can find some food for you, you’re probably starving," she concludes, giving you one last scrutinizing look. "Do you need anything else?"

"Actually, could you open a window?" you say.

Claire frowns. "You sure? It’s a downpour outside."

"I know." The thought is making you positively giddy.

Bucky helps push your bed closer to the cracked window. Heavy raindrops hail against the glass. The sky outside is gray and wild, and there’s the cacophany of traffic and sirens and a howling wind.

But the air smells like rain and new beginnings.

You remember the stone just after Claire has left you to your own devices again, your eyes widening. "Did you take the—”

He drops the small box from your nightstand into your lap. "Is it what I think it is?"

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

Different than you remember, so small, so unassuming; and yet, it hums with magic, familiar and changed all at once, a warm pulse connected to your very core.

"Pretty sure," you say.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Bucky asks.

You contemplate the stone a moment longer, thinking about all the different possibilities; all the realities that could split off from this one. In all honesty, though, you’ve known the answer all along. "I think I’ll bring it back."

"Good call."

"Thank you. I have my moments." You put the box aside, looking at him. "You know what I’m gonna do after that?"

"What?" he says warily.

"I’m getting out of this town immediately. In fact, I’m kidnapping you and we’ll go to, I don’t know, Canada."

"We are?" Bucky chuckles.

"We can rent a cabin," you continue, "do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?"

Something in his gaze shifts, turns it even fonder. He kisses you, careful not to put pressure on you. Your heart pounds against your bruised ribs.

"What was that for?" you whisper against his lips.

"Nothing. I like your plans."

You smile tiredly. "When did you turn soft on me, Barnes?"

"Sweetheart, if you don’t know already, there’s no use in telling you."

You exhale, your lungs stinging. "Maybe you should, though," you say. "You should keep telling me."

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again.

* * *

It’s still overcast a few days later when you’re standing in front of Bleecker Street’s Sanctum Sanctorum, your heart hammering. The air around you hums with familiar whispers.

I knew you’d be back. Still not good enough after all this—

"Oh, fuck off." You pull the door bell.

Your neck prickles with nerves as you stand there and wait for someone to come to the door, shuffling from one foot to the other. Bucky offered to come with you, but this is something you have to do on your own. You’ve told him as much.

Besides, you’re no longer scared of these people.

"What are they gonna do, trap me in another time loop?"

"Not funny."

He’s sitting in the coffee shop on the corner. You let him think you’ve not spotted him there in his cap and sunglasses; he needs that win, after the week you’ve both had.

While you’re there on the doorstep, you pull the time stone out of your bag again. For something supposedly so powerful, it really looks rather harmless. Just a pretty little stone with sharp edges. When you close your fist around it, you can feel a soft vibration, like a content low hum. It makes something tickle pleasantly down your spine.

"Sorry, sorry, I got your tip right—whoops. You’re not the pizza."

"I—" You stare at the young woman in front of you. She doesn’t look particularly Mystic Arts-y with her graphic t-shirt and electric blue shorts, and yet she looks like she’s very much at home.

Maybe things have changed since the Blip.

You’re still gonna take a little shortcut; for old times’ sake.

"Whoops. You’re not the pizza."

It’s great to have your powers back.

"Hi Katy. Is Wong in?"

She sighs. "I know you want me to ask why you know my name but you’d be surprised how quickly you get used to this shit. You wanna come in?"

You step over the threshold with a smile and the entire building whoomps.

It’s a sensation that’s not quite physical, like a sigh of air blasting out of all the windows at once, rushing through your hair and making the lamps in the foyer flicker. The stone in your hand pulsates warmly.

"Okay, that was freaky," Katy tells you. She turns around to shout up the stairs, "Wong? It’s for you, it’s—what was your name?"

"Y/N."

"It’s Y/N!"

It takes a couple of seconds before a muffled shout responds, "Do I know a Y/N?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" Katy answers.

There’s another break, followed by a crackling in the air and a string of curse words in a language you’ve not heard in a long while. "I’ll be there in a minute!"

"He’s gonna be five," Katy says. "You’d think timing’s the one thing they get right but …"

"Oh, I know what you mean. I like your boots, by the way."

"Thanks! They’re really uncomfortable."

You put the stone back into your bag and sit down in one of the couches near the stairs and she crosses her legs underneath her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Weirdly, you’re still not curious enough to ask.

This house feels like the kind of place where people just show up.

"Afternoon," Wong frowns about seven minutes later, looking at you from head to toe. "Have we met?"

You smile. "A couple of weeks ago, but not yet."

He nods slowly. "Tea?"

"For the record, I hate this."

"It’s just a teeny, tiny paradox," you tell Katy with a grin. "They happen all the time. The more you think about it, the less sense it’s gonna make."

"Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better whatsoever, but thank you for trying."

"Any time."

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Wong asks.

"Not really. I’d love some tea, though."

"Tea comes with a side of time talk," you warn her.

"Never cared much for tea. You guys go ahead."

Wong sighs, gesturing towards one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall. As it turns out, it leads to a rather cozy little office with a large window overlooking Sullivan Street. It smells like old books and candle wax, and there’s a framed Sopranos poster above the unlit fireplace.

"So, Miss Y/N," Wong says, sitting down behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to you to report a time anomaly."

You start your explanation with the loop. With Bucky’s death, with the countless fruitless attempts to save his life and your reluctance to ask for help. You tell him about your meetings with Strange, about Bucky starting to remember the loop, about your previous visit to the Sanctum.

You talk about the way it ended as your tea goes cold.

Wong’s a good listener, only interrupting for a few clarifying questions. He doesn’t, you notice, inquire about your initial distrust of the Mystic Arts.

Finally, you’re coming to the last part of your tale, rummaging through your bag. "And then … well, I thought I’d return this."

You set the time stone on the table in front of you.

Wong’s chair clatters to the ground when he stands abruptly, his mouth agape.

"I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place." You frown. "I’m not sure why it changed colors, though."

It’s a rather nice shade of orange. Much less jarring than the cool shade of green you remember it being.

"Remarkable," Wong mutters, holding up his hand. The stone lifts off the table, humming gently. The sound vibrates through your chest. "I’ll have to do some research, but as it stands—you seem to have reached for the last remaining strands of the dying loop’s energy and knotted them into this one, and so they … crystallized."

In other words, you beat the closed system theory. Schrödinger can go fuck himself.

"Does that mean what I think it does, though?" you ask, leaning your head on your crossed arms on the table. "If the stones are interconnected, does that mean they’re all back?"

Wong shakes his head. "Quite possibly."

You hum. "Someone should probably go check on that."

"And you’re telling me that you did all of that—including resets of the entire timeline instead of performing a simple time slip, for your entire life—you did all of that by accident?"

You shrug, watching the amber specs of light dance all around the room. "I like the thought of serendipity."

* * *

"Hey."

"Mmm. Not yet."

"Sweetheart. It’s been an hour."

"No. It definitely hasn’t. It’s barely been thirty seconds."

Bucky chuckles, the only sound in a languidly slow universe on a perfectly cloudy afternoon. His breath tingles the back of your neck as he kisses your shoulder.

"Why do I get the feeling this is less about me and more about you procrastinating your meeting?"

"What meeting?" you say innocently.

"You know, time wizard shit? Happens every Friday?"

"Oh, that meeting." You burrow your nose into his shirt. "It got canceled."

"No, it didn’t. I saw you curse out your calendar yesterday."

"What are you, my overseer? We have a cat for that." One that’s currently curled up near the foot of the bed, sleeping. "Besides, I’m fine," you continue. "I can skip the meeting every now and then. Every week is just excessive."

"Doctor’s orders," Bucky reminds you, and you groan.

Wong’s unfortunately been too busy, so you’ve once again been stuck training your powers with a freshly multiversal Strange.

("Three-Eyes, are you sleeping?"

"Very funny."

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Silenor."

"Am I gonna get one of those?"

"No."

"Because I really don’t think it would work with my complexion."

"Are you done?"

"Sure. Let’s take the table quite away.")

Suffice it to say, he’s been even more on edge than during the loop. You’re quite sick of hearing about interdimensional travel and multiversal theory. What you lack and crave is practice, not philosophizing, and yet, somehow, it always seems to circle back around to that.

You sit up to scowl at Bucky, propped up as he is on your pillow. "Why do I feel like you want to get rid of me?"

His fingers continue tracing invisible patterns across your back, gentle and unwavering. "I don’t want you to exert yourself."

"You wanna do that yourself." He nudges you playfully and you laugh. "Seriously, I’m good. Ever since the stone’s been returned, my powers have felt … lighter. So much easier."

"Yeah?"

It really has been easier. You’ve gained a new confidence around your powers, even though you know, deep down, that you probably couldn’t create something as complex as that time loop again if you tried. It’s a pretty good thing you have no intention of doing anything like that ever again.

"Promise," you tell Bucky, and hold your hand up.

He wraps his pinkie around yours and pulls it close to kiss it. Warmth spreads in your chest and your belly.

"I’m not winning this one, am I?"

"Nope," you grin.

"And here I was gonna buy you coffee on the way."

You hum into his mouth. "You could do that later."

"Think you’ll be able to walk later?"

"Honestly, Buck, in front of the cat?"

His laugh is muffled by another kiss, soft and familiar by now, and yet no less electrifying. He kisses you like he doesn’t need air to breathe, and when you finally separate and he looks at you, his eyes are full of disbelief and wonder.

"Is this real?"

His hands are solid around your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You’re not entirely sure you’d be convinced if he didn’t provide that reminder; the world is too deliciously content to be believed.

But he’s here. His cheeks pink, his eyes dark enough to drown in, his heartbeat strong and steady and fast under your touch.

"You want me to pinch you?" you say, lightly scratching the back of his neck. His hair’s gotten longer since the loop, and now it’s thoroughly mussed by your fingers.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Bucky says. "If it’s not real, it’s a damn nice dream for a change."

There’s a slight waver in his voice that rasps against his careful façade of lightheartedness. So instead of teasing him further, you kiss him again.

Honestly, you should’ve been doing this all along. For months. Years. Lifetimes.

His lips slant perfectly against yours, coaxing, tasting, a soft, silent declaration of something yet unnamed spilling from his mouth to yours.

How people in relationships got anything done at all is beyond your comprehension.

People in relationships.

You try to banish the thought. Somehow, after everything you’ve been through, it feels both too trivial and too intense.

"What’s wrong?" Bucky murmurs into your mouth.

"Are we … that is, you and me …" you trail off, looking desperately for a turn of phrase that doesn’t come on too strong. "You know."

He moves to nudge his nose against yours, grinning. "Yes?"

"An … item?"

"An item."

"You know—going steady?" you wince. "Is that the right phrase?"

Bucky snorts. "Sure, it is."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "So?"

He tilts up your chin again, your gazes locking. Oddly bright blue eyes that have always been able to see right through you.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "I’ve wanted you to be my girl for a very long time. Whatever you wanna call this is fine with me."

A gentle shiver trickles down your spine.

"Okay. I’d like that."

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

Gloriously, life goes on and on.

"A very long time, huh?"

Bucky smirks. "Are you gloating?"

"Well, it’s not every day I hear about my accidental charms. It was the post-its, wasn’t it?"

He’s still smiling as he pulls you back towards his lips.

* * *

Error: Delayed transmission.

Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Your dialed number is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options.

Beep.

"Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!"

July 4, 2025 at 10:19 PM

[Call Back] [Delete]

—fin—

this story began at 1am in my notes app when i couldn't fall asleep one night and was suddenly struck by an idea for a time loop story i tentatively called july 4th. i'd never written for bucky barnes before in my life. i'd only been reading reader insert fanfic for about a month. that was exactly four years ago, almost to the minute. since then, i've not spent a single day not thinking about this story. my life has changed in so many ways since it began, even though it's not always felt like it. it's a story about love, and about grief, and everything that connects the two with just a sprinkle of magic. it's meant the world to me and it will always mean the world to me, and i hope that it resonates with some of you.

in my life, i've been exceedingly lucky in one area, and that's friendships. it'd take too long to shout out every single person that kept me going through this strange and lonely process that's writing a time travel story (i tried, but i tend to ramble), but i will say this: i have, without a shadow of the doubt, some of the kindest, loveliest, most wonderful mutuals ever to be found on this earth. i've been talking about this fic nonstop for the past few years, and you were there, listening and encouraging and telling me you think about this story. that's absolutely everything a fic writer could wish for.

so: for every kind word, for every kudos and comment and moodboard and bookmark, whether you just found this story or you've been waiting for its conclusion for over three years—thank you. finishing this story was so fucking hard, and i'll never forget the boundless support i got from the people in my life. thank you thank you thank you 💚

#i'm sad it's over but i'm also really happy for them LMAO like this means they're out #they can be happy and i love that for them #the fucking. end credit scene?? emotional damage on top of emotional damage that was crazy #ive screamt in your notifications a lot and if i ever feel like i need to feel something trust that i will be in there again. because jesus #bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

117 notes · View notes

lovelyrecs · 1 day ago

Text

He wiggles his eyebrows and immediately launches into an entirely predictable attack on your weak side. You evade him with a half-step, jabbing a punch at his defenseless torso. Sam coughs in surprise but doesn’t let it stop him. Instead, he aims his next blow at your shoulder. Almost like you’ve expected it, you block him again, then use an upkick to put some distance between you. With a surprised yelp, he loses his balance, only just catching his fall with a roll to the side.

that's true wait she said she stayed the same through every single loop so she's still in the shape she was and she knows this even though she doesn't know she knows it. perhaps... mayhaps she feels some sort of way toward sweetheart bucky barnes.....

His eyes meet yours, and there’s something so strangely familiar in them, sad and hopeful and nonsensical; you can’t put your finger on it, but it makes your heart twinge all the same.

YESSSSSSSS

“You could say that,” you laugh. “You have any plans for the weekend?”

i sure fuckin hope so 😭

“Ask for a frappuccino and I will fucking murder you.” Your coworker tugs a strand of hair back under her cap with a sigh. “I swear, if I see another child today, I’m gonna quit.”

really hoping bucky will get her number to give to sam

Alpine bonks her head against your palm. She’s starting to really freak you out.

SHE STILL LOVES HER SHE STILL REMEMBERS HER

And then the cat moves in your lap.

???? while time was frozen??? is this cat magic?? is she the key??

You put your usual order in with a grin before cradling Alpine to your chest and moving to the workroom. You don’t usually go inside; most of the interesting stuff got packed up before the move to Avengers Campus, leaving a sterile looking, well-lit room with a large work bench and a single old rolling chair that Bucky is currently perched on.

love the little details!! this is her first time thinking this :(

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Something sharp and hot rushes through you and for a moment, you sway on your feet, dropping Alpine to the ground. When you come back into the present, Bucky’s grabbed your shoulders to steady you.

SWEETHEART!!! SHE KNOWS SHE RECOGNIZES IT SHE MISSED IT SHE KNOWS DEEP INSIDE

He grins. “You’re a shit spy, Y/L/N.”

AHHHHHHHHHHH

You whip around, keeping hold of Bucky’s arm as the world around you continues not to continue. He’s looking right at you; moving, breathing. The world has stopped spinning for the two of you.

SHE DID IT?? IM SO PROUD OF HER

So you boop the guy on the nose.

i love her

Judging by the glances and the polite but close-lipped smiles, Peter’s been sworn to secrecy long before he’s started working on Redwing One’s sensors. It’s all very annoying.

wait how?? he remembered from the past loops too??

Begrudgingly, you let him haul you to your feet. You’re already mentally preparing to refuse to do push-ups or run drills or whatever the army did to purposefully cause sleep deprivation, when he pulls you closer instead. His hands both come to rest at your back while yours, helplessly, settle on his chest.

LMAOO i love how her mind goes to military drills she's so funny

With an exhale, reality returns back to normal. You take another step away from Bucky, blinking repeatedly. His jaw is clenched tightly, his arms stiff at his sides, like he can still feel the shape of you in his hold and isn’t happy about it.

WHAT NO YOU'RE MISINTERPRETING IT

“Don’t touch that!” you say quickly and he looks bemused.

“I wasn’t going to.”

okay okokok so does he still have it implanted from the first loop or will this fix it?? please??

Your body acts before you do, firing at the white jacket pointing a smoking blaster at you. You don’t know where they even came from; out of nowhere, it seemed. Like they were a bad dream come to life for just one crucial moment.

There’s so much blood.

You fall to your knees next to Bucky, frantically pressing your hands on the wound in his chest. The trouble is, it doesn’t seem to make any sense. You’d expect something bad from a blast like that, but through your blurry eyes, it almost looks like a stab wound. No, gunshot wounds. No, his chest has caved in.

NOIOO NONONONONONONO

You raise your hands out of habit but then you realize, as if you’d known all along, that that’s not necessary; it’s too grand a gesture. You don’t have to reset the whole world, not this time. You only have to reset this.

OH MY GOOOOOOOD

You’re thrown backwards with the force of it, right as the world resumes turning with a stutter. Your hand cramps around the thing in your hand, barely bigger than a coin, its blunt edges cutting you open. You can just see Bucky sit up with a gasp for air before your head knocks against the stone floor and everything turns black.

OH MY GOSH?? IM FREAKING OUT??? DID SHE TIME MAGIC HIM AND ONLY HIM?? NOT JUST THE SITUATION BUT WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM?? SHE BROUGHT HIM BACK TO LIFE???

THIS CHAPTER?? OH MY GOSH

time after time [12]

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 11.2k

chapter warnings: twelve having a normal friday; a heavy helping of angst to close us out right before the epilogue 💚 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: it's once again way too late for me but hey. it's still july 4th in new york. i just had to.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

twelve: serendipity

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

For a moment, you’re completely disoriented, staring at your surroundings in confusion. Your feet are tangled in the sheets, your eyes still bleary, and you have a harrowing headache.

“FRIDAY?” you mumble, confused. The music quietens as the A.I. comes to attention with a gentle tinkle. “Why?”

"Captain Wilson set me to remind you that you have training in ten minutes."

"Shit." You turn over on your stomach and groan into your pillow. "Can you tell him to go fuck himself?"

"Certainly."

"You are the only one that needs to knoow …"

"And please turn that noise off," you groan into your pillow.

The music gently fades into silence.You enjoy a few more moments of keeping your eyes closed before brginning to crawl backwards out of bed, taking half of the sheets with you. "Are you sure it’s Friday? Feels like it should be Monday, at least."

“Today is Friday, July 4th,” FRIDAY tells you pleasantly.

You whine into your blanket. At least that means tomorrow’s Saturday.

Since saving the world and shift work both happen on kind of an unpredictable schedule, it’s hard to get actual time off sometimes. You’ve had to close up shop and immediately jump on a quinjet one too many times in the past year, and not having any time for yourself has made you "not just irritable but also twice as accident-prone", according to certain people.

So, you’ve insisted on one proper day a week where no one was going to expect anything productive from you, ever. Unless the world was literally about to end, it could do without you for twenty-four hours.

"One more day," you tell yourself as you roll out of bed with a groan. Your head hurts like you’ve got a hangover, even though you’ve not gotten drunk in ages. Every muscle in your body feels as sore as if you’d just finished running a marathon.

Maybe you should start looking into superhero retirement funds.

You splash some cold water in your face, then reach for your rings with a yawn when you notice you’re already wearing them. Geez, you’re more out of it than you thought if you’ve put them on without noticing; only odd thing is that one’s missing. It’s not in the little tray on top of your sink, at least.

If you’ve lost one of them after less than a year, you’re going to be so pissed with yourself. Absentmindedly, you rub the empty space on your pinkie with your thumb.

There’s a pounding at your door that makes you flinch, followed immediately by Sam’s voice. "Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!"

You look at the clock on your bedroom wall. It’s shortly before 8 a.m., which means you’ve once again slept through your actual alarm and you can’t even blame him for the rough wake-up call.

You’re still going to, though.

"Not gonna happen, birdbrain!" you shout back and go through the pile of semi-clean gym clothes by the foot of your bed. As you get changed, you notice a mark on your wrist, like you’ve burned yourself; it doesn’t hurt, though. Just prickles a little.

You pull an old sweatband over it to deal with it later.

"Don’t ever wake me up like that again!" you call out to Sam, slamming the door to your room behind you.

He pushes away from the wall and falls into step next to you. "Sweet white teenage angst not your style?"

"You’re the worst." The song is stuck in your head now, too.

This is already a horrible day, and you haven’t even had coffee yet.

You push the door to the gym open and hold it for Sam, ignoring his jovial grin in favor of sending another glare his way. Not even the view helps to cheer you up today. For some reason, the picture-perfect blue sky only makes you more annoyed.

You drop your rings into the little metal dish you keep next to the window and climb into the boxing ring after Sam, stretching your back.

"Let’s get this over with, then."

"Damn," he huffs. "Where’d that come from?"

You have no clue. To be honest, you’re not even that winded.

Instead of showing your own surprise, though, you flash him a grin as you offer him a hand. "What was that about getting your ass kicked?"

"Oh, you’re on."

Again, you manage to step out of his way before he makes contact, instinctively watching for his tell. The more annoyed at you he gets, the more clearly his eyes narrow before he launches an attack. It’s not something you’ve consciously picked up on before, but this morning, it seems like the most obvious thing in the world.

Still, Sam’s clearly gotten more sleep than you have, and you’re more evenly matched after the first round. Your head is still heavy, and you feel like someone’s wrapped you in cotton wool and turned you on the spot a couple of times. It makes you wired, lashing out with energy reserves you don’t have. When he attempts to drop you with a well-timed swipe of his leg, your elbow accidentally goes up, crashing into his face.

"Holy—time-out, ow fuck."

"Shit, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!"

Sam groans, tilting his head back. "That was some underground illegal fight club kinda shit."

"Are you okay?"

"I’m fine. Just—let’s maybe call it before I have to explain to the nation why I look like I got beat up in an alley."

"Isn’t that the Captain America style?"

He snorts. "Whatever you did, keep doing that. But don't aim at my face next time, alright?"

"Yessir, captain," you say with a little salute as he climbs out of the ring and makes for the showers.

After your stretches, you stay on the mat, closing your eyes for a moment. Even though your headache has basically disappeared, you still feel odd. Like you’ve misplaced something.

"You look like shit."

You turn your head. Bucky doesn’t even look at you, instead concentrating on the little rag he cleans the inlets in his arm with. They leave glittering golden spots on the floor, hauntingly pretty in the way they dance. Something about it leaves you dizzy.

"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."

A tiny grin passes over his features so quickly you think you must have imagined it altogether. "How are you feeling?"

"Why?" you say skeptically, sitting upright. "Did you do something?"

His eyes meet yours, and there’s something so strangely familiar in them, sad and hopeful and nonsensical; you can’t put your finger on it, but it makes your heart twinge all the same.

"Me?" he says finally, huffing lightly. "Not at all."

"What do you mean?"

His jaw twitches before he lets go. "I think you nearly broke Sam’s nose, there."

"Scared?" you grin.

"Oh, shitless."

You laugh, and a split second, the way he looks at you changes to something much more intense, bright-eyed and steady. His hand tightens on the rag, and you notice some reddish-brown stains along its seam.

You really need to catch up on laundry.

"Don’t worry," you wink, leaning forwards. "I’m still there, watching your back."

"That’s good to know." For a moment, it looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t, instead shaking his head. "Take the towel on the right, I already used the other one."

"Thanks, Buck."

He hesitates as he turns away from you, his vibranium fingers flexing as if reaching out for something before he lowers his head and leaves.

Weird, you think before shrugging and heading for the showers.

* * *

As the warm water hits your back, you let out a slow, blissful sigh. You don’t know why your muscles are aching quite so much; it’s like you’ve been moving for a lot longer than that forty minutes sparring session.

At least it’s over now, and by all accounts the rest of the day should be quiet. There’s nothing on the shared hero schedule yet, and you honestly doubt that much is gonna come up on Independence Day, of all days. Most supervillains are gonna be too busy getting drunk and stuffing themselves with hot dogs to make much progress on the whole world domination front.

Well, at least the local ones, you suppose. You’re really not responsible for what happens in, say, Portugal.

Then again, a weekend trip could be fun. You don’t get to travel much, after all. You’d have enjoyed your London stint a lot more, too, if that place wasn’t haunted with so many lingering memories.

Anyway. The best thing about today is that it’s Saturday tomorrow.

Until then, you’ll just hope nothing comes up and enjoy the holiday from the Tower. You’d probably get some coffee later. Maybe catch Sam’s speech on the television. The view of the fireworks is pretty nice from up here, too.

Realistically, though, you’re gonna be in bed by eleven again. Another uneventful day.

Maybe you should be more bummed out about your lack of plans.

When you enter the kitchen, Sam’s already staring at his laptop again over his bowl of cereal, as he’s done for the past couple of mornings as well.

"You okay, Sammy?" you ask, helping yourself to some toast.

"Sure." He rubs his temples. "It’s an extremely low-pressure event. Not like anyone’s gonna pay attention."

"That’s the spirit, Cap. Long live irrelevance."

"Not helpful."

"Can I help?"

He holds up his laptop. "Burn this and get me a new brain?"

"We can burn it tonight if it makes you happy. You just have to smash your grand entrance before then."

Sam groans and buries his face in his hands.

You laugh. "You need caffeine, my friend."

"We’re out of ground coffee," he replies, his voice muffled.

"Luckily, that’s just the kind of problem I actually can help with," you say. "Don’t fret, rescue will be here in ten."

"My hero," Sam says dryly, deleting another paragraph.

You hum around your toast as you collect your shoes from next to the coat rack. The damn song is still stuck in your head.

I go around a time or two, just to waste my time with you …

"You gettin’ coffee?"

You look up at Bucky. "Yeah. Do you want something?"

He shrugs, putting his hands into his jacket pockets. "I’ll come with. Get some fresh air."

You blink in surprise. "Sure."

It’s a quiet elevator ride. You rub the space just behind your temple where most of the pressure is coming from; it’s like you’re having a one-sided migraine.

Bucky keeps glancing at you without turning his head. "Y’alright?"

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

"I dunno," he says. "It’s been a long week."

"You could say that," you laugh. "You have any plans for the weekend?"

You see his spine stiffen. Of course; no actual personal information between you two. You don’t know what you expected. More than that, you don’t know why it stings.

"I’m not sure yet," he replies, and the elevator doors open with a ping.

The entrance hall of the Tower is mostly empty, but the streets are starting to get busy, people heading towards the nearby train station or walking their dogs. The steady buzz of traffic does wonders for your aching head.

The sign next to the door of your Starbucks tells you it’s happy hour. "Get two of your favorites for the price of one!" it says in Lucy’s beautiful handwriting next to a lovely drawing of two colorful plastic cups.

Inside, the air conditioning is on full blast and the smell of ground coffee is enough to make you sigh contentedly. The queue is about ten people deep, so you have some time to watch the people around you while you wait.

Bucky, thankfully, doesn’t seem much for conversation today. Or any day, if you’re being honest. You glance at him from the side again and find his eyes already on you.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he looked worried. But that doesn’t make any sense.

You move up the line. "How’s it going, Luce?"

"Ask for a frappuccino and I will fucking murder you." Your coworker tugs a strand of hair back under her cap with a sigh. "I swear, if I see another child today, I’m gonna quit."

"That bad already?" you ask with a sympathetic smile. Holidays always are, particularly at this store, since it’s only a hop and a fall from Grand Central.

"Please kill me," Lucy says dryly and then, "Usual?"

"Please," you say. "And a black iced tea with extra honey for Sam."

"Cap excited for the big speech?" she asks casually, tapping your order into the register.

"Driving himself up the walls."

"He’ll be great. Are you getting anything else?"

"What do you want?" you turn to Bucky.

"Same as her," he tells Lucy.

"Really," you say incredulously. "Stealing my order now, are we?"

"Thought I’d try something today," he shrugs. "Special occasions and all that."

"Well, it’s a step up from black coffee," you say and sign your receipt as he wanders off towards the drop-off.

There’s only one person behind you, so you linger at the register and wait for the unimpressed business guy to finish his order, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Love what you’ve done with your face, by the way."

"Thank you," Lucy says, proudly turning her head so you can admire both sides of her red-white-and-blue themed makeup. "Took me ages, too."

"I can imagine."

"You working this weekend?" She leans forward on her elbows, cracking her back.

"Not ’til Wednesday," you say with a grin.

"Boo, lucky," she groans. "I should go down with my hours, too. I feel like I’m in every day."

"Ask about Thursday," Cass calls over from the bar. "Iced grande extra whip caramel macchia—shit!"

Before the drink splashes all over the business man’s suit, Bucky catches the plastic cup at the last second. He hands it to the man with a stern look on his face and mutters something you don’t catch from where you’re standing. The man hurries off, his face reddening quickly.

"Right," Lucy says and pulls a flyer out of her back pocket, not paying any attention to that whole situation. "Cass and Sorin have a gig in Brooklyn next week and it’s gonna be really great."

Her eyes are very wide as she says this, which makes you doubt it.

"At least if our new bassist finally plays their part the way they’re supposed to," Cass says loudly.

"Mhm," Lucy nods. "Do you wanna come with? If you don’t want to hang with us all night, you can bring some friends, too." Her gaze flits over to Bucky, the emphasis hanging in the air between you like a dare.

"What kind of music do you play?" Bucky asks, reaching for the flyer with one hand while handing you your coffee with the other.

"It’s sort of nightcore punk," Cass says.

"There will be alcohol," Lucy adds when Bucky’s face does that thing. "Anyway, it’d be fun if you came. Think about it."

"I will." You raise your coffee cup at the two of them and say your goodbyes.

The hot air outside hits you like a slap to the face. You squint up at the blatantly blue sky; there’s not a single cloud in sight.

"What on earth," Bucky says, coming up next to you, "is nightcore?"

You throw your head back and laugh. "You might get to find out. How’s my coffee?"

He takes a sip and you watch him attentively as he licks his lips and looks at the ground. You don’t know what it is, exactly, but his face changes in a way you don’t expect; twitching, perhaps, but too quick to draw any conclusions from it.

"It’s really good," he says finally. "It’s just what I needed."

* * *

Something’s weird about today. You can’t really put your finger on it, but the odd feeling that’s been following you around all day never lessens, never dissipates. If anything, it grows bigger the longer the day goes on.

You sit down on the couch to read for a bit, and you’ve barely been scrolling on your phone for five minutes when Alpine meows at you.

You ignore her as you usually do, unwilling to collect another scratch on your arm today.

She meows louder.

"What do you want?" you say without looking up from your phone.

"I need a favor," Bucky says, leaning in from behind you. There’s a bemused expression on his face, but it doesn’t entirely wash the haunted look away from his eyes. "And you’re in her spot."

"Why does the cat need a spot on the couch, exactly?" you mumble before the first part registers. "Are you sick?"

"What?"

"Shit, are you dying? I’m not taking care of your cat, I’m putting her up for adoption."

Alpine bonks her head against your palm. She’s starting to really freak you out.

"Good to know," Bucky says. "I need a time pocket."

You snort. "Anything else? You know I can’t do that."

"Have you tried lately?"

"Fuck you, Barnes." For a moment, something flickers across his face, gone too quickly for you to pinpoint.

Alpine chooses that moment to jump up next to you and nudge her head against your hand once again. Then, she climbs into your lap and settles there with another indignant sound. And she starts purring.

You stare at her in surprise. "What the …" You turn to Bucky. "Since when does she like me?"

A tiny grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe she just needed some time warming up to ya."

"I’m scared," you say, your hands hovering over her. "I think she’s planning something."

"Do you want me to take her?"

"Don’t you dare."

He almost laughs when he walks off.

Yes, something’s definitely weird about today; you’re not entirely mad about it, though, even though you’d have to put your clothes through the washing. You already know you’re going to be covered in cat hair by the time you get up.

Whenever that might be; you’ve never been trapped by this particular cat before, and you’re pretty sure she’s fallen asleep. Considering your phone is only at 23%, the probability of you actually reading this morning has just skyrocketed.

You glance at your rings, biting the inside of your cheek. They shimmer in the sunshine, dark emerald barely speckled with black. It’s surprising, really, considering how little sleep you’ve been getting. Maybe it could be a good sign.

Have you tried lately?

The world comes to a gentle halt.

Usually, the standstill is more jarring than this, but today it’s more of a gradual thing washing over you and freezing everything else. You turn to look for Bucky who’s frozen mid-step, his arm glittering gold and onyx in the sunshine.

You reach out for something inside of you that could work the way he wants, could manage what he’s asking of you for whatever reason. You’re not sure why you’re trying at all.

It doesn’t matter anyway. Your powers don’t extend to anyone else, they never have. You’re stuck in a familiar silence, one that doesn’t scare you anymore.

And then the cat moves in your lap.

You flinch and reality stutters back to life. Bucky keeps walking, Sam finishes his paragraph, and Alpine turns around sleepily before rolling herself up again.

Your heart is beating so fast you can hear it in your ears. Impossible, you tell yourself. You’ve lost your grip earlier than you thought, is all. The world was already on its way back to moving.

That’s all it was.

Probably.

With a sigh, you gently pet Alpine’s back—you don’t trust this new armistice—and reach for your book. Apparently, you’ve misplaced your bookmark again.

For the next half an hour or so, you struggle to find where you’ve left off, but whenever you think you found the right place, your eyes completely skip over the following paragraph, convinced you’ve already read it. It’s a very unsatisfying conclusion, and you close the book with a frustrated flourish loud enough to wake the cat in your lap. She meows in disdain, like a knife scratching the whole diameter of a dinner plate.

"Is it time for lunch yet?"

"Please," Sam calls. You don’t think he’s moved away from his place at the kitchen counter at all. "Pizza?"

"No pizza," Bucky shouts from the workroom.

"Yes pizza," you say.

"God bless democracy," Sam says. "FRIDAY?"

"Sharing order forms across all devices."

"What are you doing?"

"What’s it look like?" he says, tongue poking his cheek.

"Like you’re trying to kill Redwing for good. What’s he done to you again?"

"I’m trying to fix it."

You tilt your head. "And you’re sure you’re feeling well?"

"I’m fine, sweetheart," he says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Something sharp and hot rushes through you and for a moment, you sway on your feet, dropping Alpine to the ground. When you come back into the present, Bucky’s grabbed your shoulders to steady you.

"What did you say?"

"I said I’m fine, but I feel like you aren’t." He pulls the chair up. "Sit."

"It’s just this headache I’ve had all day," you mumble, following his orders. "I’ll take some painkillers."

"You sure?"

Again, there’s that look in his eyes, something too close to concern to make sense, flickering amidst the blue. It draws you in like a moth to the flame, hypnotically familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

"Yes," you say, forcing your gaze to drop before he notices that your heart has picked up speed. "So why are we trying to fix your archnemesis? How’d you even find him?"

"It’s not my archnemesis." He sighs. "I don’t want Sam to go alone today."

It doesn’t escape your notice that he ignores your other question, but you decide to drop it. "Did you get a tip?"

"You could say that."

"Why don’t you go yourself?" He holds up his arm. "Okay, fair point, most conspicuous person in all of New York. What about me?"

He grins. "You’re a shit spy, Y/L/N."

"I resent that," you scowl.

"Doesn’t make it any less true. Which leaves us with no option than to try this."

"So it’s us now?"

His jaw clenches for a split second before he says, "You thought of something. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here." Before you can protest, the doorbell rings and his spine straightens. "I’ll get it."

His arm brushes against yours as he goes to leave the room, and before you can consciously decide to do it, the world around you stops spinning with a stutter once again. The hum of the AC, the barely audible noise from the city outside, the song playing from the living room speakers; it all halts once more, and a familiar silence envelops you.

You can feel Bucky freeze next to you because you’re still touching; his elbow presses into your side. Of course, it didn’t work. Why would it have?

Usele—

"Wow."

You whip around, keeping hold of Bucky’s arm as the world around you continues not to continue. He’s looking right at you; moving, breathing.

The world has stopped spinning for the two of you.

"Incredible," he says, drinking you in with his eyes. You’re unusually close, with your hand clutching around his metal arm. It’s whirring softly; you can barely hear it in the quiet of the universe.

You let out a breathless laugh. "Not too bad, right?"

Bucky smiles softly. "You’re a genius."

Not a trace of sarcasm in the statement, only honest admiration. Something warms right underneath your collarbone.

"We’ll need another co-conspirator, though," he says before you can make sense of the feeling. "Unless you’ve gotten really good at engineering lately."

"If only you’d told me last week. I could’ve prepared something." You look at where you’re still holding onto him. For some reason, you don’t want to let go. "I don’t know how this works," you confess.

"Only one way to find out."

You get your fingers to loosen, slightly, and Bucky pulls his arm away. Inconceivably, he doesn’t stop moving.

A pulse of your powers ripples through you, but the world stays on pause.

"Can you hold it?"

"I think so," you say, reaching for your necklace with a frown. It’s warm to the touch. "I’ve never done this before, though."

You’d expect more of a strain, if you’re being honest, but right now, it feels simple. Like you’ve merely hit the pause button on a remote control and wandered off.

"What are we doing, then?"

Instead of answering, he leads you into the hallway, past Sam, who’s frozen next to the kitchen counter. He has two different documents pulled up on his laptop, one with the bullet points for his speech later, large font and multiple colors; the other one looks like government protocols, some sort of status report with graphs that are too small for you to decipher at a glance.

"Y/N?"

"Mhm, present." You join Bucky at the front door, raising your eyebrows. "Him?"

"Yup."

"Why?"

"You trust me?"

You blink. He’s never asked you that before, and you don’t think you have an answer.

Again, you consider the young delivery guy in front of you. He’s precariously balanced a stack of pizza boxes on one arm while reading something on his phone, brown hair sticking up wildly in all directions. There’s nothing about him that screams Fixes Drones In Spare Time.

But there’s something weird about today, and you feel your powers bubble up in nervous anticipation.

So you boop the guy on the nose.

He blinks to life again and flinches backwards so violently it’s honestly impressive he doesn’t drop your food. "Holy—"

"It worked!" you laugh.

"Genius," Bucky repeats under his breath.

"What worked? Where did you even—why is it so quiet? Guys? Am I dead again?"

* * *

The weirdest thing about this is still that you’re not putting that much effort in. Usually, with the world on hold, there’s a part of you that has to consciously hold onto that fact for the whole time, even if it’s just a very small part. Today, though, hours pass by and you feel completely fine. Like you’ve done it before and have gotten used to it ages ago.

Gentle swaths of green light dance around your fingers as everything keeps still, and you watch them delightedly. One thousand-odd feet below, New York City is frozen in place, just like it’s been for the past couple of hours.

It’s peaceful up here. You’ve brought your book up a while back, after your phone ran out of battery, but it’s still disconcertingly predictable, and so you’ve resorted to playing with your powers.

"You alright?" Bucky asks, sitting down on the ledge of the roof next to you.

With a last quiver, the light sinks back into your skin. "You keep asking that and it’s getting creepy."

He huffs, looking down on the streets below. His arm is gleaming in the frozen noon sun.

"Parker’s doing good work," he says after a while. "We’ll probably be done soon."

You finally manage to avert your gaze, leaning your head against the half wall next to you. "I still don’t understand why you know him. Or why he happened to have the exact right spare parts for this thing in his backpack."

Judging by the glances and the polite but close-lipped smiles, Peter’s been sworn to secrecy long before he’s started working on Redwing One’s sensors. It’s all very annoying.

"You don’t need to know everything," Bucky says.

"Ugh," you grimace. "Says who?"

"How’s your head?"

You resign yourself to getting no answers out of him today. "Surprisingly okay, considering. I could just fall asleep, though." You yawn. "Pretty sure that’d continue time as usual, though, so maybe not yet."

Bucky contemplates you for a while, and then he says, "Get up."

You pout. "No. Why?"

"Just do it."

You can feel his heartbeat like this, sped up due to the serum coursing through his veins. His face is unreadable but steadily on you, when he takes a step towards you, making you stumble backwards. He takes a step back again.

"What are you doing?" you whisper.

"What’s it look like?" Another step, to the side this time. A half-turn.

You bite the inside of your cheek. "I can’t dance."

"True," he says, stepping towards you again. "You also can’t fall asleep while you’re dancing."

You can’t argue with that logic. Besides, it’s weirdly nice. You’ve never seen this side of Bucky before, and it feels odd and right at the same time. Like without you noticing, he’s growing into his own again after a very long time.

"You tell that to all the girls back in your day?" Your hands come up slowly, lightly gripping his shoulders to better keep your balance as you keep swaying. He makes no attempt to stop you.

"I don’t think any of them were that worried about falling asleep."

"Now that’d depend entirely on your skillset, wouldn’t it?"

Bucky stumbles and you hide your laugh in his chest as you fall back into an easy, entirely imaginative rhythm. He smells really nice, you think. Familiar, even though you’ve not been this close to him since … yeah, since when?

For some reason, your fingers keep itching to play with the collar of his shirt. It looks so soft.

"You know," you say, tightening your hold on his shoulders ever so slightly, "I think there’s something terribly wrong with the world today."

"Yeah." He spins you both again, towards the ledge and away again. "Fucking tell me about it."

Again, something warm uncurls in your stomach, soft and comfortable. It’s not enough to let you shake the feeling that’s been haunting you all day, but it’s something, at least.

You keep dancing, and even though your eyes flutter closed every now and then, you feel very wide awake; or maybe you just feel very present, with Bucky’s hands gently pressing against your lower back and his eyes focused somewhere just over your shoulder. Your headache fades to background noise, something tingling at the very back of your mind.

It takes you a long while to notice that the world isn’t completely standing still at all; it’s just moving very, very slowly. Changes so small they are imperceptible to witness, only obvious after they’ve already happened.

Which is a new one in addition to you being able to have two people in your little time pocket with you.

"I’m feeling a little dizzy," you mumble.

Bucky slows, his gaze finding yours again. "Too much spinning?"

No. "Yeah. Probably."

Damn, have his eyes always been so … blue? How come you’ve never let yourself notice before today?

"Maybe we should stop."

You swallow. Your thoughts are a little fuzzy. "I think we have."

Bucky doesn’t smile, but something in his face softens. At some point, his hands must have slipped to your hips, like he’s not sure whether to keep you at this distance or pull you closer.

Why would he hesitate? He can’t stand you, remember?

There’s a whirring in the silence of the universe, and you jerk back. When you turn around, Redwing is hovering just above your head.

"Good news, guys," Peter calls from the door. "I think I did it. That was so cool!"

It shouldn’t hurt.

* * *

"I thought the point was to not have to come here," you shout.

"I told you to stay home and take a nap," Bucky replies. "I believe your exact words were, 'I have never needed a nap in my entire life'."

"Well, I didn’t think you were serious," you reply, gesturing at the packed hall. "You hate crowds. And speeches."

"I don’t hate speeches."

You roll your eyes. Over the speakers, there’s a deafening commercial jingle you’re going to have stuck in your head for the next few hours.

Bucky steers you through the seats in a pattern that makes no sense to you. You’re veering towards the other side of the podium, like he wants to stare at the speakers’ backs. You’re cutting it close on time, and people are giving you dirty looks.

You should’ve taken that stupid nap.

"Where’s Redwing, then?"

Sam wasn’t exactly thrilled about a civilian messing around with his gear—you believe his exact words were, "if you ever touch my stuff again, I’ll laser your other arm off"—but even he’s had to admit that a couple of preliminary tests resulted in Redwing acting functional, at the very least.

"Around," Bucky says.

Throughout the Garden, the crowd erupts in cheers. You can see Sam has entered the stage they’ve erected in the middle of the field, giving a polite wave in his full Captain America uniform, wings extended, the shield hanging loosely from the other arm. His smile is blown up on the screens overhead, large enough that you can see the gap between his front teeth. A small dot in the corner tells you it’s being broadcast live across the nation.

Bucky’s unperturbed even though he squares his shoulders a little. His gaze flits between the screens and the crowd like he’s trying to orient himself.

"Who are we looking for?" you shout over the noise.

Finally, he moves towards one of the rows, mumbling excuses to the annoyed middle-aged couple with matching caps. You pull your own baseball cap deeper into your face when you notice how close to the range of the cameras you’re getting. You’re almost down at the pit, and surrounded by people who’ve brought their own signs. You stop right behind #ONYOURLEFT, as one look at the screens tells you; you’re only just out of frame.

"I don’t like this," you hiss at Bucky, joining the clapping that’s still going on.

"Five minutes," he says. "I promise."

You take your seat, angling yourself so that you’re completely hidden by the sign in front of you, then look back at Bucky. He keeps checking his watch.

"Are you about to make a drug deal? What the hell is happening?"

You search the heads of the people in front of you; none particularly stand out. Everyone’s turning away from you, cheering and wooing as Sam awkwardly scratches his neck. Then, you find the one person apart from Bucky who’s not joining the general merriment; it’s a woman with short blonde hair who’s hunched over in her seat in the row in front of you, typing furiously on her phone.

Then, to your surprise, she half-turns in her seat to take a call. Her face looks familiar, but it takes you a moment to recognize her.

The feedback from the microphone makes you grimace. One glance at Bucky tells you he’s clenched his teeth, his brows furrowed at he stares at the floor in front of you.

In a stadium filled with thousands of people, he’s trying to eavesdrop.

You bump your knee against his and shake your head incredulously. You are crazy, you mouth silently and he grins. It takes him a while to lift his eyes from your lips again. You ignore the way that makes your heart lurch, instead turning to look at the screens.

"Good afternoon, everyone," Sam starts his speech.

Even as the crowd quietens down, you strain to hear anything from the hushed conversation in the row ahead. You only catch a few disconnected words that don’t make any sense; "cooling" and "quicker" and "stakes".

You glance at Bucky again and realize he’s drifted closer to you, his eyes still closed in an effort to hear something.

Your heart gives a painful tug.

You scooch away from his seat, but unfortunately, the woman catches the movement out of the corner of her eye.

"—call you back. Barnes."

"Sharon," he says, opening his eyes. "What a surprise."

Sharon Carter looks him up and down. "Didn’t expect to see you here."

"I like keeping people on their toes."

"I remember." She raises her eyebrows at you. "New girl?"

For the first time in a while, you wish you still had your damn cape.

"You’re being rude, you know," Bucky says, flicking his eyes towards the stage.

"Outside," she mutters, gets up and leave.

"Five minutes?" you say skeptically.

Bucky grimaces. "Maybe ten. Listen, you don’t have to—"

"I’m not staying here," you interrupt. She’s already clocked you, so it’d be weirder not to follow him out.

With a sigh, you make your way through the same frustrated cluster of people in your row again, silently apologizing to Sam on the big screen for missing his first official July 4th speech.

"Now, more than ever, it’s important for us to trust one another," he continues with his firm Cap voice, not noticing the commotion behind his back. "None of us can do this alone."

For a split second, you’re tempted to pull time back and force her to forget seeing either of you. Your fingers are already twitching at your sides, only hesitating when you see the determined look on Bucky’s face.

The door falls shut behind you.

Agent Carter is already waiting for you in the deserted hallway, her arms crossed.

"I’m guessing this isn’t going to be a friendly catch-up," Bucky says loudly.

"Are we friendly?"

She starts walking, Bucky falling in step with her easily while you have to hurry to keep up. Your headache’s started up again.

"What brings you here?" she asks.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing," he replies.

"Can’t I just show my support?" She doesn’t wait for a response before rolling her eyes. "I was going to catch Sam after his speech, but since you’re already here: What were you doing in London?"

Bucky shrugs. "Did some sightseeing. Watched Frozen."

"I mean when you nearly blew up a fucking building in Harley Street."

"Oh, that." His hands disappear into the pockets of his jacket. "Tragic, really. Gaslights are a hazard."

They really are. That nearly was hard work on your part. In your eyes, that mission went well enough—especially since Redwing’s fine again now.

"Director’s not happy," Agent Carter says.

"Last time I checked, Sam and I didn’t work for the CIA. And your part in this is, what, playing messenger?"

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. "Leave the demolition to the builders, alright? That’s all." She looks at you, giving you a cursory, dismissive once-over. "Letting this guy into your life is inviting a whole bunch of trouble."

Something prickles behind your temples.

"I dunno," you say. "I like my odds."

With a razor-sharp smile, she regards both of you one more time, and then walks away.

"Happy Independence Day, Agent," Bucky calls after her.

She gives him the finger without turning around.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, you let out a shaking breath, your shoulders deflating. "What on earth was that about?"

Bucky shakes his head slowly, the gears in his head turning. "I have no fucking clue."

* * *

"Something is very, very wrong here."

"You always say that," Sam says, securing the room ahead and then nodding for you to follow him.

"Yeah, and I’m usually right." Your fingers are itching for you to flick them and speed up this terrible silence so that you can at least know what’s going on. This place already feels too ominously familiar for your liking, even though you’re positive you’ve never been here before.

It’s like a scene out of a nightmare, anyway. What little of the low sunlight makes it in through the dirty windows gives the hallway a strange, eerie atmosphere. The air is thick with a stench you can’t identify.

"Lovely interior design," Sam mumbles. You follow his gaze to a pile of bones that lie scattered in one of the rudimentary holding cells you’re walking past. A spider runs from his flashlight and you grimace.

"Sam," you say, focusing on the half-extended wings on his back again. "Did you invent this mission to get us to go to a haunted house with you?"

He snorts lightly as he pulls the cloth off the crates that are stacked alongside the wall. There’s a single red handprint near the bottom right of each of them. You almost sigh.

"Do you think I’d pass up the opportunity to hear the two of you scream in terror when the vampire puppets creep up on you?"

"Gotta disappoint you, cap," you grin and wait for him to check in with Redwing. "I only scream when there’s good reason."

"Like what?" Bucky says, smirking at you.

An unexpected flash of something hot goes down your spine and you roll your eyes. "Wouldn’t you like to know, wolf boy."

He raises a single eyebrow. "That’s a new one."

"Try to catch up." Your eyes flick to your rings. Two of them have turned a deep black while the others are still a shimmering deep emerald with a few darker specs. Not bad for an afternoon that lasted about ten hours. "We should be good on the resets but this place gives me the creeps, so don’t be stupid, alright?"

"I prefer heroic," Sam says. "They’re closing in, by the way."

"You alright?" Bucky asks while you place the explosives you’ve brought next to the wall Sam has pointed out. It’s not the most elegant way, but there hasn’t been time to research key codes or break in quietly, so you’re going in with a bang.

You nod. "Just haven’t gotten a lot of sleep since …" Wow. For some reason, it feels like ages ago. "It’s gonna be fine," you continue. "Just try not to get killed."

If you didn’t know better, you’d think Bucky looks ever so slightly worried.

"We’ll be okay," you repeat and he nods.

"'Course we will."

The little timer starts counting down from ten.

"Alright, guys," Sam says as all three of you take cover behind the shield. "Five. Four."

"Careful," Bucky says quietly just as you hear Redwing’s tranquilizer shots find their marks outside. You turn to look at Bucky questioningly.

"One."

You shut your eyes just in time before the door gets blasted off its hidden hinges. A cloud of dust hits your face and you start coughing violently.

"Why would you breathe in?" Bucky has the nerve to sound amused as he claps you on the back a few times until the grim has finally cleared from your lungs.

"Shut up," you rasp, roughly drying your eyes with your sleeve.

His hand gives you another almost gentle pat before you looks at the newly cleared entryway. Just like you expected, the lab on the other side looks empty.

"I’m gonna keep One outside just in case there’s any more comin’," Sam says just in time for Redwing Two to whir back towards him and click into place.

You take a look over your shoulder back down the hall. Just outside, you can see the blinking lights of Redwing One’s rear; in the gloomy light, they look wraithlike, and you can’t help but frown as the uneasy feeling sinks deeper into your bones. Like a tingle that claws its way down your spine to settle in your fingertips. You pull your gun out of the holster.

"Don’t you feel like this is way too easy?" you say quietly, reassuming your position in front of Bucky.

"Yup," Sam says, shield still held up in front of him. He keeps moving forward, Redwing Two detaching again to scan the room ahead.

The lab is small and crammed with tables that are overflowing with strangely colored concoctions and stacks upon stacks of papers. You take a step closer, trying to make sense of the strange chemical formulas scribbled next to a bunch of tables and graphs. It’s not exactly your strong subject, though, and you can’t really concentrate with someone else breathing down your neck.

"You’re hovering again, Barnes," you say without looking up; you feel his gaze lingering on you, heavy with something he doesn’t say. "You sure you’re alright?"

Not for the first time today, he seems to be lost in thought. His eyes flicker to the amulet around your neck before returning to your own. "We might have to step on it," he shrugs.

"You’re so weird today," you reply.

"This isn’t it," Sam says, closing the last of the filing cabinets with a bang. "But look at that."

Bucky is still staring at you, and for some reason, you don’t want to look away. You force yourself to, anyway.

"What did you find?"

"Scanner found a hollow behind this one," Sam says, knocking against one of the cabinets. "Someone gimme a hand here."

He moves to the side when Bucky gestures for him to, letting him hook his vibranium arm into the cabinet and pull. With a screech of protest, the entire thing slowly moves open to reveal a broad winding staircase leading downwards. Another wave of the horrid smell hits you, even stronger now, like something metallic that’s being set on fire.

"Show-off," you mumble as you slip past Bucky. Out of the corner of your eye, you think he smirks a little.

The stairs go down deeper and deeper for ages, lit by motion detector lights that turn your shadows into overly large figures on the opposite wall. It doesn’t ease your premonition in the slightest; nor that odd sense of déjà-vu that’s been looming behind you all day.

You really, really need a day off.

Finally, everything opens up and you look down into a large, almost cave-like room. It extends pretty far backwards before it splits into several tunnels that remind you of the one you spotted when you got out of the quinjet earlier.

But despite the stone walls and your being several feet underground, it is surprisingly warm down here, probably due to the several giant containers placed along one of the walls that seem to be the source of the atrocious smell. They are also faintly glowing.

"Are we gonna get radiation poisoning? Because you definitely don’t pay me enough for that." You wrinkle your nose.

"I doubt they’d send their own people 'round the perimeter with nothing more than a face mask if those things were radioactive," Sam says. "And you’re here voluntarily."

"That’s a nice way of putting it," you mumble, but you follow him anyway.

Unlike the lab upstairs, everything here looks orderly, almost pristine. Not a single sheet of paper is unfiled, the metal tables are empty and wiped clean. There’s a gentle whirring sound that leads your gaze to several monitors, some of which are showing different maps and security camera footage while others seem to be tracking the progress of some sort of test.

"Look at that," Sam says again, stepping closer to the containers. "What is that?"

A dark blue liquid is slowly dropping out of a hole near the bottom of one of the containers. Bucky kneels down next to it.

"Don’t touch that!" you say quickly and he looks bemused.

"I wasn’t going to."

Redwing Two bumps into his side and he looks at it irritatedly. Then, he rolls his eyes, moving out of the way so it can collect a little sample in a glass vial.

"Maybe we can send that to Banner, have him take a look." Sam walks over to the computers and plugs in a drive. "We’ll make a copy of that for Torres and then get out of here."

"What do you think that is?" you wonder, crossing your arms in front of your chest. Once again, this mission has you feeling unbelievably superfluous.

You only wish your damn migraine would finally go away.

"Not the serum," Bucky answers as if he could read your thoughts. "But based on what these guys have been up to, it’s not gonna be good."

"Have you been doing research?" you ask.

"Are you impressed?"

You’d roll your eyes, too, if you didn’t know that’d only make that stupid smirk reappear. "Can we leave before I do something I’ll regret?" you shout at Sam.

It returns anyway.

"I think we have another problem right now," Sam says, looking up from the monitors. "We’re getting company."

Only a moment later there’s a thunderous crash and the table to your far left bursts into flames. You stumble backwards. Right overhead, there’s a large round hole where the floor of the small lab on the first floor used to be.

All of a sudden, dozens of people descend upon you from all directions, swarming the lab and surrounding you within seconds. They’re all dressed exactly the same, white jackets over their black overalls, identical white face masks and goggles, and matching black berets.

"Oh, this is like a nightmare flash mob," you shout as you avoid the first kick to your face. "They must’ve sounded a silent alarm!"

"Redwing should’ve been able to intercept that," Sam shouts. "Always the damn glitches!"

Bucky punches another white jacket in the jaw, his eyes darting around wildly. You aim your gun just as Sam flings his wings out, swishing your target off their feet. Behind them, another group closes in. You fire without a second thought, and three of them drop to the ground.

Just as you try to reload your weapon, there’s a sickening cracking noise behind you and someone stumbles into you hard enough your gun drops to the ground. It slides across the floor towards the center of the room.

You start after it, kicking another white jacket in the chin as they reach for it first. They stay down when you hit them over the head with the barrel of your gun.

Another explosion makes you turn back around. A shower of glass splinters and burning pieces of paper rains down through the hole on the first floor, taking bits of the ceiling down with it.

"We better get moving," Sam shouts. "If you take care of the drive and these idiots, I’ll clear the tunnels for a way out of here!"

Wordlessly, Bucky holds up his arm. Sam throws the shield, hitting two more white jackets in the face before Bucky catches it with ease. You kick another one of them in the groin, wrangling the weapon out of their grasp.

"Who the fuck brings a knife to a fight like this?" you shout.

Bucky doesn’t answer, holding up the shield to protect both of you from hailing gunshots. His face is a little pale.

"What’s—wrong—with you—today?" Each of your words is punctuated by a punch.

His eyes catch yours as he raises his gun and shoots, not even looking. Through the comms, you hear a yelp that isn’t Sam’s, followed by the sound of Redwing’s lasers cutting through something that promptly detonates.

"How’re you doing, Sam," he says, still staring at you with that odd expression.

"Get out of there asap," Sam replies. "I can see at least another dozen heading in. I’ll send Redwing to try to cut them off, but it won’t buy us much time."

Something flickers in Bucky’s eyes, somehow resolute and desperate at the same time. "Y/N—"

You tear your gaze away, landing on the monitors on the far side of the room. "I think it’s done."

"Ah, fuck," Bucky says, but you’re already running. Behind you, there’s the metallic clang of the shield hitting a reinforced cap.

You’ve not had to use your powers yet in this fight, and it feels like time is getting impatient with you. It makes you almost trip over your own feet, pulling the drive out of the computer and holding it up triumphantly just as Bucky reaches you.

"See?" you grin. "All—"

He crashes into you at full speed, one hand supporting your head as the other comes around your torso. Less than a second later, the computer explodes.

The two of you are thrown forwards, but Bucky catches your fall, rolling both of you over and out of harm’s way. Your ears are ringing, and you can tell by the buzzing that your intercom is probably broken. Surprisingly, you both seem unharmed apart from that.

Bucky stares at you, face only a few inches from yours, breathing heavily. "How the fuck do you do this?"

Every cell of your body is on fire. "Do what?"

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything but look at you. Then, he quickly presses his forehead to yours closing his eyes. "Geez," he says, and then he mumbles something under his breath, and it almost sounds like—

No. Definitely not.

You shake the broken comm pieces out of your ear and let him pull you back to your feet, your cheeks flaming. Even when you’re standing, he doesn’t let go of your hand, just starts walking in the direction of the tunnels.

Your headache is back in full swing, and something pulls at your insides, a feeling that’s impossible to ignore; and yet you just can’t seem to pinpoint it. It doesn’t make any sense.

"Bucky?" you whisper, stumbling after him, your hands still intertwined. You can see a green flicker dancing between your fingers.

"Yeah?"

"This could’ve gone a lot worse, right?"

He chuckles, a low, lovely sound that strikes a chord at your very core. It makes you speed up to match his long strides. You feel the sudden need to see his eyes.

"Ain’t that the truth, sweetheart."

There’s sweat on his brow and blood on his neck, and somehow, you’ve never seen anything more beautiful in your life.

"Then why do I feel like the other shoe hasn’t dropped yet?"

Bucky looks at you, and you realize with a sudden pang that he looks utterly resigned. Like he, too, knows, deep down, this isn’t over yet.

"Buck—" you start, but at that moment there’s a thunderous clash right behind you, like someone’s ripped a hole through the entire cave wall.

"Run," Bucky says, and then he’s jerking you along, shield up high as you speed through the tunnels. One curve after the other, until you feel like surely you’re almost at the end of it; there’s no way for these burrows to just keep going endlessly, like a labyrinth made of cold stone and darkness.

On and on you keep running, and behind you the horrible sounds continue, coming ever closer. Your lungs are on fire. You can’t see anything, and you know that Bucky is slowing down for your sake, even though you don’t understand why he would.

"You should go," you gasp as you round another curve. "Get Sam. The jet."

"I’m not leaving you," Bucky replies. He is starting to sound out of breath as well, which is about as bad a sign as it gets.

"'M fine," you pant. "Stop time. Get out." Everything is starting to get blurry in front of your eyes.

"Look!"

There’s light. You’d cheer if you weren’t hyperventilating. You can see the end of this tunnel, getting closer and closer, until you finally round another corner and—

Everything opens up and you come to a halt in a large, almost cave-like room. On the far side, a broad winding staircase leads up. The ceiling’s mostly collapsed, with bits of debris lying around everywhere, flames licking at computers and lab equipment.

"How?" you manage.

Bucky lets go of your hand, stepping in front of you. "Maybe we need to—"

Another clashing sound, much louder than before. A feeling of bone-deep despair takes hold of you before you even consciously realize what’s happened.

There’s so much blood.

You reach backwards, over and over, but your hands can’t seem to get a grip on time. It keeps slipping through your fingers.

"Bucky, you have to stay with me, do you hear me? Please."

With a jolt, you force the world to stand still so you can maybe think, blinking the tears away, refusing to let him out of focus. His injury settles on gunshot wounds, but he’s still twitching in your hold.

He barely gets your name out, blood bubbling out of the corner of his mouth. He drops his right hand on his chest, just above his heart, his vibranium hand coming up to your face. You’ve never seen it shake before.

Gently, his fingertips trail along the side of your neck, catching in your necklace.

"You," he whispers, barely audible, with so much emotion on his face you can barely breathe.

And then his hand drops and his eyes glaze over.

You scream.

You scream in the quiet of a standing universe, not understanding what just happened, why you were not able to stop it. You don’t understand, you don’t know what the point of any of this strange day was.

You feel it, though. You feel the rage and the shock and the grief, all at once, mixed together so potently you’re sure you need to explode to process it at all. You are consumed by it.

The pendant around your neck grows hot, the physical sensation of it brutal enough to force you back into this moment on the floor of a cold cave with Bucky dead on your feet.

And then, with a strange sort of clarity, you remember what he said earlier.

We might have to step on it.

The strange emphasis he put on the last part, the glance at your necklace, him reaching up. All the little moments in the lead-up to this that haven’t quite made sense.

The thoughts come rushing in, swirling wildly through your brain as you slowly get back up.

What if he knows something you don’t?

Even though that’s impossible. Right?

But there’s that tugging you’ve felt all day that tells you it’s not. Not quite. You just can’t make sense of it right now.

You trust me? Step on it.

You tear your necklace off and look at it one last time before you drop it on stamp on it with your heel until the stone in its center cracks.

A shudder goes through you. Your power is bubbling up underneath your skin as if it’s waking up, as if it’s been waiting for this exact moment, and for the first time in your life, you’re not afraid of it.

So you do.

Green waves drip from your hands, billowing down Bucky’s cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. His eyes are still frozen in time, reflecting the lights surrounding both of you, and it’s a new and all-too familiar sight at once.

One by one, the bullets drop out of his chest as if pulled by invisible strings, and you pluck them from the air and toss them to the ground as you sink to your knees.

The holes blown into Bucky’s jacket are gone, like they’d never been there in the first place.

Your head is swimming, showing you new images, different ones as vaguely familiar as memories but too fast to focus on. What’s left behind is this feeling of breathless yearning unlike any you’ve ever felt, like you’re pressing your hand against a glass, looking in on something you can’t quite grasp.

"Bucky?" you whisper, but the void doesn’t answer. It’s still lying in wait, and you’re not done yet.

Another wave of nausea rolls over you, your powers making your entire body tingle, bubbling up like they’re screaming at you to do something. Without even thinking about it, you press the palms of your hands together and push.

A rush of light and energy pours into the place between your hands with concentrated force, and something inside you uncoils, like you’re pulling at the very root of it all. It’s a thread that tightens, and then snaps.

You can just see Bucky sit up with a gasp for air before your head knocks against the stone floor and everything turns black.

* * *

…

You’ve been here before.

This empty nothingness feels familiar to you, even before you open your weary eyes. You’re neither warm nor cold, weirdly weightless, like you’re remembering a dream.

Déjà vu.

The world around you is hazy in the afterglow of the sun just disappearing on the horizon. You’re standing in the middle of an empty street that looks different than you remember, all sharp angles and off colors. It reminds you of the astral realm.

You blink.

You only have a vague recollection of it, like the memories all got jumbled and disconnected, just out of reach.

Your feet have started moving without your conscious decision, walking along this street you vaguely recognize. You’re surrounded by a comfortable quiet, and some deep-rooted knowledge inside you tells you that even though you’re outside of time, right now, you don’t have to carry its weight.

A cool breeze tickles your neck like it’s whispering your name, but when you turn to look over your shoulder, no one’s there. There’s only mist and void.

When you turn back around, there’s a small figure sitting in the middle of the street in front of you, a child wearing a jumpsuit and a yellow shirt that you know for a fact has three little holes below the left sleeve. She’s hugging her knees to herself as she watches you approach through wary eyes, her hands balled into fists so tight her nails must be digging into the palms of her hands.

Oh, you think with a painful tug of your heart. That’s what this is.

You approach slowly, not wanting to frighten the girl, sitting down with your legs crossed underneath you.

"Hi," you say softly.

She doesn’t reply.

"What are you doing?" you prompt.

The girl bites her lip, not sure if she should talk to you. "I’m waiting," she tells you finally.

"What are you waiting for?"

"You know," she says reproachfully. "Things aren’t moving."

You do know. The silence surrounding you is familiar, after all. You’ve known it all your life.

"How long have you been waiting?" you ask.

The girl looks at her feet. She twists her fingers. "I’m not sure," she says. "A long while. It’s very boring."

"I know it is."

She sizes you up carefully, considering all of you right as you are, and you let her. It takes some time.

That’s fine.

"What are you doing here?" she asks finally.

"I’m not sure," you say. "I think I’m here to pick you up."

"To go where?"

"Home?"

She pouts. "But I was waiting."

"I know. It might take a while, though." You tilt your head and she does the same, a little mirror image. "We could drink some hot chocolate while we wait."

That does catch her interest. "Yeah?"

"Sure." You both get up and pat the dust off your legs. "It’s not far, is it?"

"No," she replies, taking your hand. "Just around the corner. Did you forget?"

"Maybe a little."

You start walking and the breeze picks up again, twirling mist between your legs and playing with the girl’s hair. It smells like warm cookies.

As you’re holding her hand, the girl grows a little taller, skipping along. "Does it get easier?" she asks after a while.

"It does," you say. "And it doesn’t. It’s like some things get scarier with time and others are less scary. You know?"

"Not really."

"It’s harder in a lot of ways. But it’s easier when you’re not alone."

"I’m always alone," she whispers.

"No, you’re not. I’m here. And we’re getting hot chocolate."

"You don’t count."

"Now that’s just mean." You pass houses you barely recognize and others you know well, but you’re not there yet. "But if I’m not alone, that means you aren’t either. That’s just how it works."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"So we’ll be okay?"

You squeeze your hand. "We’ll be just fine, honey."

She hums contentedly, some song you vaguely recollect. You’ve not heard it in a long, long time.

"Do you have to go again soon?" the girl asks. "After, I mean."

You look around at the strange colors and the almost forgotten memories, and your steps feel a bit lighter, somehow. You take a deep breath, basking in this frozen little moment.

"I think I have a little more time," you say. "I have to get back, though."

She smiles, widely. "Yes, please."

epilogue

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 i'm gonna do all my sappy callouts in the epilogue so you can already look forward to that 🫶🏼 also if you read this send good vibes because i have to get up for work in like. four hours.

#bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

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lovelyrecs · 1 day ago

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okay i am LOVING reader and bucky as a couple. they're so cute man i can't get over them :( they're so HAPPY they deserve it

also. i know it would've been too cheesy and it wouldn't have made sense with how you've gone with the story (actually putting time into understand marvel time stone magic. super impressive by the way you're like doctor strange to me) but i'm so sad they didn't get out of the loop just by confessing... but also i get like three more chapters so not that upset. but now i am out of ideas on how the heck they're going to get out of this

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Yeah, never mind. It was just the light.”

or maybe you breaking this loop depends on your character and relationship development

You rip your hand out of Bucky’s, and the world around you vanishes in a stream of multicolor as he shouts your name.

so it does depend on them touching each other?

OR she tried to avoid all of it by just restarting and that's why this happened

These past few weeks, it’s been a quiet thought, pushed to the very back of your mind with everything else going on. You know that you’ll make it out, which is some relief, but what if it’s just you?

oh fuck i never even considered this. you wouldn't do this to us though right. this wouldn't be an option though right. i didn't even think about the possibility because it's so far out of left field that it's impossible. i was right for that right. right.

And so you’re afraid that in the grand scheme of things, love alone won’t be enough.

IT HAS TO IT HAS TO BE

The look in his eyes is devastating, and you wonder how it’s taken you so long to recognize the longing in it. He lets you see it so clearly now, but it’s been there for a long, long time, in flashes and stolen moments, barely concealed behind a veneer of indifference. You’re sure he can see it mirrored in your own gaze right now; you’re almost bursting with it.

THE INDESCRIBABLE THING SHE KEPT SEEING. FROM CHAPTER ONE. YOU'RE A GENIUS.

“Yeah, I know. I mean, I heard, I wasn’t there.” Peter clears his throat, tucking his hands into his armpits. “So where’s the bird?”

i realized this a few chapters back but i kept forgetting to say it but. he's forgotten peter :( that's so sad, he thought reader remembered him because she'd somehow gotten through the spell but no she's just stuck in an impossible time loop

Funny, you think, how the timing of your intervention seems to completely derail his day. Last time, he said he was visiting his aunt.

what the hell is this guy doing

“I won’t be blamed if you malfunction. Are you dishwasher safe?”

LMAOOO

“Lost, I think,” you say, even though it seems lacking. Steve’s out-of-timeliness had always been very different to Bucky’s. You used to think he’d managed to rearrange himself over the years, to reorient himself in this new reality. You didn’t realize he’d used an old compass before it was too late.

what a line. you managed to describe it perfectly. to me in the real world, who is (are? am?) still incredibly upset over how things went, and to everyone in the avengers world

You rub the empty spot on your pinkie. “That’s the part you’re not gonna like. As long as I’m stuck in the loop, my powers have to keep it upright. They’re tied up in it, that’s why I can’t use them. It’s perpetual motion in a closed system.”

oh man. she's gonna have been right. this makes sense but they're finally happy!!! why!!!!

okay but wait! wait! i think she's right, she's the one responsible for this loop, so she has to break it, and if she can't, she has to take what's holding it up out from under it. then it'll stop. that's what strange's book said... maybe... because the words floated away. maybe she does have to do something but maybe it's not die. maybe?

“To be honest, I don’t really give a shit.” Sam reaches out a hand. “Buck …” “No, Sam. Why don’t I ever get to be selfish?” He shakes his head, his eyes welling up. “Why is it that every time I get a little bit of good in my life, the world’s about to end?”

NO BECAUSE HE'S RIGHT. AND I SWEAR TO FUCK IF IT DOES END UP WORKING BUT THEY GO BACK TO THE BEGINNING OF THE DAY IN THE ORIGINAL TIMELINE AND HE CAN'T REMEMBER THIS SHIT I WILL BE CALLING A LAWYER

“How are you even going to know you have to do that if you don’t remember anything about today?” Your mouth opens, then closes again. It’s a very good question, one you don’t know how to answer. How do you finish something you won’t know you’ve started?

and also how is she going to do that? she has to put the timeline back the way it's supposed to be but she doesn't even know what that's supposed to look like now after months of trying? does she just try her best to keep bucky safe?? and ALSO! SHE'S NOT GOING TO REMEMBER THE LOOP SO SHE'S NOT GOING TO REMEMBER HER AND BUCKY??? WHY NO jUST LET THE TIMELINE COLLAPSE

“There’s another problem, too,” Sam says frowning at the whiteboard. “Say it all works out like you’re saying and you get out of the loop while Bucky’s still inside. That means you have one shot. And if it doesn’t work …” Yeah. You’ve seen it, too. It’s the biggest risk of your plan, and there’s no safety net that you can put up. If it doesn’t work, Bucky’s going to stay stuck in the loop forever.

okay i don't love saying this but i don't love this plan

You trust him with your life and you trust him with his, and that’s just going to have to be enough.

but does original loop reader? :(

“You …” He sighs. “I don’t want to lose this.”

i don't want them to lose this either 😭

WHY WOULD SHE DO THAT IN FRONT OF HIM

time after time [11]

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 9.8k

chapter warnings: time travel 101 (until your head hurts); suicidal ideation within a time loop; a dash of smut 💚 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: it's like 3am and i've definitely missed some typos and/or descriptors but i really wanted to post this one. we've almost made it folks!!

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

eleven: tomorrow we live

You weren’t well after the battle.

You’d kept yourself out of sight for the most part, evading Strange and the other Masters while kicking alien ass and trying to save as many of your people as you could. You managed, right up until Tony’s snap.

You’d never known him that well, hadn’t particularly liked him much from what you were told, but Pepper Potts had invited you to Morgan’s third birthday party along with Natasha and you’d seen the way that little girl’s eyes lit up when she looked at her dad, and the way he looked back at her. It had made you ache.

Now, you saw him make the decision to end all of this, far ahead in the distance, and all you could do was scream. Because you’d seen what kind of toll it took on a person, and you knew what it meant for his child.

You tried to reset it, but your powers were weak and you were tired and too far away. You only made it back a few seconds and had to watch him snap again. Then, your knees gave way and the world turned black.

You had a strange dream. You were standing in a twilight realm with nothing but a shallow body of water surrounding you. It was quiet, the air impossibly still, and when you moved, the water didn’t make a sound.

"Still not good enough, I see."

Kaecilius looked the same as he did in your nightmares, a stern face and purple-rimmed eyes.

"You’re not here," you whispered. "You’re dead."

"For now," he agreed.

Your hands balled into fists by your sides. "I’m not afraid of you."

Your voice only shook a little bit.

"Of course not," Kaecilius replied. "Fear would be useful." He lifted his arms. "Look around. What do you see?"

"Nothing," you said. "It’s empty."

"Is it, now?"

You watched the shaking reflections at your feet. A dull greenish glimmer surrounded your mirror image, like something was shining at you from behind. When you turned to look over your shoulder, there was nothing.

"Untethered," Kaecilius said quietly.

"What?"

"That’s the price for freedom." He tilted his chin to look at you, and there was that familiar tug in your chest. "Tell me, was it worth it?"

"I lost everything once. I’m not doing it again."

"Oh, but you will."

You couldn’t tell if it was meant as a promise or a warning. Before you could say anything else, the world around you began to flicker at its edges and faded into true nothingness, once and for all.

When you woke up in the med wing, they told you Steve had gone.

"Gone?" you asked, confused. "Gone where?"

"Back," they said, but that was impossible. He was a man out of time, always had been, but he wasn’t supposed to get lost. He had found his place, right here, with his friends, with his family, now that everyone was finally back. He was supposed to be there as you all rebuilt the world.

After Nat, you hadn’t expected to lose him, too, when you’d already lost so many people, and so your body didn’t know how to react. You were stuck in shock and grief in a frozen universe for hours before sleep finally dragged you back down and the world resumed, as it always did.

Continuing, despite.

If this was victory, you didn’t want any part in it.

* * * * *

You’re so warm.

You blink into consciousness deliciously slowly, the midday sun tickling your nose. A steady heartbeat thrums right underneath your ear. You cannot remember the last time you slept this comfortably.

Bucky gently squeezes your side, his right hand continuing to trace invisible lines on the back of your neck. "Hey."

"Hi."

How strange to think that you might just be allowed to kiss him now. How adrenaline spiking.

So you do.

You’re still sprawled on top of Bucky, and nothing has ever felt as right as brushing your lips against his and having him hum into your mouth in response. Again. Again. Why couldn’t the rest of the loop have been just like this?

"We should probably get up," he says finally.

"Are you kidding? I’m never getting up from this couch again." You snuggle closer to him, your nose pressing against his neck. "Tell me something I don't know."

His soft laugh shakes your entire body. "There's several books I could fill with stuff you don't know about."

"Well, I'm starting to run out of things to read, anyway."

Bucky’s fingers keep wandering, brushing your ear, your cheek, careful, soothing touches. As if he’s not quite certain, yet, that you’re not just going to vanish between his hands.

"You were never afraid of me," he says quietly.

You keep playing with the collar of his shirt, the fabric softened with wear. "Why would I have been afraid of you?"

"Even when we first met, when I was awful to you—"

"You weren't awful—"

"No, I was. And you didn't care. At first I thought it was because of your powers, but …" He lets out a sigh. "It's been a very long time since a complete stranger's treated me like a normal guy."

You prop up your chin on his chest. "You are a normal guy."

There's protest in his eyes, but he doesn't voice it. "It was nice," he says instead, "to get to just be myself."

"Ah. So your true self is a complaining asshole."

A playful grin twinkles in his eyes. "Don't pretend like you've hated all of our fights."

You roll your eyes and kiss him again. "I much prefer this."

"Good," Bucky says into your mouth, his voice lower than usual. "Me too."

"Glad we’re agreed for once."

He smiles against your lips, deepening the kiss. You trace the ghost of his dimples underneath his stubbled cheeks, slipping your hands into his hair as he rolls you both over, his weight pressing down on you, your mind finally, blissfully shutting up. You could stay forever in this moment.

"Really? On the couch? Don’t you people have rooms? You know, with doors you could lock?"

"Busted," you stage-whisper.

Bucky’s pupils are huge as he stares down at you, lips red, his hair perfectly mussed. The sight makes you stupidly happy.

Sam clears his throat exaggeratedly, and when your gaze turns to him, he has a shit-eating grin on his face. "Nice to see the two of you … getting along."

"Shut up, Sam," you both say at the same time.

"Seriously though, this," he gestures vaguely at both of you with his spoon, "is good, and it's about damn time, but get a room."

"Don’t you have a speech to write?" Bucky says roughly.

"Get lost, Barnes," Sam replies.

Bucky's smile flickers as he catches your lips with his one more time before sitting up, pulling you with him. His fingers interlock with yours easily, like he's been doing it for ages, his thumb circling the back of your hand.

Something in your chest aches when he pulls away from you, half-expecting the world to fall away and for you to wake up alone in your bed again; but nothing happens. Still, you don't want him to stop touching you, and not just for reality's sake.

"Did you want something?" Bucky asks, talking to Sam while keeping his attention on you.

"Lunch. How do you guys feel about Italian?"

"God, no," Bucky says.

"Literally anything else, please," you say.

"Alright, subtle," Sam snorts. "What, then?"

Bucky raises his eyebrows at you. "I can make lunch," he suggests.

"Jesus Christ," Sam replies.

"Italian sounds great, actually," you add.

"Hey," Bucky says, frowning at you.

"I don't want flames erupting from the oven again."

"That was one time and also not my fault."

One time that he remembers, at least. "Then whose was it, the cat's?"

Alpine, who’s just entered the couch table, meows in protest.

"I can cook," Bucky says.

"Anyone can cook," you reply sweetly. "Doesn't mean everyone should."

"Bold statement from someone who burns coffee for a living."

"If I don’t get another suggestion in the next ten seconds, you can both starve," Sam interrupts.

You think about any options you’ve not grown completely sick of yet. "How about Korean?"

"Thank you," he says, going back to his laptop. The conversation stalls for a while as you try to ignore Bucky’s sideward glances. Finally, Sam looks back at the two of you again, his eyebrow raised. "So when exactly did that happen?"

You exchange a quick look.

"Now, come on, Sam," Bucky says with a smirk. "It’s not like it came overnight."

"You sure about that?" you grin.

"Ew," Sam says. "Whatever that just was, ew. I’m retracting my question. I’m going to make a call."

"Say hi to Sarah!" you call after him.

He makes a crude gesture with his spoon that makes you laugh.

"What was that about my cooking?" Bucky says.

"We’ll work on it," you grin. "We might need another fifty Fridays or so, but one day I’m sure you’ll—" You yelp when he abruptly pulls you into his lap.

"I’ll what?" he asks, and his breath brushes over your lips.

You swallow. "Get there eventually."

"Anyone ever tell you you’re awfully bossy?"

"You did." You lean closer again, lowering your voice. "I think you like it."

He doesn’t respond verbally to that.

Without breaking the kiss, you reach for his left hand and pull it around yourself, shivering pleasantly at the cool touch against your skin. He hesitates briefly before letting his metal fingers curl around your waist, grasping you tighter.

Finally, with a groan, he gently pushes you away.

"I hate to say it," he says, sounding almost wrecked, "but Sam might be onto something."

"You okay?"

He laughs breathlessly, a distinct blush spreading on his cheeks. "Give me a moment."

Alpine chooses that exact moment to claim her spot on the couch once again, meowing at both of you disapprovingly. You can’t help but grin, pulling her onto your lap as you move back onto the couch, careful to keep touching Bucky in at least some way or other.

"Dialing it back, Sarge. Understood."

"Don’t," he hisses.

You tilt your head in delight. "I’m learning so much about you."

He pokes your side and you snort.

For a couple of minutes, you scratch Alpine’s chin and play with her paws, leaning against Bucky’s vibranium arm. She seems perfectly content with all of it, not even extending her claws.

"How do you feel about coffee?" you ask when you feel Bucky relax behind you again.

"Why not," he replies.

"Perfect. One sec." You raise your voice. "Do you want something from Starbucks?"

"Something iced!" Sam shouts back from the other room. "Is the kitchen safe again now?"

"Shut up!" you both reply.

Bucky’s picked up on the fact that he shouldn’t let go of you so the universe doesn’t reset again, or he simply doesn’t want to. You can’t bring yourself to mind either way.

You’re almost delirious with happiness when you’re back in the elevator and he pulls you against him again. You’re still in your pyjamas, probably spattered with blood, and you couldn’t have given less of a shit.

There’s something solid peeking out from underneath Bucky’s shirt, and you frown. "What’s that?"

He hesitates for a moment before pulling on the chain of his dog tags.

It’s your ring.

The ring you used to wear on your pinkie. The one you thought had vanished many loops ago on the floor of your bathroom, threaded through the metal chain to rest above his heart.

"It kept appearing in my pocket," he explains. "I didn’t want to lose it."

You press your lips against his again, a soft, silent thank you. "Keep it," you say.

Something catches your eye like a glint of impossibility, a strange trick of holographic lighting: a tiny spec of green. Before you can take a closer look, however, the elevator pings and you have to step outside into the lobby.

You raise your free hand and look at the rings you’re still wearing out of habit. They’re all pitch black.

"You okay?" Bucky asks.

"Yeah," you mumble. "Yeah, never mind. It was just the light."

It’s busy outside, the midday sun frying the concrete. You don’t talk as you make your way through the crowd, sticking as closely together as possible. At a red light, you manage to steal another kiss and Bucky looks at you like you’ve hung the moon.

"They’re out of iced tea at this time," you tell him, enjoying the feeling of his hand on your lower back. "But if we get Sam a cold brew, I think we should be …"

Your voice trails off when you look around the store. Apart from the two people behind the counter, it’s completely empty. A shiver runs down your spine.

"Something’s wrong," you say.

Bucky tenses, grasping your hand more tightly and putting himself in front of you. The coffee grinder howls, the sound echoing in the empty building.

Slowly, you step up to the counter.

"Hi, welcome to Starbucks." Lucy looks past you like she’s talking to someone invisible standing right between you two. After a pause, she nods and taps at the register. "And will that be for here or to go?"

"Luce?" you say carefully.

"Alright," she smiles. Her colorful make-up is running down the side of her face like red-white-and-blue tears. "It’ll be right over there. Oh, careful about that spill, we’re working on it. Hi, welcome to Starbucks."

"Whole place looks deserted," Bucky tells you.

"Sorry, what was that?" Lucy says.

"It’s like we’re not here," you say quietly.

"It’s not just her," he says. "Look."

Over at the pick-up counter, there’s a pile of spilled cups on the floor. The second barista behind the bar doesn’t notice any of them. He keeps shoving them down by placing new cups in the same spot. Perfectly rehearsed and executed each time, except he’s performing for nobody.

"Like they’re stuck in their script," Bucky says.

"This is bad," you say, "this is really, really bad."

"Hey." He tugs you closer, his eyes locking with yours. "It’s probably just another glitch."

"No, Strange warned me something like this would happen at some point."

Reality folding in on itself.

You bite your cheek so hard it hurts. "The loop is at breaking point. We’re running out of time."

"But that’s good news, right? We’re getting closer to it being over."

"No, it’s not." Your voice is wavering. "I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do."

"Ask for a frappuccino and I will fucking murder you," Lucy says.

You turn towards her again.

"I swear," she continues, fixing her hair with perfectly mechanical movements, "if I see another child today, I’m gonna quit."

"That bad?" you ask quietly.

Her gaze focuses and she turns to stare right at you with clear, empty eyes. "Please kill me."

There’s not a hint of her usual dryness in her voice. You instinctively retreat, bumping into Bucky as you do. The steamer howls, the only noise in the sudden silence.

Lucy keeps looking at you, not keeping up with her own lines. Like she’s waiting for you, or something else.

Please kill me.

You shake your head, sick to your stomach. "I can’t."

An actual tear rolls down her face, and then she snaps her head back to stare at empty air again. "Usual," she says, but it’s not a question this time.

Useless.

You rip your hand out of Bucky’s, and the world around you vanishes in a stream of multicolor as he shouts your name.

* * *

"You talk to her," Sam says, his voice muffled through the door.

There’s a murmur too low for you to understand from where you’re hiding underneath your blanket, pressing the palms of your hands to the sockets of your eyes. The band around your wrist is whirring wildly.

One day.

You’d gotten less than a single day, a single morning of everything working out, of finally thinking that maybe things wouldn’t always be this bad. Of feeling something like hope.

It’d been foolish.

You’re still stuck on Friday, and reality is still crumbling around you, or fading away, or maybe melting into another one; you don’t even know anymore. You’re so sick of this.

You can hear the crunch of your lock being reduced to pieces, and then slow, soft steps into your room. With a soft click, the door closes again. You stay under your blanket.

"Y/N," Bucky says softly.

"I can’t."

He lets out a breath, and your mattress dips. Gently, he pulls the blanket off your head.

Geez, you hate the way he looks at you. Like you’re about to break, and he’s just waiting patiently to pick up each piece and mend them together again.

What the hell have you done to deserve to be looked at like that?

"Hi," he says, and your vision blurs.

You want to kiss him again. You want to wrap yourself around him and protect him from whatever bullshit this day decides to throw at you next.

"Everything is falling apart," you whisper. "It’s gonna keep happening until we find a way out. I’m nowhere closer to knowing what I’m supposed to do, and so we keep circling around, making everything worse. And what if—" You cut yourself off, pressing a hand to your mouth.

"What if what?"

What if it’s just you?

Strange never said anything about Bucky, and you’re still beating yourself up over not asking.

What if this, all of this, will have been for nothing?

No, you can’t think like that.

You put one hand on Bucky’s chest, feeling his heartbeat underneath your palm, soft and steady. He’s still breathing, and that’s all that counts for now.

You’ve made it this far, right?

"I’m just so scared," you whisper. It’s the truth, after all.

"Me too," he says quietly. Both of his hands cup your face, his thumbs gently wiping the tears from your cheeks. "But we’re getting so close. I know it. We just need to keep going. You need to keep going."

A wet laugh bubbles up your throat. "You’re putting a lot of faith into someone who’s not been able to use her powers at all in months at this point."

"Is that what you’re worried about?"

Is it? Truth be told, you’ve gotten so used to the absence of time magic running through your veins. There’s an empty space at your core where you used to be able to feel it, tucked safely away, a reassuring connection to the flow of time itself.

Ever since your visit to the Sanctum, you’ve become very aware that you’re missing that link now. There’s a void inside you that’s been growing whilst you were looking away, a black hole that tastes like regret and loneliness.

All those years, and still …

"My powers were never something I wanted to have, and they’re … I used to feel like an anomaly. Like a mistake. But now …" You swallow a sob. "Everything is going wrong, and now they’ve been gone for so long, and I feel like a part of me is just missing."

It’s such a selfish thing to care about, but Bucky’s been nothing but honest with you, and you owe him as much.

"And so I keep wondering, what if I can never get them back? Or I do, just to stop the loop, but the price to end all of this is giving them up? I mean, what am I going to do then?"

What a waste of time.

You’re so tired, and weary, and sick of having to lean on other people. You should be able to do this, of all things, on your own.

Even when you couldn’t properly control your powers, at least they were yours and yours alone. There was a certain merit in being the only one of your kind, too; no one knew how to control you.

And yet, looking back, it all seems like wasted time you could’ve spent doing good, learning to understand them more intricately, to use them for more important things than getting out of awkward conversations and keeping yourself safe.

Without them gone, would you ever have honestly stopped trying to avoid situations that left you cut open and vulnerable, just as you are right now?

Untethered.

"Hey," Bucky says again and you blink back into the moment. "Didn’t you tell me that the Winter Soldier doesn’t define me? Well, your powers don’t define you."

"But I don’t want to lose them," you say quietly.

Despite the chaos they’re brought. Despite all your mistakes and shortcomings, despite the loop, despite everything that would never have happened without you having these powers in the first place. Because you’re just starting to accept them for what they really are: a gift, and a curse.

It doesn’t have to be one or the other.

"You’ll get them back," Bucky says. Sometimes, you do wonder where he gets his relentless confidence in you from.

"You don’t know that," you say quietly.

He huffs. "You hate clichés. Stop thinking you’re doomed to live in one. That’s not like you."

"Then what is?"

He presses his forehead to yours, and your eyes flutter closed. "You fight."

You can’t help but laugh. "I’m not a fighter."

"Didn’t say you were. I said you fight. You don’t give up so easily."

"Maybe I should. Might save me a lot of racing thoughts."

"You would be bored in five minutes." The knowing smile in his voice is really annoying. "You’re not so bad the way you are, you know."

"I’m not that great, either, though."

"Look at me?"

You do, his hand gently tipping your chin. He’s always so gentle with you.

"Powers or not, doesn’t matter. You’re still you. I wouldn’t want you to be anything else. It’s more than I … it’s more than enough."

His heart is pounding underneath your palm, and there are too many emotions written across his face to make sense of them all, but you feel them. Heartbreakingly so.

"It shouldn’t be," you say. "It’s killed you. Multiple times."

"I don’t care. I’m still here, and so are you. I’ve watched you do great things with and without your powers, time after time, and you’re gonna continue doing that over and over again." He smiles at you in that way of his, soft and sure. "We’ll be okay."

You love him. The thought rushes through you without a shadow of a doubt, a knowledge so certain it might as well be written across your forehead. You love Bucky Barnes with every fiber of your heart.

The problem is, he’s right. You hate clichés.

And so you’re afraid that in the grand scheme of things, love alone won’t be enough.

You lean in to hug him again and his arms envelop you perfectly, like this was where you were supposed to be all along. You bury your nose in his neck and inhale deeply, and you’ve never wanted to freeze a moment in time more than you do right then.

"I want to kiss you so bad right now." A whisper against his skin, another teardrop on his shirt.

His hand comes up to your neck again, pulling you back.

You nudge your nose against his, once, twice, and he shivers.

"We need to stop," he whispers, even though he sounds like stopping is the very last thing he wants to do. You can relate. There’s a hair’s breadth between your lips and it takes every single ounce of self-control you have not to close that distance.

The memory of how he kisses you is still too fresh in your mind. The way he perfectly molds into you, the way he holds you like you’re something precious, even now. Like he’s got all the time in the world.

Except you don’t.

There’s still so much you haven’t figured out, and no telling how many loops you have left before reality collapses entirely.

Reluctantly, you pull away from him once again, wrapping your arms around yourself instead. No matter what you do, it always seems one step forwards and two steps back with you and Bucky.

"Okay," you say quietly, letting out one long breath and then nodding. "What’s the plan?"

The corners of Bucky’s eyes crinkle with a grin.

* * *

"What do you want with Redwing?" Sam asks skeptically.

"Repair it." Bucky leans against the kitchen counter. His hair is still damp from his shower, and your eyes keep getting drawn to a single curl that’s hanging into his face.

Sam scoffs and continues his typing. "If it were that easy, I’d have fixed them already. One’s sensors got fried in that explosion, and the bullet that hit Two splintered into about five million tiny pieces."

"Sorry about that," you say.

"You didn’t shoot at him." He pauses, narrowing his eyes at you. "Tell me you didn’t shoot at him."

"I did not shoot at Redwing." You didn’t reset it happening, either, but you feel like now might not be the time to fess up.

"It’s going to take forever to patch them both up again, and I’ve not had that kind of time lately," Sam says, tilting his head at his laptop as a case in point. You feel awful.

"Let me take a look," Bucky presses.

"No offence, man, but you’re not exactly MacGyver," Sam grimaces. "And it’s not like there’s spare parts just lying around the place."

"Redwing’s Stark tech, right?" you ask thoughtfully.

"Wakandan. But the hardware’s still similar enough."

"I have an idea," you say, checking the time. "Either of you guys hungry yet?"

"I don’t know about this," Sam says about forty minutes and one time loop explanation later, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "How old did you say you are?"

"He’s a great kid," you tell him. "He’s a candidate for MIT."

Peter blinks. "I didn’t say—anyway, I, uhm. I used to intern at Stark Industries, so sure, I could take a look at it."

"Did you now," Sam says dryly.

"Yup. Just one summer though. Before the …" He swallows. "I was gone."

Something softens a little in Sam’s expression. "Same here, kiddo."

"Yeah, I know. I mean, I heard, I wasn’t there." Peter clears his throat, tucking his hands into his armpits. "So where’s the bird?"

"Why are you trying to fix your archnemesis?" you say, catching up with Bucky.

"It’s not my—" He cuts himself off, rolling his eyes when you grin. "I’d like an audio recording of the crowd when Sam gives his speech."

"Why?"

He hesitates. "It’s probably not even about the loop. It’s just …"

That frown you can recognize. That inkling suspicion, that 'it’s probably nothing, but I’d like confirmation'. It usually means he’s onto something.

"A clue?"

"Sure. Maybe. A clue."

"Okay then." You slip your pinkie into his.

"What," he chuckles, squeezing back, "no criticizing my plans?"

"I am nothing if not out of ideas," you sigh. "And who knows, maybe it’ll help."

You don’t usually go into Tony Stark’s old workroom. Most of the interesting stuff got packed up before the move to Avengers Campus, leaving a sterile looking, well-lit room with a large work bench and a single old rolling chair that Peter plops onto.

The Redwings are a rather sorry sight, laid out in their cases with all the extra pieces collected in small plastic bags. All of you watch as Peter cracks his knuckles before he carefully unscrews the busted top of Redwing One’s casing. Sam is hovering over his shoulder like he’s about to grade his efforts.

Waiting’s the worst part. At your request, FRIDAY puts on a 70s playlist that makes Sam tap his foot while he questions whether Peter’s declared his major yet—"no, uhm, they want us to do that at the end of our first year and I’ve not been admitted yet, so"—and his most recent eye appointment—"my vision’s 20/20, sir"—until they both finally let out a deep breath.

"Getting the spare parts won’t be the problem," Peter says, swiveling around in his chair. "I have that sorta stuff at home, it’s just a question of replacing the nanosensors and soldering the PCB."

"Sure," you say, understanding most of those words individually.

"The problem is, it’ll take me a couple of hours. There’s no way for me to get it done until, what, 2 p.m.? If we rush, dust could get into the circuit and it’ll all be a worse mess than it is right now."

"Told you," Sam says.

"What about the other one?" Bucky asks.

Peter grimaces. "That one’s gonna need a proper cleaning, ideally with ultrasonic equipment to get all the particles out. Sorry, Sarge."

Bucky just nods, then leaves the room without another word.

"I got it," Sam tells you when you start after him. "Put that lid back on and step away, MIT."

Peter holds up both of his hands, eyes flicking towards you. "Can’t break it if the loop resets, right?"

"You’re good," you confirm, still looking at the door.

His shoulders lose some of their tension as he leans back in his chair, clearly still impressed with everything going on. "So, how does it work?"

Your laugh comes out a little shrill. "I wish I could tell you."

"There was an episode of Star Trek TNG where they got stuck in a collision loop." He plays around with the screwdriver he’s still holding, his hands surprisingly quick. "Have you tried sending yourself messages as well?"

"Kind of," you say, thinking of Bucky’s writing on your arm and the tally marks on your legs.

"So cool."

"I don’t know about that," you reply. "It’s been weeks, and I still don’t understand how this loop is working. Especially now that there’s two of us who are aware it’s happening. Does that mean it’s still just one reality on repeat?"

Peter shrugs. "I dunno, I don’t know much about it, but in my experience, reality’s just what people remember. Who says there’s much more to it?"

"Right," you say. "It’s just us two getting looped. Your reality is mostly fine, it just happens over and over. But if you don’t realize that it does, it’s not actually a loop."

"I mean, maybe, maybe."

Maybe.

You can’t just separate one from the other. There’s that thing called the first law of thermodynamics.

"You know much about thermodynamics, Peter?"

"The, uh, basics, I guess? Perpetual motion is impossible, energy consumed by a system must be resupplied by an external source, everything is balance, that sorta stuff?"

Magic, as a whole, is always a balancing act.

You massage your stinging temples. "Top of your class, were you?"

Something flickers across his face before he smiles. "Nah. I’m more of an applied physics guy."

Once all of this is over, maybe you could introduce him to Bruce. He might enjoy the pop culture references as well.

Before you can suggest as much, Peter takes a look at his phone and curses under his breath. "Shoot, I’m sorry, I gotta go, I got a—photography club."

"Sure, don’t worry about it," you say. The symbols around your wrist tingle again, and you distractedly trace them with your thumb.

Funny, you think, how the timing of your intervention seems to completely derail his day. Last time, he said he was visiting his aunt.

* * *

Here’s the thing: When you’re able to travel through time, looking at the past becomes surprisingly emotionally taxing. Remembering what could have been, what might have been, what should have been in another, better universe is, you suppose, hard on everyone.

For someone with the ability to theoretically do something about all these what ifs, it’s ulcer inducing.

These are the kind of things, therefore, you force yourself to suppress most of the time. Ironically, it’s mostly the sort of moments that, at the time, you want to freeze and preserve forever. Looking back, they’re the ones that hurt the most.

Sometimes, though, you can’t help it. Some routines, some rituals that were established during happier times demand to be maintained, even if you’re the only one who remembers them anymore. Even if there’s other, more pressing things to do, secrets to work out, realities to stabilize.

Your hands know this rhythm.

You’ve let FRIDAY put on some music from one of Sam’s favorite playlists again, and you watch him nod along as he’s typing away on his laptop with a faraway focus. You smile as you wash your hands again, preheat the oven, grease your pan.

It takes him a little while to consciously notice what you’re doing. "Really?" he says. "It’s in the fricking nineties today and you’re baking?"

"We have a functioning AC," you reply. "I thought we should celebrate that."

"The planet is dying."

Be that it were only the planet.

"I’m making turtle pie," you say. "And cinnamon rolls."

That seems to placate him for the time being, because he moves to the living room area without further complaint.

You grimace in concentration as you transfer your pie crust to the pan for prebaking. You’ve never been particularly skilled at pies, but you’ve been living by the motto "trying counts for something" in all other aspects of life lately.

"You’re hovering again, Barnes," you say without turning.

"You’re baking." The surprise in his voice makes you smile.

"I am," you say. "Notice how there aren’t any flames erupting around me."

"Yet," Bucky says, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "I didn’t know you could bake."

"You never asked." You dust your hands off the excess flour. "It’s easier to think when I have something else to focus on, you know?"

"Can I help?"

You’re tempted to make another dig at his baking skills, but the way he looks at you makes you reconsider. "Can you knead with that arm?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

"I won’t be blamed if you malfunction. Are you dishwasher safe?"

"Give me that." He frowns slightly, looking at the ingredients you’ve started to measure out into your mixing bowl. "I thought you’re making pie?"

"I am. Well, and these."

"Ambitious." He swoops a finger through the mixture to try.

"Lots of thoughts require ambitious projects to procrastinate with."

He nods, and you fall into a sort of companionable silence you’ve not felt with him in a while. Sometimes, your arms brush as you work, and it sends a warm shiver up your entire arm.

You want to interlock your fingers again, pull him towards you, see if you can taste a hint of cinnamon on his lips.

"During the Blip …" you start, immediately unsure whether you want to share this particular story or not.

You watch Bucky’s hands, continuing to slowly and methodically fold the flour into the dough.

"Nat wasn’t allowed in the kitchen at all. She was so much worse than you." You laugh when he elbows you. "But there’s this stress-relief in baking, you know? In doing something with your hands, and by the end of it, you’ve got something you can give to others."

"I get that," he says, scraping at a particularly sticky piece of dough.

You nod and measure out your sugar. "Steve had a lot of late nights, especially those first couple of years, and there was only so much to do at all when you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere with everyone blaming you for half the globe being gone."

"How was he?" There’s a careful fondness in Bucky’s voice that he usually hides. It makes you think about your answer.

"Lost, I think," you say, even though it seems lacking. Steve’s out-of-timeliness had always been very different to Bucky’s. You used to think he’d managed to rearrange himself over the years, to reorient himself in this new reality.

You didn’t realize he’d used an old compass before it was too late.

"I mean, everyone was," you add, even though you don’t really know why you’re defending him.

"Were you?"

"Desperately," you huff. "Turns out, though, when the world around you is upside down, it’s really nice to have some fixed points to look forward to."

"Like what?"

"Bath towels. Or making cinnamon rolls on someone’s birthday."

Bucky stops kneading, calculating in his head. "Is it—"

"Yup."

He curses under his breath.

"Yup." You sigh and grab the mixing bowl again. "Hand me the butter?"

"You need to add a pinch of nutmeg. And … cardamom, I think."

You stare at him in surprise.

"That’s ma’s recipe. I used to beg for these when I was a kid. I’ve not had them in ninety years or somethin’."

A warm feeling spreads in your stomach. "About time, then."

Usually, you’d get to skip over this part; the waiting. It’s your least favorite, when you’re stuck in between tasks, your crust in the oven, the other dough still proofing. You’ve never been very good at waiting.

You start scrubbing the counters furiously, your thoughts returning with a vengeance as soon as there’s a lull in your blessed distraction plan. The loop on your wrist is particularly itchy again today.

"Talk to me."

With a frustrated groan, you drop your sponge. "I keep thinking about physics. Like, maybe there’s some sort of equation or quantum experiment that’ll help us out."

Past and present and future all folded into each other and wrapped into one.

But how does any of that make sense with what you’re experiencing?

Humans can only be in one state at one particular time.

"You reckon we’re gonna be spacetime experts before the universe implodes?" Bucky remarks.

"They should just hand us our doctorates right now."

"James Barnes, PhD. My ma’d lose her mind."

"Eh, not as impressive as a racecar driver in the family if you ask me." You turn on the hot water tap to let the bowls soak and yelp when you’re pulled back against his chest.

"That so?"

"Hmm." Your heart is beating wildly as Bucky interlaces your fingers. "I’m still not convinced you should be allowed to drive with that flimsy piece of paper you call a license."

He rests his chin on your shoulder. "That’s pretty hurtful, doll. I’ve never had any complaints about my driving."

"Maybe everyone else you drove had a danger fetish."

You should probably turn off the water again. For the environment. But Bucky’s laugh fans across your cheek before he inhales, deeply, and you are so sick of pulling away from him.

"God, it’s so unfair," he whispers, leaving a trail of goosebumps running down your neck.

"What is?"

"You."

The oven timer starts beeping and you want to smash it with a baseball bat. Reluctantly, Bucky releases you from his hold to retrieve the pie crust while you prevent the imminent flooding of your kitchen sink.

It’s not even noon yet, you remind yourself. You’ve been over this. You don’t know how many semi-stable loops there are left, and you can’t afford to waste another one of them.

No matter how much you want to.

There’s a tense sort of silence between you as you finish up the pie and let Bucky revise your cinnamon roll ingredients.

"You know," you tell him, wiping another bowl clean, "Steve’s tried to recreate these for years."

Bucky crosses out another measurement. "That’s what you get for stealing a family recipe."

It’s started to smell heavenly in here; like dish soap and warm cookies. By the time the rolls are finally ready to bake, you’re sweaty and excited, and Sam’s checked in on the status of the goods twice. The air’s turned giddy with sugar and anticipation, the silence shifting into something more comfortable, almost peaceful.

How lovely to know a day like this can have pockets of lightness, you think; even if they’re fleeting.

Bucky’s hair has started to stick up in the back a little as you move around each other in a routine so easy it feels choreographed. Whenever you look at him, he’s already watching you, and it makes your heart jump every time.

"Hold on, you have a little …"

With a small grin, you reach out to wipe away the trace of glaze on his cheek. He catches your wrist, his eyes darkening.

You don’t breathe.

He pulls your hand closer to his mouth, licking the icing off your thumb without breaking eye contact. Fire rushes down your spine.

"Now who’s not playing fair?" you whisper.

"Fuck fair," he says. It comes out like a plea.

You despise yourself for shaking your head. "It’s too early."

You’ve agreed. There’s too much left to sort through. You’ve not even been to the astral plane today.

"Feels late to me," Bucky says, keeping hold of your hand. "Couple weeks late, at least."

Every part of you aches to close the distance between you, reality be damned. So what if it all unravels? No one but the two of you would remember, anyway.

It’s just you and Bucky, in the end, and doesn’t that count for something? You’ve already lost so much time getting stuck in this single day, time you can’t ever get back, because unlike everyone else, you can’t just go back to the beginning.

Not as long as you’re in the loop.

And just like that, with a sudden, crashing sense of clarity, you know how to finish this.

* * *

"Space and time and reality are related," you explain, drawing a bunch of overlapping circles and labeling them. "That’s what Strange said, that’s what Wong said. Even Peter."

In my experience, reality’s just what people remember.

"Dimension’s all a question of perspective. Right now, for Bucky and me, time is experienced as a loop, but for Sam here, it isn’t. Because he is physically in a different space than we are."

"No, I’m not."

"Yes, you are. This here," you hold up your arm, letting the green runes shimmer in the sunlight, "is breaking down the barriers between dimensions. If reality was stuck in a loop for everyone else, everyone else would remember, but they don’t. It’s just us. It’s just our reality."

"I’m getting a headache," Sam groans into his pie.

"Your timeline is normal," you tell him, drawing an arrow pointing to the left. "July fourth today. July third before that. No detours or anomalies. Your day always goes the way it’s supposed to. It just happens to intersect with our loop." You draw an infinity symbol cutting through the line, then point at its center "We meet right here, at this junction, and then your reality continues the way it’s supposed to and ours resets."

"I thought I’m the one that’s getting reset."

"So did I, at first. But we’re the ones continually jumping back to when Friday begins, over and over, with our memories intact. All of this," you trace over the infinity symbol multiple times, "is one linear timeline that’s weeks long, but been compressed to a single day."

"So then, if my reality continues …" Sam starts. "That means, for every single time you’ve been through the loop, there was a different version of me that just went on from there?"

"Exactly," you say, relieved. "Infinite versions in infinite universes."

"Sometimes I miss the simplicity of a good government conspiracy," he mumbles, grabbing another cinnamon roll.

Bucky frowns. "What does that mean for us?"

"There are versions of us outside the loop—obviously, we don’t just stop existing on July fifth. But because of the time loop, we can’t access them. Our consciousness can’t move on from this day, if you will."

Thus, Friday ad nauseum. And because the universe isn’t built to sustain all of this excess energy in just one single point, reality’s started to fracture; trying to relieve some of the added pressure through cracks and TAGs and inconsistencies.

"Then how do we get out?" Bucky asks.

You rub the empty spot on your pinkie. "That’s the part you’re not gonna like. As long as I’m stuck in the loop, my powers have to keep it upright. They’re tied up in it, that’s why I can’t use them. It’s perpetual motion in a closed system."

"So?"

Your wrist tingles. "So the only way to stop it for good is for me to be on the outside. I need to be the external source of the equation."

"How are you gonna do that?" Sam asks.

All the color drains from Bucky’s face. "No."

"You know I’m right," you say softly.

"No," Bucky repeats.

"I’m not liking this," Sam says, looking between the two of you.

"There’s no guarantee it works."

"It’s the only thing we’ve not tried." You look at Sam with a feeble smile. "I have to die."

"What?"

"I’m not watching you die," Bucky says loudly. His hands are balled into fists so tight they’re shaking. "There has to be something else we can try."

"And what would that be?"

"I don’t know! Maybe we need to go back to the astral plane, try something else."

"It’s not enough. It’s a liminal space."

"It has to be enough!"

"Bucky—"

"I’m not losing you!"

With a single slam, the couch table breaks straight down the middle. Bucky’s breaths are heavy, every muscle tense. A cursory glance would tell you his walls are all the way back up, but his eyes … his eyes tell a different story.

"We’re running out of time," you say gently. "If we do nothing, we’ll inevitably lose. And then we’re all fucked. We don’t know what a disintegrating reality is gonna do to the multiverse at large."

"To be honest, I don’t really give a shit."

Sam reaches out a hand. "Buck …"

"No, Sam. Why don’t I ever get to be selfish?" He shakes his head, his eyes welling up. "Why is it that every time I get a little bit of good in my life, the world’s about to end?"

"It’s going to work," you tell him.

Again, he shakes his head. "You can’t know that."

"No, but I do." You bite the inside of your cheek, hard. "I know because Strange told me I make it out of the loop. I’m the one who tells him how to find me. I can’t do that if I’m dead. It’s going to work."

For a while, Bucky just stares at you, shoulders drooping.

"When were you gonna tell me?" he asks quietly.

You shrug helplessly. "It never seemed like the right time."

"We’re stuck in a goddamn loop, and it never seemed like the right time?"

"Be angry with me all you want, but it doesn’t change the facts. We’ve been going around in circles, because that’s the very nature of this timeline. I need my powers back to set things straight." He refuses to catch your eye. "The only way for me to break the loop is not to be in it."

"How are you even going to know you have to do that if you don’t remember anything about today?"

Your mouth opens, then closes again. It’s a very good question, one you don’t know how to answer. How do you finish something you won’t know you’ve started?

"Plus, the loop’s still there and bound to you, right?" Sam cuts in, nodding at your wrist. "Regardless of perception. Who’s to say it’s not gonna implode if you can’t remember it?"

You let out a long sigh. "Because it’ll have to be bound to Bucky instead of me."

"Then just do that," Bucky argues. "I can handle it."

"I know that," you say. "But I still need my powers back."

"There’s another problem, too," Sam says frowning at the whiteboard. "Say it all works out like you’re saying and you get out of the loop while Bucky’s still inside. That means you have one shot. And if it doesn’t work …"

Yeah. You’ve seen it, too. It’s the biggest risk of your plan, and there’s no safety net that you can put up.

If it doesn’t work, Bucky’s going to stay stuck in the loop forever.

* * *

On the day you’re gonna die, you wake up on the couch in the living room area, alone. A deserted cup of coffee sits on the couch table. Everything is quiet.

You sit up slowly, stretching your aching limbs. Sam must’ve already left for Madison Square Garden, because the shield is no longer propped up against the counter. It gives you a nice window of time.

You bring your cup to the sink and finish the washing-up, carefully setting everything on the rack to dry. You wipe the counters. You check the fridge. You write a post-it for Bucky, just for the hell of it.

Right when you’re about to leave, there’s a meowing at your feet. Alpine stares at you with her wide, solemn eyes, like she means to impart long forgotten wisdoms on you.

More likely, she wants a treat.

"Hi, hellcat," you say fondly and she accepts a couple of scratches under her chin. "You seen your dad?"

She purrs for a bit, then bumps her head against your legs and occupies herself with the leftover tuna in her bowl. You sigh, deciding to leave her to it before she decides you need to be reacquainted with her claws.

"Bye, kitty," you whisper.

Her tail twitches.

You’re not surprised to find Bucky on the roof, looking out over Manhattan with an unreadable look on his face. It’s another perfectly sunny day, cloudless cerulean skies and too many degrees to be wearing a leather jacket.

He doesn’t turn when you step up next to him, and it makes your heart ache a little.

Look at me.

"Are you angry with me?"

He lets out a bone-deep sigh. "No."

"Could’ve fooled me."

It’s been a couple of days since you realized what you’re going to have to do, and to say the bubble has burst would be an understatement. There’s been more arguing; more negotiating; both of you clearly seeing where the other one is coming from and yet unwilling to accept it without a fight.

In the end, it’s made no difference. No matter which way you twist it, you need to stop this loop. And he’s not been able to come up with any other ideas towards that goal, either.

"I’m worried," Bucky says quietly.

You reach out for him, intertwining your pinkie with his metal one. "I’m not going to leave you in the loop. I promise."

He shakes his head. "I don’t give a shit about what happens to me."

"Well, I do."

"I’m worried about you." He tucks his chin into his chest. "That’s a helluva lot of pressure you’re putting yourself under, and you won’t even remember where it came from."

"You forget I thrive under pressure." You cast a sidewards glance at him. "Besides, I’ve got you on my side. So I’ve got nothing to be scared of."

It’s a half-truth. You’re terrified. You keep thinking about all the things that could go wrong, all the ways you could fail and condemn him to an infinity of loops in which he’s gonna die and you barely even know him yet.

And yet, when you look at him, your worried mind is soothed, every doubt replaced by something much more certain: He’s going to have your back.

You trust him with your life and you trust him with his, and that’s just going to have to be enough.

"If I—" you start, your voice cracking. "If I don’t get my memories back, when it’s done, I just … I should probably tell you now, right?"

For a few short, unending moments, Bucky doesn’t say anything. Your hands are getting sweaty.

"You know," he says quietly. "We never did try the Groundhog Day option."

Your hand tightens on the railing as your heartbeat kicks up. You glance at him from the side. His face is still hard, but determined. And there it is; that little glint of a challenge in his eyes.

A beat passes.

Your gaze drops to his mouth and he surges.

There’s a new edge to the way he kisses you this time. He holds your face in his hands like you’re something precious, and you can feel him pour all of his desperation into the kiss.

Tears spring to your eyes. You want nothing more than to just melt into the moment, forget everything else and keep kissing him forever. It’s not that simple, though.

"Just in case," you whisper, pulling his mouth to yours again.

You kiss him like it’s the last time and Bucky responds with the same urgency because you both know, deep down, it might well be.

"Just in case," he repeats against your lips as you come up for air, his voice dark and rough and full of fear.

You nod, almost imperceptibly.

He picks you up in one quick, fluid motion, and you rub your nose against his, breathing him in before you find his mouth again.

Again.

More.

You lose your shirt somewhere on the stairs. Your hands are shaking as you attempt to lock his door behind you.

His belt won’t unbuckle. He snaps it in two without taking his lips off your neck, and you let out a surprised laugh as he drops you on his bed.

Despite the growing heat, neither of you hurries this; quite the contrary. It’s a slow, reverent dance. Every inch of clothing that gets removed feels like peeling back another layer, leaving you both fully exposed for the very first time.

You kiss every single scar on his chest as he watches you through half-lidded, glassy eyes, his heart beating so wildly you can feel it just as well as your own. You interlace your fingers and pull him even closer, and when you press another kiss to the palm of his metal hand, he lets out a shaky breath.

When he finally sinks into you, you can taste yourself on his tongue, and your eyes roll back in your head because yes.

Nothing in your whole life has ever felt this right before.

I love you, you think, and the words are at the tip of your tongue when you tumble over the edge as Bucky mumbles sweet praises into your mouth. I love you I love you Iloveyou.

You think that maybe he knows, anyway.

* * *

"What are you thinking about?"

The sun is setting outside, leaving a reddish hue on Bucky’s hair. Your voice is rough after hours of talking and sex. You’ve spilled so many of your secrets you’ve lost count, and he listened to all of them.

Just in case.

You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and Bucky shudders. He presses a kiss to your forehead.

"Nothing."

His eyes betray him, like they always do.

"You are the worst liar I’ve ever met, Barnes."

"Being a good liar isn’t something to be proud of, you know."

There’s something so devastating about the way he looks at you, like he’s watching something shatter right in front of him. He kisses you again, softly, and it makes you forget your next thought.

"You …" He sighs. "I don’t want to lose this."

"Do you still trust me?" you ask him, voice quiet.

Bucky looks at you, huffing breathlessly, hesitant in a way that only lends more conviction to his answer. "Of course I do." Like there’s no doubt to be had.

It sends a thrill through you.

"I think it’s a good plan in theory, but it puts everything back on you again." He cups your cheek in his hand. "You’ll go back to hating me, and then I won’t be able to help you."

"I never hated you," you say. "I mean, you drive me up the walls sometimes, but I never hated you."

"Why not?" he asks. "I would."

You sit up a little to look at him straight, one hand pressed to his chest. "James Buchanan Barnes, you are more than worthy of all the good things in the universe to happen to you. I’m only sorry it took me that long to tell you."

The saddest little smile curls at the edge of his mouth as he evades your eyes.

"Hey," you say. "We’ll be fine."

"Yeah."

You lean in to kiss him, short and sweet. "I need you to promise me something."

"Hm?" A vibration against your lips.

"Don’t do anything stupid."

He grins, and it’s almost honest. "You know me."

"I do. That’s what I’m concerned about. When I do this, we get one try, and if I fail …"

"Don’t worry about me, sweetheart."

As if he’s not made that quite impossible.

"Fuck you, Barnes," you whisper.

His eyes melt a little, and you trace the little lines in their corners. "There she is."

You roll your eyes. "Bucky?"

He looks at you questioningly, and the words die on your lips. Instead, you pull him in for one more kiss, trying to pour everything you’re not able to say into it, your heart beating wildly.

He presses you deeper into the matress, and you savor every second of this feeling. His stubble scratching across your cheek, the way your fingers slip perfectly into his mussed hair, the low, soothing hum of his arm.

This, you think. This should have been the kind of day that got stuck all along.

You roll on top of him again. His hands catch your waist, warm and cold against your skin, and you shudder as he smiles into your mouth.

One more, you think, sinking back into the kiss. One more. Just one more.

You bring him even closer to you with one hand as the other one slips under his pillow, carefully angling yourself forwards.

Just in case.

"It’s strange," you whisper. "Somehow I wish we had more time."

A hot tear falls on Bucky’s cheek. His eyes widen.

It’s the last thing you see before you put his gun against your temple and pull the trigger.

chapter twelve

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 we're in the endgame now and you are so welcome to shout at me in the comments/tags 😈

#bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

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lovelyrecs · 1 day ago

Text

"In other fun news," you tell Bucky as you are sitting cross-legged in the astral plane, on the edge of the bed he isn’t using, "apparently we have been underestimating our delivery guy."

she's talking to him in her little dimension 😭😭 she misses talking to him so much she'll just pretend he's listening 😭😭

The whole part with a certain Peter Parker telling you that he knows all of you and you’ve simply forgotten him because of sorcery—only for him to not recall any of it the next time he delivers food to your doorstep—doesn’t exactly help this maddening situation, especially not when Sam squints at you in the ring one morning and says, "Something’s weird."

IT DIDNT MEAN ANYTHING??? IT EITHER DIDNT MEAN ANYTHING OR IT MEANT SHIT'S GETTING WORSE AND I DON'T KNOW WHICH ONE I PREFER

"What did it?"

HE DOESNT REMEMBER??? HE DOESNT REMEMBER THAT SHE'S TOLD HIM AND THAT SHES TRIED?? HE THINKS SHES DOING THIS ON PURPOSE???

"I know. Do you think I haven’t tried? To stop this?" You hiccup. "I’ve been trying to do that for weeks."

LITERALLY LITERALLY SHES BEEB STUCK HERE TOO FOR LONGWR SHE'S BEEN TRYING TO FIX IT

Bucky’s hum is like goosebumps down your spine. "I was on my way to find you. Alpine sat on the top stair and kept screaming her lungs out."

🥹 SHE KNEW

"If I’m not going, you’re not going," he interrupts before you can finish your protest. "But Sam’s gotta know. And you have to come downstairs with me."

he's scared she's still going to jump 😭😭 or he doesnt even want to possibility to be nearby

He takes your wrists in his hands and pulls them away from his chest, and maybe you’re still a little dizzy, and then he says, "I never hit the ground."

WHATAT SO IS IT HIM?? WHAT

He meets your eyes, then, vehemently. "I would never do that."

so he's saying he has the capability and sometimes the thoughts to do terrible things but he would never do that. and he thinks he's a bad person 😭 he breaks my heart

"Keep remindin’ me and I might." He clears his throat. "Your turn, Twelve."

OH??? that's. unexpectedly and blessedly romantic. am i seeing the light ???🙏🙏???

"How much time do we still have before the loop starts to disintegrate?" Bucky asks. Smart question. He’s so smart.

that is so cute 😭😭

You kiss him.

YESSS YESSS AND EVERYONE CHEERS!! I DROP TO MY KNEES AND CRY OUT OF RELIEF

time after time [8]

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.3k

chapter warnings: Angsty with a capital A; suicidal ideation and attempted suicide (within the context of ending a time loop); finally, some big conversations are being had. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i wasn't sure whether i really wanted to post this one tonight, but you know what? i've missed this story. so here you go.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

eight: edge of tomorrow

On the good days, life at the Compound felt like a dream.

The world was a mess, but you’d found your own little corner in it, and despite the long hours and the high pressure, you felt happy for the first time in ages. Trusting others did wonders for your confidence.

In turn, you felt like you had a good grip on your powers most of the time now.

Natasha was the one who helped you focus them the most. She seemed to understand something about them that you had never considered yourself, and the more you trained together, the more balanced you felt.

Your reaction time shortened. Your reflexes grew more instinctual, your fighting movements smoothened. It was a slow process, arduous and mostly the opposite of fun; learning that you were of no use to anyone when you were through all the resets you could manage had been one of the hardest lessons so far, especially since you could never predict when you’d reach that point.

But despite all that, you felt yourself getting better. Stronger, too. And almost never fainting after overextending yourself anymore.

You’d always had lots of time, but now, you also had people you cared about. It was a new thing again, a strange feeling, but good.

You’d do almost anything to keep it.

Most nights, you went to bed with a smile, but it vanished some time after you fell asleep.

Usually, your nightmares looked like this: You were walking through a bright void, and as you walked on, you realized you were surrounded by mirrors, an endless labyrinth of them. Each of your mirror selfs was turning a different direction as you walked, seemingly aimless, all of them chattering to themselves or each other, words you couldn't quite understand growing louder and louder until you were surrounded by a whirlwind of noise that shook you ever which way until you didn’t know up from down anymore.

None of you seemed to have any idea where you were trying to go, and slowly, your breaths grew more panicked as you realized that you still felt a presence, somewhere above you; something malicious.

And you felt it steering you like you were its lost little puppet on a string, around and around, until you felt the heat of flames licking at your skin and your world set on fire, the mirrors splintering into a million pieces.

You were aware that you should be in pain, but your mind was only set on dread, twisting its icy fingers into your heart and pulling. There was no space to feel hurt; this was a twisted torture chamber crafted from fear and living from fear and allowing nothing else but fear.

When you woke up, you’d be drenched in sweat and hollowed out, your throat sore even though you couldn’t remember screaming. Hell was an endless, empty place, and when you sat up in bed in the middle of the night, you’d have to give yourself a couple of minutes before you got out of bed on shaky legs and snuck outside.

You had been living at the Compound long enough you knew how to slip past super soldier ears and spy instincts unnoticed. The hallway seemed even emptier than usual at this time, almost like it had been crafted from another nightmare.

This one was dark, though, soft and gentle, so maybe it wasn’t as bad.

When the doors finally opened, you gulped down a greedy breath of fresh air, reality finally settling into you again. You sat down on the front stairs, wrapped your arms around your knees and looked at the sky.

It was cloudy, but every now and then, you could see the stars peeking through. It soothed your heart and made it feel sore at the same time.

You heard the door open behind you, but you didn’t turn your head. Light steps approached you, legs crossing next to where you were sitting, and half of a heavy blanket was wrapped around your shoulders.

"You’re like a living ice block," Natasha complained quietly as she bumped into your side.

You chuckled quietly, wriggling your naked toes. "Why are you up?"

"You’re not as sneaky as you think you are."

"Sorry," you said, tilting your head to the side so she could rest her head on your shoulder. "Did I wake you?"

"It’s alright," she yawned. "It was either you or Steve’s snoring."

The man did sleep like a locomotive. Neither of you were going to say anything about it, though. It was nice to hear he finally got some sleep again at all. Even if he might as well have put FRIDAY up to make an announcement.

You were nearing the fourth anniversary of the Snap. That fact alone was hard on all of you, but you felt guilty for another reason.

"Nat?" you said, and she hummed. "You know, my life’s been a lot better since … since I got here."

That wasn’t what you were going to say initially, but the truth felt too selfish. Too unfair. What did your happiness mean in the face of half the universe disappearing?

"You’re sweet," she mumbled, but you didn’t feel that way at all. What you felt was a harsh knot in your stomach at all times, because how was it you had spent the last couple of years? You’d found a new family. You’d laughed more times than you could count, found purpose in your powers again, learned to take up a space you considered your own, free of the burdens of anyone else’s rules or commands.

The only thing still haunting you were your dreams, and even they were easy to forget when you were awake. It didn’t seem right. How come you got to be so lucky in the face of all this tragedy?

"Nightmare again?" Natasha asked quietly.

"Yeah," you answered, staring out at the black lake. "You?"

"Yup." She sighed and stretched out her arms. "Wanna go get donuts for breakfast?"

You turned your head to look at her, grinning. "That’s the best idea you’ve had all week."

"That’s hurtful. It’s Friday."

"I said what I said."

It all felt too good to be true, and you knew it.

When was the second shoe going to drop?

* * * * *

"In other fun news," you tell Bucky as you are sitting cross-legged in the astral plane, on the edge of the bed he isn’t using, "apparently we have been underestimating our delivery guy."

He frowns in his sleep and you chuckle at the timeliness of it. Alpine whines at you.

"I know," you tell her earnestly. "Haven’t I always said that the wizard guys are bad news?"

You roll your eyes, continuing to flick through the pages of one of the ancient tomes that have come to live on the right side of Bucky’s bed. Ever since Strange’s disappearance, you’ve fallen into a new sort of routine, coming in here to conduct your research and feel at least a little less alone.

Even if you’re just fooling yourself.

Despite your best efforts, Alpine has proven not to be much of a conversationalist or particularly interested in magical theory. She’s mostly taken to flopping down on the bed next to you and falling soundly asleep as soon as the pretty green lights twinkling on your fingertips have ceased to be interesting. Honestly, you’re jealous.

"Anyway," you continue, uncapping your pen. "I feel like I’m on the right track, but I still can’t figure out why the last try didn’t do anything."

According to everything you’ve read, it makes no sense for a reaction of that impact not to have made any sort of dent on the loop. It’s possible that it simply is a case of a slower, gradual deterioration of its structure, but you’ve been stuck here far too long already. You are sick of waiting.

The fact that you’re only making tediously slow progress on your reading doesn’t exactly help either; but these grimoires are just so boring. You don’t understand half of the things written in them, and the rest of the time you have to literally catch the sentences before they are trying to slip away from you onto the next page.

Frankly, being a wizard full-time must be exhausting.

You’re not about to pity Strange of all people, though, especially not when a drawing of the time stone catches your eye before the ink has a chance to fade away. Quickly, you snap your fingers and create the tiniest of orbs on the tip of your thumb, leaning over the book.

In the emerald light, the illustration stays where it’s supposed to be, even though the lines blur a little in protest underneath your translucent hands. The words surrounding the stone appear to describe some sort of ritual, requiring all kinds of horrible-sounding ingredients and complicated incantations as well as—

You jerk the book away from you so violently it falls on the floor, missing Bucky’s head by a hair’s breadth. Alpine flinches, hissing miserably at the intrusion.

Bad news might have still been an understatement, you think as you try to breathe calmly again. This was a brush from the past you do not appreciate. Not at all.

"I don’t know how much longer I can do this," you say, hiding your face in your hands. "Maybe this reality is just doomed to collapse and I have to accept that."

Something soft bumps through your elbow and you sigh. Alpine has been uncharacteristically affectionate with you ever since you started seeing her in the astral dimension. Her eyes are somber when you look at her, as if in reaction to your distress.

"I’m quite a mess, huh?" you murmur, and she doesn’t even attempt to scratch you when you pat her head. She purrs quietly.

One glance at the alarm clock tells you it won’t be long until Bucky gets up. Those last couple of minutes before he wakes are the worst for him, muscles twitching with the visions his nightmares are putting him through. You wish you could make it any easier on him, but there’s nothing you can do.

"I think your dad was tagging the other day," you tell the cat.

Of all the recent tiny changes in the loop, the absolute worst ones are what you’ve dubbed the TAGs—temporary awareness glitches.

They never last more than a couple of minutes, but that doesn’t make them any less painful. Hearing the words, "Haven’t we done this before?" from a random stranger at a crossing made you almost topple over the first time. Then, there are the murmured "I think I’m going crazy"s and "It’s just a dream"s when you pass people in the street; not every day, and never the same person twice, but still more often than you’d like.

He’s forgotten about it all again by the time he gets out of the shower, and fuck, you think you might be going green with envy.

It’s the TAGs that make you double down on your studies, because even more than unexplained celestial phenomena and little time skips here and there, they seem like a pretty tell-tale sign that your universe isn’t holding up so well.

You keep scratching Alpine’s head with one hand while picking up the book from the floor with the other, suppressing a shudder going up your spine as you flip the page over.

You manage to scrape together a couple of measly notes on energy flow and general power recovery, which you then copy to your own sleeping body’s naked arms before bringing yourself back into the present. The notes are still there in this reality, and if you touched your skin, the ink would smear. It’s a mystery to you how the timing of it all works out, but it’s not one you’re going to waste your time and focus on.

Especially not because it’s already way later than you usually wake up.

Cursing, you stumble to your feet, slipping out of your loungewear and pulling on your combat suit. This is usually how it goes these days, with you telling Sam through the door that you need "just a couple more minutes" while already being fully dressed, letting yourself catch your breath and shut off your mind for the mission to come.

You’ve been doing this too damn long.

With a last tug at your gloves to make sure that your rings aren’t getting stuck, you flop down on the edge of your unmade bed, ready for the knock to come.

Except … it doesn’t.

You keep looking at the clock with a frown, as if that would change the fact that it’s almost five now and the hallway stays silent. At 5:04, you risk a look outside despite your get-up. Everything is dead quiet, even though you normally leave in precisely seven minutes and Bucky is notoriously noisy when doing his final weapons check.

"Guys?" you call out hesitantly. No one answers.

When you make your way downstairs, the shield is no longer leaning against the kitchen cabinets, and there’s an empty spot on the shelf where Bucky keeps his combat boots.

You have a terrible feeling about this.

Your hands are starting to get clammy, so you pull the gloves off impatiently, dropping them on the couch table. This time, when you look at your phone, there’s a new message.

Cap 🫡: New lead re lab. Taking J and the grump, u rest up!

You turn and run back upstairs.

At the end of the top floor hallway, there’s a narrow metal staircase leading to the private roof. It’s not very interesting; the space is cramped due to the solar panels that power the last remaining quinjet in the small hangar. Most plants you’ve tried growing up there have long since died, the wind relentlessly tearing at hair and vines alike. The latch is kept closed at all times unless someone is up there.

It’s open now.

When you burst outside, you’re still hoping against all odds. Expecting the jet gearing up for take-off, or Bucky and Sam loading the supplies into the back, looking at you oddly, the exhausted "did you jump again" look on their faces.

But there’s nothing there, not even a dark spec of the craft in sight against the beautiful sunset.

They’re long gone.

* * *

You don’t know what to do.

You can feel yourself spiraling, your heart racing as you stumble back down the narrow stairs, but you don’t know what to do. You don’t know how to fix this.

This isn’t just a small, inconsequential glitch like all the others have been; this is a shift in the narrative of the entire day. If you’re not with them during that mission, all kinds of things could happen. Maybe the white jacket from that very first time gets him again, or maybe Riff finds a new target for their knives, or maybe …

Or maybe it means Bucky will live.

Maybe that’s the possibility you’ve never dared to consider; that you might have to take yourself out of the picture entirely for him to have a fighting chance. Give up what little control over the situation you have left and let them try to get through this without you.

It’s not like we haven’t done this sort of thing before.

Your feet find their way to Bucky’s room faster than you can consciously catch up with them, and even though you expect it to be locked, the door swings open easily.

The astral plane couldn’t have prepared you for this: it smells like him in here. Warm and safe, just like you remember his embrace. The way the room feels to you is a vast contrast to the way it looks; the walls are even paler when they’re not warping around the edge of your vision, Bucky’s absence emphasized by the fact that he hasn’t put his mark on anything in here at all.

There’s a cat-shaped indent on the right side of the bed, and a couple of white hairs on the carpet. Even Alpine is gone, though. The whole apartment is uncannily quiet, in a way it’s never been on this particular Friday.

It’s almost like it used to be before anyone but you lived here, and you hate it.

You sit down on the floor next to the bed and lean your head back until it touches the bedding, hands twitching for your phone. There’s never been a reason for you to call him before; you’ve mostly had one-sided text conversations about picking up dinner and taking out the trash. You’re not even sure what you’d want to tell him. Don’t die without me?

This is ridiculous. You shouldn’t even try.

There’s a clicking sound when he picks up, and then more silence. Breathing. You can hear your own heartbeat rushing through your head.

Five seconds pass, ten, maybe more. Neither of you says anything, as if both of you have run out of things to say long ago. Maybe there’s nothing left to say today.

"Please come home."

The word seems unfamiliar on your tongue, but it’s never sounded more true. Despite time repeating endlessly, despite the empty walls and untold truths. Home.

There’s an admission hidden inside its four letters that feels, to you at least, a little like removing the mask you’ve been wearing, even though there’s no one here to see, even though he won’t get it.

You can hear Bucky exhale slowly, almost like a sigh, and then he hangs up. You throw your phone across the room, watch it break as it skitters across the floor, and then you cover your eyes and you hope.

What an ill-placed sentiment.

Your head is jolted forward and you sit up in bed with the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and you don’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. Minutes pass, days, weeks. It’s still July 4th. The green band of symbols is still slowly winding across your wrist.

Not going with them didn’t change a damn thing about his situation, and now you’re going to have to pretend all over agai—

There’s a pounding at the door, but before you can call out to Sam like you always do, you hear a different voice from the hall. "Open up."

You stumble out of bed, more falling over than walking to open the door. Bucky is standing on the other side, his chest heaving, blue eyes refusing to meet yours but narrowing at the sight of you. Alive.

Again.

The shock of it is enough to make you huff. It makes something flicker in his eye, but you can’t make any sense of it. Your heartbeat is way too loud to focus on anything at all, anything but the sweat on his brow and the harsh tick in his jaw, his teeth grinding so hard it must hurt.

"What the fuck," he says quietly, and your hand flies to your arm. It’s still covered in smudged pen markings, barely hidden by the shirt you wake up in.

"What?" you say, trying to sound normal. You miss normal.

Bucky’s hand tightens around your doorframe.

"I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I want you to stop." His voice is low, dangerously low. You can’t tell whether he’s furious or sad or disgusted or in pain; the wall has closed up over his emotions and he is as unreadable as ever.

Tell me.

"What do you mean?" you ask, your voice cracking a little.

"For fuck’s sake, Y/N, you know exactly that I keep dying," Bucky says, finally looking at you. You stop breathing. "You know it shouldn’t be Friday anymore, but it is, over and over again, and I know it’s because of you. You’re the one doing this."

You can’t move.

You can’t speak.

You’ve really thought it couldn’t get any worse than the short glimpses of awareness you’ve seen people go through recently; it couldn’t possibly get any worse than being witness to Bucky’s death every single day for weeks. But this—this is different.

That look in his eyes is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, and it doesn’t feel like a glitch.

He moves towards you and you involuntarily take a half-step back, your fingers twitching uselessly at your sides. For a moment, something vulnerable flashes on his face, but it’s quickly replaced by that unreadable wall.

You barely even notice yourself shaking your head. "It wasn’t—Bucky, I didn’t mean to—"

"Then what is that?"

He’s staring at your wrist now—no. At the green symbols dancing around your wrist.

Only now does it occur to you that you haven’t done anything to camouflage them.

"Nothing," you say reflexively.

"Bullshit." He catches your arm before you can hide it behind your back, his fingers closing tightly around it. The emerald runes reflect dimly in his eyes, giving them an odd shine. "What is that?"

"It’s a time loop," you say quietly. "The one we’re both stuck in."

Neither of you moves, the truth hanging between you as sharp and painful as a knife. You want to reach out, cup his face in your hands and tell him that everything was going to be alright.

But you’re frozen to the spot in your doorway, and you can’t lie to Bucky Barnes.

"What did it?"

Of all the questions you’ve come to expect from previous times you’ve told him, this isn’t one of them. "What do you mean, what did it?"

"Well, something must’ve set you off. Or do you regularly decide to kill people repeatedly and you’ve only just gotten to me?" He drags a hand across his face. "God, I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid."

You’re sure Bucky must feel your blood boiling through your pulse point. "Is that what you think of me? Do you think this is—what, this is fun for me? This is my idea of a holiday special?"

"If you asked me on Thursday, I’d’ve said no, but weirdly enough, I’m not so sure anymore now."

He might as well have cut you in two.

"Wow." You snatch your arm out of his grasp, ignoring how your wrist gives a painful throb. "You know, Barnes, I know you hated me when we first met but I thought we’d moved past that in the last few months. Good to see that you still think so little of me you’d have me be capable of being that cruel."

"Then tell me I’m wrong." You hate the way he yells it, almost like a plea. Almost like a prayer. It makes you want to curl up into a ball and scream. "Tell me you don’t have any clue what’s happening here or why, and that this has nothing to do with you and me."

You want to lie. You want to lie, you want to take it all back, you want to get out of this day.

Useless.

"I can’t," you whisper, and you try conveying all the things you’re not saying through your eyes, because there’s too much to say and you don’t know where to start. It’s not enough.

A slow nod washes his features with ice. "I thought so."

You feel a bout of panic rising up. "No, Bucky, please let me explain—"

"No, I am done with this. Do you hear me? I want you to make it stop. Now. Today. And until then …" He drags a hand through his hair, his jaw locking again. "Just—stay away from me."

Your throat is constricting, his name barely making its way over your lips before he’s gone, his fists still clenched tightly. There’s a hand-shaped dent in the metal frame of your doorway.

"Okay, would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"

You manage to shut the door in Sam’s face and lock it before your knees give in.

* * *

It’s impossible to tell how much time passes. Everything is so quiet around you that at first, you think the world must have stopped around you, blissfully holding its breath just for you.

Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe your powers are finally returning.

But when you open your eyes, there’s no mistaking the warped shapes and colors around you, and despite everything else, the letdown still tugs at your heart.

Still not good enough.

These past couple of times, with Strange gone, you’ve almost started to appreciate the weird quietude of this place; the blurred colors and washed out edges that distinguished this reality so much from your own started to look almost beautiful. It’s a space nearly out of time, just as much caught in liminality as yourself, but in a slower, much more refined way.

There’s something calming about existing somewhere far, far removed from your actual life with nothing and no one but a cat to disturb you.

It doesn’t feel like this today.

Today, everything has been heightened to look too sharp, too kaleidoscopically technicolor. The air feels thinner without your physical lungs processing it first, and you gasp so much you send yourself into a coughing fit.

Your sleeping body’s eyebrow twitches. She doesn’t know shit yet.

But Bucky does.

There’s no way this is the same as some of the TAGs you’ve encountered before. None of those lasted longer than a few moments, as far as you could tell, and absolutely none of those people came to any logical conclusions about your involvement with the creation of the loop itself. No, this is something different, something huge, something …

Shit.

It must’ve happened when you tried to change the loop. It must have reset it in a way, made him aware like you, except he’s the one who’s actually dying every day and—

For fuck’s sake, it’s been days. Days, and he’s only coming to you now.

I am sick of you pretending to fix stuff.

He doesn’t look any different in his sleep, and yet you don’t feel any of the usual calm looking at him. Something cold and sharp has taken a hold of your insides, gripping them tight.

You swallow down your nausea and grab the first book from the pile, blindly thumbing through it as you recall exactly where you went wrong during your attempt to dissolve the loop. Your mother always used to tell you to be careful what you wished for; clearly, the lesson still hasn’t sunk in.

This isn’t what you wanted.

You blink through the blurriness and catch part of an illustration just before it bleeds through to the other side; something green and gold and repulsively familiar. You quickly turn the page before the drawing evades you completely.

The Eye of Agamotto stares at you menacingly, and something in your stomach churns.

The remainder of the page is covered in the same small, slanted handwriting you’re already familiar with, spiraling around the Eye in its center at a leisurely pace that speeds up when it notices your attention; you hate spell books so much.

Part of the passage stands out to you, anyway, like something big and ugly and exactly what you’ve been looking for.

"… deliberately loop segments of time through the formation of a literal energy loop over the wielder’s wrist. Upon the wielder’s death, the timeline will …"

The words drip off the edge of the page before you can take in the rest of the sentence, and when you flip it over, they’re gone. They refuse to reappear, no matter how many times you flip back and forth.

The timeline will what? Move on? Repeat anyway? Disintegrate?

You groan frustratedly, throwing the book across the room as a rush of power floods through you, making your hands flare up. You push the useless green light away from you, and a ball of it forms in the center of the room, bathing everything in an eerie emerald shine.

Something very heavy settles in your chest; the knowledge of what might well be the only way out of this loop, after all. The one possibility you haven’t really allowed yourself to consider because you promised not to do anything stupid and this would be stupid, probably.

And you’re afraid.

It’s ironic, really; you’ve been trying to find a solution for so long at this point, and now you don’t like the one you’re presented with. You’re selfish, after all, and you don’t want to die. You’re terrified of it, just like you are of all the things that you have no control over.

But is it worth more than Bucky’s life?

If there’s a chance, even the slightest chance that he’ll make it out of this, that he won’t have to go through this anymore once you’ve left the picture, shouldn’t you do it anyway?

I want you to make it stop.

"Bucky …" you start, trailing off just as soon as you take a closer look of his face again. That familiar frown, and that light smattering of freckles on his cheekbones.

There’s nothing you could tell him here, anyway. This reality doesn’t help anyone; it’s as inconsequential as your actions so far.

You wake on the floor of your bedroom on the last July 4th and for once, there’s no blood on the bed. Your skin is sticky with cold sweat.

For a moment, you don’t know what to do next. You don’t know how to do it. Your gun is kept in the safe, and you’re not sure your hands wouldn’t be shaking too much, anyway; plus, you don’t want to leave any more of a mess than you already have.

You sit up slowly, staring out of the window. "FRIDAY?" you say hoarsely. The A.I. jingles to life pleasantly. "How high up would you say we are?"

"You are on the 92nd floor, or about one thousand, one hundred and twelve feet above ground."

"That should do it," you mumble. You’re feeling very light-headed somehow.

This would either work to end the loop, or you’ll wake up on Friday the same way you always do. Either way, Bucky doesn’t have to die again. The more you think about it, the more sense it makes. Why on earth you haven’t thought about this for longer than two seconds before is beyond you, really.

It has to work. You’re the one who inadvertently created the loop, and you’re the one maintaining it. Take out the head, and the whole thing goes down. Right?

It feels strange to pull your door closed behind you, not knowing if you’ll be back after this. You wonder if you should leave something behind, just in case. For Sam, maybe. Bucky will put it together, anyway.

Don’t do anything stupid.

You push the memory of his voice away. That was a different, long-gone version of him, one that didn’t really understand what was going on in the first place. One that was wrong.

Something whines at your feet. Alpine tilts her head at you when you bend down to pet her behind the ears, letting out a little sigh. Her fur is so soft.

She indulges you for a moment longer, and then she sinks her claws into your shin.

You yelp, staggering a half-step back and instinctively pressing a hand to the scratches, eyes stinging at the burn. Alpine looks at you haughtily.

"You really are a hellcat," you mumble. "And here I thought you were starting to like me."

You’ve never seen a cat stare at anyone so disapprovingly, but somehow, she manages.

* * *

One thousand-odd feet looks even higher than it sounds. You can barely see the people on the streets all the way down, barely hear the sound of traffic over the wind and your own rushing pulse.

There’s a certain kind of calm that comes with the clarity you’re experiencing.

You don’t want to do it; of course you don’t. But even apart from your determination to save Bucky, the thought of it is somehow … tempting. You’re so tired. Everything stays unchanged, no matter what you do, and you just want it all to stop.

Your hands are clammy around the railing. The midday sun is absolutely merciless, and for a moment you wish you’d changed out of your sleep things into something else. What would be the point of that, though?

It would just take a couple of seconds, at most. If you’re lucky, you’ll pass out from fright before you hit the ground.

Your naked toes inch closer to the ledge.

You’ve never been scared of heights, but usually you’re not planning to fall. You lean over a little more, forcing your fingers to let go, one by one.

Right hand. You tuck your necklace under your collar. Maybe you should’ve taken it off. Slowly, carefully, your grip loosens completely.

"What in the—"

You flinch, and you let go.

This is it, you think, closing your eyes shut as you lose your balance, it’s actually happening.

Things slow down again; there’s a split second of regret panging through your heart, followed by a surge of something through your lungs, something you haven’t felt in this reality for quite some time, and then—

A painful jolt goes through your entire body and you yelp as someone grabs your hand and you are hauled back onto the roof, your hip slamming into the railing.

You stumble into him, making a desperate sobbing sound as your knees buckle for the second time today.

"Are you out of your mind?!"

There’s a raw edge to Bucky’s voice that only your fucked-up brain could come up with. He’s still pulling you into him tightly, his arms like a life raft around you.

"Let go of me."

"I can’t."

"Bucky, if I die before we go on that mission then you won’t have to. Either it’ll reset or the loop will be over."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'? You said it yourself, you know—you know this is my fault. I have to fix this."

"Not like this." You can feel his heart thundering in his chest as he pulls you impossibly closer. "Never—not like this."

So you cry.

You both sink to the floor of the roof and you cry and you sob and you curse in Bucky’s arms for the second time because it simply isn’t fair.

"I don’t know what else to do." You take a shuddering breath. "Maybe they were right. Maybe I shouldn’t even be here. Maybe I’m just doomed to make everything worse forever. Maybe the only way to get out of this mess is to take me out of the equation."

"You’re wrong." Bucky exhales onto your neck.

"How can you possibly know that?"

"I just do. We’ll find another way." He swallows heavily. You can feel it, just like you can feel his thunderous heartbeat. "I—I’m so sorry."

"Why the hell would you be sorry?" you say quietly.

"Because this isn’t what I meant."

"I know. Do you think I haven’t tried? To stop this?" You hiccup. "I’ve been trying to do that for weeks."

He stiffens. "How long have you been stuck here?"

Wordlessly, you pull up the leg of your pants a little to reveal the tally marks you’ve been making; one for each loop.

Bucky just stares for a very long time, long enough for you to start squirming under his gaze. When he finally does speak again, his voice cracks at the seams. "Please tell me you’re joking."

"Why, are you going to laugh?" You miss his laugh. But how could you tell him that?

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his thumb ghosts over your skin as if he’s trying to count the days he’s missed. His other arm tightens slightly around you when he finally averts his eyes.

"I know, right?" you almost laugh, but it’s so nice not to pretend anymore, even though everything hurts and you hate him seeing you like this, but you don’t hate it as much as you used to. And you just can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

You still can’t bring yourself to move away from his touch, either. He might have to pry you off him at some point, as soon as he’s done feeling bad for and indulging you.

"Why did you come up here, anyway?" you ask at some point when your breaths have finally calmed again under his fingers soothingly rubbing circles into your back. Your thigh.

Bucky’s hum is like goosebumps down your spine. "I was on my way to find you. Alpine sat on the top stair and kept screaming her lungs out."

"Oh," you exhale. You rub your cheeks, slowly, contemplatively. "I’m sorry, Buck."

"You don’t have to apologize—"

"Not just for …" You nod your head at the ledge, cringing. "I mean, I am—I didn’t think you’d be …" There? Shocked? Giving a damn?

"You scared the shit out of me," Bucky says quietly.

And you don’t know how to respond to that. You can’t look at him, can’t find the right words because suddenly they all taste wrong in your mouth, too overwhelming or and too small at the same time.

I’m scared for you all the time, you think.

Finally, you settle on, "I’m sorry I got you stuck in here." It doesn’t even begin to cover what you’re trying to say, but it’ll have to do for now.

He shifts in front of you, and you realize that his shirt is basically soaked through. Between the sun burning down on the roof and you sitting so close to him you’re basically in his lap, he must be unbearably uncomfortable.

So you swallow heavily, and you retreat a little, your eyes downcast. "I’m okay now," you mumble. "You don’t have to keep touching me."

It seems like Bucky hesitates for a moment before he pulls back completely. "Right."

He gets to his feet again and your heart tugs uncomfortably, but then he reaches out his hand to you. You stare at it for a second before taking it. The metal has warmed slightly, but it’s still cool to the touch. Cool and familiar.

He lets go of you almost immediately to glance at his watch. "We should probably get downstairs. Sam’s gonna start looking for us."

"Stay," you whisper, before you think about it, before you can try not to sound so damn desperate. "Stay here, just this once. Please."

You meet his gaze again. There’s something different in his eyes now, something other than the pain and the pent up anger you’ve seen earlier, softer and more focused at the same time.

There’s a pause.

"Let’s go downstairs," Bucky says, that determined tick in his jaw returning. It makes your heart sink.

"Bucky—"

"If I’m not going, you’re not going," he interrupts before you can finish your protest. "But Sam’s gotta know. And you have to come downstairs with me."

You blink at him as something unfolds in your chest. "Okay."

* * *

By the time the sun starts to set, your head is aching almost as badly as the bruises on your side.

Honesty, as it turns out, is surprisingly exhausting, especially after you’ve spent all this time keeping your cards to yourself. It takes a long time to untangle the web of near-identical days that you’ve accumulated, to explain the mess of notes and references scattered on your skin. All the things that have happened, the research you’ve conducted, the different attempts you’ve tried to stop this day from ending how it always does, it all comes out in a blurt and terrible diagrams.

It’s familiar, in a way. You’ve done this dozens of times, after all, with Sam pacing and Bucky staring and your coffee getting cold on the living room table.

Only now, there’s a kernel of hope mixed into the same old sense of underlying dread. Perhaps, it whispers, this could be the last time you’re recounting all of this. Perhaps there is a way out for both of you, now that someone else remembers this whole shitshow happening in the first place. Perhaps, if you don’t lose time to explanations every single day—

"So, just to recap," Sam says, pinching his nose. "You’re both stuck in a time loop."

You nod.

"Like Groundhog Day," you and Sam confirm.

"Or Doubled and Redoubled," you and Bucky offer.

"What the hell’s that?" you and Sam ask.

"It’s a good story," you and Bucky say.

"Still isn’t, by the way," you tell him. "And don’t ever make me say that again."

His gaze hasn’t left you once, swooping over you repeatedly, like you’re a flight risk. It lingers, sometimes, on the scratches across your arm, or the smeared ink on your legs.

"No one’s forced you," he replies and you roll your eyes.

Even though you’re already starting to fall back into your usual patterns, something has irrevocably shifted, that small glimmer of hope being overshadowed by a vulnerability you’re not used to.

Awful or not, in a way, the loop has given you the same sense of relief your resets usually provide. Now that you know Bucky is just as aware as you are, you can no longer hide in the knowledge that he won’t remember a thing as soon as the day starts again.

Of course that means you no longer have to carry everything that happened on your own anymore, but you won’t be able to predict his reactions to the things you say or do either. And while that’s been the case for every day that wasn’t this damn Friday before, there’s one last thing that he doesn’t know has changed since today’s started. One last memory you haven’t shared, sitting in a park with the sunlight catching his smile, your heart pounding wildly.

I take calculated risks.

Now’s not the time.

"Alright, that was upsetting," Sam says, bringing you back to the present. "What I don’t get is why we’ve all been doing the same sorta stuff every day, mission and all, when that’s clearly not working."

You bite the inside of your cheek, but when you glance at Sam, he’s frowning at Bucky. Not for the first time, an entire conversation appears to happen between them in complete silence, one that ends with Bucky almost imperceptibly shaking his head.

Sam’s jaw clenches. "Fine," he says. "Have it your way, but you gotta sort your shit out at some point." He looks back at you. "What happens if we don’t go on that mission at all today?"

"I don’t know," you reply. "We only managed that once, and Bucky died anyway. And earlier than usual."

You don’t mention the roof. Neither of you has, even though you feel like it still clings your skin, making every inch of you sticky with shame.

"Alright," Sam says, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. "I’mma call backup and try to buy us some time. You two stay here and don’t invent any new dumb ways to die."

"You sure about this?" you ask warily. "We’ve never tried this before."

"Neither have I," he says, a tired grin flitting across his face as he grabs his jacket. "It’ll be just like old times."

Can’t say that, bud.

"Sam," Bucky says and he halts for a moment, hovering, "be careful."

You cross your arms in front of your chest as you watch Sam’s shoulders square up. He doesn’t turn back around, so it’s impossible to tell whether the sound he makes in his throat is a laugh or a sigh.

"What’s the worst that could happen?" he asks.

Thankfully, he doesn’t wait for a reply.

"Now what?" Bucky asks when you sit down on the couch opposite him, leaning your head back and wrinkling your nose when the motion pulls some of your strained muscles.

"You heard the man," you say. "We’re gonna sit here and not move and hope the ceiling doesn’t drop on your head." You blink one of your eyes open. "Thinking about it, maybe you should move away from underneath that lamp."

"Very funny."

"Oh, I’m not joking."

With an exasperated sigh, he crosses over and flings himself down next to you. His thigh brushes your knee, and your stomach makes an annoying little swoop at the contact.

You force yourself to lean back again, like you don’t even notice. Like you can’t feel his gaze on you.

"Are you planning on ignoring me now?"

As if that was ever an option. Your heart gives a painful tug.

"Oh," you say, ignoring it, "did you want to pretend that we’re good at having a normal conversation?"

"What’re you reading?"

You do open your eyes, then, and find him already thumbing through your book; you must’ve left it on the couch table this morning. It feels like that was lifetimes ago.

"No worries, be my guest," you say dryly. "You’re not the kind of person who dog-ears other people’s books, are you?"

One of Bucky’s eyebrows lifts with a crooked grin. "Wouldn’t you like to know."

"Give it here right now," you say, trying to grab it from his hands; he holds it out of your reach so quickly you can barely see him move, and you huff exasperatedly. "Bucky, I swear—"

"What, you gonna learn me?"

It’s more than the tone of his voice that makes you sit back on your heels; it’s the faint glimmer of a smile as he gently flicks through the pages, like someone who’s very familiar with their contents. "Have you read it?"

"Only several hundred times when my sisters wouldn’t fall asleep. They liked the part about it being 'not the sorta night for bed'."

"I can’t imagine why," you say quietly as Bucky continues to skim through the book, lost in his memory. It makes you ache a little. "Three sisters, huh?"

"Yup." He absent-mindedly traces the frame of an illustration with his right thumb. "I’m the oldest. Was."

There’s a dull sort of grief in that single word, one that makes your fingers twitch. Not because you want to reach out for time, but you want to reach out for him.

Instead, you let out a light laugh. "I don’t see it."

He puts the book down. "What, me growing up with a bunch of little pests?"

"You being nice enough to read them the same story every single night."

"Because I’m not nice?" There’s no venom in his voice, just vague amusement.

"You’re not patient," you answer.

Bucky raises a single eyebrow. "I can be very patient if I want to."

"So you just don’t want to, usually?"

His jaw ticks. "I really don’t."

Something hums in the air between you with unexpected ferocity, making your head swim with the confusing mixture of feelings you’ve gone through today. This loop in particular has left you hollow, too bone-tired to examine what this new, different tension might mean. At least it’s no longer pure animosity.

You think.

You clear your throat. "We’re both gonna have to be for a couple more hours. If we make it to July 5th, it might finally get us out of the loop."

"What, we’ve never tried just sitting around before?"

"Oh, I did. But you wouldn’t, whether I told you about the loop or not." This is the first time you’re both on the same page; at least the first time you’re both aware of it.

The gears are turning in Bucky’s head as he lowers it, frowning at the floor as he’s putting something together. You put your book to the side again and pull one knee up on the couch, waiting for a moment.

"Say it," you prompt him gently.

He lets out a slow, measured breath. "Do you think there’s a reason why we’re stuck in here?"

An involuntary laugh comes out of your throat, joyless and sudden. "You’re talking to it."

"You’ve reset things before, though. What makes it different now?"

"You died," you say quietly.

"Exactly." An angry flush washes over his cheeks. "So what if this isn’t about you and your powers at all? What if there’s something that I still need to do?"

"You think your unfinished business made the time loop? Like the universe intervening or something?"

"No, but … I don’t know. It feels like this is happening on purpose. Not because of you," he adds hastily. "More like, because of everything I did."

His voice catches on the last word, and the urge to reach for his hand becomes near overwhelming. The one closer to you is the vibranium one, though, and you’re sure he doesn’t need that reminder right now.

So instead, you let him sit in the silence for a moment. His head is probably loud enough.

"How long are you going to try punishing yourself for things you had no control over?" you finally ask.

Bucky scoffs. "You’re one to talk."

It’s not really a fair comparison, but it still makes you want to roll your eyes. Then, you remember something.

With a triumphant hum, you reach between the couch cushions. Every day, Sam loses his sharpie in there, and most of the time you’re too tired to remind him.

"Give me your arm," you say, gesturing over his lap.

He frowns. Of course he does. "Why?"

"Just trust me for a second."

Apparently, that works. His muscles flex involuntarily at your touch and you bite the inside of your cheek.

"How are your hands so cold?" he mumbles.

I just run cold. "Hold still."

"What’s that supposed to be?" He cranes his head. "I swear, if you draw a penis on me—”

"No. Self. Deprication," you interrupt him, underlining the words on his arm before capping the pen. "You got it? This was your idea originally, so you should like it."

Bucky stares at you, and you realize your heads are very close together. His eyes are sparkling with something like wonder and hope, and for once, you don’t feel like it’s suffocating you. It makes your insides flutter.

You move out of his space so hastily you startle Alpine, who hisses at both of you before jumping off the couch.

"I’m sorry," you say. "About earlier. I didn’t want …" For him to see you like that.

Bucky nods, finally looking away and closing his mouth again. You can’t help but follow the movement with your eyes.

"No, I’m sorry. I never wanted you to think that—that that was what I meant when I asked you to end this."

"I know that," you say, frowning. "I found something in Strange’s books about time loops—did you think I would just throw myself off the building because you were angry with me?"

"Of course not." It comes out a little too fast.

"Well, for the record, I wasn’t. So stop that." When he continues twisting his fingers, you slap at his hands, immediately regretting it when you hit the metal with a little too much force.

"What did you do that for?"

"I don’t know!"

"Idiot," he mumbles, catching your hand and frowning at it.

Just then, there’s the sound of an explosion outside, and you both flinch, heads whipping around to the window.

It’s the fireworks.

Crimson red, cobalt blue and bright white sparkles illuminate the night sky. You’d both missed it for the past todays. You’ve never made it this far.

Your look returns to Bucky again, because he hasn’t let go of his hand yet. He’s staring outside, his shoulders rigid, his fingers softly twitching around yours when the next pyrotechnic round cracks thunderously through the night.

"FRIDAY," you say, looking up. "Could you turn on the soundproofing?"

A blinking light around the windows indicates your command is being executed. The next colorful explosion outside is no louder than raindrops on the window.

Slowly, you tug your hand out of Bucky’s only to reach for him again properly. Your fingers slot between his, and he sighs quietly. You’re not looking at each other at all; you’re just watching the lights.

You know there’ll be music outside, parties going on all over the country, but in here there’s only the view of the night sky and the silenced cracking of the fireworks.

An unexpected wave of sadness hits you as another shower of light explodes outside. You think of your last New Year’s Eve at the Compound, of sharing a bottle of champagne with your friends as you watched a soundless firework display much like this one. Nat kissed you on the cheek when the clock hit midnight, and Steve stared outside with a look of apprehensive wonder on his face.

None of you were in a particularly cheerful mood, not after five years of not knowing how to bring everyone back, but still, there was a sense of calm that washed over everyone. The serenity of new beginnings, you supposed. With the familiar sight of Nat demolishing a bowl of leftover Christmas chocolates and Bruce humming Auld Lang Syne. You could only ever remember the chorus.

"We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne …"

"I have a good feeling about this year," Natasha said, leaning her head back against the couch with a tired smile.

Steve nodded, thumb continuously rubbing his old compass like he always did when he had that lost look in his eyes. "Yeah, me too," he said.

Not for the first time, you wonder whether they’d already known it would be your last New Year’s together. Whether they’d felt it in their bones somehow. You certainly hadn’t.

You would have tried to change it if you had.

Bucky exhales deeply when the wave of fireworks dies down. His thumb is absent-mindedly tracing light patterns on the back of your hand and you try your best to suppress a shudder, rubbing the tears from your eyes with your other hand.

"You okay?" he asks softly, not turning his head. Neither of you are ready to break this spell quite yet, caught up in the moment after resurfacing from the past.

"Sometimes, I miss the Blip," you answer.

Immediately, there’s the familiar ache of shame and longing. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but the patterns continue.

"I know it’s stupid, and terrible," you continue. "I know I shouldn’t. But I—that was the first time I felt like I had a proper purpose. I had people I cared about and who cared about me. I could just disappear from my old life, and no one would even think to look for me. They’d just assume I’d turned to dust, like all the others."

He knows the broad strokes of this, of course, but it’s not something you’d usually talk about. You don’t like thinking about your brush with genuine power all that much; it still makes you sick to your stomach.

"I was always told that I didn’t deserve my powers. That I was useless, that someone like me shouldn’t even exist. And that’s true, in a way, but it’s not like it’s my fault. I didn’t ask for them. But this … the only thing that I can do is trying to use them to help others, and now I can’t even do that anymore."

"I know what you mean," Bucky says. "But you’re wrong. You’re not useless, you never were. You were still the one in control, even though you didn’t feel like it, then. Your powers knew."

"I don’t feel like I’m in control right now."

You’re not entirely sure you’re still talking about your powers. He still hasn’t let go of your hand.

"You know what else is stupid?" you say. "They keep promising rain. On the radio. They say it’s 'a blessing we’re stayin' dry on Independence Day, but on the weekend, it’ll start pouring down," you imitate the woman from your local station. "Sometimes it feels like it’ll never rain again and it’s my fault."

"You hate the rain," he says, and you hiccup a laugh.

"Do I? I can’t even remember."

Bucky hums. "Were you ever going to tell me about the loop if I hadn’t confronted you?"

"I told you so many times," you reply. "You always forgot."

He sweeps a finger across your knuckles. "I’m not forgetting anymore."

"I know that now." You’re not breathing. You should breathe.

"Why did you stop?"

You pull your hand away and a shudder runs down your spine. "Because it fucking hurt."

He turns to face you, then, his eyes molten. "Twelve …"

"I don’t mean to interrupt," FRIDAY says with a tinkle. You flinch as the television flickers on all by itself. "But there’s news coverage coming in from the last pinged location of Captain Wilson."

They might as well have thrown a bucket of ice water over the both of you. All the softness on Bucky’s face freezes over, showing something else entirely.

Fear.

"Turn the volume up, FRIDAY."

"—yet unclear as to whether these explosions were also set by the organization. There are eye witnesses placing Captain America still inside the building, as well as at least thirteen civilians that have been trapped by the flames."

The footage from the scene isn’t anywhere close to the lab, but you recognize the building, anyway. You pass it about halfway through your daily mission flight, a highrise with an interestingly shaped roof. On screen, flames are licking out the windows.

This has never happened before. Then again, you’ve never made it far enough through the day. Was this always bound to happen or did something glitch again? Your heart is thundering wildly as the reporter continues.

"First Lieutenant Joaquín Torres, better known as the Falcon, has been transferred to Elmhurst Medical Center. His condition is still unclear."

"No," you whisper.

Bucky has gone white as a sheet next to you, his fingers gripped around the edge of the couch. "Is this …"

"This is new," you confirm shakily. "Fuck, Sam—"

"This won’t be it," Bucky says, standing up with a jolt.

"What?"

Alpine chooses that moment to jump onto your lap, and you struggle to pick her up to hurry after Bucky.

"This can’t be the one that sticks, alright? I won’t have it."

He’s taking the steps two at a time. At first you foolishly think he’s headed for his room to get changed; to try and make it there, help out, come up with a plan. Instead, he reaches under his pillow and your heart drops.

"Let’s talk about this for a second," you blurt out, plea, shriek, you’re not entirely sure. You’ve come so close. The magazine clicks into place. "Bucky!"

"Sam might not have a second," Bucky says, not turning around. It comes out pressed, like he’s forcing himself not to shout. "We don’t know what happens if he dies before I do, do we?"

"Well, no, but—"

"No but. I’ve lost too many people, I’m not going to lose Sam, too, alright? Not if we both know I can prevent—"

Alpine jumps onto his shoulder.

You stagger backwards with the force of it, and so it takes you a moment to realize that her claws are fully extended and she’s hissing into his ear.

To see him caught off-guard is still such a surreal occurrence, but not more so than his cat acting anything but affectionate towards Bucky. He’s cursing, arms flailing as he tries to push her off him, and within a split second, you have his gun in your hands.

"Damn it, Y/N!"

"Listen to me." It feels strange to point his own weapon at him, especially considering what he was just attempting. "We’re the closest we’ve ever been to midnight, which means this day is nearly over. I’ll get my powers back and we can fix whatever is going on with Sam, I promise you. It’s going to be fine."

"You don’t know that. Even with your powers, we might be too slow." Doubt churns heavily in your stomach as Bucky takes a step closer. His hands close around yours, pointing the gun straight at his heart. "Just do it."

You shake your head without looking away from his eyes. "I can’t."

His fingers press down on your knuckles. "We’re running out of time, Twelve."

Old anger bubbles up at the very core of you, and just before you’re forced to squeeze the trigger, you twist around in his hold. The shots go through the window instead, smashing the glass into a million pieces as the thunderous clash of the fireworks returns. You squeeze your eyes shut as the shards slice into your skin. Your ears are ringing with the sudden noise of it all by the time the gun drops to the floor, the magazine emptied.

For a moment, you both just stand there, breathing heavily. Somewhere behind you, you hear a disdainful meow.

"Geez, I hate you," Bucky murmurs, his voice vaguely pained. Your eyes fly open right as he leans in.

It all happens so fast.

He presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead before he lets go of you and leaps towards the ruined window.

And then he’s gone.

Too late, a startled cry falls from your lips.

You’ve seen him die so many deaths, but somehow, the intentionality of this one feels worse, much worse. You feel sick with it, the feeling spreading through you like poison, a quick thunderous rush of pain.

Then, you jerk forward and sit up in bed, the sun in your face, FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

* * *

"Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass ki—ooff!"

You slam into Sam’s chest before he can even finish his sentence, wrapping your arms around him tightly. After a moment or so, he hums and settles into it.

Sam gives really nice hugs. It’s not something you’ve consciously noticed before, but then again, it’s not something you usually do. This time, though, he seems to feel that you need it; or maybe some part of him does as well.

Apart from you clinging to Bucky on the roof and in some other bygone version of today, it might be the longest time someone’s hugged you in years, and it makes your heart ache just a little.

"Maybe I should tell FRIDAY to wake you up more often."

"Don’t even think about it, birdbrain," you mumble, squeezing him one more time for good measure. "I’m just glad you’re okay."

"I’m fine," Sam grins, still slightly perplexed as he steps back. "Did you have a bad dream or something?"

"Something," you say. "Have you seen Bucky?"

"Not yet, why?" He falls into step next to you. Easily, no tension in his shoulders. Same as always.

Your heart twists a little when you glance at him. For dozens of loops now, you’ve tried so hard to forget that your situation has any impact on anyone else; like you’re really just stuck in a game, the only real person that gets to make decisions, that gets to leave an imprint, however temporary.

Finding out that Bucky’s started to remember as well makes you remember that you’re not, though. This is just as real for everyone else, maybe more so, because it’s always their first run-through. It’s not the TAGs that show you glimpses of who they are; it’s moments like these. Seemingly inconsequential ones that never are, that no one who hasn’t seen them a hundred times would pay attention to.

Like the fact that Sam’s humming that odious song when you slow down, not bothered at all by your silence. He holds the door open for you and meets your gaze with a merry look in his eyes that makes another flood of relief rush through you.

He’s alright. And he has no clue that if this were any regular kind of universe, it would be Saturday and he’d be dead.

"Just wondering."

After all this is over, maybe you’ll make him another pie. Doesn’t matter that he won’t remember he deserves it.

Doubt creeps in again during training, though.

Yester-today was different. Even if Bucky says he’s been aware for a while, who’s to say that wasn’t a fluke as well? What if, despite everything, that was your one and only chance not to have to go through this alone? What if—

"Jesus, shit."

Pain sears through you as you drop to the mat, something warm and wet dripping down your chin. That’s what you get for being distracted, apparently: more blood.

"I’m so sorry," Sam says when he comes back into focus. "I didn’t mean to hit you that hard."

"S’okay," you mumble, your eyes stinging as you feel for your nose. At least it doesn’t appear broken this time around. "I jus’ … I gotta lie down for a secon’, I thing."

"You sure you’re fine?"

"So fine," you say, giving him a slightly shaky thumbs-up. "Honestly, I needed that."

"You are such a weirdo," he says, still not looking entirely convinced. "Get some ice on that soon, okay? I don’t want Buck to scalp me."

"Yup," you say, your head still swimming enough for the words not to make any sense. Maybe you should close your eyes and just wait here for a little while, you think as the gym door shuts with a click. You’re fairly sure the bleeding has stopped.

"You know, I hate to say it, but you look like shit."

At this point, you should have gotten used to the instant comfort the sound of his voice brings every day. You haven’t.

"You’re a damn bad liar, Barnes," you say, sitting up. "I’m a fucking treat and you know it."

He’s not sitting with his back to you, like he usually would, instead leaning against the side of the ring with his arms crossed. His hair is still damp and curling up at the front; his cheeks are stained pink from his run.

"So," Bucky says, tapping his nose. "Wanted to convince yourself that it worked?"

Another weight falls off your chest. He remembers.

"I know you," you say lightly. "You’re big on physical proof of timefoolery."

Your gaze flits to his arm. The writing has disappeared. Pity. Would’ve been a nice confirmation of your point.

He rolls his eyes. "Come here."

Gentle hands hold up your chin to wipe your face with a cloth he produces from … wait a second.

"That’s not your dirty arm rag, is it?"

"It’s clean."

"You’ve not done laundry."

"Neither have you."

"Please get that thing away from me."

You put your hands on his chest to shove him away, but you can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, and your usual instinct to antagonize him vanishes. There it is again, right there, against all odds. Steady and strong.

Alive.

"Hey. Look at me."

You do, and for some reason, he’s grinning. Tiredly, but still grinning. Like he’s onto something and you’re not.

"What?" you say breathlessly, and his smile widens like he wants to rub it in, too.

He takes your wrists in his hands and pulls them away from his chest, and maybe you’re still a little dizzy, and then he says, "I never hit the ground."

* * * * *

On the bad days, you often found yourself sitting alone in the darkened briefing room, having FRIDAY show you the pictures of the Vanished over and over and over again.

If you had been there, a nagging little voice in your head kept telling you, Thanos might never have gotten the stones. If you hadn’t taken yourself out of the equation …

Might not. Should have. A lifetime of them.

Echoes of memories had started invading your sleep again, too.

"Where are you, impossible child?"

You didn’t appreciate being reminded of that part of your past and so, when your dreams insisted on it, you tortured yourself with all the things you did, theoretically, have control over; even if it was too late for that now. It had been storming all night, raindrops still drumming against the windows.

You reached for the pendant around your neck, absently tapping it against your lips as the photos flashed across the wall opposite you.

The light switch flipped on and you found yourself blinking in the sudden brightness of it all. When the stars cleared from your vision, you recognized Steve in the doorway.

"Long night?" he asked.

When you didn’t answer, he pulled up a chair, for once not commenting on your feet on the table. Instead, he threw something into your lap.

You almost fell out of your chair.

"I had to fix up the pages a little," he said. "Took longer to dry than expected."

You stared at the cover of the old, well-loved edition of The Wind in the Willows that you thought you’d lost forever over a week ago. The colors had been touched up, the smallest details carved out anew with skilled hands and precise memory.

It looked better than the day you got it, and it still smelled the same when you opened it up.

"How," you whispered, your voice thick with wonder.

"It looked like something special."

"It is." You looked over at him, gratitude welling up in your eyes. "Thank you."

Steve didn’t comment on your uncharacteristically emotional outbreak, didn’t ask any questions, but you felt like you needed to explain it nevertheless.

"When I was younger, my powers used to be a lot more unpredictable than they are now, if you can believe it." You rubbed your cheek with one hand. "I used to get stuck between moments for hours on end, usually when I was somewhere new. Unfamiliar."

It had been the scariest part of your powers, then, before you’d learned to live with the unexpected silences.

"I always say I got it from the library, but really, I just picked it out of a donation box and started carrying it around with me. Then at least when it happened again, I’d have something to read."

It felt strange, now, to try to put it into words, how much comfort this little book had brought you in those long, dark hours.

There seemed to be no end to this wood, and no beginning, and no difference in it, and, worse of all, no way out.

But there was a way out, in the end. There was a way, and a door, and a warm, safe space waiting at the end of it, and no matter what happened, things turned out alright by the time you reached the last page.

It was pure coincidence that had brought this story to you at the right time, but it had always felt a little like destiny, looking back. And the fact that Steve had brought it back to you?

To say you owed him a favor would’ve been an understatement.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," you said.

"There’s a date stamped on the first page. I think it’s from when the library accepted the donation?"

You blinked. Nodded. You knew it well, even though you hadn’t stopped to look at it for years, usually preferring to skip the front matter and diving right into the story.

His next question came out softer. "How old are you?"

You’d always aged weirdly. Probably part of your powers, you’d supposed. Time had never passed for you like it did for everyone else, and it had been a living nightmare to try to keep up with it.

"I’m not sure," you said, your thumb playing with the edge of the pages. "I was ten when I got it, I think. It’s been a while."

You knew your birthday, but you’d been skipping through the timeline since you were in diapers, and so there was no way of knowing how long you’d actually been alive. How much did people age when they were stuck in limbo? How much did they age when time reversed, or sped up? Your body didn’t change when your powers activated, it never did, but that just made any clear answer that much more impossible.

Maybe you’d always been a little out of time, too, in your very own way.

You sat in silence for a while, staring at the ever-changing pictures on the wall. You were so sick of them, but you could never stop watching; you’d made yourself remember their names and faces, even though you weren’t sure what kind of penance you were getting out of that.

Nick Fury. King T’Challa. Maria Hill. Sam Wilson. Scott Lang. You glanced at Steve when Bucky Barnes’ photograph appeared, but the sadness in his eyes had hardened to a constant layer of ice by then, and his face didn’t change anymore. You had a feeling that the two of you had similar pastimes when sleep wasn’t restful.

"What about your family?"

"Don’t have anyone left," you said.

"Me neither," Steve said. "Not apart from everyone here."

You almost smiled at that, but he didn’t. "How do you bear it?" you asked instead. "Again?"

He shrugged, his eyes closing in grim resolution. "We try to fix it. That’s all we can ever do."

You couldn’t help but silently agree. It was the most hopeful you’d felt in a while, that night, surrounded by pictures of the past you were still trying to save.

That was a few weeks before Thanos happened again, and everything good in your life disappeared into thin air.

chapter nine

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

#bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

138 notes · View notes

lovelyrecs · 1 day ago

Text

His breath hitches when a memory catches him, and he steps out of the way of a shot aimed for his head like it was in the dream, just in case.

wait okay so what he writes in his notebook when he wakes up is the events of the previous loop??

There’s a flash of pain and a burst of green light, and then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and it’s like you’re still shouting his name, the sound echoing through his mind so clear and sharp it’s like you’re standing right behind him.

he's in the loop too?? he doesnt have like perfect awareness of it so he dreams the past loop?? is that why he reacts like that when she tells him 😭😭 why didn't he SAY ANYTHING

Probably his leave, he realizes, standing up. He’s had his indulgence. "Take the towel on the right," he tells you again. "I already used the other one."

his indulgence!!!

It’s a small, coal black ring that he’s seen many times before, and his stomach churns again as his hand closes around it so tightly it must leave an imprint. Of course, there are no coincidences in his life.

he has her ring??? the one that disappeared?? why. WHY DOESNT HE SAYYYY ANYTHINGGTTTT

He hates that he’s doing this, but it’s not like there’s a roster of people he could talk to. His shrink would probably just prescribe him some pills that won’t work again—that is, if Bucky could get a hold of him on a national holiday in the first place—, and even though Sam is going to laugh in his face about this whole thing, he at least has to try. Right?

yeah there's not a whole roster but there is like one person who you're already a little suspicious of and has TIME POWERS

also. is it too early in the loop for her to start telling him? he would remember that, wouldn't he? and he'd know why she isn't telling him. or is this one of the errors strange was talking about? starting after reader decides to not tell him (perhaps as a . what the fuck are you DOING)

"It was my fault," he mutters. The guy strolls towards a delivery bike, stealing a cautious look over his shoulder. Something about the way he moves feels oddly familiar.

Parker!! okay so he doesn't remember allll that well

She shrugs and redjusts her cap. "Just the usual amount," she says in a way that would make him smile on any other day. The tag on her apron has the name Nora on it, but he feels like that’s not right. "Do you want to order something? I can put it on her card."

an error!! except he also knows about it even if he doesn't ?? it doesn't feel right......

"How about you put down your number and I’ll pass it on?"

OKAY OKAY so this is very early loop, because he did this at the beginning. okay! so he hasn't gotten a chance to meet Peter better yet, reader hasn't wanted to tell anyone so she hasn't told sam first and hasn't gotten to know him. and he cant remember her telling him because she hasn't yet

There’s a click, and then the sound of the voicemail recording. Of course.

who is he calling 😭😭 i thought it was Steve but he really wants them to pick up and that means they can

"How many times are we gonna go through this before we’re done?"

okay wait what. this never happened in the other loops. is this a new loop.

You look at him, almost reaching out but never quite touching, your eyes gleaming green.

from the place she and strange meet?? he can see that too?? okay the implications for this all of this are insane. so now he's aware of the loop at literally the worst fucking moment possible and he's gotten a stronger connection to either reader or her powers because i'm pretty sure this is from her talking to him in the shadow realm or the correct name for it LMAO

time after time [7]

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 11.1k

chapter warnings: self-deprecation, negative self-talk and canon-typical violence. this one's heavy on the angst. it's also my favourite so far. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i return with a semblance of a posting schedule and a chapter that i'm well aware is absolutely insane. but that was always gonna be the case. enjoy my loves 💚

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

seven: spellbound

The slamming door made you flinch awake from where you’d fallen asleep on the couch, still wearing your extravagant jumpsuit. Bucky’s hands were clenched into fists, the frown on his face familiar and deep. He’d lost his tie somewhere on the way back.

"You alright?" you mumbled, getting up on one elbow.

He ignored you, facing Sam, who had his hands folded in his lap, back still hunched forward in thought or worry.

"You alright?" Sam repeated.

Bucky gave a short nod. "Can I talk to you?"

"Talk."

He did look at you, then, his gaze slowly and irritably dripping down your body. "I meant alone," he said pointedly.

"This is my home," you protested, sitting up properly.

"You’re a squatter."

"What do you want to talk about?" Sam interjected before you could snap back.

Bucky crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I want her out."

Your mouth dropped open. "What the fuck?"

"Tonight wasn’t ideal, I’ll give you that," Sam said tiredly. "But we got what we went in for and we didn’t cast any unwanted suspicion."

"Didn’t we?" Bucky said. "Because I feel like some of us remember tonight differently."

People murmuring in confusion as you blinked in and out of existence, knowing that something was off, even though they couldn’t put a finger on it. Agitated comm chatter throughout the corridors.

"Excuse me for saving your ass," you said hotly. Maybe it would have had the intended effect if you’d properly wiped the dried blood from your face.

"I didn’t ask you to do that," he pressed out.

"If it pissed you off so much, I’ll just let you get shot next time, then, see how that feels."

"Okay, I think we can all just calm down and continue this conversation tomorrow," Sam boomed.

Bucky gritted his teeth and turned his back on you, but you jumped up from the couch, your anger giving you enough energy to follow him to the stairs.

"No! He’s having a go at me for no reason at all and I would like to hear the rest of it. Tell me where I made a single fucking mistake. Because I can tell you when you did."

"I am sick of you pretending to fix stuff—"

"Pretending?!"

"Guys—" Sam called from the living room.

"—when we don’t even know what it is you’re changing!"

"How about you actually just trust me for once, like you said you would?"

"I said I trust Sam’s decision to take you on, and that I trusted Steve’s judgment. There’s a difference."

You threw up your hands. "You wanna know what I changed? Your fucking arm almost got both of us caught, tin man, that’s what I changed."

"Do you know what it feels like," Bucky said, voice shaking with barely restrained rage, "when people tell you things about yourself that you don’t remember choosing to do?"

"Must be nice to get to forget things."

Your fingers twitched at the same time as his, metal and flesh curling like you both wanted to clutch at something you couldn’t reach. In another universe, he might have turned on you, slammed you into the wall with his hand around your neck.

Do it, then.

But no. In this one, he just went very, very still. Like he’d simply turned to stone under your gaze.

"Stay out of my fucking head," he pressed out under his breath, so low you barely caught it at all.

"I have no interest in your fucking head," you said, rage and frustration blazing in your eyes. "You want me to be honest with you? Fine. I’m sorry about what happened to you and I get why my powers are touchy for you because of it, but you gotta stop telling yourself that I’m holding out on purpose or that I have any control over anyone but myself when I go back. I didn’t ask for this shit, so get off my damn back."

"Who did, then?"

You stumbled a half-step backwards involuntarily. "What?"

Bucky’s jaw was set so tight his teeth audibly ground. "How did you get your powers?"

You blinked several times, your nails digging into your palms again. "I don’t know."

He huffed, turning away with a shake of his head. "You gotta be shitting me."

"I don’t know, okay? I don’t remember. I have to remember every single reset I’ve ever made, but I don’t know when it started, or how, or why. It’s just always been a part of me."

"Then why don’t you try to find out?"

"Oh, because you’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you? Clearly, I have no interest in understanding the thing that’s ruined my fucking life. I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything I could think of, and none of it’s done me any good."

"And you’re just fine with that, and so we’re supposed to be fine with it as well. Not knowing what the extent of your powers is, or why you got them in the first place. Sounds like a great idea."

"It was enough for Steve." You laughed mirthlessly. "He told me once that we would’ve gotten along, can you imagine that?"

"Well, maybe he was wrong about both of us, then, but why don’t you do your thing and we can ask him ourselves."

"Because for the millionth time, it doesn’t work like that! Don’t you think I’d like that, too? To go back and undo all of this damage that happened over the past couple of years? But I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t change anything that’s farther back than eleven fucking minutes, and that was when I still had a family."

The word fell apart on the way out of your mouth, breaking into pieces just like the actual thing. You pressed your shaking palms against your eyes.

"So. I’m sorry, Barnes, that I’m not good enough for anything like that. I know that. I know that my powers are essentially useless, and I don’t need you to remind me all the time, okay. I’m already very aware."

* * * * *

Darkness.

Darkness and pain.

The sound of dripping, ticking, tilting.

Something like a bright light.

And then—

* * *

Bucky comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, right as he’s about to turn his back on the brownstone front of the Central Synagogue. There is a strange itch on his left arm that almost feels human.

He blinks, disoriented, unsure how he got here. The last thing he remembers is—

A car honks and he staggers to the sidewalk, head still pounding, and his good hand flies to the side of it, as if checking for blood.

He doesn’t find any.

Another nightmare, then. Disturbingly vivid, though. He’s concerned that his only memory of getting up and going on his usual run has the tinge of the dream to it, like he hasn’t actually woken up yet.

And neither the memory nor the nightmare carries the usual haze.

Bucky grits his teeth and tries blocking the whole thing from his mind. His thoughts keep returning to your scream, instead, which might be worse.

He notices he keeps rereading the sign in the window in front of him, and when he realizes that it’s yet another fucking Starbucks, he’s about to cut his route short and just go home, like there’s something there that could fix this bad feeling curdling in his stomach.

Instead, he takes a few shallow breaths, pulls his cap more deeply into his face, and then he continues.

When he was younger, he took up running to keep him quick on his feet during a fight. These days, he probably doesn’t have to keep on it quite so regularly, but there’s something about the rhythmic, constant movement that usually does help clear his mind.

Damn, he hates when his shrink is right.

Today, his run takes Bucky eight minutes longer than average, but he can wholeheartedly blame that on his almost-incident with the car. His thoughts are still stuck on what he remembers from the dream, spinning around and around in a loop until the elevator dings and he has to shake himself because he’s already here.

Maybe a shower will help.

It does, a little, because he turns the hot water to cold several times until he thinks, of course he’s awake. It seems so obvious now.

This is real.

The water turns off with that little squeaking sound that he keeps forgetting to fix. He doubts that anyone but him can even hear it; one of the uncountable inconveniences of enhanced senses is the ability to find some of the tiniest noises insufferable.

He shrugs a new shirt on and hangs his towel up on the only free hook, grabbing a fresh cloth from the closet. There’s not many left; neither of you has gotten around to doing laundry post-mission yet.

His heart is still beating a little harder than usual when he cracks open the door to the gym, peering inside right when Sam hits the mat.

"Geez, what’s gotten into you?"

You shrug and roll your shoulders, pulling him back to his feet. "I’ll dignify that with an answer when I see you kick above your waistline, Sammy."

Bucky can’t help but smile a little at the smugness in your voice. No matter what that terrible voice at the back of his mind is still whispering, you’re fine. It was all a strange, bad dream; end of story.

He watches the two of you circle around each other for a moment longer. There’s a grace to your movements as your eyes stay focused on Sam, calm and unwavering, like you’re anticipating the right moment to pounce on him. It’s mesmerizing.

Then again, you usually have that effect on him.

Bucky quietly slips away when you’re about to call it a day. Normally, he’d probably sit in your company to dry off his prosthetic, listening to your heartbeat return to normal levels and then watch you trot off to the showers with that little indignant shake of your head. In fact, there’s a significant part of him that wants to do just that; maybe he’ll catch a glance of that annoyed glimmer in your eyes that seems to be reserved solely for him.

It’s the one thing he gets.

He tries not to read too much into the fact that Sam gets things like an affectionate little suffix to his name when you tease him, even though that fact haunts him more than he’d care to admit. You probably don’t even notice you’re doing it, but it’s because you actually like Sam. Have learned to care about him over the past few months. And why wouldn’t you?

Bucky, on the other hand, is just Barnes more often than not. Which is fine; he’s used to it by now.

He opens the door to his room and a waft of stiff air hits him, familiar and suffocating all at once. For the first couple of months, he hesitated to even call it his room, even though he always picked the same one when it was easier than traveling all the way back to Brooklyn; the one upstairs with the large corner windows facing east and south.

It still doesn’t feel much like his out of anything other than habit. Blank, off-white walls, a half empty dresser, bed always made, the only source of disorder a couple of cat toys cluttered in the far corner. The only thing that reminds him of home is stowed in the drawer next to his bed.

He doesn’t open it now, instead reaching for the journal on the bedside table, flicking through until he reaches the latest entry.

But it’s strange.

Not the content itself, but the fact that Bucky could’ve sworn that he’d written it yesterday. He stares at it for a moment, flips the page over and back again, frowns slightly.

This nightmare is truly fucking with his head if he wasn’t even in a clear enough space of mind to jot down a couple of notes before his run.

He does it now, in as few words as he’s comfortable with, because something about all of this still doesn’t sit right with him but he can’t quite put his finger on it yet.

Out of some deep, dark instinct, his hand slips underneath his pillow, and he hates that his heart beats a little more calmly when he feels the cool metal of his gun right where he left it, where he always leaves it.

This is real.

Something nudges his side softly and when he turns, Alpine is nuzzling her head into the crook of his arm, mewling discontentedly. The sound melts a little more of his trepidation away.

"What’s wrong, sweetie?" he says with a quiet smile.

The cat observes him unblinkingly as he puts his journal down again and reaches out to pet her head, but she jumps off the bed before he can make contact, looking back at him in anticipation and, he’s pretty sure, annoyance.

She’s hungry, then.

Bucky sighs and follows her out of the room only for you to almost barrel into him. You’re sweaty and breathless, and he refuses to notice the way your training gear sticks to your body. In fact, he refuses to look anywhere but your face.

There’s an odd look on it, just as odd as the tone of your voice when you gasp, "Bucky!"

"Y/N!" he says, mimicking it. Adrenaline is still coursing through you, your heart beating so erratically he can almost feel it pulsating in his own skin. "What’s wrong with you?"

"Nothing," you answer quickly enough for him to know something is definitely wrong. "You look … normal."

"Thanks," he says dryly. "You don’t."

The nervous twitch of your ear is back, the soft tapping of your fingers against your thigh. At least he’s seen you like this enough times to know how to deal with it.

"You remember what showering is, right?" A tilt of the head, a hint of a scoff in his tone; you respond best to him pretending not to give a damn, and so he’s gotten quite good at it.

Predictably, your shoulders lose a little of their tension, even though your eyes don’t. "Fuck you, Barnes."

Really; he’s used to it by now.

Alpine meows again, like a reminder not to get hung up on things he has no control over, and it finally lets him look away from you. That’s always the hardest part, somehow, even though that makes him feel ridiculous.

Downstairs, he can’t keep his mind from wandering as he scrapes the contents of a tin can into Alpine’s bowl only for her to fall asleep in a spot of sunlight on the kitchen floor.

It’s then that he realizes the odd thing about you was that it almost, unexplicably, looked like relief.

* * *

Bucky’s been on enough missions with you and Sam by now to know you both use mindless chatter to calm yourselves in tense situations, and so he doesn’t mind forming the rear. Even if he doesn’t listen in on every word, he can easily tell if something about your situation changes while he’s covering your six.

There’s at least two guards patroling the grounds, according to Sam’s funny little computer bracelet, and so it’s no surprise that he asks Bucky to keep an eye on them while the two of you head up to find the entrance to the lab. You keep your hands raised halfway up, but Bucky can tell by your empty gaze that you’re tired. His grip on his gun tightens.

He nods to Sam once he’s in position, perched up on the roof just out of sight from any unsuspecting anarchists. Then, he watches you slip through the entrance of the barn-like building and lets out a deep, slow breath.

It’s been a weird day.

That gnawing feeling of déjà-vu has settled deep into his bones, like a pesky thought he can’t quite let go of. This, though? He can manage this.

The strange truth is—and frankly, this is something he’s looking forward to never disclosing to his therapist—that being on a mission like this one, having a specific set of tasks he can concentrate on, being keenly aware of all his surroundings … it has a calming effect on his brain. He’s not sure what to make of that fact, but it’s true.

He’s sick of the fighting, but he can’t let go of it, either.

Instead, he squints at the two white dots in the distance meeting on the other side of the block, gesturing for a while, and then slowly creeping closer.

Without taking his eyes off his targets, he tunes into your conversation again.

"—only scream when there’s good reason."

"I don’t wanna interrupt," Bucky murmurs, fiercely ignoring the untimely lurch his heart makes, "but they’re heading your way now, so get a move on."

"You’re no fun, Bucky."

He would love to roll his eyes, but he’s a professional. That’s also why he swallows his remark when you make a comment about your resets; it not like it’s surprising, anyway. You haven’t been sleeping well these past couple of weeks. Breakfasts have been particularly grumpy affairs since Marylebone.

The guards creep closer, and even though their faces are covered by the white masks, Bucky can tell they’re bored. Shoulders slumping, grip on their weapons loose, boots shuffling on the gravel. One of them has a pack of cards in her breast pocket.

If either of them were smart enough to look up, they’d spot him within a second. But since nothing unusual has ever happened during their shifts, it doesn’t even occur to them to do so.

Look at them, a voice inside him says. They don’t notice anything, do they?

Bucky’s jaw clenches, his finger tightening on the trigger. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Reminds me of old times," Sam says.

"Can’t say that, bud," Bucky murmurs. The guards are only a couple of yards away now. "Twenty seconds."

Take them out now.

"—makes Barnes cranky."

"You forget he’s always cranky."

This is what he’s good at, what he’s always been good at. Being the lookout. The Howlies’ best sharpshooter. His aim is perfect. His mind is clear.

They might be dangerous.

He swallows.

One of the guards trips over his own feet, almost losing the rifle he’s holding. They’re both amateurs; it’s clear from their posture, the way their jackets aren’t quite crisply ironed, even the way they walk. Neither of them pose any real threat.

Still, the voice says. Why not make sure?

It’s easy, so easy, to aim at the center of their white jackets. To imagine them soaking red on the ground while he barely moves more than a single finger. Just a flash of a second.

So easy.

"Any time, Buck."

Breathe out.

The taller one gets a bullet in her right shoulder, just underneath the joint, missing her subclavian artery; the shorter one gets hit in the kneepit as he turns, his rifle skittering away as he falls, safety still engaged. Clean and quick.

With one last glance around, Bucky jumps to the ground right as the explosion sounds inside. No one is coming. Yet.

He knocks the guards out with two quick blows to their temples. Their wounds aren’t bad, of course; just enough to keep them out of the way and hurt a bunch later.

Сбой.

No, but it’s all too simple. Too obvious. This, he remembers from his nightmare as well; the lab with the hidden staircase, the metallic stench coming from the leaking containers, the data stick and then …

Another fight.

The voice leaves him alone when there’s no time to think, and so Bucky trusts his instincts for this one. It’s despicable, really, how much the rush of adrenaline makes his blood boil in the best possible way, blocking out all other thought, leaving nothing but the cacophony of noises and the flurry of movement surrounding him.

This is what he was made for.

His breath hitches when a memory catches him, and he steps out of the way of a shot aimed for his head like it was in the dream, just in case.

It fires into thin air, instead.

The fact that it does fire, exactly like he remembers, takes him a fraction of a second to process.

Talk of a lucky coincidence, he thinks, knocking another agent out cold. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"We better get moving," Sam shouts, and Bucky nods.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you throwing another punch; you barely seem to have broken a sweat.

There’s something off about the way you move. It seems controlled, almost rehearsed in a way; as if your body knows exactly where to land your next attack without even thinking about it.

A little too perfect.

There’s a beat before you turn around to face him, and your eyes widen at the same time as Sam’s voice explodes in his ear, "Bucky!"

There’s something wrong with him.

Something wrong with his brain, something terribly wrong, because this—

He stumbles to the sidewalk when the same car as yesterday honks at him, comes to a halt next to the same street lamp, sweat beading on his temples in the exact same way while his bad arm itches and his head aches.

Bucky’s hand flies to his chest, pressing, feeling his heart beat erratically. There aren’t any holes. No broken ribs, no scars he doesn’t already know, every new trace of violence vanished like it had never brushed his skin.

Even though he just got shot.

Again.

He’s drawing attention now; he can feel the stares in his neck. It’s not going to take long for someone to recognize his face as well.

So he forces his breaths to slow, straightening his shoulders and tilting his head in the most unassuming way he’s taught himself. After a while, his thoughts start to clear.

There’s something wrong with his timeline. You told him once that going back felt a little like the moment before freefalling, and the bile in his mouth might just be proof for that hypothesis.

But how on earth would he have gone back, and why?

Maybe it’s his perception of time that’s warped.

He remembers the stories about people seeing their whole lives flash before their eyes before they die; and he remembers almost dying.

This feels like much more than a flash, though, and he’s not quite dead yet. This is real.

Right?

"This is impossible," he whispers.

His reflection in the Starbucks window does the same.

* * *

One more, he thinks as the shower washes away the cold sweat sticking to his skin. He’ll give this one more try before accepting that he’s either finally losing his marbles or that there’s something else going on.

His life’s been an assembly of unexplainable things. Twice might still be a coincidence.

Third time’s a pattern.

The shower squeaks off and he steps out in a cloud of steam, the cold tiles underneath his feet grounding, in a way. He wipes a streak of condensation off the mirror, staring at his own face for a moment, trying to find any signs of his mind starting to crack. His hair is long enough to stick to his forehead again, eyes tired as always.

Everything feels the same.

No one’s done laundry.

It’s like his feet automatically follow the same path they’d gone yesterday, turning left, waiting for him to push the door open, hesitating.

"What’s gotten into you?" Sam asks you again, and you shrug, again, neither of you noticing that you’re all retracing steps you’ve taken before.

Bucky thinks about the journal on his bedside table, and his fingers curl more tightly around the rag in his hand because he already knows, he knows it’s going to be incomplete again. The heavy feeling in his stomach settles as he sits down on the wooden bench, the sun hitting his arm at the exact same angle again. For a moment, golden spots dance around the room before he twists his torso just enough to make them disappear again.

He thinks about the journal, and he doesn’t want to have to look at it quite yet.

You flop down on the mat when Sam calls it a day, and Bucky nods back at him as he heads outside, rubbing a spot between his shoulderblades. Your face is still tense, even with your eyes closed, your heartbeat fast enough to make him tilt his head.

You’re so pretty. It’s not making the confusion boiling inside of him any easier to deal with.

The words are at the tip of his tongue without him having to think about them.

"You look like shit."

You blink at him in a peculiar way, like you’re just waking up from a dream yourself, and you let out a long, shaking breath.

"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."

It’s so normal for you to say it like that it almost puts him at ease. Almost.

"I think you nearly broke his nose, there." He presses the rag into another one of the crevices in his arm.

You hum noncommitantly. "Didn’t, though."

You haven’t put your rings back on, but your knuckles look fine, so you’ve probably managed to not do it in one try as well. Bucky’s gaze wanders up your arms again, slowly; your heart hasn’t calmed yet, and you continue to stare at the ceiling like you’re waiting for something.

Probably his leave, he realizes, standing up. He’s had his indulgence. "Take the towel on the right," he tells you again. "I already used the other one."

He doesn’t miss the shaky little exhale you let out as he turns his back on you, and his left fist clenches involuntarily.

One more.

He’s probably just going to have to take his mind off it all.

The air outside is sticky with heat; like the skies are supposed to break open but refuse to. Even when he squints, he can’t make out a single cloud in all that endless blue.

He keeps his head down even as his eyes scan his surroundings. It’s a little like being part of a movie he’s seen before.

There’s the woman with the two dogs, one of them barking at a garbage truck across the street. The banker on a phone call with his pregnant fiancée. The tired violin player busking near the subway station, playing the same song he did yesterday, something Bucky recognizes but still can’t name.

Everything is exactly the same.

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets to fish for his ticket, joining the other people lining up to board the subway, their faces too familiar to distract him. He keeps expecting one of them to break, to call him out on doubling back every day, but none of them do. They don’t seem to notice.

He almost hesitates before he knocks on Sam’s door that afternoon, but the knot in his stomach hasn’t loosened. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

I thought you’d be there, he texts the number that never responds. He waits for a minute, two minutes, but of course there’s no answer.

There never is.

Just another thing to take his mind off of. Let his mind settle on something concrete that’s right in front of him. That he has complete control over.

Besides, maybe there’s something he’s supposed to get right here.

But when Sam calls, "We need to get moving," Bucky already knows, deep down, how this is going to end. His heart is beating frantically as the situation stays out of control, even though this should be easy. He’s seen this before. What is he missing?

The voice at the back of his mind hums dangerously, and he ignores it, punching out the agent in front of him and then whipping his head around to find you already staring at him with your eyes wide and for a moment, the world freezes because you look at him like … well, fuck.

Like he’s usually looking at you.

Desperate.

It’s his last thought before something right next to him explodes and there is nothing but pain.

And then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and this time, this third time, he feels like he’s earned the right to be considerably less calm about the whole thing.

The car honks and the people stare and Bucky throws up on the sidewalk next to Starbucks because the world is still hung up on Friday and he’s died three days in a row. When he rummages through the pockets of his slacks for a tissue, his hand grazes something cool.

He really should’ve known better from the start.

* * *

He needs to talk to you.

He thinks it when he puts the ring back into his pocket and he’s still thinking it when he bursts into the Tower, doors slamming loud enough to startle Alpine awake from her spot on the couch. He needs to talk to you, and you’re going to figure this out together, because that’s what you do. It’s what you always do.

But she’s got time powers.

He presses his lips together tightly as he jogs up the stairs two at a time, ignoring the thought. Then again, there’s the piece of soap on the tiles next to the sink that he’s picked up three days in a row now, and his hand reaches for the same towel automatically, and how the hell does one get stuck in a time loop in the first place?

Месть.

Bucky turns the shower off so resolutely part of it dents. No, he thinks. If you knew, you’d get him out of this. He knows that you wouldn’t wish him harm.

Then how?

"You’re dead," he says out loud, staring at his own steamed up reflection. "You’re not real."

Neither of us is.

His heart beating out of his chest would disagree.

When he sits down next to you today, he watches you apprehensively. You still ignore him, but it seems to come so natural to you. As if all of this is normal, as if you don’t even notice something is wrong, even though you have to, right, you have to.

"You look like shit," he says out loud, but he feels like he’s still talking to himself.

Fuck you, Barnes.

And then it happens again.

Clearly, he’s losing his mind.

It’s the only explanation that’s left. He’s already been to hell and back and now he’s going mad, he’s finally going mad, he’s going insane—

No, you’re not.

His own heartbeat sounds so loud in his ears as the shower screeches off and something settles in his stomach like a stone, something as sure and familiar and uncomfortable as that voice that’s been getting louder each day.

You’re as clear-headed as you’ve ever been.

Which means that once again, someone or something else is trying to mess with his head, only this time, it’s already been screwed with enough for him to tell.

Here’s the thing about all this that keeps rubbing him the wrong way, keeps scratching at the very back of his mind just like the parts of him he’d rather keep buried for the rest of his days: If you truly don’t know this is happening, then why are you the only one doing something different every time?

Bucky’s spent the better part of his life honing in his perception skills, and he’s seen everyone else behave in the precise same manner four, five, six days in a row, but you … you’ll leave a room a few minutes earlier than the day before, or order a different lunch, or wear a different shirt.

It’s not easy to miss in the slightest and it makes him doubt you’re as clueless to this as you pretend to be.

Which leaves him with the version of events he hates the most, and which is therefore the most likely: If you do know this is happening, then why do you keep up this charade? Is it because you’re responsible for all this somehow? And if you are, is it on purpose?

That’s too many ifs for his liking. It all makes him think back to the Westview Anomaly, so he reads up on it.

And then he decides that he’d rather know whether the sinking feeling in his gut is right.

You’re staring up at the ceiling like you want to pretend he’s not even there, and his good hand is shaking too much to be of much use in drying the arm.

"Take the towel on the left," he makes himself say. "I already used the other one."

There’s a shuffling as you sit up, but he can’t bear to turn around. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"I said use the one on the left, because I took the other towel," he repeats.

"Right," you say, and then he can hear your rings clink against each other as you collect them from their dish.

Maybe he should return the one he found in his pocket. Maybe you just haven’t realized it’s missing yet, because this is your first time living through this day and you don’t know to ask for inconsistencies yet.

You shuffle towards the showers, and he’s startled to realize how relieved he feels. Strange, really, to put that much weight on a towel; but at least it means you don’t—

"Hey, Bucky," you say, hesitating at the door, and his stomach drops a little. "What day’s today?"

"Friday," he answers, his voice surprisingly level. "Why." It’s not really a question.

"No reason," you say, and the door clicks shut behind you. The sound seems to echo in the empty gym.

"Something weird is happening," he tells Sam as soon as he can hear him approach the kitchen.

"You sound like Y/N," Sam says, pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes.

Bucky grimaces, which earns him a concerned head tilt. Sometimes, Sam reminds him of all the best parts of Steve, and he doesn’t know whether that makes him calmer or furious.

"Talk to me, Buck."

He stares at the milk carton like it’s holding the solution to his problem. "I think she’s doing something to me."

Sam snorts. "Thank you, Captain Obvious."

He says it so lightly, almost jovially, and Bucky’s nails dig so hard into his palms one hand draws blood. "You know?" he says tonelessly.

"Are you kidding me?" Like he’s tickled. Like he’s been in on the joke for a while. "You two have been doing this dance for months."

Despite it all, his heart cracks a little more. "What?"

Sam hesitates for a moment before squinting at him. "We’re not talking about the same thing, are we?"

And Bucky supposes they’re not, they’re really not, so he says, "Today should be Tuesday."

A frown. "What do you mean?"

"What day is it?"

"Friday," Sam says.

"Wrong," Bucky tells him. "Yesterday was Friday. And so was the day before, and the one before."

He finally puts his bowl down on the counter. "Are you having a stroke?"

"Sam, listen to me. Today keeps repeating."

He frowns. "You mean like a time loop? Like you’re in Groundhog Day?"

"I don’t know what that is." A fun little name for his personal Gehinnom.

Just deserts, don’t you think?

"Have you talked to Y/N about this?" Sam asks. "I mean, that’s kind of her thing. I’m sure whatever this is, she can help you out." He still sounds a little incredulous, but he knows Bucky well enough to recognize when he’s not joking.

He’s never felt less like joking.

"There’s also this." He pulls out the ring. "I found this in my pocket. Why would it be in my pocket?"

Sam leans against the counter. "You tell me, man."

"I think she knows something."

"But that’s a good thing, right?"

Theoretically. Not when he’s died for a week straight, though.

"Then why didn’t she tell us?" He hates the despair in his words, the paranoia seeping through. He hates that Sam catches it, and that his features morph into something that’s supposed to look understanding, even though he doesn’t get what this is about.

"Maybe you’re wrong," Sam says gently. "Are you sure she’s not just as oblivious to this as everyone else?"

Bucky drags a hand through his hair. His left shoulder aches. "I don’t know."

Yes. You do.

"I’m telling you, there’s something going on."

Sam stares at him for a long, hard moment, and then he nods. "Okay. What do you want to do?"

He wants to sleep in on Saturday. He wants to stop feeling so confused. He wants the words in his throat to stop choking him.

But what he wants hasn’t mattered in eighty years.

And so he doesn’t say, I’m scared.

He doesn’t say, I feel so alone.

He doesn’t say, I don’t want to die.

And the only one who hears those things swallows them up whole until there’s nothing left.

"I’ll tell you when I find out," he says, because that’s the only thing that will leave his mouth. And if Sam looks at him doubtfully, well, maybe he knows him a little too well.

* * *

"I’m gonna go get some coffee. Do you want something?"

Bucky can hear your keys clattering as you pull on your shoes in the hallway, but he doesn’t move from his spot on the couch. He has to think.

"I’m good," he says blankly.

Are you?

Even Alpine looks at him doubtfully. He leans back a little until a spot of sunlight reflects from his watch, making her pounce at it playfully. Normally, it’d make him smile.

She jumps up on the coffee table and sniffs at the shreds of cardboard someone’s left behind. They weren’t there yesterday.

On the muted television, Sam enters the stage with his signature cap grin. Presumably, there’s thunderous applause, because it takes him a while to actually step up to the podium and begin his speech.

In the background, dozens of important-looking people gaze at him expectantly, with the exception of a woman with short blonde hair who’s turned away from the stage, holding both hands to her ears like she’s trying to understand a person on the phone. Bucky squints.

"You sure?"

Reflexively, he looks up at the sound of your voice, only to see you leaning in the doorway with a cautious expression that doesn’t help his muddled thoughts in the slightest.

Talk to me.

"Why are you wearing a jacket?" he asks.

You tug at the sleeves, not meeting his eye. It’s become a habit he doesn’t care for. "To be more like you," you deadpan.

It would feel so normal if only he could shake the feeling that something is wrong. Something is off.

He catches a glimpse of your hands just before they vanish into the pockets of your jacket. Not long enough to clearly see what color your rings are, but enough to notice one’s missing.

It’s flitting through his own fingers instead, and you would notice, too, if you would just look at him.

"You sure you alright?" he asks, and for a split second there’s something like a flicker on your face, but it washes away immediately, replaced by the usual unbothered exterior you’ve been wearing.

"Just fine," you say, voice even, face neutral.

And the problem is that he’s not sure if you’re lying. Normally, it’s so easy to tell, but right now …

Alpine rubs her head against his palm, your ring pressing into it like a reminder, and it sends a chill down his spine.

Bucky waits for the door to click shut behind you before slipping into his shoes and quietly following after you. He takes three steps at a time to keep up with the elevator, and in his rush he ends up having to wait for it to arrive in the lobby, glancing surreptitiously through the small window in the fire door.

A change has gone through you while you were out of his sight. The mask you’ve been wearing whenever you know he’s around has vanished, dropped like your shoulders. When you cross the entrace hall, the usual bounce in your step is gone and you just look tired.

The frown on his face deepens. He makes himself count to ten before following you.

Stepping outside at this time of the day always feels like getting slapped across the face by the noise and the heat. The sun is relentless today, and he can feel sweat beading on his neck, but you don’t so much as readjust your jacket as you make your way across the street, slowly, like you’re letting yourself be carried by the crowds.

Bucky keeps enough of a distance so even you won’t get a second chance to become aware of him. Just before you enter the Starbucks, your chin raises up again, your spine straightening.

It’s uncanny to witness your defenses going up as clearly as this, and it makes him stop in his tracks so abruptly someone almost bumps into him.

"Hey, I was just—oh, sorry, Sergeant Barnes."

"It was my fault," he mutters. The guy strolls towards a delivery bike, stealing a cautious look over his shoulder. Something about the way he moves feels oddly familiar.

There’s no time for Bucky to entertain the thought much longer, because a couple of minutes later you step out onto the sidewalk again, drink in hand, and he retreats a bit further into the alley, expecting you to pass him on your way back. You don’t, though. Instead, you look up at the sky and let out a sigh before turning and strolling down Lex.

You didn’t do that yesterday, either.

Bucky hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t want to outright follow you around for the rest of the day; he only wanted to see … what, exactly?

He groans quietly and then walks into the Starbucks himself. Maybe coffee isn’t such a bad idea after all.

Besides … it’s not like she’s that fast.

How strange to know that if he really wanted to, he could probably track your steps without much of a problem, even on a day as busy as today. It unsettles him more than he would like to admit.

The AC blasts a little bit of common sense back into him, even though the volume inside the store immediately makes him want to tear his ears out. It’s not that busy at the moment, but the amount of noise of the chattering people and the coffee grinders and the milk steamers is close to unbearable as usual.

The barista who has a crush on Sam is working the register again, fanning herself with a playbill. There are red, white and blue stripes running down her forehead, and Bucky briefly wonders how she keeps it from getting into her eyes.

"Hi there," she says with a knowing grin as soon as she recognizes him. "You just missed Y/N."

"I saw." Bucky shifts his weight. "Did she seem weird to you?"

She chuckles. "Apart from the fact that she ordered decaf?"

He frowns. "Something like that."

Normally, he’d refuse out of principle, but it’s not like anything he does today matters.

"Thanks," he says. "I’ll have a coffee, then."

He doesn’t even particularly like coffee, but it does help when he hasn’t slept a lot. And, truth be told, he’s not sure when the last time he slept was. He’s been awake for a week, but without feeling any of the usual side effects of insomnia.

Or the numerous head wounds.

"Mhm," Not-Nora says. "Little more specific?"

Well, shit. "Not decaf?" he tries.

"You’re useless," she smiles and then taps her screen a bunch of times. "Alright, move along. Tell cap good luck from me."

He almost smirks. "Why not tell him yourself?"

She huffs, blushing ever so slightly. "I’m not getting out of here ’til one and I’m already a sweaty mess."

And maybe it’s because his day has been nothing but a shitshow over the past week. Maybe it’s because Sam hasn’t talked about Leila in over three weeks even before Friday started, and Bucky doesn’t like his friends being quietly miserable. Maybe he just wants to see something work out for a change.

It’s been a while since he’s played matchmaker. His sisters would’ve laughed about this for weeks; maybe he does it for that thought.

"How about you put down your number and I’ll pass it on?"

Not-Nora perks up even as her flush deepens. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

When he leaves five minutes later, her phone number is scrawled along one side of his paper cup, and even though the coffee tastes just as disgusting as usual, he can’t help but feel like maybe he can do one tiny thing right. At least for a moment.

His feet carry him down Lexington Avenue without him even consciously thinking about it, and he gets as far as three blocks before he remembers that Sam’s speech started at 14:00. He jerks up his watch so quickly the coffee spills on his shirt, but he barely hisses at the burn.

14:47.

What’s the point? he thinks as he throws the empty cup into the closest trash. Or maybe he does.

* * *

He throws his punches a little harder each day.

It takes all of his might not to lose himself completely in the fight to come, not to unleash his full serum-powered strength on a couple of faceless fanatics who would be fine again in a couple of minutes, anyway, depending on how long he’ll make it today. Still, there’s a certain mindlessness to it as he repeats his own steps, ribs cracking and wrists twisting as he strikes again and again and again.

"I think I’m losing it," he tells Sam about a week in.

"Like a bad day or you’re about to go Shining on me?"

So far, there hasn’t been any shining, but it wouldn’t make a difference.

"Two o’clock."

He’s already half-turning when you say it, already pulling the trigger as the words leave your mouth, moving on muscle memory alone at this point. And you still don’t notice.

A single bead of sweat runs down the side of your neck as you kick another one of your assailants in the groin, and even though your eyes are focused, you’re not in it.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say you were just concentrating; but he knows you can be in the moment and quip freely at the same time. He’s seen you do it countless times before today.

But it’s Friday, endless, sweltering, blood-stained Friday, and it’s like you’ve turned into a robot version of yourself, every move premeditated and precise, every look and word and nod planned and practiced just enough not to arouse suspicion in anyone who doesn’t look as closely as he’s had time to. It’s a game of pretend, and you’re almost winning. You’re almost perfect.

No. You’re too perfect.

Perfect in your display of almost-shock, of almost-pain as the knife cuts through Bucky’s kevlar vest like butter and lodges right above his heart. At first, he barely feels it; he only tastes the blood bubbling up his throat when his mouth drops open.

His eyes stay on you as he thuds to his knees, bones crunching, eyes watering. You catch him, barely, supporting his shoulders to keep him steady.

Your silence is deafening.

"What’s wrong with you?" he murmurs as the ringing in his ears gets louder, barely audible enough for you to hear, but clearly you do, because something shifts in your eyes, and oh.

There’s that glimmer in your eye he loves looking at so much, the one he only gets to see when he teases it out of you. That spark of mischief he’s missed during all this, like your fire has burned out.

He’s never hated it more.

And then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and once again, he feels like a decision’s been made for him already.

He makes it to the side of the road and sits down on the boardwalk, ignoring the bustle of curious people around him. Instead, he stares directly at the synagogue on the other side of the street, and he doesn’t ask why.

He asks, Like this?

And just like he expected, there’s no answer. Not even from within.

He presses both of his hands to his heart to feel it beat against his palm, more steady than his thoughts and still there. He’s still there.

It’s Friday again.

Bucky thought, not too long ago, that with everything he’s come to know and … like about you, you were someone he could let in. That someday, he could let you see him, with everything he’s used to hiding away underneath all of the protective layers he’s built around his heart.

Maybe he was wrong.

He should confront you. No, he should just ask. Why can’t he bring himself to ask?

Сбой, the voice in his head reminds him again and he presses it down, down between his torn open ribs, shoves it underneath the wounds that keep reopening anyway because he’s sick of having to listen to it all the time, sick of never being alone in his own damn head anymore, of not being able to leave a single day behind, let alone anything else.

Something tugs at him from deep within, and it’s enough to make him get up, rub his palms against his pants, and then take out his phone as he starts walking again. He knows the number by heart, but he’s never been able to actually hit the call button before, even though he’s tried. He’s tried countless times.

His speed picks up with every ring of the phone because something about this makes him feel like running away. Like maybe he gets it now. Like—

There’s a click, and then the sound of the voicemail recording. Of course.

Bucky groans. "Damnit, I know you’re never gonna listen to this, but there’s something really fucked up going on and I don’t—I don’t know what to do, man."

He keeps walking, keeps his head up even when he bumps into people, because what does it matter, right now? He ignores the red light at the next crossing, mostly because he needs to move.

"It’d be real fuckin’ decent of you to just pick up the goddamn phone every once in a while, you know, because that’s what—"

"Buck?"

For a second, everything screeches to a halt.

He’s not sure what comes first, him dropping his phone or the car hitting him from out of nowhere, but the next thing he knows is he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, right as he’s about to turn his back on the brownstone front of the Central Synagogue, and it feels like someone just ripped his heart open all over again.

He flips the car off when it honks, not even caring about the ache in his limbs. His phone is safely tucked away in his pocket, and when he pulls it out again, there’s not so much as a scratch on the screen, but right now, it’s not like he would have cared.

The next five times he tries, the call doesn’t even go through.

He knows that voice. He knows it just as well as his own, just as well as the one hiding inside some dark corner of his mind, and it shouldn’t sound like that anymore.

The thing inside stirs again, that other, softer voice, that part of him he hates just as much.

Keep trying, it says.

It’s the part of him that told him to jump from the helicarrier. The part of him that still refuses to believe he was past redemption despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary; the part of him that’s too damn hopeful for its own good, and somehow still persists.

Talk to her, it says.

He can’t go on listening to ghosts for the rest of his days.

Or day, rather.

His thumb hovers over the call button one last time, and then he shuts his phone off.

* * *

"You look like shit."

"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."

He scoffs, but his mind is still hurling with anger and pain and confusion, and it comes out like a growl. He’s vigorously scrubbing at the crevices in his arm. Maybe the inside is still stained with his blood; maybe that’s why it feels so heavy.

"Are you alright?" you ask and his head snaps up.

You look so innocent, almost concerned. Normally, he would enjoy it for the second it would last, but today, it sticks. Everything sticks today.

"What do you think?"

Your eyes widen just a little bit, but you don’t say anything. You still don’t fucking say anything, and that’s more telling than anything else in this endless nightmare so far.

You’re not asking what’s wrong with him, because you know. You know.

"How many times are we gonna go through this before we’re done?"

You bite your cheek, your fingers twitch. "I don’t know," you say, and your voice sounds so far removed it barely sounds like yours anymore.

Fine, he thinks. If you’re not telling him, then it really is some elaborate scheme to punish him. To make him think he’s lost his mind again, make him see that free will is nothing but an illusion, that things will always, always stay the same no matter what he does. He gets the point.

Then why does it hurt so much to know? Why does it hurt to know you?

Maybe because none of this, as terribly, horribly real as it’s been, has felt like it was true at all. He’s still missing a piece of the puzzle, and you’re refusing to give it to him. If he only knew what went wrong between the two of you—no.

You’re clearly done with him, and he’s not going to beg for answers he’s not going to get. People he cares for usually made a point of leaving him; why should it have been any different with you?

By the time Sam enters the kitchen, Bucky’s been glaring at the fridge for a while already. There’s a magnet in the shape of a blue alien with six arms holding up your shopping list; a couple of sticky notes with passive-agressive messages on them, most of them about the cat litter; a postcard from the exhibit at the National Air and Space Museum. Trivial bits and pieces.

He wants to set all of it on fire, starting with the postcard.

"She knows," he says without turning when he hears Sam’s steps behind him. They halt on the other side of the kitchen island.

"Knows what?" He doesn’t even ask who, and it fuels the anger.

"That I’m stuck in a time loop."

A choking sound, too short to be worrisome. "Come again?"

Bucky glowers at him over his shoulder, even though none of this is Sam’s fault. He gets a concerned stare in return, which cools his temper somewhat; he lets out a sigh. "What day do you think it is?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

No. "Humor me."

He grabs a mug from the drying rack, just to have something to do with his hands. It’s the one with cat ears that showed up outside his room on his birthday, wrapped in cheap brown packing paper.

How long ago was March?

"Friday," Sam says, and he sounds so sure about it. Bucky desperately wants to believe it’s that easy.

"It’s been Friday for a while," he says instead, his voice cracking.

To go through everything like this is both easier and worse than he expected.

"I don’t get it." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "I’ve seen you fight before. Hell, I’ve fought you before. You’re near impossible to hurt, let alone kill."

Bucky huffs. "I heal fast, I’m not invincible."

"Then how does it keep happening when you know it’s coming?"

Unbidden, the glimmer in your eye comes to mind again. The line of your back turned towards him, the complete abandon of self-preservation in your fighting style, however streamlined it may be. Even through all this, you expect him to watch your six.

And why wouldn’t you? His eyes are continually drawn to you, anyway.

He knows that just as well as you do, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He can just go and be slaughtered instead.

Bucky swallows. His throat feels very dry.

"I told you we shouldn’t have brought her on," he finally says, even though it’s not really an answer. Or maybe it is. You were always going to be the knife that cut the deepest, and maybe he’s known from the start. "Reckless idiot."

"Yeah, you said that. Almost a year ago. Hasn’t that changed?"

"Everything’s changed," he snaps, and the mug slips from his fingers. It shatters on the tiles, small shards flying off in all directions, and it hurts.

It’s just a mug. It shouldn’t twist his stomach, not like this. He keeps staring at the pieces.

"And why do you think that is?" Such a soft question.

Bucky’s hands clench into fists.

That other voice inside knows the answer, is desperate to scream it out, to share the burden and the weightlessness of it, but he can’t let it. He squashes it down, forces it back into its dark, hopeless corner. It has no place here. It can’t.

Somehow, Sam seems to hear it anyway.

"Have you talked to her?" He chooses his words carefully.

Bucky’s heart is racing like he’s dying, but he knows what that feels like now and it’s not this. This is worse.

Сбой, he thinks again, and this time, it echoes in his mind loud enough to drown out anything else. The shards on the floor are blurring. He has a sudden urge to spit or vomit, but he half-expects words to come out if he should. Of all things.

Can we leave before I do something he’ll regret?

His left hand makes a grating sound as his right palm opens underneath his fingernails, blood slowly dripping from one wrist. It brings him back into the kitchen, Sam’s gaze still heavy on him. He doesn’t want to meet his eyes.

"She’s not coming."

There’s something cold in Bucky’s voice he’s too fed up to care he recognizes.

It’s his own fault. He’s let his guard down around you, let you in, and it’s been a mistake. Of course it was. You’re the one who led him here, and he doesn’t want to follow your orders any longer.

"Let’s go on the mission without her. If she isn’t there, maybe I won’t …" He doesn’t have to say it out loud. He’s still bleeding, after all.

"Are you sure?" Sam says.

No. "I’m asking as a friend."

As expected, that’s enough.

He doesn’t feel bad leaving you behind without a single word, without looking back over his shoulder as he quietly drags the door shut behind him. He doesn’t feel bad sitting on the quinjet in silence, staring daggers at the wall. He doesn’t feel bad as he climbs out and soaks up the last few rays of sunshine, his focus unbroken for once.

He’s not haunted by you here; only by his own ghost.

Bucky’s been through this enough times to recall more than the broad strokes of it; he slips this mission on like a second skin, breathing through the absence of you with more calm than he’s thought possible. Then again: this is what he’s good at.

There’s a goal, and there’s a catch; but no more distractions. This will be a breeze.

…

That night, he dreams of you. If you could call it a dream, the few strange, hazy moments after he dies and before he gets put together again.

You look at him, almost reaching out but never quite touching, your eyes gleaming green.

His name still echoes in your voice when he comes to.

* * * * *

From his perspective, it made sense, of course, so really there was no point in going over it again.

And yet you did. Over and over.

I want her out.

It was quite simple, really. Bucky hated your guts because of something you couldn’t control, you were still seething because of it, and you were both perfectly fine with avoiding each other for the rest of your days.

You took an extra shift at the store the next day, just so you wouldn’t have to run into the two of them any more than necessary. You couldn’t wait until Sam jumped back on his flight to D.C. and Bucky fucked off to do whatever he did all day; the most important part was that they’d both be far, far away from you.

"Fucking Steve," you mumbled as you violently scrubbed the counters. Come to think of it, all of this was entirely his fault. No one would even know you existed without him blabbering on about you. And what you wouldn’t give to live in a world without being judged for your very existence by a bionic ex-assassin.

On top of everything else, some moron decided to steal the tip jar while you were distracted getting some ice, and by the time you made it home, it was nearing midnight, you’d had way too many espresso shots for a single human being, and you just wanted to cry in the silence of your own four walls. It was probably the single most terrible day you’d had since the first couple of weeks in the Tower.

Unfortunately, when you unlocked the front door, you immediately realized that your terrible day wasn’t over yet. There were too many pairs of shoes sitting in the hallway, and voices coming from the kitchen area.

You quietly pulled off your sneakers in the semi-darkness of the hallway. You were way too exhausted to attempt to use your powers, but maybe you could tiptoe past them to take a quick shower and then fall into bed without having to talk to anyone.

Slowly, you crept closer to the stairwell, keeping one eye on the shadows dancing across the wall to your left. Snippets of conversation got clearer.

"—not saying that, but whether you want to admit it or not, she’s good." Sam sounded annoyed.

"It’s not about that and you know it."

"Yeah, I do. You know what else I know? You need to go back to therapy."

You froze, shrinking back into the darkness of the hallway. You could hear Bucky huff an incredulous laugh.

"I made—"

"Amends, I’m aware. And was that your idea, or was that the assigned homework from your court mandated army doctor?" Silence. "You can’t just work through a list and at the end of it decide you’re done and everything’s magically alright again."

"'Course not. I don’t get to do that."

There was something about his tone that made your anger sink down slowly, heavily, until you swallowed it down entirely and you just felt wretched.

You weren’t supposed to listen to any of this. This was way out of your depth, and you had no idea how to get out of it. Their voices blurred into each other as your pulse was rushing through your head loud enough to make you dizzy, and you reached for your necklace in an attempt to ground yourself, to calm your breaths and reach out to something that could get you away from this moment in time.

It was useless.

"Like I said," Sam continued calmly. "You don’t have to work together ever again. But the two of you should talk it out first."

"Or how about this," you whispered, not loud enough for any but superhuman ears to pick up on, "should we ever get to the point again where I reset something around you and it’s important, I will let you know."

You barely knew why you offered, with your back pressed against the wall, not even standing in the same room as Bucky. But you didn’t want to fight.

There was a beat of hesitation, and then he said, "Promise?"

"Sure," Sam said.

You held up your pinkie finger in front of your heart, even though no one could see. "On the nine lives of the cat I will own one day."

You counted your breaths up to twenty before you heard one of them shift their weight, bare feet shuffling over your tiles.

"Fine," Bucky said finally. "She can stay for now. But I’m keeping an eye on her."

A familiar hitch went through you all on its own and you opened your eyes to find the world standing still. You took a couple of hesitant steps towards the stairs again, your head turning when you passed the kitchen area.

Sam had his back turned to you, stretching to reach something on the shelf next to the fridge, but Bucky’s frozen gaze was fixed on the wall you’d been leaning against, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Determination was a good look on him, you decided. It left a certain shine in his eyes that was hard to look away from.

That night, you dreamt of drowning at sea, and somehow you didn’t want to call it a nightmare.

chapter eight

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

this chapter was my best kept secret and i'm forever grateful to @marvelettesassemblenow for reading ages ago 🫶🏼 also no one talk to me about thunderbolts bc i still haven't watched it but it seemed like a good time for a comeback

#bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

128 notes · View notes

lovelyrecs · 1 day ago

Text

Bucky scoffed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He still hadn’t taken his gloves off around you.

BUT HE DID HE DID A LITTLE WHILE AGO

The fact that you probably won’t be this close to him again any time soon makes you press into his chest even harder, hard enough to feel his heart flutter against your forehead, the shock of the situation making it pick up speed.

the shock of the situation... man you have no idea

For a split second, you slip into a sort of vacuum, your thoughts quieting as he keeps mumbling to you, and in that blissful moment, your situation doesn’t seem quite so dire anymore, more like a bad dream. You’re safe now, aren’t you? How could you not be?

!!! she feels safe with him!!! she knows she's safe with him!! she knows there's no other choice but to!!!

Maybe that’s the most terrifying thought of them all. You would die for him. Once, twice, however many times are necessary if that meant that he’s safe.

AND HE WOULD FOR HER HE HAS!! THAT'S WHY THIS WHOLE THING STARTTED EYWYADGHEW

But it seems like you haven’t known it at all, because right now, you feel the knowledge of it, of him, surge through you with all its facets. You can’t even begin to put it into words, because where would you start? How do you explain what he makes you feel when he hasn’t been there himself, not in any way that matters or sticks? And if it’s never happened at all, if time keeps unraveling like this, how can it even be real?

THAT'S WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT. like she knows him so well and loves these really vulnerable parts of him and has grown to realize she really cares about him because of certain experiences and. he doesn't remember. that current version of him never did it in the first place. but it's real!! it's just fucked up :(

time after time [6]

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.8k

chapter warnings: maybe reacquaint yourselves with the story premise, it's been a hot minute; characters refusing to be honest with themselves and each other; violence against side characters, minor injury descriptions; strange is still annoying

a/n: this is quite possibly the scariest fic update i've ever made. a lot has happened since the last chapter was posted, and i won't bore you with all of it. suffice it to say, i missed sharing this story. thank you for being patient with me.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

six: butterfly effect

Working with Sam and Bucky was different than working with Natasha and Steve had been.

At the Compound, it had felt terrifyingly easy to find your place, to slip into the new role they granted you as if you were always meant to fill it. You’d felt that way before, and it hadn’t turned out quite so well. Maybe that was why you used to dread the end.

Now, however, for the first time in a while, you constantly had to prove yourself in order to not be left back in that dark place they’d found you in, alone and trying to make sense of any of it. And you liked that. The challenge was something you could live with, something you could enjoy more than the ever chilling anxiousness that things were simply too good to be true.

So when Sam called you on for a follow-up mission shortly after the first one, you jumped at the chance.

It didn’t matter that you barely talked about anything but work, even when you were hanging out in your spare time; in fact, you much preferred that to digging up the past. You even learned to find a wicked sort of enjoyment in provoking Bucky’s initial dislike of you to the point of where he would barely speak to you at all unless it was to snap at you.

You weren’t sure what you wanted him to do, but it was fun to watch the time bomb tick.

It wasn’t as easy to get under the new cap’s skin.

"You’re making us sound like we’re partners in a law firm," Sam said, a smile clearly audible in his voice even though his eyes didn’t betray it. Bucky didn’t even dignify you with a clench of his jaw.

"What?" you said, crossing your legs. "Every newspaper in the city calls you 'Wilson and Barnes'. Don’t you ever read the articles about yourselves?"

"Unlike some people, I don’t have all the time in the world," Sam said, leaning back on the couch with his eyes closed.

"Pity. The Bulletin called you the 'nation’s new dynamic duo' last week." You looked at Bucky, your eyebrows raised in amusement. "You’ve officially been downgraded to a sidekick, Barnes."

He answered with an empty glare of his own. "And what does that make you?" he said, but not like a question.

"Nothing at all," you still grinned. "Everything is right in the universe."

The reporters had yet to pick up on your addition to the team, which was proof enough that your powers still sufficed to fly under the radar. Combined with the fact that you were actually regularly talking to people again—and people who weren’t your therapist or your customers no less—, things almost felt like they were settling into a new kind of normal. Still somewhat weird, and still a struggle each day, but somewhat hopeful, nevertheless.

You’d almost forgotten what that could feel like.

“Right. You’d prefer people not knowing about your creepy powers.”

"Aww." You tilted your head to the side happily. "You think I’m creepy."

Bucky scoffed into his mug, refusing to look at you like he always did, and then he strolled off again.

In truth, you couldn’t blame him all that much. You’d lived with your powers all your life and still found them unsettling sometimes, particularly when they got away from you and left you trapped in a universe that refused to move.

That was none of his business, though.

Besides, Bucky had taken to moving around so quietly you could never tell he was there until he’d cough and you’d flinch, usually dropping whatever you were holding in your hands. You’d already cracked your phone screen twice.

Not that he’d know, or care if he did. It gave you great satisfaction to erase his amused smirk from existence.

"Give it time," Sam said without moving. "He doesn’t like new people."

"Neither do I," you murmured, and he snorted. "What?"

"Pretend with me all you want, but maybe do a bit of introspection there."

You crossed your arms with a pout. "You sound like my therapist."

"Mhm," Sam hummed, opening one eye to look at you. "You owe me fifty bucks for that."

"Fuck you."

"Oh, would you look at that, the price just went up."

He chuckled as you flipped him off and went to look for the coffee pot.

Of course, your way got blocked. The downsides of not hating having people around.

Bucky was leaning against the counter, considering you. "You go to therapy?"

"You should try it some time," you said distractedly, reaching around him to get your favorite mug. Bucky recoiled like he was afraid you’d burn him. You shook your head in annoyance. "Helps with the stink eye."

"Is that what they told you?"

"They told me I needed to process my grief, but I decided to focus on some more achievable goals." You took a sip of your coffee, sighing in comfort. "We came up with a compromise."

Bucky scoffed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He still hadn’t taken his gloves off around you.

"Sounds like a way to drag it out," he said.

You frowned into your cup. "It’s not a race, Barnes. There’s no finish line for this shit."

Something odd went over his face, but he went back to avoiding your gaze when you tried to make it out. You knew him well enough by then to get the hint, and so you left him alone.

What was it to you if he didn’t want to warm up to you. That had no bearing on the fact that overall, your situation wasn’t all too bad anymore.

It was something, you supposed as you curled up in your spot on the couch with your book later that day, slipping in and out of time to keep your company a little longer because deep down, you knew you were sick of being alone.

It was weird and different, yes, but it was still something anyway. Something to do with your afternoons again.

A reason to get up in the morning.

* * * * *

"What are you talking about?" Bucky asks quietly, carefully, but he makes no attempt to pull back from your embrace. It allows you to take another shuddering breath, inhaling his scent until it makes you dizzy.

But then you blink back into reality again when Bucky sits you down on the closed lid of your toilet and slowly makes you let go of his shirt, kneeling down in front of you. The blue of his eyes is devastating, even though you have to keep blinking to keep him in focus.

You don’t want to have to do this, you realize once your gasps for air start calming again. You’re not sure if you can bear it.

But nothing in this loop has been about what you wanted.

And so your resolve is made, with your heart sinking until it’s hidden away deep, deep inside of your chest. You ball your hands into fists to keep your fingers from twitching.

Two or three times he watches you inhale, start to say something, halt before you can, almost choking on it. Like your body is refusing to go through with it.

"How do you know when I’m lying?" you finally ask, and your voice sounds oddly clear in your small bathroom.

Bucky’s face goes from concern to confusion, his frown deepening. You want to smoothe it away with your thumb.

You close your eyes so maybe the temptation goes away.

"What?" he asks, and he still sounds so damn gentle.

"I’ve never been able to lie to you," you say. "What’s my tell?"

You can feel him move away from you and the ache of it makes you look again. His shirt and his hands are covered in his own blood, and you’re sure there’s some fucking metaphor in the way it stains the golden inlets of his vibranium arm crimson but for the most part, you can’t unsee the damn irony of it all.

Because you’ve pissed him off now.

"You scared the shit out of me, Y/N. And Sam, too." There’s the sharpness in his voice you know all too well. You haven’t heard it in a while. "What the hell is going on?"

"I’m trapped in a time loop," you say, squeezing your fists more tightly. "I’ve been reliving this day for weeks, my powers aren’t working, I’m the only one who can stop time from completely collapsing, I can’t do that without my powers, and you’re gonna die later today. Am I lying?"

It’s maybe the worst way you’ve ever told him, because watching Bucky’s face change is almost too much. This is exactly why you’re doing it, though; as long as you’re going through this loop with a giant guilty knot in your stomach, you’re not going to make any progress. And you need to put an end to all of it.

So you meet his gaze, almost unwavering, and you don’t blink.

His shock bursts free as an incredulous laugh. "What?"

"I’m stuck," you say again, slower, nodding at his hands, his blood, continuing to push, "and you keep dying."

Bucky looks down, then, before his gaze falls back onto you and he sits back on his heels. The pause lasts for way too long, heavy and smelling of iron, and you’re pretty sure you’re suffocating. He only says one word, and it sounds so defeated. "How?"

You swallow heavily. "You got shot on a mission," you say, but he shakes his head, the fire returning to his eyes.

"No. How did you get stuck?"

"I …" You blink, because you’re not prepared for this question, because you can never predict what he’s going to say, because he keeps doing that to you, because somehow, and not like you’ve expected, you feel like you’ve been here before.

How did it happen? That’s not … Okay.

"It was an accident," you finally say, helplessly, defensively.

There’s a flicker of something in Bucky’s eyes. "What happened?"

"You died. You died that first time and I didn’t—I couldn’t …" You swallow the sob that threatens to shake your voice again. Damnit, you’re supposed to push him away.

He moves his arm, then hesitates, as if he wants to reach out to you but changes his mind at the very last moment.

Right. He doesn’t normally do that.

Except he has.

He has held your hand and pulled you closer and written on your arm and let you lean on him with the full weight of your body, as if to him, you weighed nothing at all. He’s been offering to carry your load so many times, and he doesn’t remember a single one of them.

"Please don’t look at me like that," you say tonelessly, watching Bucky retreat.

"Like what?"

"Like I’m gonna fall apart at any moment. And yes," you add when his mouth opens, "I—I know I just did, I’m aware of the irony, but this is exactly why I can’t keep telling you, I don’t—I can’t stand it." You press your wrists against your temples, ignoring the buzz of the whirling time symbols against your skin, the stinging in your eyes. "You shouldn’t even—I mean, are you even the slightest bit worried about yourself? Because I feel like I’m the only one here, and I should’ve just—"

You stop yourself, shaking your head. Your hands are very clammy all of a sudden, and when you tug at your rings just to do something, one of them slips off your finger and clangs against the tiles as if to punctuate the silence.

When you reach down, you move your wrist in a way that makes you hiss in pain and flinch back. Bucky’s eyes flit between your own and your hand, his frown deepening in a strangely soft way. "Did you break it?" he asks quietly.

"I’m fine," you mumble, and he looks at you disapprovingly. "You’d grabbed my hand just before …"

His jaw twitches as the blame settles in again, and you would do fucking anything to finally make him understand that none of this is his fault. That you should be in pain for what you’re putting him through.

"It should’ve been me," you tell him, because it’s true.

Even earlier in the week, you would’ve taken great delight in seeing Bucky Barnes’ face fall at something you’d said. Hell, you’d have probably enjoyed it on Thursday, because there used to be this easy sort of gratification that came from riling him up, from catching him off guard.

Seeing it now, though?

It makes your fingers twitch.

"Don’t say that. Not even as a joke."

"I’m not joking." You can feel your pulse in your ears. "They aimed a shot at me, and you pushed me out of the way, and you died. So by all accounts, if your instincts weren’t so damn noble all the time, it should’ve been me, and if I weren’t such a fucking coward, I’d have gone back and switched places with you weeks ago."

The thought terrifies you, even though it’s true. No part of you wants to go through the things Bucky is, but if someone gave you the choice between either one of you right now, you wouldn’t even have to think about it.

Maybe that’s the most terrifying thought of them all. You would die for him. Once, twice, however many times are necessary if that meant that he’s safe.

"I’d like to see you try," Bucky says, and something slams into your chest as an old familiar shiver runs down your spine.

There’s a pained edge to his gaze, contemplative and heartbreaking and …

"You’re doing it again," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"What am I doing?" His hand brushes your knee, and your skin is left searing.

You swallow heavily. "Being noble."

Bucky chuckles softly, and his eyes leave yours for just a moment. "Don’t exactly feel like that."

He’s beautiful.

It’s a new thought, despite everything. Even when you’ve noticed it before, you’d roll your eyes at the fact and move on, because this was Bucky. So what if his face was delectably handsome?

So it’s pure instinct that makes you move, like someone would pinch themselves to ensure they’re not asleep, even though you’re very aware that this isn’t just a dream. You need to confirm that Bucky is real, though.

The air stands still when your fingertips trace along his cheekbone, leaving a delicate flush behind in their trail, barely touching and yet …

And yet.

His breath hitches when they dip lower, almost reaching the place you’ve watched dimple when he laughs, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t laugh, either.

There’s a scraping sound at the closed bathroom door, followed by a short knock. You flinch backwards.

"I’m leaving the first aid kit on the bed," Sam calls from the other side. "Just … holler if you need me."

"Thanks, Sam," Bucky says coarsely, and you can hear steps receding. The scratching continues, though. That damn cat.

Finally, he breaks eye contact, clearing his throat.

"Do you want me to help you clean up?"

You shake your head. You’re not sure you could stomach more of this. "I’m good, don’t … Don’t worry about it."

Bucky drags a hand through his hair, muttering something to himself you can’t quite make out. Slowly, he gets to his feet again.

"We need to come up with a plan," he says, and you want to cry except … you’re tired. Tired and sick of this.

"I need to come up with a plan," you correct him. "We have been trying to do this as a team for weeks, and it doesn’t change anything except waste time and …" And hurt. "I can’t do it anymore, Buck."

There must be something in your voice that thaws his defiant glare a little. "So what’s the plan?"

And with a sigh, you fill him in on everything that’s been going on with Strange and your powers. Again. One last time.

You have to do this alone.

Bucky ignores your insistence that you can manage just fine and sets your wrist while you talk. Alpine, now free to roam wherever she pleases again, has decided the bathroom isn’t quite that interesting after a short look inside, and is now taking a nap in the spot of sunshine next to your bed.

"New deal," he says once you’re done, once he’s thought about it all, and you raise your eyebrows. "Don’t do anything stupid."

"You know me," you smile, checking the makeshift dressing around your hand. The green symbols are hidden by the layers of gauze.

Bucky doesn’t bite. "I’m serious, just—don’t."

"How would you know?"

"I wouldn’t," he says, snapping the first aid kit shut so vehemently Alpine’s tail twitches. "But I trust you."

Your head whips up at his words, even though his back is still turned to you. He doesn’t see your face as your heart is jostled into a new rhythm, so violently and unexpectedly that you lift your hand without thinking, pinkie outstretched.

"Promise."

He smiles when he notices, and you wish you could take a picture to carry with you through the rest of this nightmare.

That day, he dies with your stupid nickname on his lips, twisted into something that looks strangely close to that earlier smile. This one doesn’t have time to reach his eyes, though.

* * *

There’s been a change in the weather.

Not literally, no; of course not literally. Fuck, you long for a single cloud, a raindrop, a damn hailstorm to break the streak of endless perfectly sunny days that don’t fit your mood in the slightest.

But there’s a tinge to the sky that makes your stomach turn. It’s not very obvious to anyone who hasn’t looked at the exact same sunset for weeks on end, just a single strip of color across a storybook horizon. It looks like a crack.

"Do you see that?" you ask warily when you notice it for the first time, ominous and yet almost completely hidden by the trees and the buildings. Just dancing around the edge of your vision like another mockery.

"What?" Sam asks, eyes not leaving the path ahead.

"That … thing in the sky. What is that?"

Bucky stops and squints at where you’re pointing. "It’s called a cloud," he says dryly.

"With that color?" you murmur, but continue walking when he stops to turn to you, your wrist tingling. His stare is searing your neck, but you ignore that, too.

The best course of action, you’ve learned, is to shut your brain off as soon as you get out of the quinjet and just go through the motions, trying to ride out the mission like you’ve done dozens of times before. There’s a sort of autopilot you’ve fallen into after a couple of days, and it’s the only thing keeping you somewhat sane. Most days, it means it’s all over quickly, and you can’t help but feel glad about that.

You’ve given up trying to change your own actions to get him through the day.

But this …

It’s something new, and in all this monotony, that thought is both frightening and exciting. It distracts you enough to get you off script.

"Lovely interior design," Sam mumbles like he always does.

"Remember how this was supposed to be a day off?" You kick one of the pebbles in your path with a sigh. "What happened to 'don’t worry, Y/N, after training the day is all yours'?"

"Occupational hazard," Sam says, checking his map for the thousandth time.

"You know what I mean."

"Don’t you have tomorrow off?" Bucky says over the intercom.

Tomorrow. "Right." It comes out somewhat strained, your fingernails digging into the palm of your hand. "And why do you know that?"

Sam shakes his head and there’s a brief crackle of static in your ear. For a fraction of a second, you nearly dare to hope Bucky will give you an answer, even though you have no clue what it would be.

"They’re heading your way now," he says instead, "so get a move on."

And just like that, you’re back on track.

Quickly clearing your throat of the lump that has formed there, you say tonelessly, "I probably only have one reset left. Two, if we’re lucky and you two aren’t being stupid again."

It’s taken you a while to get used to it. To the constant lying.

You’ve worn fingerless gloves on missions before, so that’s not raised any questions from the others yet, and your rings stay hidden away. You’ve been more reluctant to take them off since the one you lost on your bathroom floor vanished into thin air.

The other thing you’ve picked up on while endlessly repeating this day is that Bucky is less likely to catch you in a lie if he can’t see your face.

So you’ve made an effort of spending as little time as possible with him.

It’s surprisingly easy to stay in your room for the majority of the day, because he doesn’t remember it ever being any other way. Even today’s little exchange will be lost to the loop soon enough, just like that little pause he made, just like the bullet through his heart.

Still, when you wake up with a start on Friday, July 4th, you look at the sky first. Its perfect blue doesn’t soothe the sinking feeling in your stomach at all.

You’ve been waiting for something to change for weeks, and now that it’s here, you don’t like it at all.

"What did you expect?" Strange says with an infuriating composure once you’ve nervously recounted your experience. "I told you, time isn’t supposed to get stuck in this way. Of course your reality was going to act up sooner or later."

"I really feel like you should be more concerned about this," you mutter, letting a ball of green energy pass from your left hand to the right. It’s about the size of a quarter now.

"Honestly," Strange answers, "I thought something like this would have happened a while ago." He taps his fingers together. "Again. Slower."

"So what am I supposed to do then, just ignore it?" The green ball pulses with your indignation, turns around itself once and then sinks into your palm again.

"In all likelihood, it’s a one time glitch. If everything is back to normal today, I wouldn’t worry about it."

Your thumb rubs across the empty space on your finger. "Easy for you to say if you’re not the one who’s stuck in an endless hellscape."

"Aren’t I?"

You both roll your eyes at each other, but then you bite the inside of your cheek again, unable to shake the feeling of a whole new shade of dread. "What if it’s not just a one time glitch?"

The corners of Strange’s cloak roll up on themselves, and he doesn’t meet your eye when he says, "We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it."

It’s still early when you return to the present, too early for Bucky to be back from wherever he’s always going, so you decide to venture out of your room again, stretching your tired limbs. You’re pretty sure at this point that waking up on the floor is never going to feel fun.

Sam is in the kitchen as always, reading something on his laptop. He’s still sitting down, which means that it’s even earlier than you expected. You miss these early parts of the day, the calm before the storm.

If today were only made up of these few hours, you suppose, it might not be half so bad.

You pull up a chair next to him and lean a cheek against your hand. "What’re you doing?"

"Research." Sam sighs, rubbing his temples. "Remember that ULTIMATUM group?"

"Never heard of them," you say with a small yawn. "Is that an acronym? What does it stand for?"

Sam gives you a glare and your mouth twitches slightly.

"Anyway," he continues, turning his laptop so you can see the article he’s reading. "They’ve been more active again lately. Acquired a couple thousand dollars’ worth of lab equipment through one of their contacts and then went underground again."

Of course, you know all this. You’ve been over it again and again, back when you were all still trading information like it could save Bucky’s life. Like there was a deeper meaning behind any of this damn loop other than the fact that you, and you alone, fucked up.

Useless.

You close the mental door on those thoughts and take a deep breath. You hate to admit it, but all of this sitting around with your thoughts bullshit you’ve been doing has actually helped you to clear your head somewhat—if only to make it through the parts of the day you can’t avoid.

"And now what?" you ask, pretending to just have reacquainted yourself with the topic.

"Now," Sam says, taking his laptop with him as he stands up and strolls over to the kitchen island, "I’m waiting for Torres to get back to me so we can decide our next steps once we’re all recovered." He gives you a meaningful look and you scowl.

Then, slowly, his words register in your brain, and you stare at his back as he stretches and then moves to make some coffee, wordlessly taking one of your mugs out of the cupboard as well as his own.

"You don’t seem too worried," you say hesitantly.

Sam shrugs. "Until we have a proper lead, there’s not much we can do. And I doubt they’ll be doing any actual damage any time soon. They’re a lot more covert than the Flag Smashers ever were."

"Right," you say, more to yourself than in response.

"Try that again, less convincing?"

"I don’t know," you mutter, slowly following him to lean against the fridge. "Just … what if Torres did find something? Should I be getting ready?"

Sam frowns. "Are you not telling me something again?"

You try to shake the thought, pulling your arms around you. "Forget it."

You don’t, though.

It keeps bugging you, because that day like any other day, he knocks on your door at 4:32 on the dot, and you go on that mission anyway. And even though this has been happening for weeks, you’re just starting to suspect that you are, in fact, still not getting the whole picture.

* * *

Catching a glimpse of Sam’s phone turns out to be more difficult than you first thought.

You’re still trying to get the timing exactly right a couple of days later, and you miscalculate enough to catch Bucky on his way upstairs.

"Hey," he says, his shoulders tense when he looks at you. There’s a restlessness to him that he’s not quick enough to hide; or maybe you’ve just grown more perceptive when it comes to him.

"Hi," you say, crossing your hands behind your back. "Where’ve you been?"

He shrugs. "For a walk."

You already know he won’t elaborate if you try poking, so you don’t. "Was it good?"

"Lotta people." He hesitates when you continue to not meet his eye, and then he says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

You swallow, ignoring the tingling sensation on your wrist. "Not particularly. Do you?"

Bucky’s jaw twitches. "Nah."

Somehow, you feel like that’s also a lie. Once again, you’re left wondering.

The silence between you stretches as you continue to not quite look at each other, until you finally clear your throat, nodding at the front door. "I’m getting coffee, do you want something?"

Honestly, it’s just an excuse as to why you need to leave before he notices something off again somehow, but Bucky tilts his head in amusement.

"Didn’t you just get some this morning?"

"So? I like coffee."

"Really. I never knew."

"Screw you."

You can hear him huff behind you, but thankfully the door falls shut before you can do anything stupid. Like turning around to face him, for example.

You miss his eyes.

Why won’t you look at me?

When the elevator doors open, you almost yelp into your delivery guy’s face. He stumbles a half-step backwards, somehow managing to keep a hold of the boxes precariously balanced on his arm while he’s reading something on his phone.

"Oh my god," he lets out, "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I was just …"

"Early." You blink.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," you say, frowning only a little. "Wait, let me get that."

You quickly sign for the delivery and open the door with your keycard, holding it open for him. You’re not exactly afraid of burglars these days, and besides; you know this guy by now.

"If you could just go straight ahead and to the right, that’s where the kitchen is."

"Sure thing," he shrugs. "Thanks—"

His mouth snaps shut and he blushes a little as if he wanted to say something else but thought better of it.

You’ve introduced him to Sam enough times you know he’s going to be fine, so you just smile and wave him in.

When you step out on the street, you instinctually look up at the sky. It’s outrageously blue, blatantly perfect for an endless Friday, and even when you squint, you can’t make out any irregularities.

It’s a tiny relief, but a relief nontheless.

Lucy is leaning against the wall just out of sight of the storefront, an unlit cigarette dangling between her lips as she rummages through her pockets. Her colorful makeup has begun to melt off in the sweltering heat, making the red-white-and-blue stars on her cheeks bleed into each other to look somewhat purplish.

"Are you off or on break?" you call over.

She lifts her head, the glare vanishing when she recognizes you. "Counting the seconds," she says. "Don’t you have anything better to do?"

You sidestep a couple of pedestrians hurrying to cross the street and join her. "Not really."

"I hate you." She finally fishes a lighter out of her back pocket, sighing contentedly as she takes her first drag. "I swear, this day just won’t pass."

Fine. Maybe your chuckle is a little shrill. "I’m sorry."

Lucy waves you off with a gesture crude enough to make a young dad with a stroller send the two of you a dirty look. "You without your shadow today?" she asks, inspecting her nails.

You blink. "My shadow."

"You know. Your friend who’s been in here eight thousand times and still gets confused when he orders." A cloud of smoke vanishes into thin air. "Kind of the lingering type, isn’t he?"

"He’s old," you say, because for some reason nothing else comes to mind.

"Not that old."

"No," you agree, "not that old."

For a moment, you’re afraid she’s going to ask you to pass her number along to him, and you’re already scrambling to find an answer somewhere in the depths of your brain, coming up empty. That’s the problem with being able to unhave entire conversations; you don’t usually really have to deal with reactions if you don’t want to.

Without your powers, though, you’re stuck, and it’s making you wish you hadn’t come here at all.

Instead of any of that, she pulls a flyer out of her other pocket. "Sorin and Cass are doing a gig in Brooklyn next week, do you wanna come with? They’re still terrible, but they got a new bassist who seems alright."

You take the flyer, staring at it. "I didn’t know they’re in a band," you admit.

The truth is, you’ve never paid that much close attention to the people you work with. Maybe that’s been a mistake.

Lucy shrugs. "You’re always doing your own thing." It stings, even though you’re pretty sure she doesn’t mean for it to. "It’d be fun if you came, though."

"I’ll think about it," you say, and your smile is a little unsure, but genuine.

So is hers.

"If you don’t want to hang with us all night, you can bring some friends, too." Her emphasis hangs in the air between you like a dare.

You snort. "I feel like this isn’t quite their scene."

"You feel like or you know?"

"Isn’t that the same thing?"

"No." She puts her cigarette out on the wall behind her. "Knowledge is based on experience. On memories. Your feelings don’t sit in your head. And so they don’t make sense and they’re not necessarily true." She winks.

"You’re weirdly smart," you say, shaking your head.

"I know. It’s a curse." Lucy sighs. "Anyway, think about it. I gotta get back to hell."

"You know," you say with a grin, "I could really do with a frappuccino right about now."

"You know what you could do?" she answers in her sweetest customer service voice, pointing you down the street. "Get in a trash can."

Damnit. You might actually grow to like Lucy.

She taps her fingers against her temple and then shuffles back inside, a hot rush of air blowing out of the AC as the door opens. You fold the flyer up to fit into your back pocket, hoping you’ll make it to that concert one day, and then you walk on, aimless again for the moment.

* * *

Time passes while it’s standing still.

The problem is, at least for the moment, that by all appearances you’ve reverted back to square one. Going through your day as though any of this is even remotely normal, counting the hours and minutes to reenter the astral plane and feel some semblance of control again.

It’s been nice, really, if you’re ignoring the constant underlying feeling of dread.

Which you’re getting better at.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Rinse and repeat.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Even on days when you’re sure you’re making progress with your powers, every reset makes it just a little harder to keep dragging yourself onwards.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

"You look like shit."

Your head rolls to the side slowly, allowing yourself a glance while Bucky is still distracted with his arm. Concentration makes his brows knit, and something warm spreads in your chest.

"I’m so tired," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t look at you, but you’re grateful for it for once. Your eyes are stinging a little.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Yes. Yes. Yes.

"Not particularly."

"Do you want to talk about something else?"

You almost smile. "Like what?"

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. "Like the fact that you just planted Sam into the mat head-first and yet made a face like you killed a puppy?"

Sometimes you wonder how he still manages to slip in without you noticing, no matter how many times he does it.

"Did I?"

"Did you kill a puppy? I’d hope not."

Your body’s been getting stronger, anticipating Sam’s every move. At this point, it’s not so much training as it is an exercise in muscle memory; but how would he know that?

It still isn’t enough. It’s never enough.

You pitiful, selfish, useless bastard.

"You’re doing it again," Bucky says and you blink.

"Doing what?"

"I don’t know, but I don’t like it."

Something inside you twinges uncomfortably and you wrap your arms around your knees, pulling them into your chest. "That might just be me, period."

Bucky huffs. "Take the towel on the right," he says. "I already used the other one."

So you do.

And then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and then you wake up with blah, blah, blah.

"I can’t do this anymore."

Strange watches you, but you don’t get up from where you’re lying, blankly staring at the ceiling, feeling like your chest is about to explode.

You don’t want to feel like something is tearing you apart every single time, even though you know it’s not permanent. There’s always the tiniest glimmer of hope that this will all be over soon.

Or maybe it’s dread.

"Maybe you can’t," Strange answers.

You blink, sitting upright. "What?"

"Maybe you are actually incapable of cleaning up your own mess. You’ve never had any training before, after all. Maybe you’re too weak."

Useless. Not good enough. Waste of time.

"If this is reverse psychology, it’s not working," you say through gritted teeth, pressing your eyes shut so tightly they don’t burn anymore.

Strange ignores you. "Maybe you’re going to be stuck in this loop forever. If that’s the case, there’s no point to keep trying either. Maybe we should just call it a day."

You can feel your breaths coming in shorter.

"Maybe you’re just going to keep failing to save anyone for the rest of your life."

"Stop it!"

An explosion of power goes through your body, bouncing off the walls and bathing the room in a ghostly green light. You cough and curl into yourself as you watch it billow, still echoing the words back at you, "too weak", "stuck in this loop forever". Your bones are heavy with exhaustion.

Strange crouches down next to you and a cup of fragrant tea draws itself up to the side of your face.

"You’re drawing the bulk of your power from pain. From a desire to fix things that you think you alone are responsible for when the truth is that each and every one of us is constantly creating reality."

"Fuck you," you mumble. When you sit up, your head is still swimming.

"You cannot keep this up."

"If I’m such a lost case, then why do you bother?"

"I’m trying to tell you that you’re not." He points at the walls, still covered by that greenish fog. "This is the strongest display of your powers I’ve seen from you yet, and it only happened because you were lashing out. Pain is not a sustainable source of energy. Imagine what you could do if you could be in control."

Do as I tell you.

"There’s no way to control my powers on a larger scale. It’s impossible."

"You keep telling me that, and yet you keep coming back. Why?"

You push yourself up to your elbows, wiping at your face. "Because I have to hope, right?"

"And there it is."

You take a sip of your tea and some feeling returns to your translucent fingers. Strange’s cloak draws itself around your shoulders.

The wizard himself stays quiet for another minute or two, before he asks, "Why do you think I’m talking to you right now? Helping you, even, nevermind your constant whining and your insistence that this won’t work, after you’ve spent your whole life running away from anything resembling actual responsibilities."

"I didn’t—"

"Answer the question."

"Because I created a time loop?" you guess.

"But you already know that this loop is just one point on the timeline. A single day, repeated endlessly, but going exactly like it was always supposed to, once resolved. So, without the time stone and my privileges as the Sorcerer Supreme, and with your protections still in place, how would I have found you?"

He knew exactly where and when to look for you. But he’s right, that shouldn’t even have been possible unless …

"I came to you," you realize. "Or, I will, once I get out of this." The relief that washes over you makes you want to sob. "So there is a way out?"

"Of course there is," he says, surprisingly gently. "Time isn’t supposed to get stuck."

You sit with that for a minute, hiding your face in your hands as Strange stays silent. Finally, you take a deep breath and look at him again with newly sharp focus.

"So why don’t you just tell me how to do it?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You know that’s not how it works."

"Yes. It is. It’s literally what I do all the time."

"What you do is leaving realities you don’t like by turning backwards."

"That’s not true."

"Just because your motivations aren’t entirely selfish doesn’t mean you’re right."

You’re so damn exhausted. The frustration of this whole thing is really starting to scratch at your sanity, and there’s an ache in your chest as you stare at your own sleeping face, biting the inside of your cheek, thinking.

Strange snaps his fingers to get your attention back.

"I’m not a mind reader," he says. "Out with it."

"I want to see him," you say, getting up. The cloak flaps around you in a very satisfying way. "Bucky. It’s early this morning, right? Just before the loop starts again. That means he’s upstairs."

"And what’s seeing him going to do?"

You ignore him and walk towards the door, reaching for the handle. Your hand goes right through it. You try it several more times, to no avail.

"Heaven help me," Strange mutters behind you.

Shutting your eyes, you take a deep breath. The circle of green tingles around your wrist.

Then, you walk through the closed door.

You fully expect to crash into the wood head first, but instead you feel the door moving through your noncorporeal form, and then you’re standing on the other side.

With a startled hum, you turn left, not waiting to see if you’re being followed.

You only hesitate in front of Bucky’s bedroom door. You’ve never actually been inside his room since he’s moved in; well, apart from that time he patched up your feet and you woke up in the astral plane for the first time. It feels odd to consider entering without him actually being aware of it.

Then again, there’s quite a few things at this point that he’s unaware of.

Before you can make up your mind, the door swings open just a little, and you automatically take a step back. Alpine sleepily slinks through the gap and trots off in the direction you came from, probably to sit in the kitchen and mope until FRIDAY activates the food dispenser again. On the stairs, she passes Strange who raises an eyebrow at you.

"Changed your mind?"

You glance into the room.

At first, you can’t find him. The bedding looks untouched, and there’s a brief flurry of panic that makes you step inside before you can keep questioning yourself.

Bucky is lying on the floor next to the bed, his hands balled tightly into an old throw blanket. It’s haphazardly draped across his torso, like he’s been trying to wriggle free during the night. He grimaces in his sleep.

Try the floor.

You can’t help but wonder when he’s last tried the bed.

"Can he hear us?" you ask quietly, not needing to look over your shoulder as you sink to the floor next to Bucky.

"No," Strange says. "Not until you put in a lot more work."

"Would he remember if I did?"

"I don’t know."

You do look back at him, then. "You know, considering your position you don’t know a whole lot of things."

You concentrate on your own hand until you’re starting to feel cool metal underneath your fingertips, ignoring the throbbing of your head. Carefully, you touch the crease between his brows, smoothing it out tenderly.

Bucky sighs a little in his sleep, but doesn’t stir. Doesn’t stop quietly murmuring in his dreams.

"You feel better?" Strange asks.

"Not really." You’ve already reached out to him without it having any repercussions too many times. "But that wasn’t the point."

"What was?"

"Just …"

Comfort. He brings you comfort, even when he doesn’t know it. It’s the same reason you keep waiting for him to arrive in the gym in the mornings, even though you could probably hurry up and miss him.

Even if the loop never ends, it’s still good to see that it’s bringing him back like it’s supposed to.

How incredibly selfish, you think as you continue looking at Bucky and letting a quiet, hesitant wash of calm come over you.

And then, all of a sudden, his eyes open.

You flinch backwards, but even though you’re almost face to face, he seems to stare right through you, his breaths heavy.

"Did I do something?" you say quietly.

"No," Strange answers. "This is just when he wakes up."

You watch as Bucky drags a hand over his face and then gets up with a determined tick in his jaw, grabbing a notebook from the nightstand. He scribbles something down, hastily, like it’s threatening to get away from him if he doesn’t hurry. You don’t have to read it to know it has something to do with what he’s seen in his sleep.

When the words stop flowing, he sits on the edge of the bed for a minute longer, but the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. Finally, he rolls his left arm a few times before pulling on a shirt and his running shoes.

He always goes for a run in the morning. You’ve made fun of him for it before, but you hadn’t put together that while Strange was trying to get you to clear your own head through sitting still, Bucky might be doing the exact opposite to get the same result.

The door clicks shut.

"Are we done with the spying, then?" Strange says.

"No need to get weird about it," you mumble and take his outstretched hand.

* * *

Something changes once you know that your situation actually has an end date, even though Strange either cannot or will not tell you how many more loops you’re going to have to go through until then. Even so, there’s a new assurance to your every step again, a determination grown from the knowledge that all this isn’t for nothing. That there is an out.

You can cling to that.

"What would you do if you were stuck in a time loop?" you ask, letting your legs dangle over the ledge of the roof.

"Ew, no," Lucy replies, shaking the few remaining ice cubes in her cup emphatically. "My shift was long enough as is, and I’ve been looking forward to my Sunday off all week."

"Fair point," you concede.

It’s early afternoon then, and you’ve found a quiet spot on the top of the Tower. If Lucy was at all confused why you’d shown up at the store right when she clocked out and asked her to hang out, she’s not showing it. Over the past couple of loops, you’ve learned that she really likes to go with the flow, and you appreciate that.

"If it’s not today, though," she continues, like she’s thinking aloud. "Imagine the books you could read. You could try out all that stuff that you say you want to do, and then you never have the time to actually do them."

It’s a good thought, but a lack of time has never really been an issue for you. "Nothing you do would really stick, though."

She squints against the sun. "You realize that’s a pro, right? No consequences whatsoever. I could cut my bangs again and they’d be gone the next day."

"You used to have bangs?"

"Never, and I’m willing to state that in a court of law."

You smile and lean back on your elbows. "If something good happened, that’d be gone, too, though. You don’t get to keep that, either."

"Yeah," Lucy says thoughtfully. "I’d still remember it though, right? It still happened. I could make it happen again."

"Maybe." Your thumb scratches the empty space on your pinkie. Even though you’ve turned your entire bathroom upside down, your ring is still gone, like it just up and disappeared from this reality. You can’t help but wonder if that rift in the sky from a few todays ago has anything to do with that.

"What about you?"

"Hm?"

Lucy takes another slurping sip from her almost empty cup. "What would you do in a time loop?"

You can’t help but laugh. "I’d try to keep making the good things happen, I guess."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

It is.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" someone shouts behind you. "It’s in the fricking nineties today and you’re baking?"

"Technically, we are baking," you say, nodding at Lucy and leaning back further so you can look at Sam upside down. "And we’re baking for you."

"Hi, cap," Lucy says, pulling her sunglasses off.

"Hey." Sam crosses his arms and fixes you with a very cap-like glare. "Why are you baking for me."

"Y/N said it’s for your birthday."

"My—" He cuts himself off, rubbing his temples. "My birthday’s in September."

"Whoops," you say, your grin just believable enough. "My bad, cap."

"You’re not funny," Sam says, "I hope you know that."

You know.

Of course, today isn’t actually his birthday, not even if time were allowed to pass normally. It is day forty-fucking-nine of the loop, though, which makes it your fiftieth time living through this crap and frankly, you all deserve some damn pie.

It’s not going to make a difference in the long run, of course, and yet you can’t help but feel like keeping count of those little markers of time helps to hold your head above water. Making the good things happen, even if they don’t change a thing and no one but you is going to remember.

So you simply say, "It’s turtle pie," because you know that it’s Sam’s favorite. "Hey, what’s the time?"

"Oh, it better be," he says, holding his phone up for you to read and then marching out of your field of vision.

Sadly, you’re just about a minute early.

"He could’ve stayed," Lucy says when you let out a frustrated huff.

"He has that thing at the Garden," you tell her distractedly, taking a mental note to stall Sam a little longer next time.

"There you are."

You flinch at the sound of Bucky’s voice, barely daring to move your head when he sits next to you, his back to the brink.

He never comes up here. That’s the whole point.

"Hi?" you say carefully, and a grin tugs at his mouth.

"Not you," he says, nodding to the ground in front of him.

You turn around fully to find Alpine taking a nap just a few feet behind you, her snowy tail wrapped around a flower pot.

You let out a relieved breath and ignore the small sting in your chest. Of course he’s not up here because of you. Why would he be?

"Gee, thanks," you murmur, quietly shifting around so your hands are hidden underneath your legs. "You sure know how to charm the ladies."

You glance back at Lucy, but she’s looking at her phone, her eyes once again indecipherable behind the large sunglasses.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?"

He might has well have doused you in a bucket of ice water. You’re suddenly very aware of every single cell in your body, and you don’t like the challenge sparkling in his eyes.

So you do what you always do and you block it out. Dismiss and distract.

"Does Alpine seem weird to you?"

He tilts his head, his jaw tight. "Weird how?"

"I don’t know," you say, staring at her. "She’s just been acting … odd, lately. Today, I mean."

And following you around in a way you’re pretty sure she’s never done before. Not before the loop, at least.

Bucky sighs. "Did you make her scratch you again? Because I’ve told you before that I’m not getting rid of her for enforcing her boundaries."

"First of all, I never make her scratch me, she does that well enough on her own."

"That’s victim blaming," Lucy says without looking up. Bucky snorts and you almost roll your eyes.

"Second of all, she’s up to something. I know it."

"Oh, yes," Bucky says dryly just as Alpine makes a small noise in her dreams, her nose twitching. "That’s the embodiment of evil right there."

"I don’t trust her," you mutter.

"And yet the cat’s the weird one."

"I hate you," you mumble, standing up. "I’m gonna go check on the pie."

"There’s pie?" Bucky says.

"Not for you!"

You turn at the door to see Lucy leaning in to show Bucky something on her phone; the frown has disappeared from his face, his shoulders relaxed. If he’d pull off his glove right now, it’d almost be like sitting in a park.

That’s good, you tell yourself as the door slams shut behind you with a bit too much gusto. Reminds you that there’s nothing special about you in particular, which is much needed, really.

Can’t wait to punch that one out of your system later.

Again and again and again and a—

"Whoa, whoa, you alright?"

You blink. Riff slumps to the ground in front of you, body limp.

Bucky stares at you in concern, his hand still on your shoulder. His lip has split open and there’s the usual bruise already forming on his cheekbone. You can’t help it. Your gaze is drawn down, your breathing shallow.

You screw your eyes shut to snap yourself out of it, but when you open them again, Bucky hasn’t moved an inch.

"Never better," you whisper, and for a split second, you almost believe it yourself.

Liar, liar, liar.

* * *

At least, you suppose, reality seems considerably less broken these days. No more cracks in the sky.

You get your wake-up call when you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY …

"… FRIDAY?" you say into the silence of your room, your heart pounding wildly. This cannot be happening. Not now.

Not yet.

He got shot again yesterday.

A pleasant jingling sound rings out. "Good morning, Ms. Y/L/N."

You look at the clock on the wall. Ten to eight, just like every morning. "What day is it?"

"Today is Friday, July 4th."

You can taste bile in your mouth despite your relief. There’s an impatient thrum to the symbols around your wrist, like a noose that’s tightening.

What did you expect?

"Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!"

"Didn’t you set FRIDAY to wake me?" you ask Sam as you’re climbing the stairs, nerves on edge.

He looks at you weirdly. "I did. You’re up, aren’t you?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Didn’t sleep well."

That much, at least, is still true. Full nights of sleep are a long distant memory from before constant back-to-back repetitions. The only time your body shuts off is when you manage to sleep for a little bit in between your astral visits and the mission call.

"I hope you don’t think that’s an excuse," Sam says, bumping your shoulder, and you manage a tired grin.

"You wish."

Today, you let him win, even though your ankle makes an odd crack when you land on the mat. You’ll take care of it later.

"You look like shit."

Grief and relief, you’ve learned, both taste like salt and iron, but the latter is so much easier to swallow.

"That makes two of us," you say, sitting up slowly. "How was your run?"

"Good," Bucky says, putting the cloth away and stretching his fingers out. They catch a ray of sunlight. "What’s wrong with you?"

Not this again.

"Later, okay?" you answer, because that’s not a lie. "Let’s just … not, right now?"

"Alright," he says.

And, oh, you want to tell him again. Because he doesn’t press it. Because you miss having someone to share things with. Because you miss telling him the whole truth. Because you’re scared, and tired, and sick of losing him.

But those are egotistic thoughts, and so you keep them all to yourself and take the towel on the right.

There’s one good thing about this today. You make it to the living room just in time to finally catch a glimpse of Sam’s phone right when it pings with Torres’ message.

I can check it out on Monday if you’d like.

That’s it. No urgency, weirdly proper spelling, not even an exclamation mark.

In other words, you’re not sure what you expected but you’re no closer to answers than before.

"What does it matter?" Strange sighs when you tell him all of this with a frown.

"It matters," you reply, "because if we hadn’t gone on the mission, Bucky wouldn’t have died that first time and none of this would’ve happened."

"So what?" he says. "It’s already done."

"But if I could prevent it—"

"It already happened."

"I can make it not happen."

"You and what powers?" Strange says sharply. "Even if you did that, it wouldn’t stop the loop."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you’ve already seen first-hand that it’s bound to you and your powers, not to whatever you do or don’t do during the day. Karma is a fairy tale for those who don’t want to take responsibility for their actions."

"Do you really still think this is me not taking responsibility?" There’s a green flare that goes through you, hot and seething and making goosebumps crawl down your arms.

Strange smiles at the sight. "Let’s find out."

He extends his arms and slowly opens his fists until orange symbols dance across his shaky fingers. The band around your wrist prickles at the weight of his magic flooding the air.

Strange’s cloak nudges you towards the center of the room and your heart gives a heavy thud. "What, right now?"

"Would you prefer being stuck for a couple weeks more?"

"Of course not it’s just—I don’t feel ready."

"No one ever feels ready until they try."

And maybe it’s because it reminds you of something Steve once said, but it makes you step up, falling into the stance you’ve practiced over and over again. You breathe in deeply and close your eyes.

The pull comes easier now. Your powers have just been resting, nestled somewhere deep inside your bones like glowing embers, waiting for you to call upon them.

When you look at your open palm, the green wisps of your powers have curled up to the size of a ping-pong ball. You take another steadying breath and let it glide to the tips of your fingers, carefully letting it balance itself out for a second before moving your other hand.

"Good," you can hear Strange say quietly.

Slowly, carefully, you let the threads untangle until they’re just about to touch the green band circling around your wrist. You can feel the electric tingle of it, the soft beat of each passing second contained within, and you push past it.

You’ve done this before, so you’re not surprised when you feel the energy drain from your body almost immediately. Up until now, though, it’s just been trial and error, not expecting anything to happen. This time, you have Strange’s magic feeding some of his strength into you as well, and so instead of hesitating, you press on, your heartbeat speeding up.

The band around your wrist does the same.

"Don’t lose your focus." Strange’s voice sounds very far away, almost warped.

Very funny, you might have said, but you’re too busy watching it all unfold.

The whirring inside of your head grows louder as the circlet of time keeps rotating with accelerating speed, faster and faster until your eyes start tearing up and there’s something that looks almost like a crack.

You gasp quietly. At first, you think you might have just imagined it, but then the split starts growing, the symbols growing farther and farther apart as the band itself keeps spinning. Your pulse is beating in your ears. Your wrist feels like it’s being set on fire.

There are voices, then, quiet and fast, like you’re watching a sped up movie, music and noises and chatter and birdsong and a whooshing sound like something flipping right past you. Then, something like distant shots.

I’m getting Bucky out of this, you think as the green band continues rotating until suddenly, there is a shockwave of green light that takes up your entire field of vision.

You close your stinging eyes, keeping your feet firmly planted on the floor as your powers rush through you once more and then, with a shudder, settle down again, exhausted. The glare subsides. Something like a trickle of sweat runs down your noncorporeal neck.

"Did it work?" you ask, your voice rough, not daring to look for yourself. There’s no answer, though. "Doc?"

Slowly, your eyes readjust to the gloomy darkness of your room in the astral realm. The only source of light is the glowing green band continuing to circle around your wrist, the rifts stabilizing again like it’s clicking back into place.

You swear under your breath and turn around to ask what went wrong, but Strange is no longer standing beside you.

You’re all alone.

* * *

Three, two, one—

"Iced grande extra whip caramel macchia—shit!"

You catch the plastic cup before it drops onto the suit of the business man standing in line in front of you. "Here you go, sir."

He grabs his drink with a grunt and hurries back outside. One of these days, you might ask him why he’s in such a hurry, but it’s not today.

You’ve grown to adore the noise of the pre-noon rush. The cacophany of the whirring machines, the AC and the people is just loud enough to make your head calm down a little. Besides, being alone in a crowd has never been easier than when you know for a fact they are not going to remember you.

The drinks are starting to pile up at the hand-out, and because you feel bad for your colleagues, you start handing them out to people. You’ve been here a lot, after all.

"Tall hazelnut latte for Misty!"

Plus, it helps to keep your mind from wandering back to everything that’s going wrong.

Strange still hasn’t returned.

The astral dimension feels different when you return the day after your experiment, like someone’s been pulling invisible strings to make everything just slightly more disordered and dark.

It’s cold, too. You watch your body shiver in her sleep as you wrap your arms around yourself. The books are still there, shimmering slightly with the magic they contain.

"Doc?" you call out, and the vibrations of this place hum it back at you. There’s no answer.

The book at the top of the pile is still opened to a page, as if it’d just been left a moment ago, and you pick it up. The words glide around like they are looking to jump back into an inkpot, and you have to squint to make out any of them.

Incursion, the section header reads. Result of a contraction in a universe’s timeline. Can cause premature disintegration or collapse of any one reality within the multiverse.

"Just great," you say, slapping the book shut again. "I get it, alright? You can come out now."

But there’s no sound apart from your own heartbeat.

Your noncorporeal head is swimming with pressure as you pass through the closed door and into the hallway. The walls seem larger than usual, the stairs warping ever so slightly underneath your feet so that you can’t look at them for too long without feeling seasick.

Upstairs, the air doesn’t feel quite as heavy. The silence follows you, though, lingering in the grayish morning shadows like the remnants of a nightmare.

Bucky still mumbles in his.

You can’t make out what he is saying, and you wouldn’t have understood the words, anyway, but there’s sweat on his brow again. His fingers are tightly clutching the thin throw blanket like it’s shielding him from whatever he’s seeing in his dreams.

You take a step closer to him, desperate to do something, anything, when you notice movement out of the corner of your eye.

Alpine is perched on top of the bed, complacently tucked into herself on one of the fluffed up white pillows like it’s really her room, not Bucky’s.

And she’s staring right at you.

You take a step to the side, then another. Alpine tilts her head, her large eyes fixed on you. They follow your gestures as you wave your hand.

A quick glance tells you that Bucky is still sleeping. You take a deep breath and conjure up a small dot of bright green light, letting it dance across your fingertips. Alpine uncurls herself in interest, her tail twitching.

"You can see me," you whisper, and the little spec of your power disappears.

The cat meows in disappointment.

Carefully, you move closer to the bed, reaching out your translucent hand until you place it on Alpine’s head.

She rubs against your palm.

You chuckle incredulously, scratching behind her ears. "You little devil."

Alpine seems particularly pleased with herself. She starts purring.

This is simply bizarre, you think as you continue petting her soft fur. You’re expecting a sarcastic comment from behind your shoulder any minute now, but it doesn’t come.

So, you lower yourself down on the floor next to Bucky, the tips of your fingers not quite grazing his arm as you swallow heavily.

And then you wait until he gets up.

It’s possible, you think as you watch him leave and then make yourself wake up too, that Strange is simply messing with you for the hell of it. You don’t like the timing of this, though. Your day still continues on and on and on, like it always does, but it seems just a little too pointed that this would happen right after you had your first hopes of getting out of here in a long time.

It doesn’t help that the reality glitches have decided to return with a vengeance.

Every day is still July 4th. You wake up with a start, you train, you get coffee, you fight over lunch, you take your astral visit, you go on that damn mission. It’s the details that start to get … fuzzy.

In the beginning, every single thing around you was the exact same every single day. Now, though, there are sometimes details that are just wrong. A different mug left on the drying rack. A mess all over the tables in the lab. Weird noises all over the Tower.

You don’t know what to make of any of it, and so in general, you follow Strange’s rule of thumb and simply ignore the things that are wrong one day and then right the next—which, thankfully, is all of them. You just go with it, telling yourself that this is simply reality malfunctioning a little, like a machine that needs oiling.

Weirdly enough, that doesn’t reassure you in the slightest.

But what else can you do?

You lose a few hours here and there, time seemingly speeding up at random sometimes now. One morning, Bucky isn’t in the gym like he usually is, and you work yourself up over it so much you nearly have a panic attack. In the end, you almost crash into him outside of his room, and a rush of reassurance floods through you with such force you can’t even look at him.

That time, Sam is there when Bucky gets shot, and it’s his cry that follows you into the next day. Your hands are clean this time, and somehow that feels worse.

Everyone’s back to their usual stuff again, and that’s that.

Another time, you’ve barely rolled out of bed and into your bathroom—"Rise and shine, McFly!"—when you’re suddenly jolted forwards and you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume. Your stomach feels like it’s still turning, nauseous, as if you’d sat up too fast.

That feeling still leaves a bad taste in your mouth, sticking to the back of your mind like the blood you haven’t even had time to wash off.

The thing that demands most of your attention, though, is the pile of books waiting for you in the astral realm. Since you don’t have any control over the loop itself, you pour all of your energy into trying to understand the theory behind your powers. It’s giving you a constant headache, and it takes a lot longer than you would like to admit, but at least you feel like you’re doing something that’ll last.

Nothing else will.

There’s one last lonely cup sat on the counter next to your own, which signals that the rush is over for now. You can see Lucy wiping her forehead as you wave your goodbye, picking up both drinks on your way out and handing one of them to the guy just hurrying back downstairs.

"Here you go," you say without stopping, glancing at your phone. You haven’t stayed this late before.

"What the—" you hear behind you, just before the doors glide open and you’re greeted by the sound of traffic and a hot breeze of air.

If you’re lucky, you can make it back to your room without anyone seeing you. You’ve moved on to a particularly hefty tome about relativity, and you’d like to—

"Hey! Miss? Hold on a second!"

You look over your shoulder to see the delivery guy has run after you, cup still in his hand. His bike is leaned against a lamp post nearby, his cap dangling off one of the handles.

You found out a couple of weeks ago that he takes his break just after dropping off your order, but you don’t usually make eye contact anymore.

Now, he holds out his cup accusingly. "That’s my drink."

You smile. "Good for you."

"No. No, that’s not—I mean—how did you know it was my drink?"

And because nothing really matters and you really want to go home, you say, "It has your name on it, doesn’t it?"

You expect him to look at you with wide eyes, just like people normally do when you know things you’re not supposed to. His mouth will drop open, speechless, his frown will deepen, and you can wink at him and continue on your way so he can spend the next couple of hours wondering what just happened.

The cup falls out of his hand, but somehow he manages to catch it before it hits the sidewalk. When he looks up at you again, and his expression is unlike anything you’ve seen coming.

"But that’s not …" he says quietly. "Do you remember me?"

And then it’s you who’s speechless, because the shock on Peter Parker’s face is more than you bargained for.

* * * * *

"Honestly, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this," you said quietly, looking over the rim of your glass at the crowd.

"You complaining?" you heard Sam’s voice say over the little earpiece you were wearing.

"Not at all."

Apparently, people connected to terrorist organizations threw incredibly fancy parties.

You hadn’t felt this glamorous in a while, if ever, dressed up to the nines in a dark green jumpsuit with an incredibly flattering cut that you’d never had a reason to wear before. Despite your initial doubts about this whole thing, you felt great, for the first time in way too long.

"Are you gonna move any time soon?"

Well. Mostly.

At least Barnes cleaned up nice, you supposed; it almost made up for his grouchy demeanor.

With a sigh, you downed the rest of your drink and got back to work. You let the crowd swallow you up, seemingly on your way to the restrooms, and then you stopped it all to slip upstairs unnoticed by prying eyes and cameras.

You didn’t hold it for very long; you had to rattle some doors, after all, and despite your espresso martini, it was still hard to tell if you could manage several redos back to back. After all, you’d only been back in the game for a couple of weeks.

It took you a few tries to find the right office, and locating the files was comparatively easy with what you already had access to. There it was, proof that ULTIMATUM had managed to secure most of the Flag Smashers’ previous supporters as well as some high brow weapon dealers.

While you copied everything onto a flashdrive, your eyes caught one of the designs. You frowned.

Even though you couldn’t pinpoint what it was, exactly, something about it seemed just slightly too highbrow for an organization of the international bad egg committee that was supposedly still mostly underground. Your gaze started drifting through the rest of the office, noting the usual boring books and glass awards in the bookshelves on the far wall. You pulled open one of the desk drawers.

"You almost done in here?"

"Fuck!" You slammed the drawer shut again, getting your pinkie stuck in the process. "Damnit, where did you come from?"

Bucky pointed over his shoulder.

"Fuck me," you murmured, your eyes stinging at the pain.

Bucky looked nonplussed. "Can’t you just undo it?"

"Great input, thank you." The flashdrive beeped softly and you shut everything down again. At least you were definitely sober now. "What are you, anyway, my babysitter?"

"Wouldn’t have to be if you could check in on time," he answered, checking the corridors, then nodding for you to follow.

"Time’s a social construct," you murmured, but followed him, the flashdrive hidden in your fist.

You didn’t even make it to the staircase.

"Didn’t I tell you?" a voice said right before several triggers clicked and you both froze. "I knew I’d recognized that arm. And who do you have with you here, Winter Soldier?"

No one, you thought, and then you yanked time backwards so forcefully you stumbled into the desk, your heart still racing. The copy sat at 57%.

You felt almost seasick with the rewind, but there wasn’t any time. "Keep going upstairs," you said into your earpiece.

"What?" Bucky said.

"I’m fine. Don’t come get me. Just keep going," you gritted through your teeth, trying to calm your breaths. 70%.

"Exit plan C, then," Sam said.

Bucky didn’t answer. You looked at your hands. There was a slight tremor to them, but nothing too bad. If you could get the nausea under control, you could probably make it past the cameras one more time.

You should’ve eaten more.

As soon as the flashdrive was done, you ripped it out and forced everything to a halt again. Your palms were sweaty as you hurried out of the office and in the direction of the staircase, your lungs burning. This didn’t feel like a good sign.

You stumbled over your damn heels and the noise returned for that moment you lost your concentration.

Not good enough.

Sweat pearled on your forehead as you and the universe held your breath again. You could feel your hold slipping with every second that wasn’t allowed to pass. Time was impatient with you.

A small crowd had assembled at the bottom of the stairs. As you closed in on them, you felt a jolt go through you and suddenly found yourself surrounded by people as time attempted to right itself again. Your nails dug into the skin of your palm so hard you could feel yourself draw blood.

It went quiet again and you moved through them, almost blindly. Everything seemed to be spinning.

Behind your shoulder, you could hear several people talking, interrupted only by the world stopping around them every now and then.

"—d’you—see that—"

"—could’ve—sworn there—”

And with time stumbling and flailing around in confusion, you made it out of the building and into the waiting cab.

chapter seven

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

#bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

183 notes · View notes

lovelyrecs · 2 days ago

Text

Your laugh comes out through your nose, somehow, as if it’s not much more than a breath. The expression on Bucky’s face doesn’t quite fit his widening grin, or the slight tinge of pink on his cheeks, but you couldn’t say why.

ooooh i love the way this line is written. like he is bashful about this whole thing, about being flattered, but he's not like blushing about THAT. he's feeling those things but not for what she'd think

“If that’s the message, then how come you’re not the one who’s really getting knocked around every single day?”

it's about bucky too. are you saying what i think you're saying. do they have to deal with whatever is going on between them?? does he have to explain he keeps dying because he won't let her.

“It was funny.” The shit-eating grin spreading on his face surprises you so much you stumble over your own feet. His arm extends to stop your fall if necessary, as if on instinct. “You know,” he continues, “I thought you’d lost me on Times Square. Almost asked one of those guys in costume to help you out.”

i love him so much man, what do you mean you're not mad i've been following you around all day. what do you mean when you ask what i'm doing you're holding back a laugh. i love him shut up

But you stop talking, because he’s already taking a tentative nip of yor drink, and then he licks his lips. And they curl slightly upwards.

i'm hyperventilating bro the drink that finally makes him happy is HERS

You try to bite your tongue, but it’s impossible. “I was kind of set on the bee scenario.” Bucky laughs. Genuinely laughs. His nose scrunches up, his eyes creasing and his head thrown back a little, shaking with a quiet and almost childish glee as you blink at the unusual sight. It’s over almost as suddenly as it began, but … still. A warmth spreads from your chest to your cheeks as you watch him, your own smile almost hesitant by comparison.

oh man she's so much stronger than me because i'd burst out crying and make out with him on the spot

For a moment, you can’t breathe as you look at him, whole and confused and missing parts he can’t even remember leaving with you, and you feel as though your heart might stop because the only thought running through your head is Please, not now. Not now. Not now. Every single beat is an echoing no inside your mind.

MISSING PARTS HE CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER LEAVING WITH YOU?? HELLO?? WHAT A LINE

Exactly. That’s it. That has to be it. You’re in deep enough shit already.

i think i might be stupid i thought she was having a heart attack but no she's just realized she's in love with him (too!!!!!)

Neither does the fact that as soon as the crowd disperses and you slowly, reluctantly let go of his hand, he steps out into the street with his head half-turned to you and—well.

i'd spend a whole day just screaming in my room dude this hurts

all i can think is like. she should follow him and bring him back to the compound or a safe house or some shit and just keep him there. soft food so he doesn't choke, nothing electrical so he doesn't get fucking electrocuted. one of those pillow rooms so he doesn't fall. jesus

His cloak curls at the seams in a way that’s almost apologetic. What a stupid thing to say about a piece of magical fabric, you think.

i'm going to take this personally because i love strange's cloak. she's adorable and i love her.

You know what you have to do, but that concerned undertone makes it so hard. You’re still not used to it, but you want to be. Fuck, you want … No.

HIMM YOU WANT HIMMMMM

You have to do this. Have to close yourself off emotionally. Distance yourself from Bucky in order to stay rational about this situation and find your way out. Treat this like you’re not involved at all; like this is just another puzzle for you to solve, and nothing else.

NOOLOPOPOO WHY NOIOOO

“And I’m confident that you won’t. Do you trust me on this?”

trust yourself because i trust you and you trust me!!!

time after time [5]

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 10.9k

chapter warnings: nothing except the usual ones; another panic attack near the end; the riveting resolution of the coffee side quest? please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: after my week of technical difficulties (got shadowbanned, had a breakdown, bon appétit), this chapter finally made it to tumblr as well. thank you so much to everyone who reached out, it's meant more than you know!! <3 this one starts out fairly harmless and then i threw some punches again and for that i apologise

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

five: carousel

The first mission they took you on was nothing short of a disaster.

It should have been simple, was simple, a quick extraction to get a microchip from this decimated group of criminals operating out of an abandoned toy store that Nat had discovered through one of her contacts. You were only supposed to tag along to get a feeling for being out in the field, an additional pair of eyes just in case things went south.

Did they ever.

Not only was the chip accidentally destroyed, your ensuing panic got you stuck for a good twenty minutes until the world started spinning again. Steve fell down a full flight of stairs when you reappeared out of thin air next to him the moment it did.

Needless to say, you went into hiding as soon as you got back to the Compound.

She gave you about an hour before the hatch in the floor boards opened, even though for you, it was much longer. She didn’t know that, though. You sat very still, your breath finally silent again. Maybe she didn’t know you were in here.

"I know you’re up here, Y/N."

You pulled the cape off your head with a sigh. Natasha grimaced.

"Don’t do that, I’m not talking to a floating head," she said with a shudder. "You know how weird that is?"

You huffed and let her pull the fabric into her lap, watching your own limbs reappear, your arms hugged around your knees. She sat down next to you, leaning against the wall with her eyes closed. You watched a spider scatter away from you.

"How did you even find me?" you asked quietly after she made no further attempts to speak to you.

"My sister had a similar hiding spot when we were little." You could hear the smile in her voice as she said it. "And you kicked up quite a bit of dust."

She didn’t elaborate on either of those things and you didn’t ask, even though you wanted to. Anything that could get your mind off what happened.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yeah," you said dryly. "That’s why I’m sitting in the supply closet."

"That’s exactly what I told Steve." Your face fell again, but hers didn’t. "He’s alright. Or he will be, once he forgives me for laughing at him for five minutes."

That didn’t make you feel any better. "I fucked up today," you said softly, your voice still rough.

"You didn’t do anything wrong."

"I did, though. I literally froze as soon as things went wrong, and the chip—"

"Is expendable," Natasha interrupted calmly.

You shook your head. "I only mess everything up for you guys. I’m not a real agent, and my powers just make things worse, and I should just—"

"Do you realize that this thing you were given can be a gift?" You cringed and started turning away, but Natasha reached out for you, a gentle hand on your arm. "I mean it. You think every time you’re unable to use your powers is your personal failure, but you don’t see how every time you are able to use them is precious."

There was a delicate hue to her green eyes, a weariness that was visible even in the dim light of the closet. For the first time, you had the feeling she let you see something she usually wouldn’t.

"Our lives … they’re hard," she went on. "Unpredictable. We live on borrowed time. And you get to have more of it. That’s …" You waited for the words you’d heard before. Invaluable. Instrumental. Priceless. "Beautiful."

You swallowed hard. "Is that why you took me on? For the team?"

Nat looked at you for so long you were almost sure she wasn’t going to answer your question. Then, she said, "I took you on because you needed a reason to get up in the morning."

You stared at her, your nails digging into the palm of your hand until it hurt more than the ache in your chest. Natasha kept looking at you as she continued.

"I lost a lot of people over the years, you know. But never like this. Never this many at once. Something like that …" She trailed off, her eyes wet. "The entire planet was grieving and struggling and blaming us, because at that point hardly anyone understood any of it apart from the fact that the Avengers were involved. And then one day, out of nowhere, a letter materialized on our doorstep, and the security cameras didn’t show a thing." Her grip on your arm tightened, as if she needed to steady herself. "Do you remember what you wrote?"

I’m sorry for your loss.

You’d struggled to put it down for days, because how else could you apologize for something you might have been able to prevent had you only been there instead of hiding? In the end, you’d only added your name and the address of that diner in Brooklyn where you picked up a few shifts after their waitress had been blipped.

You’d gotten a call less than twenty-four hours later.

"You were the first person to say that," Nat continued, because she could see the memories flit across your face as easily as others watched a movie. "And yet, when you got here, you looked as guilty as if you’d personally murdered every single one of the Vanished."

"Well, if I’d been with you—"

"Stop it." For the first time, her voice was sharp. Your mouth fell closed. "We’re all trying to do better, right?"

You could only nod.

"That’s all anybody here is ever going to ask of you. And sometimes 'better' is just getting one hell of a kick in during a mission. Don’t think I didn’t see that."

You smiled ever so slightly. "I have a pretty good teacher."

"Yeah, you do." She shoved your shoulder lightly. "You can’t do more than show up and do your best, honey."

"My best looks like a dead possum next to yours."

"Then stop looking at me." Natasha got up to her feet slowly, patting you on the knee when she did. "Unless it’s for a post mission wind down because I have a movie queued up and I know where Steve hid the cookies."

"Can I have my cape back?"

"Nope." She folded it up with the green side out, letting it hang loosely over her arm. "You’re supposed to use it to hide from your enemies, not your friends."

You didn’t attempt to argue further, warmth rising to your cheeks.

"Nat?" She turned again, halfway down the hatch, caught by the emotion in your voice. "Thank you."

Her smile told you that, as always, she understood.

* * * * *

There simply isn’t a world in which you can do this even one more time. It’s too much.

"You need to sort out your priorities," Sam says, zero sympathy in his voice. Bucky has the audacity to look amused.

"I’m serious," you say, looking between the two of them. "My day is bad enough already. I don’t care where we order, but it’s not going to be Italian unless you want me to puke on your cat."

Over the past couple of weeks, you’ve eaten your way through the entirety of your pizza place’s menu. If you have to smell the rank cheese Sam likes to order one more time, you can’t be held responsible for your actions.

"How about sushi?" Bucky says, and you almost start protesting out of habit before you realize that for once, he’s not arguing your side. You turn to Sam with an expectant grin.

"Fine," he grunts, shaking Alpine off his trouser leg as gently as he can while his nose twitches. "I guess Russian Doll has the right to choose his last meal."

Bucky frowns at him, but you gasp in delight. "Are you finally joining us in dark humor land, Sammy?"

He flips you off wordlessly as he leaves the room and you chuckle to yourself, pulling up the sushi menu on your phone. Alpine starts nibbling on the bandage around your foot that’s stretched out on the couch and you wiggle your toes a bit. It seems to entertain her.

"What," you ask when the staring becomes unbearable.

"Nothing."

When you lift your gaze to meet Bucky’s, his jaw is clenched again, his eyes fixed on you with a distant expression in them. You tilt your head, and he lowers his.

"So what’s the plan?"

You send your part of the order to FRIDAY and put your phone to the side. "I have to get back to Strange to figure out how to stop this loop from happening again."

You’ve almost felt sorry to see your series of library heists break, even though you have no reason to feel his way. This is progress. Strange’s offer to help has been genuine enough so far, even though you hate paying him in answers.

Now that he’s not deliberately keeping you out anymore, getting to the astral plane has been a lot easier, at least, even though emptying your mind enough to cross over without a prior emotional breakdown has still proven somewhat difficult. Weirdly, it’s easiest on the couch.

Bucky nods shortly. "And what do I do?"

"Whatever you want."

He scoffs. "Right."

It makes your insides twist. "Bucky, as much as I hope that today is the last time we’re doing this, I can’t guarantee it. So you should just, I don’t know, enjoy yourself." You cringe even as you say it.

"I wanna come see Strange."

You blink, watching him clench and unclench his fists slowly, deliberating. The golden parts of his arm gleam in the sunlight. "Why?"

His voice, when he speaks, sounds haunted. "I can’t just sit around and do nothing."

Something in his voice sticks with you as you lie down on the couch and stare up at the ceiling. You’re not even sure if what he’s asking is possible.

"No, it’s not," Strange says bluntly. "Not as long as you’re in the loop."

"Why not?"

"Stop asking questions and focus."

With a roll of your eyes, you raise up your arms again. So far, you’ve spent most of your so-called lessons trying to make sense of the cryptic texts Strange makes you read and then summarize like you’re in fifth grade. If you’re not doing that, you’re talking him through the events of your July 4th, or explaining your powers to the best of your abilities, going through the motions and habits you’ve taught yourself over the years. It all feels like you’re revealing something very personal for someone else to judge.

You don’t care much for any of it.

"Again."

"Is this supposed to teach me something new?" you ask, turning your thumb and first two fingers upwards again while your other hand balls into a fist by your side.Threads of sunlight glittering like spun gold. You take a breath and shake your head.

"Do you feel anything?"

Annoyance. You bite your tongue and reach out, carefully, like you would to a scared animal, searching for that old familiar feeling.

It takes a while.

Dim, at first, but clearly there, vibrating deep in your veins, hesitantly stumbling towards your hands like it was suprised, too, to be called upon again. Softly glowing embers slowly filling the void you’ve grown so hopelessly accustomed to.

You open your eyes to find the tiniest green spark dancing across your fingertips and almost laugh in relief.

"Interesting," Strange says.

You flick your fingers softly, once, twice, letting the spec of power grow until it’s the size of a pinhead, cradling it softly with your other hand as if to protect it from a gust of wind. Slowly, bit by bit, it settles back into your skin, and you feel it tingling all the way up to your ears.

Strange contemplates you for a long moment. "When did you get that cut?" he finally asks.

At this point, you should be used to his unfazedness. "Yesterday," you say, the 'obviously' clinging to every syllable. Riff was putting up a better fight than usual; or maybe you’re getting sloppy again.

Strange moves his right hand in that circular motion you’ve seen him do before, and the air in front of you cracks. It’s weird to see your own slightly translucent reflection suspended in the middle of your room. The gash on your cheek has barely had the chance to scab. You subconsciously reach for your necklace again.

"Look at the wound, and hold your hands like this."

You try and mimic Strange’s gesture. "I feel ridiculous." Like a mime. Or a really bad stage magician.

"Good," he says. "Now focus your powers, and follow my lead."

You watch Strange move his shaky hands out of the corner of your eye while trying to concentrate on that little spec of power you’ve felt earlier. Slowly, itchingly, the wound starts knitting itself together, as if it’s been healing for days. The skin smoothes over as if nothing had ever happened.

A rush of excitement goes through you at the sight, and there’s a stutter. With a flash of pain, the cut tears up again and you flinch, your hands falling.

"Fuck."

"I told you to focus."

"Well, if only saying it made it happen," you snap, then try again. This time, you let go of your power more carefully, almost coaxing it down. The gash doesn’t heal completely, but at least it looks better than what you started with. Strange watches you closely, brow furrowed deeply in thought.

"Let’s try something different," he says, and with another flick of his wrist, the mirror vanishes again. "Sit down."

You bristle at the command, but obey. A sidelong glance confirms that your sleeping body’s cut on the cheek has somewhat improved as well. There seems to be something connecting the two of you after all.

"When is this here, anyway?" you ask.

Once again, he doesn’t give you an answer. With another quick movement he grabs something through a small portal and throws it at you without any regard to your reflexes. You grab it off the bed incredulously.

"That’s … a meditation CD."

"Congratulations," Strange says. "You can read."

"You’re not serious."

"Deadly." He unfastens his cloak, which flies over to drape itself over the reading chair like a blanket, and then joins you on the floor, crossing his legs as well. It’s bizarrely casual. "If you don’t learn to focus," he continues, "there’s no moving forward from this point."

You huff, holding the CD out for him to take back. He doesn’t. "I’ve tried meditation," you say impatiently. "It doesn’t work for me. My mind—it doesn’t work for me."

"Your mind what?"

"It’s too loud."

You put the CD on the ground with a little too much force, moving to twist your rings around again, but they’re still absent. Your nails dig into your skin, instead.

"Did you know I don’t really forget stuff? Did I tell you that?" You laugh humorlessly, because what else can you do. "Fun side effect of the traveling back and forth through time. I always know where I’ve been and what I’ve done, and what everyone else has done while I was there. All that information is in my head, all the time, and I can’t get rid of it."

"All the more reason to have it quiet down every once in a while," Strange says calmly.

You want to strangle him.

"Believe me, I’d love nothing more, but I can’t. It’s not like I’m a computer and you can do the whole 'Hello, this is IT, have you tried turning it off and on again?' It doesn’t work like that."

"You do know a lot about how things don’t work."

"Welcome to my world," you mutter, flexing your fingers and crossing your arms before you draw blood.

Strange sighs. "Your mind isn’t a hard drive. No matter what your powers entail, your brain is still human. And it needs to rest every once in a while."

For some reason, in the middle of this whole crazy situation, that thought settles. Maybe it’s because it’s possibly the first genuinely kind sentiment he’s shown you so far. Maybe you’re just tired of pushing.

"How?" It’s more a croak than a question.

"Just stay like that and breathe." You look at him incredulously and he raises an eyebrow. "What? No one said you have to think nothing. It’s fine if you just sit there with your thoughts."

There’s a short pause. "That sounds terrifying," you admit quietly.

Strange considers you for a long moment, as if he’s contemplating what to say, until he finally admits, "I know."

* * *

You blink awake slowly this time, as if gradually awakening from a deep sleep. The TV is on again, quietly chattering in the background, and a weight on your legs tells you that Alpine has found a new spot again.

A glance at your phone shows that surprisingly little time has passed. When you sit up, the white cat on top of you complaining loudly, you can see Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, laptop closed, talking to Sarah on the phone.

The fact that you’re not alone quite yet is weirdly comforting.

In a moment of sleepy contentment, you reach out to scratch Alpine under the chin like you’ve seen Bucky do countless times. Curiously, she lets you without immediately extending her claws. At least for a moment.

"You’re awake."

Immediately, Alpine loses interest in you and jumps onto the backrest of the couch to nestle her head into Bucky’s palm. You roll your eyes.

"Keen observation, sarge."

He slowly peels his gloves off, not quite looking at you. "What did he say?"

Right. There was that.

"Nothing, to be honest," you say, folding up the throw blanket Sam must have put over you while you were sleeping. "Apart from the fact that he really can’t actually do as much as one would think."

"Can’t, or doesn’t want to?"

You shrug. "Same difference."

Despite everything, somehow you feel inclined to believe that there really isn’t a way to get Bucky to the astral plane, though. After all, things haven’t been normal ever since this loop began; and since you’re the only one who can lift it, maybe that also means you’re the only one who can do things like that.

You can only hope that at some point, something—anything—you do is going to stick.

Bucky studies your face, but doesn’t tell you whatever is still clearly gnawing at him. You don’t know why for a moment, you thought he would.

It reminds you of something you haven’t asked in a while.

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

His mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak immediately. "Like what?"

"It’s just …" You struggle with the words, as if your mind is still half-asleep. "In some of the loops, it was kind of …" You trail off when you notice he’s holding something in his other hand. "Did you go get coffee again?"

Bucky clears his throat. "Yeah. I thought since you didn’t get one earlier, ya know …"

You’ve stopped getting caffeinated drinks for yourself in the mornings to make it easier to get to that voidlike state you need to be in to enter the astral plane. It’s been making you rather irritable; though, truth be told, that might also be due to Strange’s charming personality.

"That’s nice," you say, reaching for the paper cup with your name on it, taking a sniff before tasting it carefully. It’s perfect. "I should change my habits," you say lightly, "if Lucy knows my order even if I don’t pick it up myself."

"Who’s Lucy?" Bucky says, sitting down on the couch next to you.

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes. "The pretty one on register? Stars and stripes on her cheeks?" He hums noncommittantly and you decide it’s not worth the effort. "What did you get?" you ask with a nod to the second cup.

"Just … coffee."

You squint to read the sticker, but he puts his fingers over it in a motion so smooth it almost hides its defensiveness. There’s the slightest hint of a grin on his face as you scowl, trying to catch his sleeve to get him to twist the writing back in your direction. Your thumb grazes cool metal and you still. Bucky does, too.

"Did she actually give you her number?"

"So?" he says. Alpine stares at you accusingly, settling in his lap once more.

"Nothing!" It comes out quickly. "I’m not surprised. I mean, she thinks you’re hot."

His eyebrow quirks. "Does she, now?"

You take a gulp of coffee so large it makes your eyes water. "Her shift’s probably over by now. You should call her."

"Why," Bucky says wryly.

"To take her out." Should you be weirded out by the fact that this is happening as soon as Bucky entered the store without you? You tug at the ring on your pinkie.

"Why do you want me to take her out if I’m gonna die later?" Bucky asks.

"Well, it might take your edge off for one."

"And why does my edge concern you?"

"Have you met yourself?" You shrug, your ears drumming. "Besides, it might be fun."

He doesn’t look at you as he takes a sip from his own coffee, as if still determined not to let you see his reaction. "You have a strange definition of fun."

Alpine yawns as if to agree. You stand up abruptly, suddenly nauseated from drinking too fast.

"I’m just gonna …"

Again, you don’t finish your sentence, and Bucky doesn’t stop you from grabbing your takeout containers and taking them with you to your room, where you stare at the toilet for a good minute, waiting for the queasiness to pass. Your meet your own gaze in the mirror.

The cut on your face looks better than it did a few hours ago.

You walk back into your bedroom and take a critical look at your bookcase.The Wind in the Willows is back in its place where it belongs. What isn’t there is the CD Strange finally managed to force upon you.

The rules of this multiverse crap are going to give you another migraine on top of your current one.

You sit down on the floor next to your window to eat, but your cheek keeps itching until you notice yourself tapping your chopsticks against the plastic container so hard soy sauce is splashing everywhere. With a displeased twitch of your mouth, you reach for your phone.

It rings for a very long time and you realize it’s already past midnight in Seoul when finally, there’s a voice on the other end.

"This better be good, agent Y/L/N."

Her voice is quiet, tired, and you press the phone to your ear even harder. "Can I ask you a hypothetical question?"

Doctor Helen Cho sighs deeply on the other end of the line, and you can almost picture her leaning back in her ergonomic office chair. "Alright."

You toy with the edges of the building scab on your cheek. "Is it possible for someone to go through physical changes and … not go through them at the same time?"

There’s a pause on the other end, followed by a sigh. "Are you asking me if Schrödinger’s cat is real or not?"

A living being that simultaneously is and isn’t dead? That’s a paradox you have an answer for.

The problem, as always, is you.

"Sort of. I don’t know." You bite your lip.

"You realize quantum mechanics is not exactly my specialty, right?" Even while she says that, you can hear the clicking of her keyboard. "You are talking about a body, I presume. A human one?"

"Mhm."

"And the changes?"

You think of the cut and the writing and Bucky’s blood on your sheets. And your changed clothes. "They’re only to the body itself. Everything around stays the same. Pretty much like Schrödinger’s cat, I guess. Nothing about the box changes." Ever.

There’s another pause before Helen speaks again.

"Look, as far as I know—and with all these new and upcoming aliens and superheroes and so on that have been appearing over the past couple of years that’s less and less, mind you—but as far as I know, humans can only be in one state at one particular time. There’s ways to accelerate healing processes or even meddle with the body in other ways, but it’s still an either–or scenario."

"So, it’s impossible?" you ask, biting your cheek.

"It’s improbable, based on what I understand." Time has definitely started to bleed into itself, then. Great. "But like I said, that’s not really my area of expertise," she continues. "Speaking of, though, I got an e-mail from your new captain earlier."

"You did?" you ask, surprised. Sam hasn’t said anything to you, not today or any other iteration of it.

"You can tell him I’m hearing the same things he has," Helen says. "My lab wasn’t approached, but I have a colleague at a partner institution who left for Madripoor a couple of weeks ago."

You’ve barely thought about ULTIMATUM and their experiments since you laid everything out for Sam and Bucky earlier this morning. Another wave of guilt flashes through you.

"I’ll tell him," you say tonelessly. "Thanks, Helen."

"In this hypothetical of yours," Helen says before you can hang up. "Who’s the observing party?"

You watch the green symbols circle around your wrist, once, twice, three times. "I’m not sure yet."

You stare at them for a while longer after the call disconnects.

"There’s nothing to observe when the flow of time is reduced to a single day," Strange says when you relay the question to him the next day, his voice dripping with annoyance.

"So there would be, usually?" you ask, eyes narrowing as you try to channel the flow of your powers into the palm of your hand, like he’s told you.

"It’s not a perfect comparison," he answers. "The cat is only dead or not because time passes. Time is only our way of perceiving space dimensionally."

"Time and relative dimension in space," you hum with a light smile. Your palm starts tingling. "But if it’s not that, either, then … I still feel like there has to be something I’m missing here."

Every single review of the mission fills in another piece of the puzzle, the map of the lab you draw on the whiteboard growing more and more detailed each day, but still, it’s never enough. You miss the way Steve would draw out detailed building plans and escape routes before any mission, such ease to the stroke of his pen; your own talent for drawing is borderline abysmal by comparison.

The green shimmer around your hand dissipates again. Strange groans, fingers massaging his temple like he, too, is getting a headache from this stupid realm. His cloak wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.

"What you’re missing," he says through gritted teeth, "is the point of this exercise."

"Enlighten me," you snap back.

You watch him take a deep breath before he answers. "Do you, or do you not realize that this isn’t all about you?"

You huff. "If you say something like this is the universe imparting a message upon me, I got that point. The message is that I suck at what I’m doing."

"If that’s the message, then how come you’re not the one who’s really getting knocked around every single day?"

The anger and remorse that wash over you make your power flare up like a bolt of electricity, your fingertips and the dark of your eyes flashing an eery shade of green. You can feel the little hairs in the back of your neck stand up. Strange only looks at you, his expression unexpectedly somber.

"At least he doesn’t remember," you say tonelessly.

Strange smiles, but there’s no joy in it. "Indeed," he says.

The rush ebbs off, bit by bit, and you blink to get rid of the last of the strange double vision you sometimes get when time stutters again.

"You keep telling a man he will die today because you think that’s best for him," Strange goes on. "Better than him getting to choose his own path. Have you ever paid attention to how he spends his last precious hours once he knows?"

Of course you have. Sitting around in the Tower, going over mission plans again and again. Getting coffee. Lurking in doorways, leaning against walls, thinking, talking, looking.

It’s all time spent with you, and Sam, and Alpine.

It’s weird that you shouldn’t have realized this fact when in the beginning, you kept wondering about the time he came back to the Tower. Because before you’ve started telling him, Bucky always left.

Maybe that’s what you’re missing.

"Careful," Strange says, noticing your change in expression.

"You know me, doc," you answer, letting the power crackle again ever so slightly. It’s a thrill, getting to feel it again. "Careful’s basically my middle name."

* * *

"Doesn’t matter," Bucky says when you ask him what he’d be up to if you hadn’t told him about the loop.

"Oh no, leave me out of this. That’s his thing," Sam says when you ask him about the whole thing, and he so clearly knows what it is and yet refuses to tell you.

"None of your business," Bucky says when you press the matter, his jaw clenched tightly, and you hate to do this, but you don’t exactly have limitless options here. Besides, it’s the first new idea you’ve had in a while, which means there’s an almost moral obligation for you to go through with it. And still.

This feels wrong, you think when Sam comes to knock at your door and you throw on your gym clothes, pulling the sweatband over your wrist tightly.

This feels wrong, you think when you climb into the ring as if nothing had ever happened, as if this was just a normal day. Your side is still a little sore, but you’re able to play it off as a scratch with ease. How would he know to call you out on it?

This feels wrong, you think when you close your eyes as you lie on the mat and wait. You promised.

"You look like shit."

Your head turns like muscle memory. "Hey."

"Hi." Bucky’s eyebrow raises at your silence, but you’re not sure if the words aren’t just going to come bursting out of you. You have a tell. "You alright?"

Your grin tastes just a little bitter. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

"Right." He doesn’t quite believe you, of course, but it’s fine. You can do this.

You turn your gaze back to the ceiling and try to recall the very first July 4th, the version of you that you were. She resists you slipping her back on, but you take another deep breath, just like you’ve been practicing. A chuckle slips free.

"Fuck you, Barnes."

Your heart is still beating fast in your chest, but he must chalk it off to the training, because you can hear him huff. "There she is."

You close your eyes with a petulant sigh, just in case he can see your conscience written all over them. Again, you remind yourself that you tried asking him, that you tried everything else, that this is the only option you can think of right now.

"You’re horrible." It’s more like talking to yourself out loud, but of course Bucky doesn’t know that. And the sad truth is, he’s used to your temper.

"Take the towel on the right, I already used the other one."

You give an affirmative hum, waiting until you hear the door close behind him. Then, you rush to the showers, wasting no time to get ready and dressed again.

Bucky walks out the door of the Tower at precisely 09:43, a fact you know thanks to the time stamps on the security footage from the lobby you had FRIDAY pull up early on in the loop. This leaves you with a pretty small window of time to clean up, add another line to the tally on your thigh, and get back to your room to grab your stuff without making what you’re doing to obvious to either him or Sam. You have FRIDAY call up the elevator with barely a minute to spare, going down to the second floor and quickly heading towards the stairs. Behind you, the elevator dings once.

You basically sprint downstairs, readjusting your backpack. You almost barrel into the fire door, peering through the window into the lobby after another glance at your watch. Only a few seconds later, you can see Bucky walk across the entrance hall, the usual resting scowl on his face as he looks around once and then ducks out the side door.

You tug the cap you found at the back of your closet deeper into your face and start after him.

This feels wrong, and it’s a terrible idea, you can’t help but think as you watch him head down Lex, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. His strides are long, but unhurried, and even though you know he’s the furthest thing from vulnerable, the fact that you’re seeing him unguarded like this doesn’t sit right with you. Nevertheless, you continue.

You expect him to head for the subway, but instead, he turns left after the Chrysler Building, going east. With a slightly confused frown, you briefly join a group of clearly lost tourists to cross the street and follow him back up Third Avenue. At least there’s just enough people around to make it easy enough for you to hide in a crowd, you suppose.

You’re going to follow him, and find out what he’s up to, and then you’re going to see if and how it all connects to this stupid loop.

Easy as that.

It’s about an hour and a half later when you seriously start cursing Bucky’s name. Inexplicably, he’s still just walking around the streets of Manhattan like a fucking peasant. Your clothes are sticking to your body in ways you don’t care to describe, and you’re sick of having to pretend to be interested in shitty Independance Day memorabilia and battered paperbacks on sale while trying to avoid eye contact with the people trying to sell them to you.

You’re also pretty sure you’re walking around in circles.

Letting your head fall into your neck, you blink up into the bright sunlight from underneath the shade of your cap. As always, there is not a single cloud in sight, a perfect Friday in July. It’s making your eyes burn.

You glance back at Bucky, who has continued walking after taking a look at his phone, and sigh. All of this would be so much easier with your powers.

"What on earth are you up to," you mumble to yourself as you watch him take another left.

You count to ten before rounding the corner as well—and then you yelp when you almost slam into Bucky’s chest.

"What are you doing?" He doesn’t sound annoyed at all; more entertained. You take a step back, assessing, but his face doesn’t betray him whatsoever.

"Going on a walk," you try cautiously.

"Yeah, right." He tilts his head, features despicably neutral. "Why are you following me?"

"I’m not?" He stares at you, and you groan. "Fine. I just wanted to see where you’re going?"

"Why?" There’s an edge to his voice that you can’t quite make sense of, but your thoughts tumble right over it, scrambling for an excuse and coming up empty. The glint in his eye is distracting.

"Because …" Because you don’t know what else to do at this point. "I don’t know, I was just curious."

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "That’s a lot of dedication when you could’ve just asked."

You look at him doubtfully. "So you’d have told me?" you say, already knowing the answer.

"No." He puts his hands back into his pockets and turns around, leaving you standing there staring at his back.

"Well, there you go then," you shout and start to follow along again. You take the stupid hat off with a sigh and stuff it into the backpack, wiping sweat off your forehead. "How long did you know I was there?"

Bucky shrugs. "About when I got outside."

"Seriously." He stares at you over his shoulder. "Seriously?!"

"You came down the stairs," he says, shaking his head. "And in a Yankees cap."

"So?"

"Don’t tell me you suddenly like baseball."

"I might like baseball," you mumble. "It’s a very fine … ball sport."

He snorts. "Sure ya do. I’ll remind you next time the game’s on."

"Circling back," you quickly change the subject, "why the fuck did you make me chase you halfway across Midtown if you knew I was there anyway?"

"It was funny." The shit-eating grin spreading on his face surprises you so much you stumble over your own feet. His arm extends to stop your fall if necessary, as if on instinct. "You know," he continues, "I thought you’d lost me on Times Square. Almost asked one of those guys in costume to help you out."

You slap his hand away. "You’re the worst, Barnes."

"And you’re a shit spy, time powers or not." The smile changes, but stays. Somehow, you’re glad.

Your fingers twitch inside your own pockets, your thumbs tracing along your rings. "So," you say, suppressing the nervous chuckle. "Where are we actually going?"

"Don’t know yet." Bucky turns his head to look out for cars before he continues walking. It takes you a second to match his pace again.

"What do you mean, you don’t know."

"Well, I had to cancel my plans because I got an amateur stalker on my heels."

"Wow." You squint at him and the blinding sunshine behind his head. "And you’re calling me stubborn."

"To your face? I would never."

Oh, you hate this.

"So we’re actually just walking around town for the hell of it." And you’ve done all of this for nothing.

"Yup."

The realization that you wasted yet another day by thinking you could be sneaky around Bucky almost takes you down a spiral, and you don’t even notice he’s still talking to you until he ducks his head to catch your eye. "Huh?"

"I said I’ll buy you a coffee. Think you might need it." He pauses. "That is, if you wanna."

"I could always go for coffee," you say, and it’s true. First, though, you should tell him. Rip the band-aid off and get it over with. "Listen, I—"

But then he looks at you, his eyes impossibly blue in the sunshine, and for the first time in weeks, you don’t have to deal with that damn preciousness in them, because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen, and so he just looks at you like he has a thousand times before, the normalcy of it like a breath of fresh air after his eyes have dragged you under again and again.

How come you’re not the one who’s really getting knocked around every single day?

Maybe it’d really be a kindness to spare him the news, just once. It’s still so early.

"What?" Bucky asks when the silence stretches.

You think of the ever unchanging Tower and the neverending pizza delivery and the fact that you hate this. You hate lying to him. You do it anyway.

Just once.

"I thought of something, but it doesn’t matter now," you say. "We have time."

* * *

"Are you gonna tell me what’s up with you?"

You pretend not to hear him, shuffling the straws around in their container until they look a bit more orderly. Even though you’re not working, even though this isn’t even your store, it’s hard to shake the need to feel useful. Particularly if you’re trying to ignore Bucky’s gaze burning into your neck.

You’re saved by your name being called out because your coffee is ready. For some reason, you half-expect him to swoop in front of you and take the drinks himself, but of course he doesn’t. Why would he?

With a shake of your head, you rid yourself of the ridiculous thought and hand Bucky his coffee without looking at him.

"You know," you say, stepping out of the crowded Starbucks into the sunshine. "I have a blanket somewhere in here." You point at your backpack. "We could try to fight for a spot in the park."

There’s a pause, and then Bucky sighs. "What else do you have in there, anyway?"

"Spy stuff."

You don’t expect him to find that funny, but he snorts slightly. Then, like a habit he can’t break, his gaze falls on your hands again.

"I’m just tired," you say wearily before he presses the matter.

"You should try the floor," Bucky says. "If you can’t sleep."

It helps, sometimes. "I’ll keep that in mind."

You take a sip of your coffee and scrunch your nose when you realize it isn’t what you ordered for yourself; it’s what you ordered for him. In your haste to change the topic earlier, you must have switched the cups.

"Sorry," you say, "this is actually—"

But you stop talking, because he’s already taking a tentative nip of yor drink, and then he licks his lips. And they curl slightly upwards.

He blinks a few times, as if he’s as surprised as you are, and tries again, less hesitantly this time. Then he looks at the writing on the cup. "Wait," he says, frowning, "I think you’ve got mine."

Your mouth closes, then opens again. "How do you know?" you finally say. "They both have my name on them."

"Yeah, but you always get the same thing," Bucky says, as if him knowing your order couldn’t possibly be news to you.

"It’s fine," you say when he tries to hand you your cup back. "Maybe I should try something different sometimes."

Bryant Park is already bustling with people, and it’s just about noon. The little green tables are all occupied by chess players and chatting families, the carousel horses manned with happily shrieking children.

Still, you find a place to spread out your blanket near the edge of the lawn, almost within talking distance of the Public Library’s security guard, who is currently on his first smoke break. You demonstratively sit down with your back to him. If ever a man took his job too seriously.

"Aren’t you hot in that?" you ask doubtfully when Bucky uncomfortably sits down opposite you, the collar of his leather jacket pushing up.

"'Course I am," he answers, not elaborating.

You let your eye roam through the park. "Terrible news," you say dryly. "Not a single person is looking at you, Sergeant Cool."

Bucky shakes his head, not looking at you.

"No one cares," you say, more sincerely this time. "Even if they did, they’re not gonna say anything. And they’ll have forgotten about you tomorrow."

He huffs again. "And you’re wonderin’ why I call you stubborn."

"I thought you didn’t do that to my face?"

He pulls his gloves off, throwing them on the blanket between you with his eyebrow raised. "Happy?"

In the bright sun, his left hand is gleaming, the inlets reflecting the light in a way that makes it dance across the cotton like swirls of pure gold. You smile and lean back, closing your eyes.

You don’t come to this park often, even though it’s not far from the Tower at all and it’s easier than returning to Central Park with all the memories it holds and that have turned more bitter than sweet after everything. It’s the same as with the library, you suppose. Sometimes you don’t even know you’re missing something until you find yourself in the middle of it.

It might have been a Saturday, you think, the last time you were here. What a concept; Saturday. You sit with the thought for a while, and then you let it drift away, just like you’ve been practicing.

It’s such an unexpected feeling, to get to experience this moment of quiet reprieve when lately, most of your time in this loop has been spent studying, or training, or fighting. You already know you’re getting another talking-to if you don’t return to the astral plane at all today; but it’s just the one day. Surely, you can be allowed one day.

Your brain craves it more than anything.

When you open your eyes again, Bucky is contemplating your backpack with a frown so oddly different than the one you’ve gotten used to in previous loops. He seems so … It takes you a while to come up with the right word, because somehow, it makes you think of Alpine, and that doesn’t make any sense at all. Comfortable. He seems comfortable.

His shoulders are relaxed, his jaw unclenched, and even though he’s still wearing the jacket, his eyes aren’t flitting around to assess everyone within sight. His head tilts slightly.

"Are you trying to see through it?" you say, and the dryness tastes wrong on your tongue.

Bucky nudges the backpack with his foot. "Just wonderin’ what you thought you were gonna be up to."

"I like to come prepared."

"Since when?"

Well, ever since resetting has kind of stopped being an option whatsoever. "This isn’t gonna turn into one of your 'constant vigilance' talks, is it, Moody?" you say lightly.

He looks at you again, and you’re not really sure if that’s better or worse. "You’re deflecting, doll."

"Well, what do I know!" you say. It’s worse, definitely worse, but you don’t know why. "You might have been off on a covert mission or visiting a secret girlfriend or buying a beehive to put on the roof or—"

He unzips the backpack. "So you brought a blanket, a baseball cap, binoculars and a banana?"

You try to bite your tongue, but it’s impossible. "I was kind of set on the bee scenario."

Bucky laughs.

Genuinely laughs. His nose scrunches up, his eyes creasing and his head thrown back a little, shaking with a quiet and almost childish glee as you blink at the unusual sight. It’s over almost as suddenly as it began, but … still. A warmth spreads from your chest to your cheeks as you watch him, your own smile almost hesitant by comparison.

Joy looks good on him.

It leaves a twinkle in his eye even as the laughter subsides, like specs of sunlight.

"What?" he says, his mouth still twitching.

"You seem happy." And it’s astonishing.

Bucky shakes his head slightly, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s blushing. "No need to sound so shocked about it."

"You sure?" you ask, your voice cracking only a little. "I feel like I need to call an ambulance."

"Shut up."

"Or Area 51. I think you might’ve been swapped with an alien doppelganger." You sit up properly. "Tell me something only the real Bucky would know. Oh, wait. He wouldn’t have told me, either."

"You are the most dramatic person I know, you know that?"

"You’re one to talk, Sergeant I Need Nobody’s Help, I Will Jump Out Of A Plane Without A Parachute."

"So many rank drops today."

"Now who’s deflecting?"

"I take calculated risks."

Except he doesn’t even know his calculator is broken.

Bucky stares at you. "What’s that even supposed to mean?"

You didn’t mean to say it out loud. Not today. Your fingers twitch automatically to take it back, but of course, nothing happens. Nothing apart from his attention being brought back to your black rings.

"What did you do?"

The concern in his voice is quiet, but it’s there nevertheless, and it makes your heart ache, long desperately for it to go away, to be replaced by the joy that was there mere seconds ago. You want to make this day stop, make the world stop so you can continue living in that ease of just sitting here and laughing together without thinking about anything else.

And then you realize what’s really happening, and the world chokes, like something falling into place.

You are so fucked up, you think, but you can’t find it in you to stop looking at his face, nearly flinching as you shove the feeling all the way down, down, down, until you can feel it like a brick in your stomach. It’s nauseating, like the vertigo you get at the very top of a roller coaster just before the car drops into freefall.

"Y/N?"

"I don’t know," you say tonelessly. He must have noticed your face change, he must have. So why doesn’t the frown deepen?

"Liar." Your heart is still pounding so loud he must hear it, even over the racket of children screaming in delight and cars blowing their horns in the distance.

Concern, you think again. Exact same thing that you see mirrored on Bucky’s face right now. You're concerned for your friend.

Roommate, really.

Colleague.

Guy you sometimes work with, professionally.

Exactly. That’s it. That has to be it.

You’re in deep enough shit already.

He’s still waiting for you to say something and you can hear the blood rushing in your ears, the buzzing in your head getting louder, and the only thing you can think to say is, once again, "I’m sorry."

Before Bucky can answer, his phone rings, and there’s the flicker of annoyance you’ve been waiting for.

"Hold that thought," he says. "Sam?"

Your heart sinks as Bucky presses his phone to his ear, reality catching up with you again. You try to rearrange your features into a neutrally curious expression when he glances back at you, but you’re probably failing horribly.

"No, I’m good, I didn’t end up going.Yeah. Alright."

You clear your throat as he hangs up. "So. Sam’s about to give his big speech then?"

Bucky looks bemused. "I’d hope not. That was hours ago."

"What?"

Confused, you look at your watch. Then you look at Bucky’s watch. Then you look at your phone.

Even though you can’t have been sitting here for more than thirty minutes, every clock you look at tells you it’s past 4 p.m. Confused, you twist your rings around your fingers, one by one, but they’re as pitch black as ever, and yet somehow …

"Should we go?" you ask, your voice just a little pitchy.

Bucky gazes at you for a very long moment, and then gets up to his feet and holds out his hand to pull you up. He still hasn’t put his gloves back on.

You take it.

"You’re really off today," he remarks and you hum noncommittantly as you fold the blanket back up and unceremoniously stuff it into the backpack. He shoulders it himself before you can grab it. "You’re just gonna complain again," he says, even though the Tower isn’t that far.

You don’t say anything, though, just trudging behind him without a glance back.

Probably because of the time of day, 42nd street is packed. You watch Bucky pass through the crowd with his head downcast and his hands back in his pockets. If it’s been a struggle not to get separated from him earlier this morning, it’s near impossible now.

He looks over his shoulder when, for the third time, several people have pushed between the two of you, and you shrug helplessly as you try to catch up to him. Again, you can’t help but think this would be so much easier with your powers working the way they’re supposed to; just stopping everyone else for a second while you move past them.

"Sorry," you mumble when you reach him waiting for you at a crossing. All of a sudden, you feel how tired you’ve been for a while.

"Wanna just go home?" Bucky asks.

"That’d be nice," you say, cringing at the thought of having to change immediately once you get back. Sam is probably already impatient.

Bucky’s mouth twitches. "Don’t make this a thing."

And then he takes your hand again and links his fingers with yours as if he’s done it a thousand times before. The light changes to green, but you don’t move, and Bucky softly tugs to get your attention. His hand is solid and warm in yours, and it does nothing to ease the feelings of unease and contentment that mingle in your stomach with his touch.

Neither does the fact that as soon as the crowd disperses and you slowly, reluctantly let go of his hand, he steps out into the street with his head half-turned to you and—well.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and it’s like the air is getting knocked out of your lungs.

After that, the days start to blur.

* * *

"Why would it have anything to do with the mission?" Strange asks, and you can’t decide whether he sounds condescending or genuinely confused.

"Because it’s never happened before then, maybe?" you say, throwing up your arms. "I don’t know!"

"The loop is tied to you, not the other way around. If Sergeant Barnes has only ever died during the mission before today, the only other variable in that equation is you."

His cloak curls at the seams in a way that’s almost apologetic. What a stupid thing to say about a piece of magical fabric, you think.

"Great," you huff, sitting down on the ground and crossing your arms in order to not shake violently. "So first time’s skipping and now if I spend time with him, he’s just gonna die earlier?"

There’s a pause as Strange frowns. "Show me your wrist."

You press your lips together tightly and hold out the arm with the swirling green symbols. Strange examines it with a particularly grim expression.

"Just say it," you mutter when it becomes unbearable.

"Time is a precious thread in the fabric of the universe," he says, dropping your hand. His silver eyes are very serious. "You don’t get an endless supply of it."

"I literally do," you reply, flourishing your wrist demonstratively. "That’s the whole problem."

"No." Strange shakes his head. "Your reality is going to collapse if time can’t move on from where it’s stuck. Not today, not tomorrow, but it will happen."

You stare at him with wide eyes. "What does that mean?"

"It means, no more distractions. Things are detereorating more quickly than I’d hoped." He sighs, and there’s something about his demeanor that lets real fear course through your bones for the first time in a while.

"Okay," you say, swallowing it down. "Let’s do some overtime, then."

"I’m afraid that’s not how it works. Look at her."

You glance at your sleeping body, stirring in her sleep.

"You asked when this is," Strange continues. "That’s the thing with this version of the astral plane. It’s unstable. It only exists between dreaming and waking, and so our time here is very limited. You are then, and now. Past and present and future all folded into each other and wrapped into one. The nature of time doesn’t like this."

"So, what?" You laugh humorlessly. "I go through an endless day, and then reality crumbles anyway?"

"Do you understand now why it’s so important that you get a grip on your powers?"

Because you’re the one who created the loop, and therefore the only person who can untangle it again.

"So no pressure then," you say tonelessly.

"All of the pressure, I’m afraid," Strange says grimly. "There’s really no time to waste anymore."

* * *

"When we live such fragile lives, it’s the best way we survive. I go around a time or two, just to waste my time with you."

Your head has started pounding to the beat of the song and Sam’s fist at your door, but you keep staring at the ceiling, unmoving. It all just starts over.

Even this godawful song.

"Tell me all that you’ve thrown away. Find out games you don’t wanna play."

You must admit, the universe has a certain sense of cruel humor. Not that that’s any news. It doesn’t fucking matter what you do any of these days, because the outcome stays the exact same, and there’s a moment each and every time where Bucky knows that, too. Only by then, it’s too late.

"Geez, I hate you."

You’re so tired.

"I know, Buck."

Fade to black. Back in with a blast and the sun in your face, FRIDAY blasting The—

"I’m coming in," Sam finally shouts from the other side of the door. "You better not be naked!"

You hear him enter, but you still don’t move. You’re busy replaying that look on Bucky’s face in your mind of the exact moment it goes wrong. It looks so pale, his mouth twitching downwards, a bit like with his coffee, but much more devastating.

Black out. Rewind. His eyes are on you, not even on the white jacket shooting him.

Black out. Rewind. The fingers on his metal hand grasp so tightly around your wrist you feel something move underneath your skin.

"What is going on with—Y/N!" You feel Sam rushing to your bedside in three long strides.

Right. You’re still covered in blood.

You can’t look away from his eyes until the last second. Black out. Rewind.

"FRIDAY, turn this shit off. Call an ambulance."

"Calling 911."

The sudden silence slams you back into the present with a start. "Cancel call," you say loudly, your voice only slightly shaking. "I’m fine, Sam."

"You don’t look fine!" He helps you sit up, looking you up and down, a sense of urgency still vibrating in his every movement, but of course, you’re not bleeding. "You look like you just shot a man and then rolled over."

"You’re not wrong," is all you get out before you start crying.

Black out. Rewind. God, you’re pathetic.

You shrink back from his arms, cradling your wrist to your chest. It’s starting to swell.

And yet, the green symbols swirl.

You’re not sure why you’re reacting like this now, after … you’re not sure. It’s not like this is your first time. Does that make you an even worse person? Probably.

Sam is talking to you, you recognize his voice, but you can’t focus on the words. You’re desperate to find something to focus your attention on, like you’ve been trying, training, grasping to do, but you’ve got nothing. Just numbness, a gaping nothingness, and the scars to prove you’re not just stuck in a nightmare but this is in fact your reality, and you are the only thing that remains while everything else resets in an endless cycle of hell, over and over and over again.

Nothing stays.

And you can’t help but feel like you’re running out of time, anyway.

This is ridiculous, you know that. You know you’re worrying Sam out of his mind, that you just need to focus, damnit, take a breath, stop crying, anything. Your incompetence to do any of these simple tasks is like another slap to the face.

Time passes, and doesn’t pass; it doesn’t matter at all whether you’re there for a minute or six hours, it’s all the same to you.

Through the fog of it all, Bucky’s voice is like your lighthouse.

And you despise yourself for it, even as you reach out for him.

"Hey," he says quietly, his hands rubbing circles into your back until he slowly, carefully pulls you out of your head back to earth. "It’s alright. Everything’s okay."

He says it over and over and over again until you nod slowly. It’s a pretty lie, after all.

"What happened to your wrist?"

You know what you have to do, but that concerned undertone makes it so hard. You’re still not used to it, but you want to be. Fuck, you want … No.

It doesn’t matter.

"I need to tell you something," you whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear. "One more time. And then … Then that’s it."

It’s the only way.

You’re going to fix this mess you’ve created, if it’s the last thing you do.

* * * * *

"If we die here tonight, I’m blaming you," you told Steve through chattering teeth, and he laughed at you. If you hadn’t still felt bad about his bruises—no matter that they’d already healed completely again—you might have kicked him in the shin.

You’d reached the point of wanting to kick Captain America on a concerningly regular basis.

This time, though, you felt completely within your rights, because you’d been training hard all week, and thanks to New York being just about the most disgustingly freezing place on the planet if they asked you, you really didn’t see the point of driving into the city to a random ice rink. Particularly not on an evening in early January when it was already dark outside.

"You’ll be warmed up in no time," Steve said and waved at Nat, who was already waiting for the two of you, the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up so the red roots of her hair stayed hidden.

"Couldn’t we have done this at the lake?" you asked, looking around wearily. The crowd was substantial.

"Sure," Nat said and put an arm around you. "Do you have about fifty friends we can invite so we can properly train your powers around other people?"

You grimaced. "There are children everywhere."

"Oh, yeah. Some of them went home early, but most opted to stay when I told them Steve would drop by."

You groaned. Of course they were Natasha’s Blip orphans; they had the same mischievous shimmer in their tired eyes. "Thanks for that, Nat."

"You’re so welcome," she answered, patting your shoulder. You narrowed your eyes when her coat shifted to the side.

"Is that my hoodie?" you said.

She looked down as if she hadn’t noticed what she was wearing at all. "Yeah, I think so."

"I was looking for that everywhere earlier!"

Natasha merely shrugged. "It’s your own fault for leaving your stuff in the dryer for anyone to take."

"Don’t pay attention to it, she does it to all of us," Steve said, putting an arm around her.

"That is not true."

"It is. You’re like a clothes hoarding dragon."

"Did you just call me a dragon?"

You didn’t listen to the rest of their bickering, because your eyes had started to water, and not because of the cold. It’d been a long time since you’ve felt this warmth inside, this feeling of belonging, of, well … family. It made your powers pulsate through your veins soothingly.

Still, the worry came back when they gave you a helmet and knee pads to wear.

"I’m a travesty on skates, but it’s not this bad," you told Natasha again when you shakily followed her to the rink entrance.

"We’re here to train, not to have fun," she said, taking your hands. Of course, she moved like a dancer even on the ice. "Well, both," she amended when you looked unconvinced. "Oh, don’t look at me like that, it was Steve’s idea."

"Then why is he sitting over there doing nothing?"

"He’s got the day off." She pulled you to the side of the rink. "Here’s what we’re gonna do," she said, pointing to the far end. "I’m going to close my eyes and you’re going to guide me straight through the middle to the other side."

You stared at her. "You’re insane."

Natasha ignored you. "One straight line, you tell me when to dodge someone. We’ll go slow."

"I don’t know how many times I can jump."

"It’s not exactly a life or death situation, Y/N. I can survive a few bruises and so can the kids."

"I’d rather not injure a child if you don’t mind," you say, trying not to sound hysterical.

"And I’m confident that you won’t. Do you trust me on this?"

You met Nat’s calm gaze and took a breath, even though the knot in your stomach tightened. "Fine."

"Such a vote of confidence," she snorted. "Just watch what they’re doing, and keep it in mind. Think of it like a dance recital. It’s all just a sequence of steps in a specific order."

You bit the inside of your cheek and nodded. Natasha closed her eyes. "Ready?" you asked.

She smiled. "I love this song."

You could barely hear the music over the thrum of adrenaline, but you supposed that was her way of saying yes. This’ll be the day that I die.

You pushed forward.

chapter six

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

#i'm in ruins right now #i'm so upset #i'm so mad please don't BACK AWAY FROM HIM PLEASE #bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

230 notes · View notes

lovelyrecs · 2 days ago

Text

“What’s my thing?” Natasha demanded. “Do you not notice yourself posing?” you asked, sliding your leg to the side. “It’s such a thing.”

really huge fan of the way this is phrased, i can't describe it BUT i can't believe i just noticed this is a spectacular take on the new girl pogos

“That’s a cartoon movie, Y/N,” Rhodey said. “That’s nothing like real life.”

😭

“I’ll walk you out,” Natasha said, pushing her chair back so abruptly Steve almost lost his balance.

she's up to something and it's making me nervous also the banter between them is so 2012 avengers 😭 i missed them

“You were shot,” he says sharply as you step back into the sweltering New York sun. “You shouldn’t even be standing up right now, let alone waltz around town.”

waltz around town LMAO and i thought steve was the motherer

You put her outside yesterday. Right?

WAIT YES SHE DID

“It isn’t, by the way,” you tell Bucky. “It’s depressing as hell.”

SHE WATCHED IT 😭

“Maybe there’s something that’s messing with your powers as well as mine,” you say now, looking at Bucky again. He puts his cup down, swallowing heavily. What kind of maniac doesn’t like chocolate in his coffee, you wonder.

her experiment!! her little bright light in this. thing

“That is the technical term, actually,” Bruce says. “Have you noticed any other physical changes? Insomnia, loss of strength, headaches?”

LMAOO

“It was.” At least if the stench is anything to go by. You turn to Bucky. “We collected a sample, and you put it in your pocket. It must have broken when the computers exploded, and when I started the loop …” It was absorbed into it.

OH MY GOSH HOLY CRAP SO HE DOESNT HAVE POWERS RIGHT NOW. THAT'S WHY IT'S SO EASY FOR HIM TO DIE BECAUSE HE HASNT HAD FAST HEALING THE ENTIRE TIME. BUT LIKE. OKAY LET'S SAY THEY FIGURE OUT A WAY TO FIX IT. WON'T IT JUST BE ERASED? IF HE DIES?? wait okay. does this mean he could have eternal life. from, well, reader's pov? like okay they fix him and give him back super healing but then he dies from some other innocuous reason and he restarts on that day. that's actually kind of sweet

You don’t say it out loud. The look in Bucky’s eyes confuses you, because even though he seems to put it together at the same time as you, his expression turns strangely warm, almost careful. It’s such a stark contrast to his usual quiet demeanor that it takes you another moment or two to figure it out. He looks at you as if you’re about to break.

oh my GOSHDSHSH. strangely warm almost careful. i'm so conflicted is he relieved? a little? why??? or WHAT 😭 i'm so stressed out

“I haven’t been in here since 1936,” he told you five days ago.

!! how strange must that be!!! knowing so much about him, having been told and let in and then... he doesn't remember. but you do. i'm devastated

None, you think. It makes zero difference, and you both know it, even though he’s nice or smart enough to not tell you to your face.

yes it does!!! yes it does!! because it has to!!!

“Mhm, right.” You scroll to the bottom. “Well, I guess that leaves blowing ourselves up, then. Can’t hurt.”

i LOOOOVE THAT MOVIE. PALM SPRINGS IS INCREDIBLE

“Hey!” Bucky says loudly. “No ignoring the dying man. What’s the Groundhog Day option?”

he WOULD use that to get his way

“Hold on a second,” Bucky interjects, cheeks slightly tinged, “so you’d rather I keep dying than just see if it works?” “What?” Your face is burning. So are his eyes. “No, I—it’s just not that easy.” “Sounds pretty straightforward to me,” he argues. “It’s not about the sex!” The words tumble out of your mouth to the beat of your heart. “He has to fall in love with her, that’s what breaks his loop in the movie. It’s a completely different situation!” There’s a beat where the two of you stare at each other before Bucky’s face goes blank of emotion. “Right.” He nods, his jaw set tight.

this fucking interaction has me going insane. all the hope he'd had about them being a them dissipating because he thinks she doesn't want him to that point and then hearing that it's about love and he's taking it like. she's saying she could never fall in love with me and she's saying he has to be in love with her i hate them both please PLEASE my head is in my hands i feel like i'm going through a divorce right now

Now, though, you’re left with no other option than to have it keep moving with you, each passing second making the temporal rift between you and her larger.

HELLO??? why would you do this NOOOO like now i'm thinking about her relationship with time, how she's always been able to pull at it and it was a kind of comfort to not be too far away in terms of it but now it's moving and it's moving away and she can't do anything about it.

He can’t see you like this, not when you look as broken as you feel. Your insides are twisting, screaming, yearning for someone to rock you in their lap and tell you everything is going to be alright. But they’re all gone.

i'm going to scream and burst into tears i can't do this

“Step on my feet,” he tells you softly, so you can tell it’s a request, not a demand. “There are shards everywhere and you’re already bleeding.”

he'll take it for her 😭 like he has like he is 😭😭😭

time after time [4]

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 9.2k

chapter warnings: description of a panic attack; this writer is still grappling with the events of endgame and the nature of time travel; underneath the banter, tensions are rising

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: welcome back everyone. i missed you. 💚

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

four: groundhog day

“She needs a thing.”

It was one of the rare evenings when Natasha and you weren’t the only ones at the Compound, so you’d ordered take-out and given yourselves the evening off. It felt nice, normal even, a dinner between friends that hadn’t seen each other in a while but comfortably fell back into their old rhythm. You weren’t the new girl anymore, but still new enough to this kind of life, and so it felt like a big deal when they included you like this. For better or worse.

“I don’t need a thing,” you said with a roll of your eyes.

Steve was getting better with his chopsticks, but he was still the last one eating. Rhodey, apparently, was bored out of his mind and tried taking it out on you.

“Of course you do,” he said, “we all have a thing!”

“Rhodey,” you replied sternly. “I don’t want a thing.”

“I don’t have a thing,” Natasha said.

“Oh, please,” you both said in unison.

“Do I have a thing?” Steve asked, grin still easy on his face.

“You have a vibranium shield,” Rhodey said, “that you throw like a boomerang.”

“What’s my thing?” Natasha demanded.

“Do you not notice yourself posing?” you asked, sliding your leg to the side. “It’s such a thing.”

“Had a shield,” Steve said. “And it was magnetic.”

“You’ve also grown like ten inches since the forties, man, is that not enough of a thing for you?”

“Fine, alright,” Steve conceded. “You good, Nat?”

“Of course.” The absent-minded smile vanished from her face, replaced by a wicked grin as she contemplated you. “How about a cape?”

You groaned. “I’m not going to wear a cape.”

“Why not? It’s classic!” Rhodey snorted.

“It’s showy. None of you have a cape!”

“Thor has a cape,” Steve said.

“Thor is literally a god, that’s different.”

“Doctor Strange had a cloak. That’s kind of like a cape. Time power people wear capes,” Rhodey added.

“I don’t want to be associated with Strange!”

It came out sharper than you intended. You all sat in silence for half a minute, busying yourselves with your drinks. You buried your head in your hands. Natasha blew on the rim of her bottle.

You wondered if you should just try and rewind the moment, but you weren’t sure if you had the energy for it. And you didn’t want this awkwardness to last any longer than it already did.

“You know,” Steve said after a while, “Vision wore a cape, too.”

“Oh my god,” you sighed. This was just happening, apparently.

“So did Loki, though,” Natasha pointed out.

“Have none of you seen The Incredibles?” you asked. “Capes are terrible!”

“That’s a cartoon movie, Y/N,” Rhodey said. “That’s nothing like real life.”

“Is that one for the list?” Steve asked.

“You can shoot lasers out of your hands, you’re telling me the danger of getting sucked into a void is more unrealistic than that?” You stole one of the spring rolls off Steve’s plate. “It’s definitely one for the list.”

“If you’re getting sucked into a void, I doubt whether or not you were wearing a cape at the time would make much of a difference,” Rhodey snorted, taking another sip of his drink.

“And you could use it as a weapon,” Natasha added. “If it’s the right material.”

“Like an armor made of fabric,” Steve nodded, pocketing his notebook again. “I’ve heard of that.”

“I was thinking she could strangle someone with it, but sure, armor works, too,” Natasha shrugged. You laughed at Steve’s confoundedly impressed face. “Anyway,” she continued, still contemplating you, “I’ve got an idea you might like.”

“I’m not going to wear a cape,” you said again, but Natasha wasn’t listening to you anymore, turning her attention towards Rhodey again instead.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for the night?”

“Nah,” he said with a fond smile. “I gotta be in D.C. early tomorrow. In fact, I should probably head out.”

“Already?” Steve said, one of his arms draped comfortably around the back of Natasha’s chair.

“I thought we were doing poker night,” you agreed. Despite his ribbing, you didn’t want Rhodey to leave yet. You still craved this sense of normalcy that came when people hung out with each other, just because they could.

Just because they wanted to.

“Again,” Rhodey said, stretching his legs before getting up, “I’m not playing cards against you lousy cheats anymore.” He pointed at you and Natasha.

“We would never cheat,” you protested in fake outrage.

“We’re far too talented for that,” Natasha agreed, winking at you.

“Lousy. Cheats.” You weren’t as stiff anymore as he hugged you goodbye, even squeezed back a little. “Call me about your next meeting.”

Steve nodded. “Fly safely, alright?”

“I’ll walk you out,” Natasha said, pushing her chair back so abruptly Steve almost lost his balance.

There was an unease to her steps that became more noticeable on the evenings she took Rhodey aside, and you watched them leave with a slight frown. Considering how effortlessly she’d been teasing your deepest worries out of you over the past months, you couldn’t shake the feeling that her own walls wouldn’t come down so soon.

“Wanna play me for the last one?” Steve interrupted your thoughts, nodding towards the lonely leftover spring roll.

Your stomach grumbled in appreciation as you reached for the deck of cards already placed next to the empty food containers. “You’re not scared I’m gonna scam you, then?”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” he shrugged. “Besides, you have a tell.”

“I do?” And here you thought you’d stopped sweating. "What’s my tell?"

"You don’t like lying."

Your fingers halted for just a fraction of a moment as you were shuffling the cards and you frowned. "That so?"

"Don’t get me wrong, you’re good at pretend." Steve gently took the deck out of your hands. "But when you feel bad about something, it’s like a neon sign above your head. You only need to know where to look."

He dealt the cards.

* * * * *

The sign next to the door tells you it’s still, again, and endlessly happy hour. "Get two of your favorites for the price of one!" it says in Lucy’s beautiful handwriting next to a lovely drawing of two colorful plastic cups.

Inside, the air conditioning is on full blast and the smell of ground coffee is enough to make you sigh contentedly. The queue, as usual, is at least ten deep, so you have some time to watch the people around you while you wait.

You’re late today, and you can see the remnants of a spilled drink behind a little yellow triangle proclaiming "Caution! Wet floor". Apparently it’s busy enough today that no one’s had the time to clean up in the past hour. You still grimace as you step up to the counter.

"How’s it going, Luce?"

"Ask for a frappuccino and I will fucking murder you." Your colleague tugs a strand of hair back under her cap with a sigh. "I swear, if I see another child today, I’m gonna quit."

"That bad?" you ask with a sympathetic smile. Holidays always are, particularly at this store, since it’s only a hop and a fall from Grand Central. You still remember your last New Year’s Eve shift with a shudder.

"Please kill me," Lucy says dryly and then, like always, "Usual?"

"Please," you say, adding the rest of your order. "Love what you’ve done with your face, by the way!"

"Thank you," she says, proudly turning her head so you can admire the other side of her red-white-and-blue themed makeup. "No one’s said anything all morning, can you believe that?"

Yes. Yes, you can, because this is New York and also she tells you every day. "Shut up!"

"I know, right?" She leans forward on her elbows, cracking her back. "You working this weekend?"

The way things are looking, you’re never working again. "Not ’til Wednesday."

"Boo, lucky," she groans as you sign your receipt. "I should go down with my hours, too. I feel like I’m in every day. Hi, welcome to Starbucks, what can I get started for ya?"

Her code switch as she talks to the next customer in line has you shuffle forward to the bar, carefully stepping around the melting puddle of a drink on the floor with a slight hiss as you strain your side slightly too much. The wound is healing, but so, so slowly.

You scroll through your phone while you wait for your drinks to be ready, handing out straws to people and wordlessly pointing them to the restroom before they harass your stressed coworkers. This part of the day in the late morning is your quiet time, and the almost familiar crowd with their incredibly mundane needs is strangely soothing to your nerves in their predictability.

It almost makes you miss work. Almost.

Your name is called, but before you can step up to collect your order, a familiar figure swoops in in front of you. You roll your eyes.

"What are you doing here," you groan.

"I could ask you the same thing," Bucky says, keeping the paper tray just out of your reach with a stern look on his face. "I thought you were sleeping."

"I was. Now I’m getting coffee." You reach for the tray again to no avail, and the stretch doesn’t feel fun at all. Still, you send him another reprimanding glare. "Bucky, I’m slightly wounded, I haven’t lost the use of my arms."

"You were shot," he says sharply as you step back into the sweltering New York sun. "You shouldn’t even be standing up right now, let alone waltz around town."

"Oh, I forgot, the man from the forties has a medical degree. Are you going to prescribe me cocaine?" You won’t admit it, but it’s a struggle to keep up with his long strides. To your great annoyance, Bucky seems to notice and slows down.

"If I would, at least I’d make sure you’d never use it," he says dryly, not looking at you. "That mine?"

"One to the left," you say, crossing your arms and watching as he takes a swig of coffee. Another failure today, it seems. "And I wasn’t shot," you add, muttering, "I was shot at."

"And the living time machine has a PhD in English."

"I have a myriad of talents."

"Mazel tov." The elevator dings before you can add the attempt to kick a super soldier in the shin to your skillset. "Sam ordered pizza, but I assume you knew that already," Bucky says as the doors close.

You curse quietly. The thought of Italian food has started to make you sick to your stomach; one of the many tragedies of your current situation. Bucky grins.

"I take that as a yes."

You grab your own cup of coffee off the paper tray with a little too much vigor, cursing again.

"You alright?"

"Shut up." You take an angry gulp of coffee.

"Tell me," Bucky says, watching you with an unimpressed expression. "Have you always been this stubborn or did you pick that up from Steve?"

"Why," you say blankly, "did you get your being incredibly annoying from him, too?"

He rolls his eyes. "I wouldn’t have to be if you’d just sit down and stop moving around so much. It’s not hard."

"I’m fine." The elevator finally stops and you hobble outside with gritted teeth, deliberately not looking at Bucky. Only a few more steps.

"No, stop that," you hear a voice before you turn the corner. "You can’t have that. You’re—you’re lactose intolerant!"

Both of you halt and take a moment to assess the delivery guy next to your front door. A pile of pizza boxes is precariously balanced on his left arm while with his right hand he’s trying to constrain a furious white ball of fluff.

You blink.

He notices both of you staring at him and quickly straightens up. "Oh. Hi! Sorry. I got your pizza and, uhm, your cat? I think?"

Alpine meows angrily.

"He was scratching at your door trying to get in," the guy continues, watching with big eyes as Bucky pries the struggling cat from his leg.

"She," he says, looking back at you with a frown.

You consider the cat.

You put her outside yesterday. Right?

"Sorry," the delivery guy says miserably, catching you before you get lost in thought.

"It’s fine," you say, finally looking at him again, forcing a friendly grin onto your face. "Would you mind bringing these in?"

It’s a coincidence. Of course it is.

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” Sam says, again. “You’re stuck in a time loop.”

You nod.

“Like Groundhog Day,” you and Sam confirm.

“Or Doubled and Redoubled,” you and Bucky offer.

“What the hell’s that?” you and Sam ask.

“It’s a good story,” you and Bucky say.

“It isn’t, by the way,” you tell Bucky. “It’s depressing as hell.”

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says, a flicker of annoyance in his eye.

You slouch down in one of Alpine’s supposed spots with a deep sigh, ignoring the pain in your side. “And how would you know?”

Sam still looks somewhat unconvinced, despite your little presentation. Apparently, you introducing him to the poor unsuspecting delivery guy every day isn’t quite the same as showing him your blood-drenched hands first thing in the morning.

“And Bucky’s gonna die?” he asks, putting his half-eaten slice of pizza back into the box.

You close your eyes. “He is.”

“How?”

Shot. Stabbed. Crushed to death. Blown to pieces. Dead. Alive. Dead. Alive.

“Does it matter?” You twist your rings around and around, another endless circle. “But it’s connected to the loop, somehow. Just like my powers.”

“What about your powers?” Bucky asks, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s frowning again. He’s frowning so much these days. Today.

Talking about your powers feels like admitting to all your deficiencies, but you suppose this is your purgatory. Over and over, until sometimes, you reach a new little fork in the road. The tiniest bit of change.

It’s all you can cling to.

“My powers are like a remote control, right? You can pause or speed things up, no problem. Rewinding is the tricky bit.”

You get up with only a slight wince and grab the green whiteboard marker from the table, drawing a straight line on the plexiglass board. Today, you’ve come prepared for this.

“People usually think time is linear, right?” you continue. “And it kind of is, but only in this direction.” You draw a little arrowhead on the left side of the line and then point at the other end. “This right here, that’s now. There’s a pretty clear path from now to any point in the past, based on what we did with the information we had at any given moment. But, every time we make a decision, it could also go another way, right? Like, for example, if I used the blue marker.”

You draw a second arrow in blue from where the green one points at, ending it slightly above that one. Sam raises a hand.

“Yes?”

“What difference does it make which color you use?”

“In this case, none,” you answer, changing your pen again. “But if I go back in time and, say, turn left instead of right somewhere or tell you where someone’s gonna hit you before they do, that does make a difference, because it influences your decision.”

The red line curves more upwards than the other two, its arrow pointing in a completely different direction.

“The trick,” you say, tapping it, “is in avoiding something like this for random events and staying as close to the original path as possible.”

“What about the other paths, though?” Sam asks. “Do they just disappear?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, capping the pen. “They do for me. Normally, once I go back, I can’t return to the very first timeline again.”

Things are never the same when you’ve already lived through them once. Your knowledge of the outcome mars everything that comes before, whether you want that or not. That’s what makes this loop so different; because even though you know what’s going to happen, you’re still unable to prevent it.

And that never changes.

“So, essentially,” Bucky comments, “you’re switching realities every time you go back.”

You blink, considering it for a moment. “I mean, I guess so? I haven’t thought about it that way.”

“You haven’t thought about it that way?” Bucky says incredulously.

“Well, I don’t exactly have a degree in time travel,” you sigh, rubbing your temples. “I just do it.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t think about it.”

“What does all of this have to do with you Bill Murray-ing through this day?” Sam interjects.

“Who’s Bill Murray?”

“No one,” you say sharply. “Right now, time is fucked. Today isn’t moving on, it got stuck on repeat. That’s why my powers don’t work, either, you can’t go anywhere if it’s just the same point in time over and over again. Just one timeline tied into a knot.”

Or a single reality, you suppose. Maybe Bucky has a point.

“So everything just resets each time Bucky dies?” Sam says.

“Just like in a video game,” you confirm, slowly lowering yourself back down.

“That makes me feel so much better,” Bucky says, watching you with another frown.

“A rigged one,” Sam says. “It shouldn’t be that easy.”

And there’s your fork.

Your heart is pounding as you ask, “What do you mean?”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “He’s got the serum, remember? It should be about impossible to kill Bucky in a normal fight, let alone do it over and over again when he knows it’s coming.”

“I heal fast, I’m not invincible,” Bucky counters.

“No, he’s right.” If it weren’t so terrible to go through over and over again, it’d be almost comical how easily Bucky’s been killed over these past few days. You’ve had to take a mental note to keep him away from scissors. With your wound rendering you essentially useless in the fight, it’s often over long before Sam flies ahead through the tunnels, your alarm drowning out the string of curses falling out of your mouth.

“I can’t tell you what happened,” you inevitably tell Sam each morning as he helps you retie your tourniquet because your bandages have vanished again overnight. “I promised Bucky.”

“Are you shooting each other now?” he always asks. “Because you’re not supposed to do that literally.”

“Like what?” he says.

“Could be a number of things,” Bruce says when you ask him the same question half an hour later.

It’s nice to see his face, even though you can see the bookshelf on the wall behind him through the projection if you squint. He looks as rattled as he always does, but with that glee in his eye that he gets when he’s presented with a particularly difficult problem. It makes Torres watch him wearily through his own phone screen, propped up against the books on the conference table.

“The most likely one is some sort of substance that’s working to lessen the effects of the serum in your blood,” Bruce continues, addressing Bucky. “Did you ingest anything, breathe something in?”

Bucky looks at you.

“There’s this substance at the lab,” you say. “You don’t touch it, but it’s this weird sort of blue … shit.” You gesture vaguely as Sam snorts.

“That is the technical term, actually,” Bruce says. “Have you noticed any other physical changes? Insomnia, loss of strength, headaches?”

“No changes,” Bucky says. It’s not really an answer.

“That’s the thing, Bruce,” you remind him gently. “Nothing has been changing. It can’t.”

“Fascinating,” he says. “And how long did you say this has been going on for?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. You’ve started tallying up the days on your thigh, just out of sight from everyone, hidden by your clothes. You have to make sure you’re not losing any of them. It seems like it’d make them less significant, somehow.

“Too long,” Sam answers for you, putting his notepad down on the table. You can make out a lot of question marks.

Day twenty-four. It should be July 27th today, but you’re still three weeks behind.

“Right, apologies.” Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose, his nervous glance darting between Bucky and you. “I can ask around, but obviously I can’t tell you if this even does what you’re suspecting without getting a sample to my lab.”

“Actually, sir,” Torres speaks up. “There’s been rumors for a while now.”

Sam stops his pacing as Torres adjusts the angle of his phone while he’s walking.

“The first generation of Flag Smashers were all super soldiers themselves,” he continues. “Now, though, ULTIMATUM have been actively looking for a way to make super soldiers more human again. To level the playing field for everybody.”

One world, one people.

One dead body.

“Meaning what?” Sam asks, his arms still crossed.

“Meaning, according to my sources, they’re trying to develop a way to strip super people of their abilities.”

“That’d mean years of research, testing, a whole roster of scientists they’d have to recruit,” Bruce says doubtfully. “Even if they have the funding for that, they’d need a sample of the original serum or something similar enough to work with.”

Sam sits. The look he exchanges with Bucky tells you he has his suspicions about the latter.

“The super soldier serum was recreated before,” Torres shrugs, oblivious to their silent conversation. “I bet they’re still working with the data they collected back then. Also, these are just rumors at this point. If they’re true at all, they’re still in early stages.”

“Hypothetically,” you say to Bruce, “what would that look like?”

“It’s hard to predict the outcome of experiments like that,” he says. “It’s less than clear how an individual’s actual cells get altered. But my best guess is, they’d try to phase out any advancements one by one, to ensure they’re moving in the direction they want.”

“One by one,” you repeat. “Like, start with the fast healing, for example.”

“Exactly,” Bruce nods. “It’d still have to be administered somehow, though.”

“Eat anything weird lately, Buck?” Sam asks dryly.

“It’s not necessarily something you ate,” Bruce adds at Bucky’s stony expression. “It might also be intravenous, similar to the original serum.”

“What about skin contact?” you ask, a small puzzle piece finally fitting into place.

“Sure, that’s possible. But it’d have to be quite potent stuff.”

It was absorbed into it.

He looks at you as if you’re about to break.

You suppose he’s not far off, either, as you barely listen to Bruce and Torres saying their goodbyes to Sam and you’re left contemplating all the things you did wrong to end up here, now, again.

The list is endless.

“So what’s next?” Sam says, and you finally turn your head to look at the clock.

“You leave to give your speech,” you answer.

“I’m not gonna do the stupid speech.”

“Yes, you are,” you and Bucky say simultaneously, and you shrug at his scowl.

“Bucky and I need to do something, anyway,” you add.

Sam doesn’t like this any better today than any other day, but he still lets himself be convinced to get changed. You’ve been over this more than once, after all.

“What are we doing, then?” Bucky asks once it’s only the two of you.

You grimace slightly. “I need you to break me into the library.”

* * *

Before the loop, it’s been a while since you’ve been to any library. For the first time in a while, maybe all your life, you’ve enjoyed owning most of the books you read instead of lending them from somewhere.

So it still feels kind of like a novelty, setting foot into the Schwarzman Building. Even if it’s through the back entrance while the security guard is on his lunch break, enjoying a bit of sunshine on the steps outside.

It’d be so much easier if you had your powers, you think as you watch Bucky get through the locks you show him, more discretely than he probably has to. Stopping the flow of time has always come easiest to you, and in situations like this one, it was your most useful asset. You would have simply halted time and slipped past opened doors while everything waited for you to will it forward again.

Instead, you wait for Bucky.

The routine of it all is calming by now, in a way, his tongue poking his cheek in concentration, the only sound either of you makes the quiet clicks of keyboards and doors and locks until you can finally enter the reading hall through a small, unassuming stairwell leading up to the third floor. He seems to get a little quicker at it every day, as if his body retained some form of muscle memory from the countless redos as well.

The last door opens.

It’s not quite as impressive as entering through the marble-tiled entrance hall on Fifth, you suppose, but when the smell of pages and dust hits you again as you ascend the stairs, you can’t help but release a small, content sigh.

You’ve not been to the Main Branch often, and not in a while, but usually when you’d peruse the countless rows of books, there’d be groups of children and tourists dotted between the densely packed shelves, the reading tables filled with overcaffeinated students and academics and librarians and the usual array of curious caricatures omnipresent in any library. It’d been quiet, sticky, lively, like a school library during finals week, and you didn’t hate it but it wasn’t quite like this.

It’s blissfully quiet.

Every step you take creaks softly as if you’re about to break through the wooden floorboards. Your pace only stays determined until you reach the main reading room, because you can’t help but stop in a spot of sunshine and close your eyes to breathe it in, this peaceful stillness of life and the wonderful, familiar smell of books. Just for a second.

When you open them again, Bucky is staring at you.

“I haven’t been in here since 1936,” he told you five days ago.

“Hasn’t changed a bit, I bet,” you said.

The way he tilted his head seemed so precious. Like he was walking through his memories right in front of you. “Well, I definitely remember the gift shop. And the computers.”

“We need to go downstairs,” you say now, shaking your head to resettle yourself in the never-ending present.

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Bucky asks, following you with his hands still in his pockets.

“Anything we can find on the astral plane. Which, sadly, isn’t a whole bunch.”

You can’t risk using the internal searching system on the library computers when you’re not even supposed to be in here, not unless you want to waste another afternoon getting caught, so the search to find even the right section has been quite tedious. There’s been a lot of running around in circles.

“Why?”

You just assume he’s not wondering why there’s not a lot of publicly available grimoires on magic shit. “Because Strange is an evasive asshole.”

There’s still no sign of life from anyone at Bleecker Street, or any of the Sanctums for that matter. Since no jet or plane would make it to Kamar-Taj in what limited hours you have, it seems the only way to reach Strange is in trying to get back to the astral dimension.

And figuring that out is a bitch.

“Weird," Bucky says, "that you two shouldn’t get along.”

“Fuck you, Barnes,” you snort.

You watch him stride away through the aisles with a small grin, appearing aimless, before he invariably stops in front of the same shelf. With a shake of your head, you continue walking.

"What is it with you and Voltaire," you murmur, not intending for him to hear.

"What’s wrong with Voltaire?" he still replies.

"Nothing," you say, looking down the next aisle over. "Dense, is all."

"We used to have this at home," Bucky says, pulling the volume off the shelf. "I remember my ma tryin’ to get through it, but with the four of us, she never managed."

You turn back towards him, surprised he’s offering you this glimpse into his past. "I didn’t know you had siblings."

It’s a half-truth. He brings up Rebecca rarely enough, but the fact that there used to be even more Barnes children is news to you. You’re almost shocked he’s mentioning it at all. Maybe it’s a mistake.

"Yeah." Bucky’s gaze is still absent, the memories clinging to him like fog. It makes you want to wipe them away gently.

You turn down the aisle sharply, not waiting for him to follow as you push through a door.

The upstairs library is already huge, but it’s nothing compared to the countless rows of stacks hidden downstairs and underground. It’s taken you almost two days to gain some semblance of orientation in this maze, and it takes you almost five minutes to find the shelf you were looking at yesterday. It doesn’t help your confusion in the slightest that the books seem to be mostly organized by size instead of topic.

With a sigh, you carry another stack of volumes to one of the reading tables. The additional trouble with doing research on a single day with everything constantly resetting while you’re running out of time is that there’s really no good way for you to take notes. You only have so much real estate on your own skin that you can comfortably reach in a public space, and there’s a spot right below your elbow that you keep empty.

You’ve been combing through all kinds of books on mysticism, but most of it has been a bunch of baloney and esoteric nonsense. While the theory of an astral plane is already hard enough for you to grasp, the practical step-by-step guide to getting there is either decidedly under-researched or they’re deliberately keeping it from you.

You’re about to put another book to the side after it tells you to meditate when you can hear Bucky approaching from the stacks behind you.

"Any luck yet?"

"Depends," you sigh. "Are you ready to take the next step in redefining your relationship with Jesus? Because, boy, do I have the almanac for you."

"I’m good," he says, and there’s the slightest hint of amusement in his voice. You bury your head in your hands.

Every day, it’s harder to look at him.

He doesn’t say it, but you see the determination in his eyes each day, the absolute certainty that today is the day. The last one.

It always is, for him, and his unexpected faith in you shatters you to the core. Meanwhile, you’re not even capable of asking for help.

"It’s not your fault, Twelve," Bucky says, and you flinch.

"Of course it’s my fault," you say quietly. "Who do you think got us into this mess."

"So you set out to kill me repeatedly?"

You shoot up straight. "Of course not!"

Bucky just leans against the table next to you, flicking through one of the books without paying it any attention. You press your lips together.

"What difference does it make, though? We’re here anyway."

"If you don’t know that already, I don’t know how to tell you," he says calmly.

None, you think. It makes zero difference, and you both know it, even though he’s nice or smart enough to not tell you to your face.

"I’m sorry," you say, once again, because lately all you want to do is apologize to him, no matter how many times he forgets.

Bucky frowns, but before he can say something else that will undoubtedly break your composure completely, you quickly clear your throat.

"Could you get me this one book down, actually? It’s on the top shelf and, well …" Stretching is still a struggle.

He shrugs and follows you back into the labyrinth. The silence tears at you in a way it hasn’t before, and you twist your fingers in front of your chest. You never look at your rings anymore.

"I never asked," Bucky says casually, dragging the fingers of his right hand along the spines as you keep looking for the book you’re after. "Do you have any siblings?"

Your hands still.

For a moment, you consider telling him. About your family. About the life you used to have, before everything. It seems so long ago, now, almost like a distant dream. You don’t dwell on it too long.

"Ask me tomorrow?" Your voice is thin.

He follows your gaze to the shelf and easily picks out the book you want. His eyes are very blue when he turns back to you, his head slightly tilted to the side. "Are you gonna tell me then?"

You swallow as you slowly take the book out of his hands and hold it against your chest. "Remember to ask me," you say, almost pleadingly, "and I might."

He doesn’t, so you don’t. It shouldn’t hurt.

* * *

"Here’s what I don’t get," Sam says, leaning back in his chair. "You said you only saw Strange once. Shouldn’t that happen every day, if you’re stuck in a time loop?"

You want to yell, and yell, and never stop.

"Theoretically, yes," you say, again. "Our time, here, is looped. But Bucky’s right."

"Hear that?" Bucky tells Sam. You both ignore him.

"Every time I go back in time, I essentially switch realities, except right now, that’s not happening because we’re stuck on repeat. That’s not true for the astral plane though, because it’s a different reality. So Strange can do whatever he wants, because he’s not part of the loop."

"I’m getting a headache," Sam says.

"Get in line, man," Bucky remarks. "I’m apparently dying."

"We’re missing something," you say, staring at the plexiglass board until your eyes start burning.

"Sanity?" Sam suggests.

"Well, let’s think about this rationally," Bucky says, voice only slightly laced with sarcasm. "How many other times do we know something like this has happened?"

You pull up the list of movies you already had ready for this question, pointing at them one by one. "Endless loop. Saving each other, that’s not working out so far. That one was terrible." You let out a heavy breath of air. "I guess we could try threatening Loki and see if it helps."

"Loki’s dead, though."

"Mhm, right." You scroll to the bottom. "Well, I guess that leaves blowing ourselves up, then. Can’t hurt."

"Sounds like a Friday night to me," Bucky says.

"Alright, lemmings one and two, let’s calm down again," Sam cuts in. "You said it’s because of the mission, right? Why don’t you just sit this one out, then?"

You roll your eyes. "Haven’t heard that before."

"I’m not letting the two of you go in there alone if these guys are dangerous enough to get one of us killed," Bucky predictably says.

"I can call Torres for backup," Sam tries. "Or, I don’t know, one of those guys in midtown."

"Give it up, Sam," you interrupt. "He’s not going to listen. We’ve been over this every day."

"Well, is there any part of the mission we—"

"Any part of the mission we overlooked?" you cut him off, voice getting louder until you’re shouting. "I don’t know, because every time I think I’ve got everything covered, something new pops up, and nothing fucking changes anyway! And then we’re here again, over and over, and I’m starting to go insane!"

Alpine hisses at you from her place on Bucky’s lap.

"You do realize we’re trying to help. Don’t you," Sam says, so calmly that your anger dissipates immediately. The usual wave of guilt hits you, instead, and you bite the inside of your cheek until you draw blood.

"I’m sorry," you say. "It’s just—everywhere I look, there’s a roadblock."

"I know." Sam pinches his nose as he stares at the board. "I’m guessing you’ve tried the Groundhog Day option?"

Your heart drops.

Usually, you see this coming, but your thoughts are too muddled today. You feel the heat rising to your cheeks and Bucky scrunches his eyebrows together.

"What’s the Groundhog Day option?"

"It wouldn’t work," you say sharply, sending Sam a glare. He seems entertained by it.

"And how’d you know that?"

"Because it’s a movie," you hiss. "And a stupid one at that, things don’t work in real life like they do in a Hollywood film!"

"Hey!" Bucky says loudly. "No ignoring the dying man. What’s the Groundhog Day option?"

"You guys fucking breaks the loop," Sam answers before you can stop him. Alpine jumps to the floor and parades away. For the first time, you admire her.

"Oh," Bucky says, after a painfully long pause.

"Yeah. Oh." You don’t meet his eye. "Like I said, it’s stupid. And it isn’t how time works."

"It doesn’t work by you accidentally creating a loop either, though, does it," Bucky says, nodding at your half-hearted drawings on the board.

"Bucky, I’m not going to sleep with you just in case. That’s not even how it works in the goddamn movie," you say with a pointed look at Sam, who shrugs.

"I just thought I’d ask."

"Hold on a second," Bucky interjects, cheeks slightly tinged, "so you’d rather I keep dying than just see if it works?"

"What?" Your face is burning. So are his eyes. "No, I—it’s just not that easy."

"Sounds pretty straightforward to me," he argues.

"It’s not about the sex!" The words tumble out of your mouth to the beat of your heart. "He has to fall in love with her, that’s what breaks his loop in the movie. It’s a completely different situation!"

There’s a beat where the two of you stare at each other before Bucky’s face goes blank of emotion.

"Right." He nods, his jaw set tight.

Something inside you curls. "Sam, could you give us a minute?"

Sam looks between the two of you uncomfortably. It’s clear he doesn’t particularly want to stay, but he doesn’t want to leave the two of you alone, either. "You sure?"

"Not necessary," Bucky says, standing up. "I’m going for a walk."

"Bucky—"

"Don’t," he says, and the iciness in his voice freezes you to the spot. "And don’t follow me!"

You flinch as the door slams shut behind him.

"That went well," Sam says.

"Really?" You glare at him. "Did you have to bring up fucking Groundhog Day?"

"Sorry that my frame of reference for breaking a time loop isn’t wider than nineties pop culture," he says, crossing his arms. "Also, I don’t see what the problem is."

You stare at him and his expectantly raised eyebrows. Your heart is still thundering.

"I don’t fucking have time for this," you say, and turn your back.

* * *

When you enter the kitchen, it takes you a moment to realize that Sam is still on the phone.

"That’s nice," he says, nodding his head to acknowledge you. "No. Nah, but I’m leaving now. Yeah. Tell them hi from me, okay. Okay. You, too. See ya."

"How’s Sarah?" you ask after he ends the call.

"Good. She’s good." He starts folding up the recycling and you can’t bring yourself to tell him there’s no need. "They’re hosting the barbecue again this year, so the boys are thrilled."

"Sounds lovely," you say, twisting your necklace between your fingers.

"It’s chaos." He laughs. "Man, I miss 'em. Always feels like it’s been too long."

Even longer than he is able to remember, you think with a pang in your heart.

"Why didn’t you fly home for the holiday?" you ask.

"Because," Sam says, rolling his shoulders, "I can’t just be uncle Sam for Cass and AJ today, I have to be uncle Sam for the whole country. That’s my part on America’s day now." He shrugs it off. "Just how it is."

"I’m sorry," you say. It’s hard for you to imagine how he is able to handle all of this pressure, the scrutiny, the weight of everyone’s expectations on his back. You can barely handle your own life, and what’s that, by comparison?

"Don’t be." His neck cracks and he sighs quietly. "Kinda signed up for this, didn’t I?"

You look at the shield, casually placed on the kitchen counter, waiting for him to pick it up on the way out. It’s always looked heavier than it is.

"Besides," Sam continues, "pizza is almost as good as homemade hot dogs."

You successfully swallow down your slight gag. "It’s not that far to Louisiana. There’s still time for that hot dog."

He knows what you’re doing, and so his lopsided grin doesn’t reach his eyes. "Let’s get our cyborg through the day, alright? I’ll see her soon enough."

He squeezes your shoulder and heads for his room to change.

His words tug at something deep inside you, long after he’s closed the door behind him. Something you have to keep locked, normally, deep in the core of your ribcage, like an unruly bird, because otherwise it’ll keep breaking free and rendering you unable to move.

You sit crosslegged on the floor next to your window, your back to the wall, just like she used to. You feel ridiculous, but that birdlike thing inside compels you and you’re weak. The back of your closet seems to scream your name, begging you to keep digging until you find the sad remnants of an embrace in a soft piece of fabric.

You ignore it.

Still, your phone finds its way into your hand, and before you can stop yourself you’re scrolling through abysmally few contacts, your finger hovering over one of them for a whole ten seconds before you press it. There’s no air in your lungs as it rings an infinite amount of times, and then—

"You’ve reached Nat."

Her voice is like a kiss on the forehead and an ice cold shower at the same time. The room in front of you starts to blur.

"I obviously can’t talk right now, but I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If it’s about one of the kids, try the main office. Thanks!"

"Hey, Natasha," you say a few seconds after the beep, your voice thick. "It’s me. I just … I wanted to tell you that I really miss your voice."

You laugh wetly, because already, it’s fading from your memory again. A tear rolls down your cheek.

"So sappy, I know, but it’s true. I miss you, and I really need you today. Every day, actually." The lump in your throat grows. "Sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. I love you, Nat."

You end the call and throw your phone on the floor, not caring if it breaks.

Normally, when you cry like this, you halt the world. Your emotions aren’t for anyone to witness, not like this. Not when everything is spinning and every gasp for air makes your entire body shake.

Now, though, you’re left with no other option than to have it keep moving with you, each passing second making the temporal rift between you and her larger.

You are incapable of saving anyone, no matter your promise. Useless.

You don’t hear the knock on the door, only his voice on the other side.

"Y/N? Can I come in?"

You clap your hand over your mouth so hard even more tears spring to your eyes, desperately trying to slow your breathing. You find yourself nodding.

"No!" you shout, and it sounds pathetically whiny.

But they’re all gone.

You have no one.

"Please?" he says again, and something about the way he does makes white-hot anger course through you.

You barely notice yourself rising to your feet, blindly grabbing the first thing within reach and throwing it with everything you have left in you. Your lamp crashes to the floor, the screen off center, the bulb shattering into a million pieces. Your alarm clock is next, the screen only cracking before you smash it against the wall and it finally stops its incessant ticking. You sweep everything off your desk with a swing of your blood-stained pillow, not caring about the noise or the damage or anything, really.

Your actions have no consequences anymore.

Pictures and books and clothes all fall victim to your wrath for the second time, and you step on them all, kicking and shoving until there’s a crack underneath your heel and you wince.

The splintered frame hurts more than the shards. You couldn’t care less about your own face, unrecognizable underneath the broken glass, but Natasha and Steve’s wide grins have also been shattered by the fall. It’s almost poetic, in a horrible way, and when you wrap your arms around yourself and stumble backwards, you notice that you’re shaking.

"Please," you whisper, sure it’s too quiet for anyone to hear, sure that by now, he’s long gone.

The door opens, anyway.

You don’t turn away from the picture, tears falling silently now. He gingerly steps over your mess until he’s so close you can feel him right behind you. It takes you another minute to catch your breath enough to speak.

"It’s not fair," you say quietly, voice still quivering. "I know I’m cursed, but why is it that everyone else has to pay? Why her? Why you?"

"You’re not cursed," Bucky says and you laugh mirthlessly.

"No, I am. I damned myself and I’m taking everyone else down with me, and I don’t even know … I don’t know how to stop this."

"Twelve—"

"Don’t—" you start, but you don’t have the energy anymore. It’s all been drained from you. Bucky sighs.

"Powers or not, you’re still in control of your actions."

It only makes you cry harder.

"Can I—" He clears his throat. "Can I give you a hug?"

And it’s so easy to turn, finally, and to find yourself enveloped by his arms, your fingers digging into his shirt so tightly it has to hurt, but he doesn’t say anything. His heartbeat is so loud when you’re this close, so alive, and he holds you through the next shaky fall of tears, warm and steady, hands pressing tightly against your back as if to remind you he’s still here.

At least for now.

"Step on my feet," he tells you softly, so you can tell it’s a request, not a demand. "There are shards everywhere and you’re already bleeding."

You do so, hesitantly, and Bucky clears the way out for both of you, slowly walking backwards with you leaning on him until you reach the threshold.

You barely notice as he sits you down on a bed, only whimpering as he carefully pries your fingers from his shirt to retreat a step from you, taking his warmth with him.

"I’ll be right back, doll."

He squeezes your hands before he lets go, and you fall back on the bed in shameful exhaustion. You can feel your mind drifting, as if you’re in a trance, your limbs heavy by your side. Something at the back of your head seems to tingle, like a memory or an inkling.

And then you feel the pull again.

This time, instead of falling it’s like treading waters, onwards and upwards through a thick, gooey resistance in the air, fighting the urge to open your eyes, incredibly aware of every itch in your body until … you’re not.

You feel very light, somehow, as if you’ve been carrying a heavy backpack that’s no longer dragging you down. Hesitantly, you open your eyes.

Odd angles and off colors, and the still disconcerting sight of your own body sleeping in bed.

Your gaze drops to your wrist. The now familiar band of green symbols is still wrapped around it, but when you concentrate, you can feel the slightest glimmer of your powers in that empty void inside of you.

Different realities. He was right.

"You’re back, then."

A mad laugh escapes you as you drop your hand. "Really? That’s all?"

Strange raises an eyebrow at you, his cloak flapping slightly. He’s sitting at your desk, seemingly without a care in the world, two steaming cups in front of him.

"Did you expect to be complimented for the bare minimum?" he asks, unperturbed. "Because then we’re both in for disappointment."

"You know what?" you say sharply, straightening up. "A single nice word would be great! You have no idea, no clue what I am going through here!"

"What you are going through?" He takes a sip of tea. "Imagine how Sergeant Barnes must feel."

Again, you feel rage bubbling up inside you. "That is all I imagine! Okay? I am failing him every single day, over and over again. And he doesn’t even really know it, which makes it worse because he still thinks that somehow, I’m going to save him, even though it’s all my fault!"

"Contrition. How refreshing." Strange’s cool gray eyes fixate on you. "Sit down."

You stare at him blankly.

"Don’t mistake my presence here for kindness," he says when you show no intentions of moving. "Your powers, left unchecked, continue to be a menace to the structure of space and time, and trust me, you don’t want to start tearing that down."

"Or what?" you say.

"Chaos," Strange answers. "Now sit. Down."

You sit on the edge of your reading chair, not letting him out of your sight for a second. The other mug of tea scoots closer to your end of the table on its own. A sweet, herbal smell drifts over. You eye it warily.

"I can’t well poison you without a body," Strange says, rolling his eyes. You suppose he has a point. "Here’s the deal," he continues. "I am going to help you in exchange for honest answers."

"You didn’t offer your help last time," you mutter around the rim of your mug.

"You were too busy acting tough and shouting at me to ask for it. Most people don’t react too generously to that."

The tea is both soothing and energizing at the same time; you’ve never tasted anything like it. "So I answer your questions and you help me … how?"

"Like I said, the only one capable of ending the loop is the one who started it in the first place." Strange’s cloak points at you. You frown back at it. "But for that, you need a stronger hold on your powers."

"And how do I do that, then?"

Strange’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he looks at you from head to toe. "Black tourmaline and silver."

Reflexively, you reach for your necklace.

"A bit primitive, but effective, as it seems," he continues. "Your own idea?"

You need him, you remind yourself. As much as it pains you.

"My mother’s," you answer reluctantly.

"Of course." Strange puts his fingertips together in a triangle, thinking. "That’d keep others from sniffing up your powers from miles away. Smart woman, your mother. Quick thinking. But that’s not all, is it?"

"Listen, doc, I’m not going to tell you my life story unless you give me something in return," you say, putting your empty mug back on the desk. "What are we going to do about my powers?"

Strange reaches into thin air and his hand vanishes in a mirror crack. When he pulls it back, he’s holding a book in it that he throws into your lap. "You get to studying."

* * * * *

"Can I ask you a weird question?" you said later that evening, staring at the ceiling. A content sort of exhaustion had started to set in, but none of you were ready to call it a night quite yet.

"Of course," Natasha said from her upside-down position on the couch, continuing to play with Steve’s hand in her lap.

You pushed up to your elbows. "Do you believe in fate?"

"Not really," Steve answered without so much as a pause.

"Seriously?" Nat turned her head towards him. "You don’t think there might be a reason we’re sitting here right now?"

"Sure I do." He booped her nose with their entwined fingers. "We’re here because we chose to be here. Like I chose to take the serum and you chose to escape the Red Room."

The quick shadows dancing across her face made you wonder whether Steve didn’t know everything about Natasha’s past, either. You sat up slowly, crossing your feet underneath you.

"So you don’t think there’s one way things are supposed to go, some grand plan or scheme or whatever, and we just … I don’t know. Pretend we can mess with it?" You fiddled around with your necklace.

"Nah," Steve said with a tired smile. "Everyone can change something."

"That’s putting a lot of faith in individuals, isn’t it?" Natasha asked.

"What do you think, then?"

She thought about it, wriggling her toes in the air. Her nails were painted as red as the roots of her hair. "I like the thought of serendipity," she finally settled on.

You grinned. "You mean, you like the movie Serendipity, you sap."

She threw a pillow at your head and you laughed. "I will neither confirm nor deny that," she said with a charming twinkle in her eye. "But that whole 'fate or free will' thing—I don’t know, I just don’t think there’s a clear cut answer like that."

Steve hummed. "So, happy accidents?"

"Yeah." She smiled at him. "Sometimes. Not fated, just fortunate."

"I think I like that," you said thoughtfully, pressing the pillow to your chest.

"Why are you asking?" Natasha looked at you and you dropped your gaze.

"Just wondering," you mumbled. You were pretty sure she knew, anyway.

Nat had a way of understanding things that bordered on the telepathic, an empathy that always seemed so out of place with everything else you’d learned about her, with what little you knew was in her past.

Whether or not there was a higher power behind it, it had to be a rare miracle in a series of coincidences that Natasha Romanoff had stayed as good as she did.

Serendipitous, almost.

Later, when you lay in bed and had the world stop to listen to your own heartbeat, you kept coming back to that thought. Green wisps of time curled around your fingers like shimmering jewelry, and you asked yourself if those accidents ever felt happy in the moment or if that was something you had to conclude later.

Maybe sometimes there was no way of telling at all.

chapter five

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

#i'm crushed i'm emotionally exhausted i feel like i'm there #genuinely feel like i just ran a mile #please let them be happy 😭😭#bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

206 notes · View notes

lovelyrecs · 2 days ago

Text

god fuck we're just getting started and i'm already so. jesus. oh my god.

“Crazy?” His expression hardens somewhat, and an irritated flush appears on his cheeks. “Why is it crazy?”

IRRITATED FLUSH. HE THINKS READER IS ABOUT TO CONFESS AND HES OFFENDED SHE FINDS IT SO HARD. IM GOING YO COMMIT A CRIME FUCK

okay also I'm reading and i'm thinking... bucky has been 🥰🥰 for a while... and reader is going to fall for him in this time loop... first of all, what an incredible concept?? like. you're a genius? genuinely? holy shit?? second of all ☝️ imagine bucky. he already feels this way toward her and doesn't really see it going anywhere because why would he, and then the next day (said very wishfully because there WILL be a next day. there will be a next day where they both are. there will .) Out of Nowhere. she feels the same way. holy mother of fuck

Several things happen on Bucky’s face in such rapid succession that you can’t quite make them out. In the end, he settles on his eyebrows tilting upwards in confusion. “Sorry, could you say that again?”

YOURE SO SMART YOU ARE SO SMART FOR PHRASING IT LIKE THIS BECAUSE HOLY HMSFNS!!! "several things" "you can't quite make out" DISAPPOINTMENT?? FOR MULTIPLE REASONS?? 1. he's gonna die and 2. he really thought it was going to be better news 😭

“Right.” His frown is still more determined than worried as his gaze trails back to your arm again, one foot in the doorway. “Listen, there’s actually something I should …” You can see the gears in his head turning, but he trails off, shaking his head. “Go shower, Twelve.”

NO NOOOOO OH MY GOD IM STILL SO FRUSTRATED PLEASE

You wait two days before you get a hand mirror and awkwardly copy down his letters. It’s not a long phrase, only two words: скажи ей. It doesn’t tell you a whole lot to google it, only makes you frown at your laptop. Tell her.

. i need to take a deep breath

“This is gonna hurt, doll,” Bucky says before peeling the towel off your skin in one smooth move.

DOLL??? hand flew to my heart. you've given me palpitations. are you happy now?

time after time [3]

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 10.1k 💀

chapter warnings: one last reminder to internalize the premise of the fic, i will just assume you know what’s up from this point on; canon-typical violence; mention of alcohol; some more permanent damage; even more banter

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: this chapter has had me in a chokehold for two weeks and i ended up switching some stuff around. the fun never ceases. thanks to all of you for being patient with me, and a particular shoutout to @daisyprouvaire for making this just a bit sadder than i'd anticipated <3

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

three: every day's a holiday

Tony Stark might have sold the Tower back before the Snap, but he’d kept the two topmost levels installed for what was then still the Avengers to stay in if needed. Now, though, you were the only one actually living here while the few people that were left of the team could theoretically use the empty bedrooms while the Compound was being rebuilt.

No one ever did stop by.

It wasn’t meant to be a permanent solution when Happy had offered you a keycard, but it’d been months and no one had kicked you out yet, so you hadn’t really tried to move on. Besides, not a whole lot of people knew about it, which was a plus; and where else in New York City could you get an apartment that gave you this view and also paid for itself?

Still, it felt weird for you to be back in the city. Back in their old space.

Before the Compound, it’d been years since you’d had your own proper place, and while your room there had felt somewhat like home, you’d never really settled.

You went back only once when you got released from the hospital, collecting bits and pieces from the rubble, rescuing whatever little knick-knacks from the past five years you could find; a couple of pictures and trinkets, some books, a battered-up box, a hoodie with ripped seams.

Reminders of what you’d lost and what you didn’t want to return to.

And then, it was this.

Tidying up the dust bunnies no one had bothered with since the move to the Compound, trying to order groceries with expired credit cards, getting a job at the Starbucks downstairs so you didn’t have to ask Pepper for anything else. It wasn’t exactly a glamorous life for a former Avenger, but at least no one recognized you on your own and without the cape. You never cared for it much, anyway. So tacky.

You’d always been good at blending in with normal people. Even if it took another try or two sometimes. It was a quiet life, but you weren’t mad about that fact, you told yourself. You needed it. You deserved it.

You were fine with being useless again.

Of course, the day you decided to switch things up a little and go for that new show Netflix had been promoting incessantly, the universe was done with your laissez-faire style of living. Like a pesky little voice of conscience.

And on your day off, no less.

“You that time witch Steve told me about?”

You turned around apprehensively to find Sam Wilson standing in your kitchen area. He looked different sans wings and glasses, you thought, but no less imposing. Particularly with that raised eyebrow.

“Depends,” you answered, putting down your bowl of chips and giving him a once-over. He was apparently unarmed, but had no right to look this handsome in sweatpants, your brain supplied helpfully. You supposed it was his best attempt to look casual. “You that smartass he told me about?”

You hadn’t officially met, but you knew of each other, of course. After all, you used to have mutual friends, and you saved earth together that one time.

He’d been on the news just the other week, too, giving his little speech to the GRC; you’d been pretty impressed, to be honest. Even had FRIDAY play the “Star-Spangled Man With A Plan” remix to celebrate.

Today, you really weren’t in the mood, though. You just wanted to get back on your couch, watch some reruns and forget about the world at large and its stupid problems. You had enough of the fighting, and you had enough of heroes.

Though, if you had unexpected company, at least you were wearing your nice pajamas.

Sam smiled mischievously. “Care for a demonstration?”

Before you could even take a breath to answer, he grabbed an empty mug from the drainer and smashed it on the floor next to you.

You glared at him in disbelief. “Seriously?!”

Sam cocked his head in a your move kind of way. You raised your hands with a huff of annoyance.

“You that time witch Steve told me about?”

“Depends,” you said, slamming down the bowl of chips on the kitchen counter. “You that damn smartass he told me about?”

“Care for a demonstration?”

“Ah-ah-ah.” You wrangled the mug out of his hands before he had the chance to move, barely resisting the urge to kick his shin for good measure. “You people have a real problem with throwing things, you know that? This isn’t a ball field.” You carefully placed the mug back in its place on the rack, hoping to slow down your heartbeat with a few deep breaths.

“I might have a job for you,” Sam said, clearly amused.

You sighed. Of course this wasn’t just a random visit from your friendly neighborhood Captain America. “I don’t really do the hero stuff anymore.”

“Must be nice.” Sam leaned against the counter, stealing a couple of chips from your bowl. “You know, if you wanna lay low, you might’ve tried for a less fancy hideout.”

“I’m not hiding,” you lied. Sam raised his eyebrow again; it reminded you of Steve. “Just because I don’t go around announcing myself to the world in a shiny suit doesn’t mean I’m hiding.”

“Right. And how’s that treating you?”

You were processing, is what your therapist would have said. Getting to terms with everything that had happened. Finding your place in this confusing new world.

On the other hand, she didn’t know that you had quite literally seen every single thing online streaming services had to offer thanks to having your powers, lingering depression, and no real close friends left. A truly winning combination.

But that was none of the new Captain America’s business, no matter how attentively he was watching you.

“Who else knows about me?” you changed the subject. You didn’t want to have to leave the Tower, you realized suddenly. You didn’t want to have to pack up and leave, again.

You were so tired of losing things.

“No one. Barnes’ll have to, if you agree to do the job.”

“Great.” You rubbed your temples, adjusting the list of people in your mind. It’d gotten to the point of being disconcertingly long, once, but at least the damn wizards seemed to continue to be in the dark. And with the stone gone, they still wouldn’t know to look for you.

Almost without noticing, you reached for the pendant around your neck, thinking.

You had to admit, you’d been bored out of your mind these past few weeks. You could at least spare a few minutes to listen to him. Get your mind occupied again. It didn’t mean you had to get back out there, right?

“What kind of job are we talking?”

If Sam noticed your begrudging interest, he didn’t comment on it. “Have you heard of ULTIMATUM?” he asked.

“Is this one?”

“No. They call themselves the Underground Liberated Totally Integrated Mobile Army To Unite Mankind, and don’t make me say that again because it’s way too long.”

“Sounds like an acronym Tony would come up with.” You made your way to the espresso maker with a sigh. “Do you drink coffee?”

You hadn’t expected to time jump today and the fatigue was already settling in your bones. If he wanted you to sit through an impromptu meeting, you’d need caffeine.

“Make that three cups,” Sam said.

“Upstairs is all clear,” another voice called from the hall, right on cue. A moment later, Bucky Barnes strode into the room, hands in the pockets of his jacket. He’d cut his hair since the last time you’d seen him, you noticed. It suited him annoyingly well.

“Wonderful,” you said sarcastically. “Anyone else in my home that I should know about, FRIDAY? We talked about this, you know.”

“You said to keep out all Masters of the Mystic Arts, robbers, axe murderers, extraterrestrials, insane robots and other threats to humanity, end quote,” FRIDAY told you pleasantly. “Captain Wilson and Sergeant Barnes do not fall on that spectrum. Do you want me to add them?”

“Maybe later,” you said, glancing at the pair. An entire conversation seemed to pass between the two of them without either saying a single word. Sam held up three fingers with a sly smirk; Bucky ended up rolling his eyes.

“That her then?” he asked, clearly unimpressed with your polkadot bottoms.

“That me then.” You smiled sweetly at him. “Disappointed?”

He ignored the question, but the way he looked at you and then crossed his arms made you decide to put salt in his coffee. “I still don’t see why we need her. It’s not like we haven’t done this sort of thing before, just the two of us.”

“You didn’t see me complaining when you decided to help a psycho escape prison because you thought he could help us out,” Sam said.

“He did help, and you did complain. Non-stop.”

“Because it was a stupid-ass move. I’m choosing allies from now on.”

“That’s assuming I agree,” you interrupted their little bickering session. You’d definitely circle back to the prison break at a later point. “Which is unlikely unless someone finally tells me why the hell you broke in here in the first place.”

“Not breaking in when you have a working key,” Sam said. “If your idea of security is not changing any of the passwords Stark came up with around 2015, you have bigger problems than us.”

“Oh, the lectures do come with the shield,” you muttered, measuring ground coffee into the machine. “Apparently you have bigger problems, too, or you wouldn’t be here,” you said over your shoulder.

“Possibly,” Sam agreed and shook the crumbs at the bottom of the chips bowl into his hand. “Do you have more of these? I haven’t eaten all day.”

“How,” you said, because it was almost 4 p.m.

“I don’t know,” Sam answered, voice dripping with sarcasm. “This morning my fridge was just emptier than I remembered it being last night.”

You turned and barely caught the last wisp of a grin tugging at Bucky’s lips before his face turned stony again. So he did have more than the one expression. That was intriguing.

“Fine,” you decided, “coffee and leftovers in the meeting room in five, but you gotta carry some of this stuff. And I swear,” you told Bucky, “if you start smashing things, too, I’m kicking both of you out.”

Bucky took his time looking you up and down so slowly that you swore you could feel his gaze on every inch of your body. It was slightly upsetting and incredibly infuriating. Finally, he let his eyes meet yours. They were an oddly bright blue.

“I’d like to see you try.”

You rolled your eyes as you marched past him and ignored the shiver running down your spine.

* * * * *

You’re trying. You really are.

“Can you stop that?” Bucky tells you with a pointed look.

You do stop bouncing your leg. Instead, you start drumming your fingers against the metal part of your seat, the rhythm giving you something to focus on. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap—

“For crying out loud, could you just sit still for five minutes?”

“Nope,” you say, giving him a humorless smile through gritted teeth. Bucky rolls his eyes.

That’s good, you think, starting to tap your foot again. If he’s angry with you, he’s not dead yet, and if he’s not dead, well, that’s a good thing.

It doesn’t need to make sense. Nothing makes sense anyway.

Geez, you have to get out of here.

It’s your eighth time in the loop. You have been through this day eight times, and not one single time were you able to save him.

Nor have your powers deemed you worthy of even the slightest hitch, of even the tiniest glimmer of control flowing through you. No matter how the day goes, no matter what you do, you always go on that mission, Bucky always dies, and you wake up in your bed, drenched in sweat and soot and blood, and dry-heaving by the time you make it to the bathroom.

The butterfly effect has always terrified you, but right now, on an endless day like this one, it might be your only chance to change anything. So you’ve gone against all your instincts, and you’ve tried. Oh, you’ve tried.

“Can’t we do this mission tomorrow?” you ask on day five.

“Nope,” Sam says, because how could he know? “Get changed, lazy ass, I’d like to be back in time for the fireworks.”

You’re back in time for your alarm.

Okay, you think, maybe it’s the timing of it all. Maybe you’re just off by ten minutes or so in order to make it out. So you get changed right after lunch.

“Jet’s leaving in half an hour, get ready.”

You throw the door open. “I’m good to go. Let’s leave in five.”

Doesn’t matter. Bucky gets shot.

The next day, you lock yourself into your room with the music on full volume until Sam virtually bangs the door in one and a half hours after your usual take-off time.

Doesn’t matter. Bucky gets stabbed this time, which is even worse to watch. It’s slower, too.

“Hey,” he manages to get out, a small trickle of blood in the corner of his pained smile. “Don’ worry, doll, I’ll be fine.”

And you nod, even though you know he won’t be. Neither of you are that lucky. Not in this hellcycle.

Next, you pretend to get Torres’ message before Sam is even back from The Garden and you leave at 3 p.m. You actually make it in and out of the facility without a hitch and you almost think you’ve finally done it when Bucky gets hit by a truck in the tunnels on your way back out. By the time Sam and you manage to carry him to the quinjet, mayhem has started, and in the middle of the resulting fight you suddenly sit up in bed, hands still raised as if holding your gun, music blaring,

“Let me know that I’ve done wrong, when I’ve known this all along.”

It takes you a couple of seconds to realize that a stray bullet must have hit Bucky while he was unconscious.

Once again, you reach the toilet just in time.

In other words, you’re way past the point of plausible deniability about your situation. Instead, you’re fucking furious.

You know the only person to blame for any of this is yourself, but that doesn’t change the fact that you don’t even know how you messed up that first reset so badly. It just makes no damn sense.

You activated the time stone.

But the stone is gone. All the stones were destroyed, so how could you have activated it?

Your unintended trip to the astral plane has done nothing but unsettle you. As if you didn’t have enough problems already, now you have to think of moving as soon as you get out of the loop.

Why, after all these years, does this bad joke of a scenario happen to you now?

It’s not like you can google something like “time loop problem” and come up with a list of practical steps to follow. You know this because you did google, and if you have to read the name Phil Connors one more time you are going to scream.

“Earth to Y/N.”

You snap out of your thoughts to find both Sam and Bucky staring at you.

“What?” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt.

“You want a formal invite?” Bucky asks.

You bite your tongue and grab your gear, following them out of the jet and breathing in the sweet evening breeze. It’s usually the last thing you can appreciate about today.

The buildings aren’t visible from where Sam usually lands the jet, but the tunnel entrance is only a couple of yards away from where you’re standing, half-hidden by the underbrush covering this side of the mountain. Today, it’s your next try.

“Hey, Sam!” you shout, jogging to catch up with the guys before they make it all the way up the path. “Did you see that?”

“Yeah,” he says, “but without Redwing, we’re going in there completely blind, and I’d rather not serve ourselves up on a silver platter to maybe hundreds of ‘em.”

That’s dramatic. Dozens are more than enough to have this whole mission go south.

You force yourself to wink. “Who needs Redwing if you’ve got me?”

“What did you do?” Bucky asks immediately.

“Your job, Sergeant lookout,” you retort. “Come on, it’s faster than trekking all the way up there.”

A look passes between the two of them. Finally, Bucky shrugs.

“Your call, Sam.” There’s a tone in his voice, one that makes it clear that even though he has an opinion, he’s not going to voice it out loud.

Sam sighs. “What the heck did I expect,” he mutters and you already open your mouth to continue your arguing when he turns and stomps back downhill, still grumbling to himself quietly.

“What was that about?” you wonder aloud, readjusting the intercom in your ear.

Bucky’s jaw is set again, an annoyed flush covering his cheeks. “Get going, Twelve,” he says and turns his back on you.

Your hands ball into fists at the stupid nickname.

He doesn’t use it a lot, not anymore, even though he must enjoy the stony expression it puts on your face each time. It makes you want to shove it in his face, the fact that yes, you can do your part very well, fuck you.

Well, these days, you’re not so sure. So it just hurts.

You push the feeling all the way back down and follow them to the tunnel. The sight of the tire tracks on the sandy ground makes you bite the inside of your cheek again. You haven’t seen them before, only the concrete that covers the floor of the lab. You almost trip when it starts with a tiny step.

“You’re really weird today,” Sam says, a frown forming behind his glasses as he shines his flashlight at you. You squint.

“Didn’t sleep well,” you say, automatically, like you do every day.

The truth is, you can’t remember the last time you had a full night. Bucky dying sends you straight back to waking up to your damn alarm going off, and while you thankfully don’t feel any physical repercussions of sleep deprivation, your mind is exhausted.

And sure, maybe you’re starting to get a bit desperate in your frustration, but what’s the worst that could happen? Someone dies?

The thought inadvertantly makes you chuckle darkly.

“What’s funny?” Bucky asks.

“Your face,” you mumble and he snorts.

“Nap time was not long enough for you today if that’s the best you can do.”

You give him the side-eye. “Don’t drag my naps into this.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“You never nap.”

“I nap often. Passionately.”

“All the five-year-olds on this mission need to shut up now,” Sam interrupts. “There could be an entire squadron descending on us and I couldn’t hear a thing over your squabbling.”

“No one’s here yet, Sam,” you say, dutifully raising your arms, even though you can’t do anything anyway. It seems to reassure him, though.

“I don’t like the sound of that yet,” he says nevertheless, raising his shield as you round another corner. The tunnel finally widens.

“The guards are both upstairs,” you tell him. “As long as we don’t walk in banging pots and pans, we should be fine.”

There are no cameras down here, only in the small lab and the other buildings. You double checked. Makes sense, too, you suppose. Less evidence of whatever they’re doing down here.

“How many times did you jump?” Bucky asks bluntly, lowering his gun once he confirms that the room is empty.

“You’ll never know.” You put your bag down on the table and cross your arms before his gaze, predictably, falls on your rings again.

Sam approaches the containers. “Look at that. What is that?”

They collect the dark blue liquid and you hold your nose at the stench you’ve come to expect, heading towards the computers to make the copy. The monitors are beeping steadily, displaying the usual formulas and data you can’t make sense of.

You plug in the drive and confirm with a glance that the guards upstairs are still engrossed in their card game and unaware of your presence.

The progress bar creeps to the right unbearably slowly, and you find yourself tapping your fingers again. Someone moves behind you to stare over your shoulder.

“You’re hovering again, Barnes,” you say sharply.

“Not quite,” Sam says. “How’s it looking?”

You whirl around, but the lab is empty. “Where’s Bucky?” you say, trying to keep the rushing panic out of your voice.

“Relax. He’s just taking a quick look upstairs before we leave.”

“But that wasn’t the plan,” you almost yell, looking at the monitors again. He’s not in view of any of the cameras yet, but who knows for how long.

“You know I can take care of myself, right?” Bucky says quietly on the intercom.

You curse and start running. “Sam, we have to get out of here fast,” you pant, sprinting up the stairs two at a time while trying to get your gun out of its holster. “Barnes, I swear—”

He’s standing in the door behind the filing cabinet by the time you make it to the first floor with burning lungs, half-turned towards you. “Are you babysitting me?”

“Not the time,” you gasp. “Not '44.”

Bucky frowns. “Forty—”

The beeping sound of a six-digit code being entered on the other side of the lab door has him stop talking. You stumble past him, your finger already on the trigger.

There’s no telling when the silent alarm has gone off, exactly, but there’s a lot more white jackets than the two guards in front of that door, shuffling wildly amongst themselves. It makes it easy for you to take the first two of them down, and you barely notice something flying into the room.

You yelp when Bucky turns you both around and shoves you back into the stairwell just before the entire floor caves in. Your gun drops to the floor as you dive for his hand, but he slips through your fingers, falling through the gaping hole. Barely a moment later, the explosives in your bag detonate on the table downstairs.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, trembling. You smash every single item in your room to pieces.

They don’t stay broken.

* * *

On day ten, you get drunk.

Because what the hell does it matter, anyway? You crave a bit of nothingness, a void that will make the guilt and anger and sadness finally alleviate, if only for a little bit. You’re so sick of this.

Every time you eliminate another threat during the mission, something else goes to shit unexpectedly. You can’t keep up with what Sam or Bucky are going to do the same way you control your own actions.

It’s this realization, combined with your still slightly tipsy state when you wake up with yet another gunshot still ringing in your ears, that makes you see you cannot, in fact, take care of this on your own. There are simply too many factors for one person to consider.

So really, you’re out of alternatives.

You stumble to your bedroom door just in time for the knocking.

“Rise and shine, Mc—”

“Sam, I need your help.”

He blinks at you, one fist still raised as he takes you in, his grin falling away. “You—what in the—is that blood?”

“It’s not mine.” You usher him into your room and close the door with your foot. “I fucked up.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Sam says, eyebrows furrowed in alarm. “What the hell did you do, rob an ambulance and take a bath?”

“I’m stuck in a time loop!” you blurt.

To his credit, it takes him a full second or two before he laughs, and even then, it’s short-lived. “You’re stuck in a—you’re serious,” he says, noticing your helpless expression.

Slowly, you nod and hold up the hand with the green circle wrapped around your wrist. There’s a pause as Sam alternates staring at the symbols and your blood-speckled skin while he processes.

“How on earth did you manage that?”

You take a deep breath. “Ten days ago, it was July 4th. The three of us went on a mission—you’ll get a message in a few hours. And I—I somehow just—it went south, and Bucky died. He died, and I got stuck.”

Sam has his brooding face. “Has Bucky died since then?”

“Every single time.”

“That his blood?”

You nod, tears prickling behind your closed eyes.

“And I’m guessing you can’t stop it.”

“Yup,” you say, swallowing thickly.

“Christ.”

To your surprise, he pulls you in for a hug. It’s a bit awkward, because you try your best to angle your bloody hands away from his shirt, but it also makes you realize how long it’s been since anyone has hugged you for longer than a short greeting.

Sam notices your discomfort, of course. “Is this the first time you’re telling me?” he asks.

You nod again and he squeezes you slightly.

“Have you told Bucky?”

A desperate laugh bubbles up in your chest. “Are you crazy? What good would that do?”

Sam looks at you with a serious expression. “I’m just saying,” he tells you gently. “If you know it’s going to be his last day, he might want to know that.”

“But it isn’t,” you protest, taking another step back. “None of this was supposed to happen. If it were, it’d be July 5th, but instead, I’m stuck here and my powers don’t work at all and I—I don’t know what to do.”

You turn on the bathroom light with your elbow and start scrubbing the blood off your skin under the scorching hot water. It’s already started to dry under your nails. Once you’re done, you take a moment to stare at yourself in the mirror. The scratches on your face have almost healed.

Sam is sitting on the edge of your bed by the time you return. “I know he’s taboo or something, but have you tried contacting the wizard guy?” he asks.

You plop down next to him. “Nope. And I’m not going to.”

“They might be able to help you.” They’re only going to make things even worse.

“Sam—”

“I don’t know what your problem with them is, and I don’t need to know. But is it worth more than Bucky’s life?”

Well, fuck.

“Strange found me on my second rerun, somehow. With some weird mirror reality shit,” you admit, clearing your throat. “Pretty sure I pissed him off.”

“Let’s do that again, then.”

“Alright,” you say sarcastically. “Let me just pull out my book of magic tricks that I’ve kept secret until now.”

“You do know the man has a phone and an address in the Village, right?”

There’s a beat. “I … hadn’t thought of that,” you confess quietly.

Sam rolls his eyes. “All of you with your super serum and your weird powers, and none of you have a single brain cell to spare.”

“Rude.”

He ignores you and stands up. “FRIDAY, please set up a virtual call to Stephen Strange in the conference room in fifteen. And tell Bucky to get his ass up there.”

“Yes, Captain,” FRIDAY confirms.

“I hate it when you go cap mode at me,” you mumble.

“I don’t care,” he says, pulling you up to your feet. “Seriously, Y/N. Ten days of this bullshit on your own, this is like the self-sacrificing crap Steve used to pull.”

You scrunch your nose in protest. “I resent that.”

“Good!”

* * *

“So,” you finish with a slightly manic smile. “Any questions.”

“Several,” Bucky says dryly.

To be fair, you should have expected that.

Filling Bucky in on your situation—on his situation—has to be one of the most uncomfortable things you’ve ever had to do. You don’t exactly relish in telling a man about his imminent demise. Particularly not when he has the tendency to look like a kicked puppy on a good day.

You don’t know what to make of the expression that’s currently on his face. His gaze is strangely unfocused. You’re pretty sure he’s just indulging you because Sam’s clearly upset. He hasn’t stopped moving since Bucky entered the room.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

You fidget around with your pitch black rings. “Because I’m the one who messed up. I should be the one to fix it. Except, I’m really shit at what I do.”

“Stop that,” Bucky says, leaning forward, frown deepening. “Fine. Why aren’t your powers working?”

“I don’t know. Same reason.”

He rolls his eyes. “Does your self-deprecation ever get tiring?”

What a disappointment you are, says the voice in your head. You push it down. “I don’t know, Bucky. You tell me.”

“I’ll stop if you do, Twelve,” he says with a slight grin, his head cocked to the side.

You grit your teeth. “See, here’s the problem, we could do that, but you’re going to forget you said that in a few hours.”

“I’m calling the mayor,” Sam interrupts, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. “Tell her I’m not gonna do the stupid speech.”

“No, you’re not,” Bucky says. “Goal is to break the loop, right? So there’s only one version of today. One normal version. Or d’you really wanna put your shield on the line again?”

“He’s right,” you say before Sam feels the need to answer that. “I know this is asking a lot, but I only told you so that you’d be more careful tonight. Both of you.”

You can only hope that it’ll make any difference.

“Alright,” Sam concedes, even though he definitely doesn’t like it. “But I’ll drop by Bleecker Street on my way home later. See if they’ll answer the door, at least.”

For reasons you don’t know but that don’t really surprise you, the time wizards have not deemed you worthy enough to pick up their phone. Honestly, you can’t find it in you to be mad about that, despite everything. They probably wouldn’t be able to help you anyway.

“So what’s the plan?” Bucky asks.

It’s only when you look up in the resuming silence that you realize the question is directed at you. You cough uncomfortably, twisting the ring on your pinkie finger so hard you feel it leave a burn.

“I don’t know,” you say quietly.

“Walk us through it,” Sam says, looking at his watch and exchanging a glance with Bucky. “We have about four hours until I leave. Maybe we can get somewhere with this.”

You’re about to nod when Bucky stands up, tilting his head for you to follow him. You do, slowly, arms wrapped around yourself, feeling like he’s about to shout at you in private. Instead, he pulls his jacket on.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“We are getting you coffee,” he says, shoving a pair of your shoes that are lying on the floor next to the coat rack in your direction. “You look like you’re about to drop down dead, and Sam’s right. We need to know what’s gonna happen.”

You bite the inside of your cheek while you stand next to him in the elevator. It should be discomforting, the way he’s able to read you without ever needing multiple tries, and it is, most of the time, but today …

You’re so tired.

“I need you to promise me something,” Bucky says, clearing his throat. You look at him expectantly. “If this still goes wrong today—”

It tears at you. “Bucky—”

“—you tell me first the next time, alright,” he continues, ignoring your interruption. He keeps staring at the elevator doors. “Not Sam, not anyone else.”

You want to tell him it isn’t going to go wrong anymore, but you’ve never been able to lie to him. So you hold up your pinkie finger and murmur, “Okay.”

“You should tell me something I couldn’t possibly know about you unless you told me yourself,” you say as you’re waiting in line at Starbucks.

You can feel Bucky staring at you for a long time, sizing you up. “No,” he says, finally.

“I’m not gonna be able to convince you if Sam doesn’t vouch for me,” you huff. “You’re going to think I’m insane.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

You roll your eyes and move up to the register, waving hi to your fellow partners and ordering your usual after some delightfully normal small talk. “What do you want?” you turn to Bucky.

“Coffee.”

“What kind?”

“Just … coffee.” You’d be more annoyed at his answer if he didn’t look genuinely confused.

“Drip, then?” your coworker Lucy offers helpfully, reaching for a paper sleeve.

“Sure,” Bucky shrugs, again somewhere else entirely with his mind. “Can I borrow your pen for a second?”

She hands it to him and swipes your member card. “You working this weekend?” she asks you.

“Not ‘til Wednesday,” you say, signing your receipt.

“Boo, lucky. I should go down with my hours, too. I feel like I’m in every day.” She spots the person behind you getting antsy and sighs. “Hi, welcome to Starbucks, what can I get started for ya?”

“Why do you need a pen?” you ask Bucky while you’re waiting.

“You stay the same when you go back, right? That hasn’t changed?”

You frown at the odd question. “I mean, I wake up in yesterday’s pajamas every day, but I’m also still covered in your blood, so, kind of?”

Treating your situation with a little sarcasm is your only way of coping right now; thankfully, Bucky isn’t so different in that regard.

He nods, uncapping the sharpie. “Give me your hand.”

The request stuns you so much you don’t even ask him why, letting him pull you closer by the wrist, his bare fingers curling around your arm just above the green circlet of time runes for only a moment.

You could count the times Bucky has touched you skin to skin on one hand, but on every instance he does, it’s with a strange ease, as if he were doing it all the time. It sets your nerve endings on fire, though. The cool of his vibranium arm makes the tiny hairs in your neck stand up.

You’re just not used to it, is all.

He writes something on your inner arm, right below the elbow, and you turn your head to try and make out the scrawled letters.

“Nose led what?”

“That’s an F,” Bucky says, a faint blush on his cheeks, but he keeps writing. “No self-deprecation. That goes for both of us.”

Touché. If the note stays through the loop, he’s not going to be able to deny his own handwriting tomorrow. You squint at the rest of it. “What does that say?”

“That’s not for you.” He smirks and puts the cap back on the sharpie. “Now keep that safe, would ya?”

“Is that Russian?” you ask, almost twisting your neck while balancing your coffee with the other hand.

“Ask me tomorrow,” Bucky says, taking a sip of his own drink. His mouth twitches downwards involuntarily. “And don’t just google it.”

You definitely want to google it, but his reaction distracts you just enough. “You know you’re not supposed to make that sort of face when you drink coffee, right?” you say, hiding your amusement behind your own cup.

“I’m not making a face.” He makes it again and you grin.

“You totally are.” It’d be almost endearing if it weren’t Bucky. “Have you ever tried drinking coffee literally any other way than,” you gesture at his black bean water, “that?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t, I’m just saying!” You close your eyes at the cool gust of air that hits you when you reenter the Tower. “It’s the little things, sometimes.”

“Guess so,” Bucky says absently, and doesn’t speak again for the entire elevator ride.

Somehow, that’s the moment that flashes through your mind hours later, when there’s a wound in his chest that won’t stop bleeding. That little downwards curl of his lips when he drinks his coffee.

You’ve never noticed it before.

* * *

“Take the towel on the right, I already used the other one.”

You watch him hang up the piece of cloth and turn his back. For some reason, your heart is racing.

He’s not going to believe you. You’re just not sure if that makes it better or worse.

“Hey, Bucky?” He’s almost at the door by the time you make yourself open your mouth, half-turning as you awkwardly shuffle closer, tugging at your sleeve. You wish there’d been time to wash the sweat off before you had this conversation, but okay. “I have to tell you something and it’s going to sound strange, but I promise I’m not leading you on.”

Bucky stares at you expectantly. “Okay …?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Considering the, you know, everything about me, this might not be a surprise as much as … I don’t know, a shock, maybe?” You feel like this went better yesterday. You definitely didn’t ramble this much. “I mean, it’s a crazy situation even for me, but I’m just going to tell you anyway. I’m in—”

“Crazy?” His expression hardens somewhat, and an irritated flush appears on his cheeks. “Why is it crazy?”

You laugh nervously. “Trust me, you’re gonna think so, too.”

Bucky continues frowning, his eyes fixated on something behind your head. Fine, you think, here goes nothing.

“I’m stuck in a time loop.”

“I told you it sounds insane. But I’m stuck in a time loop.” You drag your sleeve up, careful not to smudge the ink on your skin even more. “Look, this is your handwriting.”

“How?” Bucky says lowly, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I mean, how long?”

“This is my twelfth July fourth.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I tried resetting—something, and it backfired. And now I’m, well … stuck.”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, contemplating you for a couple of seconds. “Why are you telling me?” he asks finally.

“Because—” The words get stuck in your throat when he looks at you like that. The last time you’ve seen his eyes, they were unfocused, empty. Now, they’re blue like the ocean and just as alive. You hate that they’ve ever looked anything but. “Because later today, you are going to die,” you finish quietly.

Bucky blinks. And then he does nothing at all, he just keeps staring at you, blankly. It makes you squirm.

“I swear, I’m not—pulling a horrible prank on you or anything, I just—”

“I believe you.” There’s nothing in his voice, not even a hint of emotion.

You turn your head away to inconspicuously rub your eyes dry. “Good, that—that’s good,” you manage.

“How did it happen?” He sounds so matter-of-fact it makes you want to scream.

You push it down. “It’s different each day. First couple times you got shot. Yesterday—yesterday you took a knife.” You don’t tell him it was because of you again. You can’t.

“That’s not … Okay.” Bucky takes a breath, taking a small step backwards so he leans against the door. “So are we getting attacked or …”

“There’ll be a mission later. In a couple of hours.”

He nods, not meeting your eye. “Good.”

Something inside you shatters. “Good?”

“It gives us time to come up with a plan. What about you, and Sam?” His hands ball into fists. “Are you going to get hurt?”

“We’re fine,” you nearly snap. How is he not grasping this? “You’re not.”

“Have you told him?”

You cross your arms in front of your chest. “Not as far as he remembers.”

“Good,” Bucky repeats, nodding slowly. “Don’t. He has enough to worry about. We’re gonna work this out.”

“The two of us?” you say skeptically. “Yeah, that definitely sounds like it’s gonna work out great.”

He heaves a sigh and pushes the door open, eyes slowly dragging over your frame. “It’ll have to,” he says, and there’s something strange in his voice that makes you soften a bit.

“You’re gonna be fine,” you say, but it doesn’t soothe your nerves, either. “It’s something about that mission, I think. ‘Til then, you’re gonna be …” You trail off.

There’s the tiniest bit of a crooked smile in the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “Guess it’s finally time to pick up fire-eating.”

“No time like the present,” you agree half-heartedly.

The door closes behind him before you can ask what that was about.

You wash the sweat and grime off under the hot water, but you’re careful to stick one arm out of the stream. The ink smears only a little.

* * *

Four more days pass something like this: You tell Bucky, who makes you promise not to say anything to Sam, and then you fail to change anything of significance. Hours of research amount to nothing more than finding out the keycode to open the wall on the first floor. It’s somewhat of a relief. Ever since the ceiling incident, you haven’t been keen on moving through the tunnels unless absolutely necessary.

It doesn’t help that Bucky keeps acting shifty whenever you show him his handwriting.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” you test the following morning. The letters have started to fade, no matter how careful you are.

Bucky doesn’t meet your eyes when he says, “Not now.” He doesn’t mention it again later.

And then there’s the coffee.

You don’t tend to vary a lot with your own order, or with Sam’s, who really prefers the iced teas anyway, but introducing Bucky to different ways of taking his coffee is the one part of your day you’re allowing yourself a little lightness.

At heart, you’re a problem-solver, and right now, this seems like the only problem you have any control over.

He likes caramel, but doesn’t prefer it over vanilla. Texture is more important to him than temperature, and you find out he likes oat milk almost by accident. It’s a tiny victory.

The rest still sucks.

“We need to find these damn cameras,” you tell Bucky as you kick Riff in the head. “Maybe if they don’t see us coming, they don’t send a whole squadron at once.”

“A little late for that, don’t you think?” Sam’s voice sounds through the comms.

“We stayed out of the cameras’ range,” Bucky shouts over the cacophony of shots hitting the shield. “That’s not our problem.”

Damnit. If it’s not the cameras, either, something else entirely must trigger the alarm. Another idea down the drain. “Now!”

Down goes the blaster gun, quickly followed by your friend with the knife. Your heart is beating in your throat. Less than two minutes until the computers blow, and then the timing game truly begins. “Let’s move!” you say. “Just stay close to me.”

The copy. The explosion. Blaster gun getting back up. Jesse James by the far wall. The idiot with the explosives near the tunnel entrance. It’s like the most depressing clockwork on the planet, tuned precisely to the second. You get a bit farther each time you rewind it, but as soon as you’ve taken care of all the eventualities you’ve encountered, you enter dangerous waters.

Because as soon as you shoot your last checkpoint, anything could happen. And the not knowing is what’s killing him.

Bucky is walking ahead of you, his heavy breaths the only sound reverberating off the tunnel walls. The silence makes you want to scream, but you just bite your lip raw and keep your finger on the trigger, wearily watching the ceiling, the dancing shadows along the walls, his back. Every step further into the unknown has you more on edge.

When you hear a swooshing sound, you raise your gun instantly, but Bucky holds his hand over the muzzle. The fact that it’s the right one makes you freeze.

“Why the hell aren’t you answering me?” Sam yells at you, and a cloud of dust whirls up when his feet hit the floor heavily. “I thought you were dead!”

“Not quite yet,” Bucky murmurs, throwing him the shield back without a glance, without stopping for a second.

You lower your gun. “Comms broke,” you say shortly, daring another look over your shoulder. Still nothing. “I thought you were getting our ride ready.”

“I was, before the two of you went radio silent on me,” Sam grumbles, reattaching his shield. “I took another look uphill, too, there’re even more heading down here.”

And don’t you know it. Your steps quicken somewhat.

Another turn and you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, catch a stripe of reddish twilight in the distance that makes your heart beat even faster. Just as you’re about to dare a sigh of relief, you can see Bucky’s shoulders tense out of the corner of your eye.

You don’t think, moving purely out of instinct. You dive towards him, throwing your own body over his side as if it could be enough of a barrier against this curse. He tumbles, metal arm automatically clenched around your waist.

Not again. Not when you’re so close you can smell it.

You don’t even know where the shot comes from. All you know is the pain exploding in your side.

Even without your doing, time passes so terribly slowly.

Your mouth is opened wide, even though no sound comes out. Sam shouts something, but you can’t make out his words. The only thing you can focus on is the blood slowly spreading on Bucky’s vest, and his eyes, wide and wild. He catches you as your knees buckle.

“Y/N!” Your name falls from his lips like a cry.

There are at least five more shots before your world goes dark.

And then you gasp awake, blinking at the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Your hands fly to your side and you bite down a whimper at the searing pain. For once, it’s your own blood covering your palms when you carefully lift up your top to inspect the wound. The bullet seems to only have grazed you before lodging itself into Bucky, but you’re still bleeding profusely.

Stumbling to your bathroom, you grab the first clean towel you can find and hold it under a stream of warm water before applying pressure. Tears well up in your eyes at the sting. The music keeps going and going, but you still stifle your sobs in your shoulder. And then—

“Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!”

You take a few unsteady breaths, trying to free your blocked nose. “I don’t feel so good today, Sam!”

Your bedroom door opens and you quickly slam the door to your tiny bathroom shut with your foot before he sees you.

“Come on, Y/L/N,” you hear him right outside your door. Inches away from you, and from your bloody bed sheets. “You already bailed on our run yesterday, don’t leave me hangin’ again.”

You almost laugh through gritted teeth. For you, it’s been a good month since you went with him on one of your weekly runs. Last Thursday, you’ve given some whimsy excuse you can’t even remember anymore; that was only yesterday.

“Sorry,” you say, your voice wobbling a bit. “I’m not feeling so hot today.”

There’s a prolonged silence on the other side and you can’t decide if you’re silently begging him to leave or to come in, pressing the towel into your side so hard it almost makes you sick. The music turns off.

A rustling noise has you blink through your tears, staring at the door as if you could will a window into it. It’s followed by some soft thumps and more swishing, before you hear steps stop in front of the bathroom again.

“I’ll make you a hot water bottle,” Sam says gently. “Do you need anything else?”

You press the back of your hand against your mouth to muffle your whimper. The green symbols sting your nose. “No,” you manage softly. “Thank you.”

Surely, the universe is laughing at you.

When you emerge from the bathroom, an improvised towel tourniquet wrapped around your torso, you find your bed made. Sam must have stripped your bloody sheets and stuck them in the laundry basket. The gesture almost makes you start crying again.

It doesn’t seem like it’s the first time he’s done something like this, but it’s the first time he’s done it for you. You think about Sarah, and you can’t help but wonder when he’s going to see her again. If he’s ever going to see her again.

You stopped changing your sheets days ago. It’s always the same ones when you wake up.

Almost unconsciously, you find yourself drawn towards the shelves on the other side of your room. The book is still there, still mocking you with its cheerful cover. No matter how many times you put it away, it always ends up in the wrong spot. Your fingers trace the broken spine. The Wind in the Willows.

I’ll be here when you’re done acting like a child.

Your throat constricts when you realize there might be only one way out of this.

* * *

You don’t know how long you stand there, gaze unfocused, trying and failing to think of any other solution. The only other one you have left is Sam, and you first have to convince Bucky to tell him. Despite it all, you’re not about to start breaking promises.

When you open the door to your bedroom, you’re greeted by a whining ball of fur.

“Not now, Alpine.”

She meows at you pitifully, running around your legs repeatedly until you almost trip up the stairs.

“You are a hellcat from hell,” you murmur, picking her up with one hand, wincing at the stretch. Immediately, she digs her claws into your forearm and you hiss. “Fine. Fine! You brought this on yourself,” you tell her and carry her out to the hall, not too gently putting her down and locking her out of the living area.

You have more urgent things to take care of than Bucky’s stupid, egotistical piece of work of a cat.

“Hey.”

You flinch and then curse quietly at the stabbing pain just below your ribs.

“Sorry.” Bucky strolls a bit closer, his steps louder now, before he leans against the wall next to you. “You look like shit.”

You make yourself look at him. This is the part that somehow never gets any easier. His eyes are so blue in the morning light, his hair auburn at the tips. “I need to talk to you.”

The letters on your arm have almost faded into nothing, but he still believes you.

“What about you, and Sam?”

Always that question. “We’re fine,” you say, like you always do, but he’s too good at reading you. The way you hold yourself, the faint tear tracks you haven’t washed away, the bulky shirt you barely managed to button with one hand.

His expression hardens and softens at the same time. “Where?”

“Don’t—” you start, but the blood loss makes you dizzy, and his eyes drag you under like a current. You’re so tired.

“Tell me.”

His gaze doesn’t leave you as you lift up your shirt, careful not to touch your makeshift bandage. It’s not working very well, the red tinge on the towel still growing at a sickening rate. Bucky curses under his breath.

You’re not sure how you get to the med ward in only a few seconds, but you’re still dazed when he loosens his grip around you and starts rummaging through the cupboards.

“Don’t get up,” he says sternly, and you drop your head back on the cot.

So damn useless.

“This is gonna hurt, doll,” Bucky says before peeling the towel off your skin in one smooth move.

Turns out he’s right. Your fingers dig into your thigh, your teeth clenched tightly.

“Did you disinfect this at all before you mummified yourself?” Your tense silence is answer enough. “Oh, for the love of god.”

Despite the sharpness in his tone, his fingers are surprisingly soft against your skin as he skilfully, methodically cleans out your wound and applies a fresh layer of gauze. It makes your eyes water.

It’s only when he’s finished with your new tourniquet and he sits down on the floor in front of you that you notice the light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Are you okay?” you whisper.

Bucky’s jaw doesn’t unclench with his mirthless chuckle. His wild ocean eyes remain fixed on your side. “This is because of me,” he says, and you can almost taste the undercurrent of loathing in his words.

“That’s not true.” This is no one’s fault but your own.

“Not worth that.”

“Hey,” you say, and the edge in your voice makes him look at you. “The ‘no self-deprecation’ thing wasn’t my idea, so I’d appreciate you sticking to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“Well, tough,” you say after a beat. “‘Cause that’s just how it is.”

You count the ticks of the clock outside until you lose track of the numbers before you commit to your decision. “I’m going to talk to Strange.”

Bucky presses his lips together. “Are you sure?”

“No, but I’m out of my depth.” Laughing still hurts. “And we’re going to tell Sam.” You can see him open his mouth, so you continue talking before he can protest. “I promised that I would tell you first, and I’ve done that. We’ve been at this for almost a week, I can’t do it anymore, I just can’t fucking do it anymore.”

Hot tears threaten to spill and you turn your head towards the ceiling in angry embarrassment.

“We can’t do this alone, we don’t work together, we don’t, we—we need Sam. Maybe he can think about something we don’t. But I’m tired, Buck. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“I’m sorry.” There’s a weight to it that makes your insides ache.

“Me too.”

You’ve never felt so powerless in your life, but you still reach out to him, slowly, your hand shaking. He interlaces his fingers with yours calmly, easily, and the warmth of it travels up all the way to your cheeks.

* * * * *

“They do have a point,” you said, scrolling through another news article about ULTIMATUM. You’d changed into slightly more dignified clothes and were now perched over your phone in one of the leather office chairs in the meeting room, knees tucked under your chin, your second cup of coffee perilously balanced on the armrest.

“So did Karli Morgenthau,” Sam said. “Doesn’t mean the way they go about making it is right.”

You hummed in agreement, zooming in on one of the pictures. The girl in the white jacket in its center wasn’t Karli, but she did remind you of her. She had the same defiant hold of her chin that you’d seen on the news so many times, the same soft, angry way of holding herself. The reporters had picked up on it, too. They didn’t know her name yet, didn’t even know if she was going to try to fill her footsteps or if it was a mere coincidence that made her the focal point of the photographs, but they’d still resorted to calling her the New Flag Smasher.

As if they were all the same.

“What I still don’t get is why you would need me. I mean, he’s right.” You nodded at Bucky. “You have done this sort of thing before. I haven’t.”

“You’ve done a pretty decent job at these kinds of extraction missions in the past, though,” Sam said. “And unlike Sergeant Grumpy Cat over here, I’m still a full-time human with a will to live. I don’t trust the methods these people use, so we could use an extra pair of hands.”

The irony of his phrasing didn’t escape you.

“So I’m your worst-case solution,” you clarified. “Charming. How do you even know you can trust me? We don’t know each other, I’m sure there’s other people, better agents you can—”

“Steve did.” It was Bucky who said it, and the surprise made you stop talking. “Trust you.”

“And what does that matter? Steve’s gone.” You dug your nails into your palms so hard it hurt. “They’re all gone, so what difference does it make, really, if he trusted me, or didn’t, or you do. The world’s gonna keep moving either way, and we still can’t change that. I can’t change that.”

“So what’s your—”

You took a deep, shuddering breath. When you held it, so did the world. Sam’s hand froze mid-air, his sentence unfinished, and Bucky became even more still, his face turned towards the floor.

Your tears fell in the quiet of a standing universe, unexpected and angry, with no one there to witness them. It took you a few minutes to calm down again, to rub at your cheeks until your eyes finally dried up again. In the silence, you realized something, almost through a haze.

With one last critical look at your reflection on your phone screen, you released your hold and everything started to move again. Sam grabbed his mug, the same one you’d kept him from breaking earlier.

“—plan, then?” he finished his question calmly, taking a sip. “Do nothing instead, because nothing matters?”

“He’s put you up to this, hasn’t he?” you said tonelessly. “Steve. You said he’s the one who told you about me. What else did he say?”

“To remind you you still owe Captain America a favor,” Sam answered.

Of course he’d done that.

You sat in silence again, but this time the AC kept whirring and Bucky kept tapping his mug with his metal fingers, the coffee untouched. It was a breathing kind of quiet.

“Well, good thing Walker’s out of a job, then.” You took another breath and reached for the coffee pot. “What do you need me to do?”

“What is it you can do, exactly?” Bucky asked.

You looked at Sam. “What did you tell him?”

“That you’re a trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with the kind of abilities we can use,” he replied, a sly smile on his face. At least he stuck to the official story.

You contemplated the pair of them. They were both good men, trustworthy, loyal; according to Steve, at least. Then again, you’d never had cause to doubt his judgment before.

Well. Not until the end.

“What I can do stays between us,” you said finally, crossing your arms. “That’s my one condition.”

Sam knew already, anyway, so it was really up to Bucky. He leaned forward on his elbows, vibranium fingers interlocking with his flesh ones, blue eyes narrowed in on you. “To do what, exactly?”

“Save you a few broken bones and bullet wounds.” You clearly intrigued him, and you couldn’t quite hide the smug look spreading on your face. “What do you say, Barnes? Think you can trust me?”

chapter four

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

#this is so good. this is so. painful yes but incredible #i will take these bullets #talking about bullets #she took a bullet for him #she took. a bullet for . him #knowing that if she dies she cant do anything else (obviously 😭 what a rucking stupid thing to say) but if he lives she'll do it anyway 😭#KNOWING ☝️ that he'll wake up the next day unscathed but she won't but it doesn't MATTER BECAUSE SHE DOESN'T WANT HIM TO FEEL IT ANYWAY #im obsessed im in tears #bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

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lovelyrecs · 3 days ago

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reading and knowing what I know about that delivery boy.... my eyes are PEELED.

also I'm just as sad about nat 😭 endgame is simply not real to me actually ☺️

her smile when she knocked reader clean out i love her ��

time after time [2]

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 8.2k

chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, the angst continues, another reminder to read the fic premise; a couple of guest appearances; flashbacks are my establishing shots and i’m going to make it everyone’s problem

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: 2am updates are kind of my brand at this point. big shout-out to @barnesafterglow who read a good chunk of this yesterday and is still talking to me <3 thank you all for your patience and your love for chapter one!!

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

two: twice upon a time

The first time you met Natasha Romanoff in person, a few weeks after the Snap, she only had to look at you for a couple of seconds to be able to read you like a book.

They’d compiled a file, of course, filled with all the general academic credits and official family information that was still available to the public and definitely more than a few things you’d tried to bury, too. Even then, the folder was reassuringly slim.

She’d have to take you at your word about what you’d come to offer her, anyway.

“And why would we want to have you?” she asked. As if she were interviewing you for a job. Which, technically speaking, she was.

You were on edge and Natasha knew it, even though you tried to hide your ever twitching fingers in your lap under the table, picking at the skin around your nails until you felt it break. You took a deep breath.

“Look, I know that I’m not exactly a soldier, or a—a superhero type, but I … I don’t know, I would just like to use my … thing to do good, for once. You know, stuff that will help people.”

And do it on your own terms. It stayed unsaid, then. You didn’t admit that part until much later.

Natasha’s face stayed perfectly neutral through your rambling, and you weren’t sure whether that was calming you down or making you more anxious. You reached for your necklace, tugging at the chain.

“But I can’t really do that on my own,” you continued, “and you, well, all of you, you’ve done it for a while and you’re good at it. And I think I could help with that.”

She still didn’t say anything, just kept waiting while you sat awkwardly in that uncomfortable office chair, regretting your decision of ever following through with your crazy impulsive idea of coming here.

But where else would you have gone?

“Also,” you remarked in a sudden burst of boldness, “I think you could use every extra pair of hands you can get at the moment.”

There was something almost like bemusement that appeared in the curl of Natasha’s lip, but she didn’t kick you out, which you took as a sign that your little outburst might have been closer to the truth than you’d really expected. You leaned back ever so slightly.

You couldn’t be sure, then, if she’d pieced together what little information they’d had on you in your file or if she’d just figured you out while you were sitting in this office, but it didn’t make all that much of a difference. She didn’t have to ask why you’d decided to offer up your abilities to the Avengers now, after everything, when they’d been hidden away for most of your life.

“You’re lonely. And you need a purpose, like all of us,” she said, looking you up and down apprehensively.

Then, without warning, she threw her glass at you.

You flinched to the side and it shattered on the wall behind you. The leftover drink slowly sank into the carpet as you turned to stare at her in shock.

Natasha lifted one of her perfectly trimmed eyebrows. “You wanna try that again?”

Really, you should’ve expected the test.

You closed your eyes and raised your hands.

It’s a strange experience, going back in time. No one had really asked you to describe what it was like, and you probably couldn’t have if you tried. It felt a little like retracing your own steps in your head, relocating your conscience to an earlier moment, second by second, in a rapid backwards motion. Like very vivid remembering. Only, it’s not just that.

“You’re lonely,” Natasha said, swirling the dregs of her glass, her green eyes tracing over you. “And you need a purpose, like all of us.”

You were expecting it this time, but the glass still slipped through your fingers and broke into tiny shards on the floor. Not good enough. You didn’t wait for her reaction this time, cursing under your breath and pulling yourself back again. As always, it took considerably more effort.

You tried your best not to stare at the glass while Natasha spoke, but you didn’t really listen anymore. This time, you caught it, even though its contents spilled over your hand.

Natasha smirked. “Not bad. First try?”

“This is when I lie to sound capable, right?” You shook the liquid off your fingers, sure she’d already noticed the sweat on your temples. No use in lying to a spy, anyway, you supposed, so you admitted, “Third.”

“We’ll work on that. But honesty’s a good start.” She held out her hand and you returned the glass. “Have you ever done combat training?”

You could barely stifle a nervous laugh. “Do I look like I’ve ever done combat training?”

“I don’t tend to judge people based on how they appear,” Natasha said, uncrossing her legs. “Come with me.”

You followed her back out of the office into the wide, empty hallway. You hadn’t seen anyone else around on the whole Compound, even though it could probably house hundreds of people on the ground floor alone. The clacking sound of your steps on the tiled floor seemed to echo all around you.

It felt like you were announcing yourself to everyone within a two-mile radius while Natasha moved around on her bare feet without a single sound.

A glass elevator took you down to the subterranean level of the building. Once the doors slid open, Natasha marched straight to a double door with square windows and large metal handlebars.

“Leave your shoes and bag by the door,” she told you. She waited for you to untie your laces and awkwardly wiggle out of your boots before she let you both in.

The Compound gym was even bigger than you’d expected. You weren’t sure if you were more surprised by that revelation or by the presence of a certain super soldier kicking the life out of a punching bag on the other side of the hall.

“Hey Rogers,” Natasha shouted as it got smacked to the ground. “Brought a new recruit!”

“Really?” he called back, unwrapping the bandages around his knuckles.

“Really?” you said. Sure, that was what you came here for, but even so, you were a little shocked it had been that simple.

“Like you said, we’re a little desperate at the moment,” she winked.

“I didn’t say that,” you muttered anxiously as Captain America jogged over to join you, a towel thrown over his shoulder. Despite his workout, he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Steve Rogers,” he said, holding out his hand with a smile.

You shook it, slightly bewildered, and introduced yourself. He repeated your name back at you and you had to take a moment to think how strange this whole situation was, even in all the madness that’d been going on. How unreal.

“I’m sure it’ll be good to have ya,” he said, and you almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. Thankfully, you caught yourself in time.

Meanwhile, Natasha had dragged one of the thick foam mats away from the heavy equipment and rolled it out. Cracking her neck, she stepped onto it and pushed her hair out of her face.

“Okay. Show me how you’d throw a punch.”

She held out her hands flat in front of her and nodded her head for you to join her on the mat. You’d never felt so stupid in your life as you tried to rack your brains for whatever little you took from those self-defense lessons however long ago. At least Captain Goddamn America seemed to be politely ignoring you in favor of putting some weights away.

“Just move on instinct, you’re not getting graded,” Natasha said calmly.

Your instincts were telling you you were absolutely getting graded and this was your worst idea to date, but you tried your best. She had you aim at different heights a few times before she stopped you.

“Okay, your posture’s terrible. You have to straighten your back and bend your knees more, see?” She demonstrated the right stance, waiting for you to copy her. “There you go. That’s your standard pose.”

“Alright,” you said, testing it out with a little bounce. “And what do I do with that?”

“Depends on what you’re trying to do. With the right training, you can use your own weight to your advantage in a fight. Steve?”

“Oh, great, am I volunteering?” He joined you on the mat and you moved to give the two of them enough space.

“You love it. Now watch me,” she added, looking at you.

Before Steve could even properly raise up his arms, Natasha launched into a handflip and somehow managed to wrap her legs around his body. The sudden movement made him stumble backwards. He lurched his body forwards to get her off his shoulders, but she used the momentum of her fall to kick him off his feet onto the mat. She gracefully landed on all fours like a cat. It looked effortless.

“You’re right,” Steve groaned, “this is very fun for me.”

“Yeah, I’m not gonna be able to do that,” you said flatly.

“I don’t expect you to,” Natasha said, pulling her hair behind her ears again. “But you do have to be able to survive in a fight, even without your powers, if you want to join the team. We can’t babysit you.”

You pressed your lips together, slowly curling your hands into fists and opening them again.

“Alright,” you said, your voice strangely dry. “When do we start?”

* * * * *

Your initial reaction is relief.

Relief, because it’s Friday again, which means nothing has actually happened, which means Bucky is still alive.

Then, the implications of that fact hit you all at once.

You must’ve blacked out for a second or two, because when you open your eyes again, you’re lying on the floor next to your bed, heart still pounding a mile an hour. Your breath comes out in short gasps, and you force it to slow just in time for the knock on the door.

“Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!”

“Just gimme a minute!” you shout back and stumble to the bathroom.

Your hands and face are speckled with blood and you wash it off furiously, biting your lip as the tiny cuts on your skin left by the glass shards burn under your touch. Turning off the faucet, you keep leaning onto the basin and stare at your hands.

You’re not sure what you expected. Your rings are still the blackest you’ve ever seen them, and the dimly glowing symbols keep slowly circling around your wrist. It doesn’t take you long to put two and two together, because once is a coincidence, a strange, fateful accident, but twice is a pattern. And of course you’ve heard about this kind of thing happening. Only not like this.

Life everlasting.

No. Definitely not like this.

So it appears you’ve gotten yourself stuck in some macabre version of Groundhog Day. Alright. Cool cool cool. You can work with that, probably. Maybe.

“Did you get lost in there?” Sam remarks with a grin when you finally step out of your room, still looking slightly disheveled.

“I—” You stop yourself, blinking at him until he starts looking slightly concerned.

“You alright? You look …” His eyebrows raise even higher. “Shell-shocked.”

Well, this isn’t exactly an everyday occurence even for me, Samuel, you want to tell him. Instead, you say, “Don’t ever wake me up like that again.” It lacks yesterday’s punch.

“Sweet white teenage angst not your style?”

You hum, but don’t reply otherwise, still lost in thought as you climb the stairs, trying to assess your situation and come up with some sort of plan.

It’s fairly obvious you fucked up your reset the other day. So much for the precious space-time continuum; oh, you hate it when the wizard people are right every now and then.

You glance sideways at Sam while he stretches his back in the ring. He seems fine, completely normal, unaware of what’s going on with you, and of course he would be. Nothing unusual about that part of your powers. Or what’s left of them.

You raise your hands experimentally.

“I’m not high-fiving you until you get one kick in, at least.”

Not even the slightest hitch. It’s like your powers have just up and left you completely. A strange heaviness settles in your stomach. Fucking useless.

You avert your burning eyes from Sam’s gaze.

It’s not like you … talk.

None of you do, not really. Sure, you chat. You’re great at chatting. You’ve had years, countless tries of perfecting smalltalk, of knowing the things you can get away with saying to certain people. It’s made you reckless in the past, knowing you could probably replay entire conversations in the blink of an eye, the pressure of expectation gone completely.

Ever since you started coming out of hiding again, though, the fun has drizzled out of that more and more. It’s one thing to impress strangers and another to be several steps ahead of the people you’ve started to consider your friends.

Because even though sometimes it sure would be easier, having people un-live conversations they’ve had with you, particularly hard or emotional ones, is sort of a shitty move if you continue to spend your time around them afterwards. And you’ve grown determined to not intentionally hurt people with your powers. Not anymore.

So yes, you chat. You know Sam’s favorite color and the video games his nephews want for their birthdays. You know what kind of music Bucky listens to, mostly because he forgets to turn on the soundproofing in his room and Jazz trumpets are surprisingly loud. You know their habits, the foods they like, the movies they hate.

But you don’t … share. Nothing that goes deeper than the general stuff.

It’s moments like these that make you miss Nat the most.

There was something about that woman that made everyone around her open up, whether they wanted to or not. You’re almost resolved to call her as soon as you get back to your room before you remember.

You’re gonna have to do this on your own. Back to square one.

“What is up with you today?”

“I’m fine,” you grunt, but make no effort to get back up again. “Didn’t sleep well. Ow.” You narrow your eyes at Sam. “Did you just kick me?”

“I wanted to see if you’re still alive.”

“Horrible. I’m quitting. You can go spar with Bucky again.”

“At least he puts up a fight.” Sam crouches down next to you. “Anything you wanna tell me?”

Yes. You shake your head. He probably wouldn’t believe you, anyway.

“Alright,” he says, clapping you on the shoulder. You scrunch your nose. “I’m gonna hit the showers. But we’re doing a rain check for tomorrow, and you sort out your pea under the mattress situation.”

“Okay.”

You listen to Sam’s receding steps and the sound of the door opening and closing again. Then, there’s nothing but silence and the ticking of the clock on the far wall.

Even though you know you should probably just head out as well, you can’t help but linger again. Just in case.

“You look like shit.”

Your head rolls to the side. Fuck you, Barnes. “Hey, Buck.”

Same spot on the bench next to the ring, same hunched over position, same concentrated look on his face while he cleans up the shimmering golden nooks in his arm.

“Buck?” He huffs, even though he continues to wear his usual exasperated expression. “Did Sam hit you in the head?”

You don’t answer, just keep staring at his profile for a little while longer. Your eyes are drawn to the nape of his neck, to the center of his chest. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it hurts.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Bucky says lowly. You turn your gaze back to the ceiling.

“Nothing,” you answer, pulling an arm over your eyes. The sweatband rubs against your eyebrow.

Maybe, you think, just maybe, it could still be a fluke. Only one more time to get things right, and then all will just go back to normal. Maybe you’ll be fine today. He’ll be fine.

There’s a buzzing in your ears, and you’re not sure if it comes from the green symbols gyrating around your arm or if you’re just imagining it altogether.

“What happened to your face?” Bucky asks unexpectedly, casually, as if he were talking about the weather.

“What do you mean?”

“You look like you dove head-first into a rose bush.”

“Hah.” You slowly sit up, your muscles aching for a hot shower. Three days of training and fighting in a row are not agreeing with your body. “Must’ve scratched myself in my sleep.”

If he sees through your lie, he doesn’t call you out on it. “Didn’t know you have talons.”

You raise your eyebrows in fake surprise. It’s so easy to fall back into your usual bickering, even with everything that’s going on. “You’re right, I don’t. Your cat probably got into my room again and let out her past week’s aggressions.”

“My cat slept soundly, thank you very much,” Bucky says dryly.

“See, that’s exactly what she wants you to think.”

“Funny.” He stands up, hanging the piece of cloth over the side of the boxing ring to air out. “Take the towel on the right, I already used the other one.”

“Thanks, Buck,” you say with a smirk. He ignores you.

* * *

The shower is what brings your mood back down again. In the silence of the water hitting your back, there’s enough time for you to think about the upcoming day that you’ve already been through twice.

Up until the mission, it’s gone by fine, unremarkably so, which only makes the build-up to the evening even worse, in your opinion. You face the stream of hot water directly, trying to rid yourself of the image of Bucky lying on the floor, bleeding out in front of you.

You need to be rational about this.

First, you need to figure out what’s going on with your powers. Then, you have to make up your mind about lunch, because while you don’t exactly resent the thought of your third pizza in as many days, your stomach sadly doesn’t agree with that notion. And finally, you’re going to break this damn cycle you’re in. Easy as that.

You turn off the shower with your newfound resolve and grab the clean towel.

Your determination lasts up until you get back to your room and realize you don’t actually know how you are going to fix your powers. They’ve always been somewhat fickle, unpredictable even to you, acting up whenever it’s most inconvenient. Impossible.

No one has ever been able to tell you where they came from, nor how you could properly control them. Everything you know you had to figure out through trial and error, replaying the same scenario over and over again, and, more often than not, lucky coincidences.

Usually, when your rings are black and your powers are weakened, it helps to let your body regain its strength first. In other words, you need to sleep.

This is something you probably should have thought through before getting your morning coffee with an extra shot of espresso, out of habit, but that’s not something you can change right now.

The living room area wouldn’t usually be your first choice for a midday nap, but you’re not ready to face the bloodstains on your bedding quite yet, so you’ll have to make do with one of the suspiciously IKEA-looking throw pillows on the couch. The TV is chattering away in the background, just loud enough to somewhat distract you from your own thoughts.

It’s not enough to fall asleep, though.

You keep tossing and turning, half-listening to three or four episodes of some nineties sitcom, while your anxiety gnaws away at your insides. There’s a constant low pounding in your head that drives you up the wall, and again you swear you can hear the symbols looping around your wrist. You keep scratching at your sweatband, but it’s no use.

You don’t know how much time has passed before the pattering of small paws makes you sigh in disdain.

There’s an obnoxiously loud meowing close to your feet, followed by a sudden weight dropping on your stomach that almost invites your garlic bread back up for a double feature. You peer out at the white shape on top of you, innocently toying with the hem of your shirt.

In general, you like cats just fine, but something about Alpine has always unsettled you. Sure, she’s a cute-looking ball of fluff, but she’s also quick to scratch unsuspecting people bending down to pet her, and she seems to have a particular bone to pick with you.

“Maybe she’s just a good judge of character,” Sam jokes whenever you complain about it.

“She doesn’t like you any better.”

“Yeah, but I’m allergic to her,” Sam shrugs. “The farther she stays away, the more a favor it’s doing me.”

In truth, the only person Alpine likes is Bucky, and she loves to show it every chance she gets.

“You’re in her spot.”

Alpine graciously allows you to push up to your elbows with a groan. Bucky’s tall figure is looming over your head; there’s a bemused expression on his face. He must’ve just walked in through the door, because he’s still wearing his jacket.

“Why does the cat need a spot on the couch, exactly?” You try to shoo her off your lap, but Alpine digs her claws deeper into your shorts and you wince. “You really need to teach her manners.”

“You gotta be gentle with her,” Bucky says, pulling her off you without a hitch. “Move over.”

You swing your legs off the couch with a roll of your eyes. “Can’t you sit somewhere else?”

“Nope. This is my spot, too.”

“Great,” you sigh, angling yourself away from him. “I’ll be sure to make a reservation next time.”

Alpine starts purring as Bucky scratches her under the chin. “You watchin’ that?”

“I was trying to nap,” you mumble, throwing him the remote with a little more force than necessary. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Thirteen twelve hours.”

“Please stop just saying numbers when I ask you that.”

Bucky smirks again and switches channels. “Quarter past one-ish.”

You blink at him tiredly, surprised to find out he’s been back so early. The past two days, you didn’t see him around again until the broadcast was about to start. Then again, you didn’t really pay attention at that point, either.

There’s that tick in his jaw that he always gets when something is bothering him, even as he’s distracted by a playful cat in his lap. You’d better relieve him of the burden of your presence.

“Well,” you say, standing up. Alpine whines indignantly at the sudden movement. “I’ll try to find a cat-free spot in this tower, then.”

“Try the floor,” Bucky says as you’re almost out of the room. He doesn’t turn when you do, but he seems to feel your questioning gaze. “If you can’t sleep. It helps, sometimes.”

You hide your hands in your pants pockets, even though it’s far too late by now. He’s already noticed your black rings.

With a short hum, you briskly walk back to your room, leaning against the door as it closes behind you. This is getting ridiculous, you think, worrying the ring on your pinkie finger with your thumb. As if you didn’t have enough reasons to get a hold of your powers again; you don’t know what you would do if Bucky really got suspicious of you now.

Taking a deep breath, you eye your bed. Compared to yesterday, the blood stains on your sheets are barely more than a few specks, because you weren’t as close to Bucky when it happened. Somehow, that doesn’t make you feel any better.

“Fine,” you mutter in annoyance, grabbing one of your pillows and throwing it on the floor next to your bed. “FRIDAY, can you wake me in time for Sam’s speech?”

“Of course,” FRIDAY tells you. “Do you want me to use the same song as this morning?”

“Please don’t.” A little idea pipes up at the back of your head. “Do you have any record of playing that song before?”

“Last dates played. Friday, July 4th 2025, 07:50 a.m. Playtime: forty-five seconds. Thursday, March 13th 2014, 02:49 a.m. Playtime: one hour, twenty-seven minutes, eighteen seconds. End of record.”

Interesting night for Tony, then, but not exactly telling when it comes to your time loop situation. With a sigh, you get settled on the floor, staring up at the ceiling until your eyes get too tired.

You’ll think of something once you’ve had a bit of sleep. He’ll be fine.

And then, just as you’re finally about to drift off, you feel a sudden jolt go through you. It’s a bizarre sensation, like you’re falling and jumping at the same time, but your body isn’t actually moving with you. Like someone pulling at your very consciousness.

Your eyes fly open and you gasp for air.

You’re still in your room, which should be good news, but everything looks … weird. Not as out of focus as it would be if you were simply dreaming, but somehow crooked, the angles unusually pronounced. The colors are all off, the lights way lower than they should be this time of day, and when you reach out for the edge of your bed, your hands—

You take a sharp breath. Your fingers are bare, no trace of your rings anywhere, and even worse, your hands are partly transparent. Cautiously, you get up on your equally as see-through legs and turn around.

When you see your own body still lying in bed next to where you’re standing, you almost trip over your own feet.

You stare at yourself in disbelief. One of your body’s hands is tucked under the pillow, and it’s breathing regularly. Carefully, you take a step closer and reach out your noncorporeal hand. Your shoulder feels warm and solid underneath your fingertips.

Your body wrinkles its nose in its sleep and you jerk back again, losing your balance and falling to the floor. Your body doesn’t react at all, even though you pull part of the blanket with you as you go down.

“Okay. This is a dream,” you tell yourself, even though you feel your heart pounding. “Just some weird-ass dream, and I have to wake up.” Again, you can’t help but look at the sleeping body lying in your bed.

You press your hands over your eyes, willing yourself to slow your breathing. The edge of your nightstand jabs you painfully between the shoulder blades, too real to be nothing more than an act of your imagination.

“You’re not what I expected.”

The man’s voice makes you flinch slightly. Slowly, you peek through your fingers.

You either didn’t notice him while you were taking in your surroundings or he’s just blended in with them seamlessly, although you’re not sure how that last one could even be a possibility. His back is turned to you, his frame covered by a long, deep red cloak with intricate patterns stitched along the seams. He’s perusing your bookshelf, picking up old copies seemingly at random.

For some reason, your shock at the sight of him is outweighed by immediate irritation. Something about the man instantly irks you.

“Thanks, I think,” you tell him, throwing the edge of the blanket over your sleeping body again as you get up, never letting the man out of your sight.

He turns around, one of his eyebrows raised. Your eyes immediately fall on the amulet around his neck and your heart gives a stutter. You ignore it.

“Not a compliment.” He holds up a book. “This is how you spend your time, then?”

It’s one of your favorite comfort novels. You take good care of your books for the most part, but this one is quite battered; you’ve been bringing it with you on missions for years. A bit of home that fits into your pocket and helps calming you down on countless quinjet rides better than pictures ever could.

“Sue me for trying to relax in between saving the world,” you say, crossing your arms.

“Of course,” the man says wryly. “Because god forbid you use those powers of yours to their full extent, we wouldn’t want that.”

“And what’s it to you?” you snap.

The man calmly puts the book down again; not where he picked it up from, you notice in annoyance.

“My name is Doctor Stephen Strange,” he says, watching your face for your reaction. “Ah, so you have heard of me.”

Of course you have. You know who he is, you must’ve seen his picture hundreds of times during the Blip, and even before that, you’d heard about his reputation. As one of the keepers of the time stone back when it still existed, he’s on your list of people you least want to see, ever.

You narrow your eyes at him. “How did you find me? What—” You take a quick look back at your own sleeping form. “What is this place?”

“The astral plane,” he says, swiping your bookshelf for dust and inspecting his fingertips contemptuously. They’re shaking ever so slightly. “Something you would know if you hadn’t spent the past decade avoiding every single chance to use your powers responsibly.”

“Wow,” you huff. “You don’t know anything about me or about my powers.”

“Don’t I, Y/N Y/L/N?” Strange’s cloak flaps slightly as if it were shrugging.

“I spent the last couple of years trying to save lives.”

“You’re riding on luck and pretend it’s control. You have no idea what this could do to the grand scheme of things.”

“Well, I never asked for these powers, okay?” you say defensively. “I just have them. What I don’t have is any interest in being a pawn in some grand scheme of things when I never wanted any of this.”

“People don’t generally get a choice in that matter.” His gaze drops to your wrist. “And now look where your resistance to accept your responsibilities got you.”

The green band of symbols is still leisurely circling around your arm. You bite your tongue. “I don’t know how that happened,” you say, your voice breaking slightly on the last word.

“It happened because you activated the time stone,” Strange sneers. “Your powers are a lot stronger than you even care to realize, and it was idiotic to keep them a secret.”

“Why, so you could use them for your own gain?”

“So I could prevent this exact kind of thing from happening.”

You throw your hands in the air in frustration. “So end it, then. Or did you drag me here just to berate me?”

Strange chuckles humorlessly. “This is not something others can just fix for you, Miss Y/L/N. You cast a very powerful spell in creating this loop, and you are the only one who can lift it again.”

“Great. I’m screwed, then, is that what you’re saying?” You might not be inside of your body at the moment, but you can still feel your cheeks heating up. “I want you to leave me the fuck alone.”

“You need to calm down,” Stange says sharply.

“Don’t tell me to calm down, get out of my—head, or whatever this is. Get out!”

“Alright then. Continue to play stubborn. See how far it gets you.” He holds out his right hand and there’s a crack in the air behind him; almost like a doorway, or a mirror. “I’ll be here when you’re done acting like a child.”

You come to on your bedroom floor, feeling almost more tired than you did when you laid down earlier. It takes your bleary eyes a moment to adjust to your surroundings again. When you sit up, a thin throw blanket that you don’t remember pulling over your shoulders falls into your lap.

This really is just a whole bunch of disasters stacked on top of each other.

You don’t even have to look at your rings to know there’s still not the slightest green spec in sight. Your fingers find your necklace and you tug slightly to reassure yourself of its presence. How the hell did Strange even find you?

There’s no time to think about it for too long, because once again, there’s a knock at your bedroom door.

“We got a lead on that lab,” Sam shouts on the other side. “Jet’s leaving in half an hour, get ready.”

You blink at the clock on your wall in confusion. Even though you feel like you only spent a couple of minutes in this other dimension you were dragged into, several hours have passed in this one.

Time is seriously out of your hands, and it’s only getting worse.

* * *

“Don’t you think that maybe they have an alarm set or something?” you say, contemplating the explosives laid out in front of you.

Sam raises his eyebrows, adjusting the intercom chip in his ear. “Is that a hunch or are you telling me?”

“Both.” You flex your fingers. “It’s just that announcing ourselves probably isn’t in our best interest right now.”

“And you couldn’t have said that earlier? As in, before we landed?” Sam sighs.

Bucky snorts as you shrug your shoulders helplessly. Your body desperately needed the half hour of uneasy sleep the flight has afforded it, even though your powers seem to be unimpressed by it.

“Look, it’s gonna be fine,” Sam continues, squeezing your arm. “We’ve handled worse. Besides, if they do have an alarm set, they’re gonna come to us whether we knock down that wall or not.”

“I guess,” you mumble, grabbing the explosives. “Let’s play knock-knock with terrorists then, that oughtta be fun.”

“Reminds me of ‘44,” Bucky says, more to himself than to either of you.

When you follow Sam down the hallway once again, you can’t help but search for the cameras you know are hidden here somewhere, but it’s impossible to tell in the dingy light. You should bring a stronger flashlight next ti—no.

You blink, stopping that thought before it’s fully formed.

There won’t be a next time. This thing ends tonight, once and for all.

Third time’s the charm, right?

About as charming as a kick to the face, you think as you find yourself delivering just that.

Sam takes off. “We better get moving. If you take care of the drive and these idiots, I’ll clear the tunnels for a way out of here!”

Bucky catches Sam’s shield as you disarm the white jacket with the knife and duck as the shots ring out. You’re sweating in your kevlar vest.

“Two o’clock, Bucky,” you tell him, throwing another punch. You’re so sick of this white-coated asshole in particular; it’s like they think you’re in the rumble from West Side Story. “And whatever you do, don’t throw that shield, alright?”

“You’re bossy today,” Bucky huffs, taking out the one with the blaster.

“I think you mean thorough,” you reply as Riff finally goes out cold.

“You tell yourself that.” He reloads his gun instead, shield firmly locked around his right arm. “How much longer for the transfer?”

You glance at the monitors and try to remember. “About a minute, maybe two.”

“Sam, you copy?” The last white jacket goes down.

“Ready for take-off in five,” Sam confirms cheerfully. “Heads-up, there’s at least another dozen heading your way.”

“Got it.” Bucky bumps your shoulder as he starts back towards the computers, leaving you only a second to process the different turnout of events.

Shouldn’t he insist on leaving?

The only thing that differentiates this mission from the first one is that you haven’t had to jump back to know what to look out for, and therefore don’t suffer the immediate side effects a redo usually has on you. You suppose that’s what they initially expected your powers to be like; flawless, useful, magical.

It’s like a slap in the face, even though Bucky doesn’t realize he’s doing it. The fact that he really does think lesser of you because of your stupid, faulty powers stings more than you care to admit.

You shake yourself back to the present moment. “Take the drive and then get away from there!” you shout, trying to catch up with him. Your lungs are burning. “They’re gonna blow up the—”

The blast of the explosion throws you backwards and you land on one of the unconscious bodies on the ground. Coughing, you roll to your hands and knees.

“Wha—ppening?” Sam’s cut off voice comes through the broken comms.

“Bucky?” You stumble towards the flaming mess that was the lab corner.

He must have hit his head on the side of the big table, but the shield had protected him from the sharp edge. He’s pressing a hand to his wound and he’s conscious and fine. He’s fine.

You can’t stop a relieved laugh as you crouch down next to him. “Wanna get out of here or what?”

The reflection of the flames makes his eyes almost look green as he squints at you, groaning. “Geez, I hate you.”

“Come on, tough guy,” you say and he lets you pull him to his feet, almost toppling over at his unsteadiness. “Let’s get you home.”

You keep turning around as you make your way to the tunnels, keep looking back towards the staircase you came down, worrying about the reinforcements Sam told you about. Maybe that’s your mistake.

Because you haven’t made it this far before, you don’t think to check that the unconscious white jackets are all still unconscious.

You still have Bucky’s shield arm around your shoulder as he jerks, sensing the motion on his left before you do. He catches the first bullet with his metal arm as you twist out of your hold on him, grabbing your knife and whirling back around. He makes a side step, taking a big swing—

Only you told him not to throw the shield.

You fling your knife as fast as you can, but his single moment of hesitation was long enough for the trigger to be pulled a second time. You turn just in time to see the realization on Bucky’s face, the shock and panic in his eyes as they meet yours.

And then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and–

“Okay, alright, turn it off, FRIDAY!”

By the time you wipe your mouth and flush the toilet with shaky knees, hair and face still caked with blood, you’re finally starting to understand how well and truly screwed you are.

* * *

You lean against the fridge, staring at Sam while he’s typing away at the kitchen island. He likes working standing up for some reason, particularly when he has to write some sort of statement.

“If I have to give the speech standing up, I’ve gotta write it standing up,” he’s explained it to you once. You can’t pretend to get it, but you suppose it’s also a perk to be within an arm’s length of snacks at all times while you’re getting stuff done.

“What do you want?” Sam says evenly. His gaze remains fixed on his laptop, his fingers never stopping to move.

You bite your lip. It’s a bad, very bad, terrible idea. You shouldn’t be bothering him with your fuck-up. You don’t even know how to go about it without having him laugh in your face.

“What if I told you that I’m stuck in a time loop?”

The question comes out weirdly flat, as if you’re joking. Fuck, what’s happening to you? You’ve always been fine with being the person who knows more than anyone else in the room. This situation though …

It’s different. It unrattles you in a way your powers never have, because even though it’s your own doing, it also seems so out of your control.

Sam raises an eyebrow, still not looking up. “I’d ask when you started drinking today and why you did it without me.”

Honestly, you should have expected something along these lines as long as you have no way of proving it to him.

“Well,” you say light-heartedly, as if you’re merely chitchatting. “What would you do if you were reliving the same day over and over again?”

“Enjoy my time off, probably,” Sam says, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m starving. Shouldn’t the food be here by now?”

You check your phone. “About half a minute.”

It gives you an idea for the future.

Lo and behold. You startle the poor delivery guy, opening the front door right before he can knock. “Hi,” you smile, handing him a generous tip. “We don’t know each other, right?”

“Uhm. What?”

“Do you have like, two minutes?”

“Did you have to haggle for them, first?” Sam calls over when you finally make it back to the kitchen, closing his laptop and helping you put down the boxes and containers on the counter.

“Had to convert to Pastafarianism,” you say, getting out the cutlery. “Ready for blasphemy?”

Sam chuckles.

By the time lunch is done and Sam has left for Madison Square Garden, another wave of exhaustion catches up with you. You pull your rings off and leave them on the table before you lie down on the second couch in the living room area, hoping that maybe this time, you’ll get a little bit of rest.

Only once again, it’s no use. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in the lab, watching Bucky get shot. The background buzz of the TV isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of your cursed memories.

Or the sound of the cat whining next to your ear.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Alpine settles on your chest this time, leaving long white hairs all over your shirt and hitting you in the face with her tail. You grimace, trying not to inhale any of her fur.

“You’re in her spot.”

You don’t bother turning your aching head. “I thought her spot was over there!” you say accusingly, gesturing vaguely to the other side of the living room.

“Who told you that?” Bucky says, a bemused tone in his voice as he scoops Alpine up in his gloved hands, careful not to touch you. “Move over.”

You blink at him. You did.

You feel his expectant glare on you and sigh.

“Really, you too? We have plenty of room, you know.” You pull your knees in.

“I do,” he says, sitting down next to you and reaching underneath the cushions. “But you’re always hoggin’ the remote.”

You put your cold feet on his thigh in retaliation. Bucky tenses.

“How are you so cold, it’s like ninety degrees outside.”

“Emphasis on outside,” you shrug. “I just run cold.”

“That you do.” He switches channels, then pulls his gloves off and puts them on the table next to your rings.

You bite the inside of your cheek and roll to the floor inelegantly. Alpine meows in disdain, like a knife scratching the whole diameter of a dinner plate.

“Please tell your cat to chill, geez,” you mumble, slumping down on the other couch and stretching your legs out again with a contented sigh.

Bucky doesn’t reply.

“My dear girl,” a thickly accented voice on the TV says, “you cannot keep bumping your head against reality and saying it is not there. The evidence was definite. We can’t remove it by wishing or crying.”

“He trusted me,” a female voice answers. “I led him into a trap, I convicted him. Is that real enough for you?”

“There is no one to blame,” the first voice continues. “The case was a little deeper than you figured. This often happens. You must realize now one thing, it is over for both of you.”

“What are you watching?” you ask.

There’s a short pause before Bucky answers. “Hitchcock. Spellbound.”

You can’t help your reaction.

“Why’d you just do that?” Bucky says.

You stare at the ceiling. “Do what?”

“You flinched.”

“Did not.” You can taste blood in your mouth.

“Why won’t you look at me?”

You turn to the side and demonstratively stare at him, even though it makes your insides twist. Bucky’s face doesn’t change at all as he gazes back at you, frown deepening between his eyebrows. It’s like he’s trying to drown you with the endless blue of his eyes.

You drop your gaze and shake your head.

“What’s your point, Bucky? Not everyone likes staring at people like you do.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s weird. And invasive.”

“It’s invasive to look at you?”

“Yes,” you say, “if you do it like that.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know!” You sit back up again in exasperation. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

You look at his face this time, not his eyes. It still makes your cheeks burn, because his jaw sets that way again and he doesn’t immediately respond.

“Something’s wrong,” he says, finally, and you hide your face between your hands in what you can only hope looks like frustration. Then you realize that that’s only making your missing rings more obvious.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you snap, balling your hands into fists.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t have anything to tell you!”

“You promised,” Bucky says coolly. “Remember?”

Your stomach plummets.

“Yes,” you say, forcing your voice to stay calm. “But I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to worry. I’ve got this.”

You feel his eyes on your back all the way to your room, and you’re not sure if you’re lying to him or to yourself, even as you slam the door behind you and look anywhere but your bed.

Your book is lying in the wrong place.

* * * * *

“Honestly, Nat, you could’ve killed her.”

“Don’t be dramatic. She’s made of stronger stuff than that.”

There were yellow dots dancing across your vision when you opened your eyes, groaning at the bright neon lights hitting you in the face.

You were lying on the mat in the gym of the Compound and your nose had been ripped clean off; at least that was what it felt like. Judging by your red-soaked shirt, your guess wasn’t that far off, though.

“Hey,” Natasha said, kneeling down next to you. “Sorry, that must hurt like a bitch.”

“Your head is bery solid,” you replied, touching the blood still dribbling down your face. “Ow.”

“Thank you,” she said and handed you a wet towel. “Put that in your neck and lean your head back.”

“Di’ I faind?”

“You knocked yourself out, honey,” she said with a sly grin.

“It isn’t funny, Nat,” Steve shouted. You snorted, then winced in pain.

“Don’t worry,” Natasha winked. “You’re gonna be as pretty as before once you clean up. Already reset your nose while you were out.”

“Thangs.”

Surprisingly, this was the first serious injury you’d sustained in the past couple of weeks you’ve been living as a rookie Avenger; though in truth, that was mostly due to the fact that Natasha had only had you build up your stamina and agility up until today. Your first proper day in the ring was nothing short of humiliating.

“You could always go back to the moment before you decided to headbutt me,” Natasha said once the bleeding had finally stopped.

You wiped your nose carefully, taking a few breaths to clear your airways. “Sadly, that’s not how it works,” you said, letting her help you slowly come upright again. “I’m the one moving through time, so I stay exactly the same. I can help you guys avoid the punches, but I’ll still be the one receiving them.”

Cursed to stay the same, just like you’d always said.

Natasha tilted her head. “That seems like something you could work on with proper help.”

You grimaced. “I’ve tried that before. There’s no one who can help me, no one who can … fix me, or my powers.”

There was worry in her eyes, then, and you were taken aback by how genuine it seemed. It left a crack in your shell.

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said quietly.

But it was. “I mean it,” you said, your lip twitching. “You can’t tell them that I’m here. For all they know, I got dusted just like everyone else.”

She knew; it had been the one condition you’d set in exchange for your help. That didn’t mean she had to like it.

There was a prolonged pause until Natasha nodded. “All the more reason to get you proper training,” she said, getting back to her feet and helping you up. “Let’s get you some ice cream. Good for the healing.”

You smiled when both she and Steve kept worrying about you the entire way to the kitchen, even though both of them tried hard not to make it obvious. It still filled you with a strange sense of warmth that almost had you forget about the pain.

You were safe here.

Things were finally starting to look up.

chapter three

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

#bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

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lovelyrecs · 3 days ago

Text

holy shit so i already read this and a few chapters more so I know what's coming and im still in anguish as i read. i read the about and the memories immediately flooded me like i was a war vet it was crazy

but i want to read it all the way through the RIGHT WAY so I will reread this and i will feel so bad for my girl reader who really goes through it

time after time [1]

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 6.0k

chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, accidentally starting a time loop, banter, pretty angsty to start us off with ngl, reminder to read the fic premise. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: happy groundhog day and welcome to the first instalment of the series i’ve been sitting on since july. i’ve always loved time loop storylines, so i thought, why not indulge myself and put my own twist on it?

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

one: turn back the clock

Your mother used to call it a gift, but for most of your life, your powers had felt more like a curse.

It began when you were a toddler; small hops backwards through time barely noticeable to anyone but yourself, or an afternoon lost to everything speeding up around you. Sometimes, the world would just stop spinning for an hour or two and you would wander between the frozen people, crying and confused, until things finally picked up speed again and your parents would shout your name because you’d simply disappeared before their very eyes.

When you got older, you found out that this little quirk of yours could be useful every now and then. If a teacher asked a question you didn’t know the answer to, you learned to will yourself back just enough to keep up your participation score. It didn’t particularly feel right, but it was one of the few benefits your strange powers provided, then.

For the most part, you couldn’t control it, though. For the most part, it meant having to relive painful moments and rush through the good ones. It meant screaming into people’s unmoving faces until your voice got hoarse because you couldn’t figure out how to get time to move again.

You assumed what you were going through was what everyone was talking about when they spoke of déjà-vu, until you mentioned it to your mother one day and she sighed deeply and said, “oh honey, I thought it had stopped.”

Maybe your family had more secrets than you’d given them credit for.

“You’re such a special girl,” they would tell you later. Such a special, clever girl. This is a great thing, you know. It’s your talent to make things right, make them the way they should be.

It was your own mistake that you started to believe their lies.

* * * * *

“Something is very, very wrong here,” you say quietly.

“You always say that,” Sam says, securing the room ahead and then nodding for you to follow him.

“Yeah, and I’m usually right.” Your fingers are itching for you to flick them and speed up this terrible silence so that you can at least know what’s going on. You ignore the urge, but keep one hand held out in front of you, your thumb and first two fingers pointing upwards. The other hand grips tightly around your automatic.

The hallway doesn’t stretch out very far, but what little of the low sunlight makes it in through the dirty windows gives it a strange, eerie atmosphere. Maybe that’s what you’re picking up on, you try to tell yourself. The air is thick with a stench you can’t identify.

“Lovely interior design,” Sam mumbles. You follow his gaze to a pile of bones that lie scattered in one of the rudimentary holding cells you’re walking past. A spider runs from his flashlight and you grimace.

“Sam,” you say, focusing on the half-extended wings on his back again. “Did you invent this mission to get us to go to a haunted house with you?”

He snorts lightly as he pulls the cloth off the crates that are stacked alongside the wall. There’s a single red handprint near the bottom right of each of them. You almost sigh.

“Do you think I’d pass up the opportunity to hear the two of you scream in terror when the vampire puppets creep up on you?”

“Gotta disappoint you, cap,” you grin and wait for him to check the map. “I only scream when there’s good reason.”

“I don’t wanna interrupt,” Bucky interrupts over the intercom, “but they’re heading your way now, so get a move on.”

“You’re no fun, Bucky.” Still, your eyes flick to your rings. Almost all of them have turned a deep black, with specks of emerald few and far between. Useless. “I probably only have one reset left. Two, if we’re lucky and you two aren’t being stupid again.”

“I prefer heroic,” Sam says and turns back to you, a concerned look on his face. “You alright?”

You nod. “Just haven’t gotten a lot of sleep since London.” Between Sam’s snoring on the plane ride back and the early mornings, you are currently running mostly on strong coffee and lots of sugar. “It’s gonna be fine. Just try not to get killed.”

“Good old-fashioned survival. Reminds me of old times.” Sam’s voice might be light, but you know him well enough by now to tell he’s still worried. Your stomach twists with it.

“Can’t say that, bud,” Bucky says. “Twenty seconds.”

“You need to repair Redwing,” you tell Sam. “Being the lookout makes Barnes cranky.”

“You forget that he’s always cranky.”

While you’re still bantering, you place the explosives you’ve brought next to the wall Sam has pointed out. It’s not the most elegant way, but there hasn’t been time to research key codes or break in quietly, so you’re going in with a bang.

Sam and you take cover behind the shield. The little timer starts counting down from ten.

“Any time, Buck,” Sam says. “Five. Four.”

Two shots find their marks outside. You turn your head to see one of the people in white fall through the far entrance of the hallway, holding their knee in pain.

“One.”

You shut your eyes just in time before the door gets blasted off its hidden hinges. A cloud of dust hits your face and you start coughing violently.

“Everyone alright?” Bucky shouts and you grimace at the volume of his voice in your ear.

“Yeah,” Sam answers. “Our wrinkle in time here just decided to inhale some metal.” He claps you on the back a few times until the grime has finally cleared from your lungs. “You good?”

“All good,” you rasp, roughly drying your eyes with your sleeve.

It’s times like this, you think, that your powers are truly the most useless. There’s no way for you to go back and unclog your lungs of whatever atrocities you just inhaled. You’re cursed to always stay exactly as you are.

“Are you guys waiting for a formal invite?” Bucky asks, walking past you without a single glance in your direction.

“Any more comin’?” Sam looks down the now opened entryway. Just like you expected, the lab on the other side seems empty.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Bucky answers, “but I’d rather not stick around to find out.”

You take a look over your shoulder back down the hall at where the white jacket is still lying, unconscious. In the gloomy light, there are strange reflections moving across their goggles, and you can’t help but frown as the uneasy feeling sinks deeper into your bones. Like a tingle that claws its way down your spine to settle in your fingertips. You pull your gun out of the holster.

“Don’t you feel like this is way too easy?” you say quietly, reassuming your position between the two of them.

“Yup,” Sam says, shield still held up in front of him. He keeps moving forward.

The lab is smaller than you expected, crammed with tables that are overflowing with strangely colored concoctions and stacks upon stacks of papers. You take a step closer, trying to make sense of the strange chemical formulas scribbled next to a bunch of tables and graphs. It’s not exactly your strong subject, though, and you can’t really concentrate with someone else breathing down your neck.

“You’re hovering again, Barnes,” you say without looking up, and feel his gaze move away from you. Even after all this time, he still doesn’t trust you one bit.

“This isn’t it,” Sam says, closing the last of the filing cabinets with a bang. “They must’ve cleared out before we got—here. Alright.”

Bucky makes him take a step to the side before hooking his metal arm into the cabinet and pulling. With a screech of protest, the entire thing slowly moves open to reveal a broad winding staircase leading downwards. Another wave of the horrid smell hits you, even stronger now, like something metallic that’s being set on fire.

“Show-off,” you mumble as you slip past Bucky and his smugly raised eyebrow.

The stairs go down deeper and deeper for a lot longer than you'd expected, lit by motion detector lights that turn your shadows into overly large figures on the opposite wall. It doesn’t ease your premonition in the slightest. Finally, everything opens up and you look down into a large, almost cave-like room. It extends pretty far backwards before it splits into several tunnels that remind you of the one you spotted when you got out of the quinjet earlier.

“Are we gonna get radiation poisoning?” you ask. “Because you definitely don’t pay me enough for that.”

“I doubt they’d send their own people ‘round the perimeter with nothing more than a face mask if those things were radioactive,” Sam says. “And you’re here voluntarily.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” you mumble, but you follow him anyway.

“Look at that,” Sam says, stepping closer to the containers. “What is that?”

A dark blue liquid is slowly dropping out of a hole near the bottom of one of the containers. Bucky kneels down next to it.

“Don’t touch that!” you say quickly and he rolls his eyes.

“I wasn’t going to.” Sam hands him a little glass vial and Bucky carefully scoops up some of the liquid with his left hand.

“Maybe we can send that to Banner, have him take a look.” Sam walks over to the computers and plugs in a drive. “We’ll make a copy of that for Torres and then get out of here.”

“What do you think that is?” you wonder, crossing your arms in front of your chest. Once again, this mission has you feeling unbelievably superfluous.

“Not the serum. Wrong color,” Bucky answers as if he could read your thoughts. He pockets the vial in his jacket and stands up. “You’re hovering again, Y/L/N.”

You’d roll your eyes, too, if you didn’t know that’d only make that stupid smirk reappear. “Can we leave before I do something he’ll regret?” you shout at Sam.

“That’s sweet,” Bucky smirks anyway.

“I think we have another problem right now,” Sam says, looking up from the monitors. “We’re getting company.”

“Oh, this is like a nightmare flash mob,” you shout as you avoid the first kick to your face. “They must’ve sounded a silent alarm!”

“D’you think?” Bucky huffs, punching another white jacket in the jaw.

You aim your gun just as Sam flings his wings out, swishing your target off their feet. Behind them, another group closes in. You fire without a second thought, and three of them drop to the ground.

Just as you try to reload your weapon, someone rips it out of your hand and hits you across the face with it. You stumble, eyes welling up, as they grab you around the neck, dragging you backwards with such strength you are forced to the tips of your toes. Your heart is thundering with panic, unbidden mental images threatening to come back to the surface as you try to pry their hands loose to no avail. Black dots are starting to dance across your vision.

Then, there’s a sickening cracking noise, and the pressure is gone from your throat. You stumble forwards, coughing, before you’re pulled back to your feet, fast but not roughly. Blue eyes find yours, a look almost like concern in them.

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you gasp. “Thanks.”

“You tryin’ to suffocate today?” He hands you your gun back and you shrug, pressing the memories all the way back down again.

“Sam might give me a day off if I faint.”

Another explosion has both of you turn your heads up. A shower of glass splinters and burning pieces of paper rains down through the hole on the first floor, taking bits of the ceiling down with it.

“We better get moving,” Sam shouts. “If you take care of the drive and these idiots, I’ll clear the tunnels for a way out of here!”

“Who the fuck brings a knife to a fight like this?” you shout.

“And what’s that thing on your thigh, you planning a picnic?” Bucky replies, holding up the shield to protect both of you from hailing gunshots.

“Well—it’s—tradition!” Each of your words is punctuated by a punch. “And why are you looking at my thigh, Bucky?”

Before he can answer, there’s a string of curses and the sound of breaking metal directly in your ear. You let go of your weapon as your hands move up, and it stops its fall in mid air as time screeches to a stop.

The sudden silence in the middle of everything that’s been going on would be disconcerting if you weren’t so used to it by now. Everyone is frozen around you as you turn and take a step from behind the shield to see what’s happening on the other side of the room.

Sam is still up in the air, and even from a distance you can see the grimace on his face and the splotches of red on his stomach. One of his wings is at a strange angle, and you look around quickly to find the white jacket still aiming the blaster that must’ve hit him.

You take a deep breath and reach backwards until you feel the old familiar tingling between your fingers. It’s fickle, like it always is, and all the more unpredictable because you’re tired. Still, you force it to wind back, if only a little.

Time resets with a start.

“—on your thigh, you planning a picnic?”

“Two o’clock,” you gasp.

Bucky reacts almost on instinct, taking out the shooter before they can do any harm while you punch your opponent in the face again. It takes you two more blows than last time to take them down. When you look at your hands, they’re shaking. There’s nothing but the slightest wisp of green left swimming in the black of your rings.

“I’m really gonna need you to not be stupid from now on,” you shout as soon as you catch your breath again.

Bucky curses. “Sam, we’re coming now. There’s too many of ‘em to wait ‘round for this stupid thing to copy.”

“Do you need me to come get you?”

“No.” He bashes a white jacket on the head with the shield and throws it against the last one that’s still standing. It doesn’t fly quite in the same elegant way as when Sam does it, toppling over itself and landing on the ground next to the unconscious guard. “Just get the jet started. Can you walk?” he asks you.

“‘Course I can walk,” you say, slightly annoyed, but your eyes are fixed on the monitors on the far side of the room. “I think it’s done.”

“Just get out of there,” Sam says through the comms. “I can see at least another dozen heading in up here.”

You look at Bucky and his eyes narrow at the resolute look on your face. It’s your fault you’re even here in the first place, though. You might as well fix it. It’s only going to take a second, anyway.

“No—” Time glitches. “—thing—” Time stumbles over itself. “—stupid, damnit!” Time moves at an unsteady pace and then moves again as you almost trip over your own feet, pulling the drive out of the computer and holding it up triumphantly just as Bucky reaches you.

“See?” you grin. “All good.”

And then the computer explodes.

You’re thrown against Bucky, who catches your fall somewhat, rolling both of you over and out of harm’s way. Your ears are ringing, and you can tell by the buzzing that your intercom is probably broken. Surprisingly, you both seem unharmed apart from that.

Bucky stares at you, face only a few inches from yours and fury still blazing in his eyes. It almost makes you want to laugh. In fact, it’s exhilarating.

“Do you wanna get out of here or what?”

He looks like he’s going to kill you himself. “Geez, I hate you.”

You get to your feet with a low snort, the adrenaline making you strangely giddy as you catch up with Bucky, who is already stomping back in the direction of the tunnels. “I think this was a great success,” you say lightly, stepping over another body. “If Sam hurries up, we might even make it in time for the fireworks—”

He catches you by the elbows and shoves you to the side in one fluid motion the same moment another shot sounds.

Your head whips around and you throw your knife without hesitation. The assailant slumps backwards. There’s still steam coming out of the blaster that never hit Sam, but you barely notice it. You fall to your knees next to Bucky, frantically pressing your hands on the wound in his chest. There’s so much blood. How is there so much blood?

“No, no no no, this isn’t happening. Bucky!” Your head is empty of coherent thought. There’s just panic. “Sam!”

“Ther—half a—”

You tear the broken intercom out of your ear. “Buck, you have to stay with me. We’re, we’re going to get you home, okay?”

His blue eyes find yours. They’re impossibly wide. “So—so stupid,” he pants and his face distorts in pain.

You feel sick to your stomach. “I know. I know, I’m so—I’m so sorry, I’m gonna fix this.”

You flick your fingers, again and again, but there’s nothing. There’s absolutely nothing. You don’t feel the pull, not even the tiniest bit of a quiver. You’re just grasping at air, your powers betraying you once again. A curse.

Bucky starts blurring in front of you and you blink the tears away, refusing to let him out of focus. “Please.”

With concerted effort, he raises his hand to lie on top of yours. “S’okay, doll,” he gets out, his mouth contorting a little. “Y/N. S’okay.”

And then his eyes glaze over.

You scream.

You scream because nothing is okay, because you’re useless, because none of this should have happened and it’s all your fault, and you’re clutching Bucky’s hand in yours because maybe if you hold onto him tightly enough, he’ll come back and all of this will seem like a bad dream. Maybe if you try again, and again, and again, you can make this go away, make it actually okay again, because you don’t know how you’re going to live with yourself if you can’t do the one fucking thing you were supposed to do.

Useless.

You don’t let go of his hand as you press your eyes shut and try to grasp at the edges of your power, try to feel the ridges and flickers in the fabric of everything, reaching out for something, anything, any point in time or space that they can connect to and drag you out of here.

And then they do.

It’s tiny at first, a miniscule spec of something, and you cry out again as you reach out. You feel like your soul is being stripped bare by the effort alone.

Then, it crashes over you like a tidal wave, knocking you forward into Bucky once again. You feel yourself covering his head, cradling it as if that would make a difference. It’s an almost automatic reaction.

Your self seems to expand further and further and shrink at the same time, way worse than it ever has when you’re using your powers, and you feel almost seasick. You press your forehead against Bucky’s.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper. “It’s going to be okay.”

There is an explosion of green light all around you that lifts you up into the air, and then nothing but darkness as you fade out of consciousness.

* * *

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

For a moment, you’re completely disoriented, staring at your surroundings in confusion. You’re in your own bedroom back at the Tower, your feet tangled in the sheets and eyes still bleary. You almost let yourself believe that it was all just a nightmare, another horrible dream conjured up by some subconscious remnants of the past, although even the worst of your dreams haven’t felt as real as what you just went through.

The idea is short-lived, anyway.

Your hands are still shaking when you lift them to your face. There’s blood all over your palms and stuck under your fingernails, leaving crimson stains on your bedding. Bucky’s blood.

You swallow down the bile that rises in your stomach and carefully twist your rings around on your fingers, one after the other. All of them are completely pitch black, darker than you’ve ever seen them.

Then again, you’ve never tried anything like this.

You clear your throat and take a deep breath. “FRIDAY?” you say cautiously. The music quietens as the A.I. comes to attention with a gentle tinkle. “What day is it?”

“Today is Friday, July 4th,” FRIDAY tells you.

You huff incredulously, your heart still pounding wildly. Somehow, you did it. It’s yesterday morning again. You actually did it.

Stumbling, you reach your tiny bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror. There’s a tiny nick on your left cheek from where the white jacket hit you with your gun last night, but you couldn’t care less because you’re back. It worked.

You scrub your hands under the hot water until it runs clear again, still stunned. You can’t remember ever jumping backwards that far, not without feeling completely exhausted anyway, but right now, you’re strangely alright, even though the adrenaline is still rushing through your veins.

The mix of emotions running through your head is so confusing that you don’t notice the band around your wrist until you’re drying off your hands.

It’s so close to your skin it almost looks like a tattoo, partially translucent and glowing dimly emerald. Instinctively, you try to rub at it, but your fingers go straight through it and you feel a tiny spark of electricity. When you hold out your hand at the right angle, you can see it’s made up of tiny symbols forming geometric shapes, moving around your arm in a slow, seamless circle. The longer you stare at it, the more hairs stand up on the back of your neck.

There’s a pounding at your door, followed immediately by Sam’s voice. “Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!”

You look at the clock on your bedroom wall. It’s shortly before 8 a.m., which gives you almost the entire day before you’re called on that mission. More than enough time to recuperate your powers and figure out a plan to make sure everything goes smoothly this time.

Until then, you just have to act normally.

“Not gonna happen, birdbrain!” you shout back, just like you did yesterday, and go through the pile of semi-clean gym clothes by the foot of your bed. As you get changed, you take another second to look at the strange emerald band around your wrist. Then, you pull a sweatband over it to camouflage it. You’ll deal with this later. For now, it’s training with Sam, a shower and breakfast.

And discreetly checking up on Bucky in a normal, non I Just Watched You Die kind of way. You can totally manage that.

“Don’t ever wake me up like that again!” you call out to Sam, closing the door to your room behind you.

He pushes away from the wall and falls into step next to you, grinning. “Sweet white teenage angst not your style?”

“You’re the worst.” The song is stuck in your head now, too, just like yesterday, but unlike then, you can’t find it in you to be mad about that fact. You did it.

“You’re in a good mood,” Sam remarks as you’re climbing up the stairs and you look at him in surprise. This is new.

Yester-today you didn’t talk at all on your way to the gym, what with you being both tired and annoyed at him. You’re usually wary about changing details during your redos, because the tiniest things can make the outcome of a situation unpredictable.

Still, you’ve never gone this far back. And isn’t this about making today a better day, really?

So you smile. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“Not bad,” Sam says, eyebrow still raised. “Suspicious, maybe. Are you gonna salt someone’s coffee again?”

“I did that one time.” You roll your eyes as you push open the door to the gym. It’s a lot smaller than the one at the Compound was, and you particularly miss the swimming pool, but the view from the Tower is without compare. Midtown looks magnificent in the early sunlight.

You drop your rings into the little metal dish you keep next to the window and climb into the boxing ring after Sam, stretching your back.

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

Before Sam and Bucky found you, you hadn’t sparred for months and not exactly missed it. Training with soldiers and former assassins who held back every single punch and still managed to drop you on the mat with infuriating ease had never been very fun for you, and what with the universe saved and all, you hadn’t really seen the point in keeping up the practice once the dust blew over. Now that you’re regularly going on missions again, though, you have to stay in shape.

And although you hate to admit it even to yourself, there is something calming about being back in a routine like this. It keeps your head from getting stuck in the fuzzy grayness of it all. Damn those dopamines your therapist keeps telling you about.

Today, though, this today, your eyes are continually drawn to the door while you’re dodging and blocking Sam. It makes you sloppy even by your standards, which are mediocre at best thanks to your impatience. Of course it doesn’t escape his notice.

“What is up with you today?” he asks when he helps you get back to your feet for the third time this morning.

You dab the sweat off your face, hissing when you accidentally rub the cut on your cheek. At least Sam hasn’t said anything about that. “Slept weird,” you say evasively.

“Nightmare?” he offers with a compassionate look.

“Sort of,” you answer. “Feels a little … déjà-vu-y.”

“I know the type,” Sam says. “Wanna talk about it?”

You do. But the time stuff is your problem to deal with, and so you shake your head.

“Alright,” he says, rolling his shoulders back and raising an eyebrow. “Come on, then. You gotta get one kick in, at least, and hurry up, because I’m starving.”

“You could stop moving, then we’re done faster,” you grin. Your stomach is growling, too.

“Nice try, McFly.”

“You used that one earlier,” you say, shaking your head in faux disappointment. “Are you running out of nicknames, Sammy?”

“I’m not gonna be creative for someone who can’t kick above their waistline.”

“How dare you!”

You lose that round, too, but Sam deems you motivated enough to call it a day. He throws his towel over his shoulder and heads to the showers while you lay your head down on the mat and close your eyes for a moment. Waiting.

Yester-today, you didn’t hear Bucky come in, either. He was just sitting next to the ring when you looked to your side, hair sticking to his forehead and shirt clinging to his muscles, still a little damp after his shower. Then, you felt a slight rush of embarrassment at how much of a sweaty mess you were.

Now, you couldn’t care less.

“You look like shit.”

You turn your head and there he is. Living, breathing proof that you actually did do it. And for the first time in a long while, you feel nothing but gratitude for your powers.

Oh, fuck you, Barnes. If you’re sticking to the rules you’ve set for yourself long ago, that’s what you’re supposed to say, because that’s what you said the first time. Change as little as possible.

But even if you hadn’t broken them earlier, you couldn’t do it now. Not when you’re feeling this happy to see Bucky alive again. Alive and well, and slightly grumpy as ever.

So what falls out of your mouth instead is, “You’re looking good.”

Bucky squints at you and you smile at the way his cheeks are still slightly pink from his morning run, proof of his heart still beating. “Did Sam hit you in the head?”

You laugh. “Why, can’t I say that you look good and mean it?”

Bucky tilts his head slightly, but then shakes it. “Nah. You’re messin’ with me.”

“No, I’m not,” you tell him earnestly, sitting up to look at him properly. At his chest, solid and whole and moving calmly. “I’m just … glad you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he frowns.

“I don’t know,” you say, tugging at your sweatband. “It’s been a weird couple of days.”

“Yeah.” He looks at you for another beat, then he shakes his head again and gets up. “Take the towel on the right, I already used the other one.”

“Thanks, Bucky.” You smile at him again, but he averts his eyes.

* * *

“I probably only have one reset left,” you say, trying to ignore the chill that goes down your spine. “Two, if we’re lucky and you two aren’t being stupid again.”

“I prefer heroic. You alright?”

And for a moment, you hesitate. Because even though the rest of the day has passed pretty much exactly the same as it did the first time up until this point, you’ve felt the doubts creeping in ever since you laid down for a nap in the early afternoon, tossing and turning for the better part of an hour, only to find your rings hadn’t regained even the slightest speck of green.

You’re terrified of the moment you’re going to have to use your powers, because what if with this large jump, you overdid it? What if this time, there won’t be any redos?

No. You’re made of stronger stuff than your doubts, you know that. Things are going to be okay.

You nod with newfound determination. “‘Course I am. It’s gonna be fine.” You flex your fingers to reassure yourself. “Just try not to get killed.”

It’s a plea more than anything else, but of course Bucky doesn’t respond, not to you. Not to it.

“Can’t say that, bud,” he says instead. “Twenty seconds.”

But who’s counting? You close your eyes and hold your breath, balling your hands into fists so tightly it hurts.

“I don’t wanna complain,” Sam says as the dust settles. “But I did expect this to be more difficult.”

“Don’t jinx it, Sam,” you say wrily.

“You’re such a pessimist.” He still raises his shield a bit higher. “Any more comin’, Bucky?”

“Doesn’t look like it.” Your heart twinges slightly, but you bite your lip. Your job is to make sure the mission gets done and everyone stays alive. Both of those things, not just one. “I’m right behind you.”

The lab looks exactly the same as it did the first time, small and crammed and somehow even gloomier today, though that’s probably just your imagination. Now that you know to look for it, you can tell the file cabinet on the far side of the wall doesn’t quite touch the floor, something that Bucky must’ve picked up on immediately.

You feign interest in the papers on the table again, shuffling them to keep your hands occupied. “You’re hovering again, Barnes.”

“You sure you’re alright?”

You turn, surprised at the question, to find Bucky’s gaze lingering on your hands. Not for the first time, you silently curse his perceptiveness. “Yeah,” you say, crossing your arms.

His jaw sets, but he doesn’t comment on your dismissiveness. He just moves to open the cabinet. You don’t find it in you to say anything, and so he doesn’t look quite as happy with himself. It doesn’t give you any pleasure.

When the downstairs lab fills with white jackets, your stomach is still threatening to drop, but you grit your teeth. This is exactly the kind of situation you’ve trained for; the most important thing now is remembering the order of things. Like a dance recital.

Duck to the side. Bucky steps right. Wait for Sam’s move. Shoot. You take another step back before the white jacket can drag you away by the throat again and kick them in the stomach until they stay on the ground, which is a way kinder fate than yesterday’d brought them. You shudder slightly as you turn to look at the hole in the ceiling. Three. Two. One.

The second explosion goes off at the same time as someone shouts your name, and you whip your head around only to be roughly shoved to the side and fall the ground. A large piece of ceiling lands right where you’d just been standing. Which is obviously a different place than yesterday because you knocked that white jacket unconscious. Wow, you’re an idiot.

Bucky seems to agree. “Whatever’s happening right now, you gotta snap out of it.” There’s something about the look on his face that makes your blood boil.

“What’s happening is that I’m trying to fix this,” you say sharply.

“By getting yourself killed?!”

“We need to get moving,” Sam’s voice says on the intercom before you have time to reply. “If you take care of the drive and these idiots, I’ll clear the tunnels for a way out of here!”

Bucky stares at you for another second as if he’s trying to decide on the thing that’s most wrong with you right now. You shove him off you.

He rolls his eyes and gets back on his feet, holding up his arm for Sam to throw the shield his way. By the time you see the white jacket aiming their gun, they’re already pulling the trigger. You throw up your hands.

A surge of emptiness goes through you, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. Time seems to still for just the blink of an eye as Bucky’s head is thrown forwards.

And then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume. The room seems to wobble in front of you as you scramble to your hands and knees in bed, trying to get a proper breath of air.

“FRIDAY.” You almost flinch at the panic in your own voice. “FRIDAY, what day is it?”

“Today is Friday, July 4th.”

chapter two

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

#the whole time i was reading im like oh noooo oh nooooooo #this series is so GOOD #bucky barnes series rec #marvel rec

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lovelyrecs · 4 days ago

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oh man this was INCREDIBLE!!

i looove a good angsty fic and the groveling?? chefs kiss. spectacular.

i love this reader, she has all these dots and she connects them in the funniest way 😭 clark should be flattered tbh 1. that he can act so well she rationalizes he's dating a superhero instead of him being one and 2. that he can get superman

this was so wonderful to read!! all the little things he noticed about her and how UPSET he was throughout the entire time. i am so very pleased

the other man (clark kent x fem!reader) -- one shot

I saw Superman twice in one week so it is absolutely no surprise that I had to write a lil silly goofy one shot!! (I don't want to promise anything but I might write more for him aka some smut bc THE VOICES!!!!)

Warnings: angst, being stood up, this fic made me giggle a lot, fluffy + happy end!

Summary: You think Clark is seeing someone else. That someone? Superman.

WC: 4.7k!

You watch, miserably, as the clock ticks past the time Clark said he’d be here to pick you up for dinner. He’s always late for work, so, you think, five minutes past is fine. Until it’s ten. Until it’s twenty. Until it’s forty-five. Until you’re taking your shoes off, changing into sweatpants, and taking off your makeup.

It shouldn’t surprise you, it really shouldn’t. Though this was supposed to be your first date, it isn’t the first time Clark has mysteriously canceled plans, or promised to meet you somewhere and not shown, sending a text instead to say he can’t make it.

Like clockwork, you hear your phone buzz. You don’t even grace it with a glance. You know it’s Clark, apologizing for needing to cancel. It’s fine.

It probably wasn’t even meant to be a date, it just seemed like it might be. It was the first time the plans included him picking you up rather than the two of you meeting somewhere. It was the first time a reservation had been made at this tiny little restaurant the two of you always passed together and always said, “We should go in there.” It was the first time he had said, though you thought it was kind of a joke, or at least not totally serious because it is a phrase people use without meaning it literally, “It’s a date.”

You grab your tub of ice cream from the freezer and a spoon, not even bothering with a bowl. You step out onto your fire escape and plop down, stabbing the ice cream with your spoon.

On the next escape over, your neighbor’s orange cat licks his paws, ears perking when he hears you.

“I sure know how to pick ‘em, eh, Lou?” you scoff, licking the ice cream off your spoon. “Why can’t I just sleep all day like you?”

Lou trills and lays his head down with a big sigh. All you can think is me too, buddy. Me too.

You eventually drag yourself inside after eating half the tub, figuring you shouldn’t eat all of it tonight. Clark will be at work tomorrow and you’ll have to face him -- and his apologies, that are, frankly, starting to get old -- so you’ll probably want that other half tomorrow night.

Before you crawl into bed, you finally give your phone a look, seeing it’s just as you expected. Clark is apologizing. Apparently Superman was fighting something and wrecked Clark’s route to get to your place. Rain check? He asked. And then, just a few minutes ago, Please?

You read them but you don’t reply. You don’t have it in you.

It’s always Superman.

That’s his excuse. It’s always Superman did this or Superman did that, and you honestly think you’ve reached your limit for Superman-related excuses. You mean, sure, the guy has saved the city countless times, and he makes sure there is minimal damage both to civilians and to the city, but why is Clark always bringing him up? He’s always interviewing him, too, and you have no idea how, because as far as you’re concerned, Superman just shows up when the day needs saving.

Not that you’re complaining, because you’re not. You’d much rather the day be saved than some monster from another planet destroy everything you’ve ever loved. You just.

You’re not jealous of a superhero. You are not.

And yet, the more you try to tell yourself that, the more it seems like you’re not convinced at all.

You bury your face into the pillow with a groan. You can’t compete with Superman. You’re you. No wonder Clark is always making excuses to cancel on plans with you. If the options were you and Superman, you’d pick him, too.

God, how did you not see it before? You never thought Clark was interested in men, but clearly he is -- which is fine, you have no problem with it, you just wish he had said it to your face instead of these vague messages and signals.

Or maybe they haven’t been that vague, you’ve just been too blind to see it. Maybe the excuses were his way of trying to politely and gently tell you he wasn’t interested, and you just weren’t getting it. That doesn’t seem like something Clark would do, because he does seem the type to tell you to your face in a direct, but not unkind, way. But still. Maybe he’s been trying to let you down easy this whole time, and you’ve been a fool, believing his excuses, and thinking nothing of them.

You can be so ridiculous sometimes.

+++

You barely sleep. Between crying and being frustrated with yourself for it and tossing and turning every five seconds, you think you manage a measly four hours of actual sleep. You know you look a complete state, but after half an hour of trying to mask it with makeup, you give up.

You stop for coffee on your way in, grabbing one for Lois too, because the coffee at The Daily Planet is…well, it’s really not coffee at all. You feel like you’re insulting all coffee by calling it that. You can hardly stomach it even with all the sugar Lois pours in it.

“Rough night?” the doorman asks when he sees you still have your sunglasses on.

You flash a tight smile, knowing he means well. “Yeah, you could say that.”

He winces. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“It’s alright,” you wave him off, handing him a doughnut. You had meant to eat it, but truthfully, you’re already feeling nauseous. “Here.”

He accepts it with a smile. You head into the newsroom, spotting Jimmy hunched over his desk and Lois looking up at you with a smile that quickly morphs into an alarmed expression.

You, like a fool, had told her about your “date” with Clark. And you, like an idiot, had forgotten until this exact moment that you had told her.

God, you should’ve called in sick.

“Hey,” she says gently, joining you at your desk. “How’d it go last night?”

You let out a weak laugh. “It didn’t, so.”

Her eyes widen. “What happened?”

You hand off her coffee to her with a shrug. “He canceled. Said something about Superman fighting something, I don’t know, I--” You shake your head, bringing your coffee to your lips. “I didn’t answer his texts.”

“He didn’t even call?”

You shake your head again, finally working your sunglasses off the bridge of your nose. “Be honest, how red do my eyes look?”

Lois tilts her head with a sad smile. “Noticeable.”

You snort. “Thanks, Lois.” You expected nothing less from her. “Do me a favor, when he comes in-- if he comes in, tell him I lost my voice or something?”

Her eyes dart to the side and she grimaces. “I don’t think that’ll work. What about if I punch him instead?”

You let out another laugh. Thank God you have Lois. “Why not? Go for it.”

She doesn’t, though the look she gives Clark might as well be lethal when he comes silently walking over to your desk, looking every bit the role of a kicked puppy.

“Hi,” he says quietly. He’s well over six-foot tall, but right now he looks half that. You don’t know if you find comfort in it or not. “Apology coffee? You’ve already got one, but I thought…well, I know you like it, so, here.” He places it on your desk. “I have an apology croissant, too, if that’ll help, I just-- I’m really sorry.”

You offer a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, and it kind of hurts to even pretend. “Thanks. Don’t worry about it.”

He makes a pained noise, opening his mouth, his lips already forming your name, but you shake your head at him. Jimmy calls out to him with some joke and you focus back on your notes, hoping he’ll get the hint. He does.

You watch out of the corner of your eye as Clark crowds into his desk chair, and you try to get some work done.

Every word you write sounds wrong, and even the edits you make to Jimmy’s piece are complete crap -- and you tell him so in your apologetic email back to him. He asked for your help and instead he got…whatever that was.

It doesn’t help that you can practically feel Clark looking at you all wistful and sad, and you really don’t understand it. Why is he so bothered by your mood if he’s seeing someone else? Shouldn’t he be relieved that you finally got the hint? It only took it being a bright neon sign smacking you square across the nose, but you’ve got it now. Clark just doesn’t see you in that way, and that’s fine. You just wish he had enough guts to say that to your face, but it’s fine. It doesn’t really matter. The date never happened, so the two of you never “dated,” therefore he owes you nothing. It’s fine.

Except, it’s not fine, because your eyes are burning from never moving them from your computer screen, your head hurts from having only had caffeine all morning and no food, and you really wish Clark would stop looking at you.

Lunch is a nightmare, but the food does help. Clearly your blue mood has gone noticed by, well, everyone because Jimmy buys your sandwich and Perry gives you an extension on the piece you should’ve turned into him by the end of today. Lois acts a bit like a protective shield, talking to you about her piece and asking Very Important questions, even glaring at Clark when he tries to interject.

The end of the day can’t come fast enough, and you’re gathering your things and scrambling out of there before anyone can catch up. You think.

Because then you’re halfway down the sidewalk and you hear someone calling your name, someone whose voice sounds suspiciously like the person you least want to speak to right now.

Tears are springing to your eyes because they’re burning from staring at a screen and you’re just so tired. You just want to eat the rest of your ice cream and go to bed. You just want to ignore Clark for the rest of the week, or at least until he admits to your face that he’s seeing someone else and didn’t know how to let you down easily. You just want this day to be over.

“Wait! Wait up! Ple-- Sorry! Please!”

You stop dead in your tracks in the middle of the sidewalk, tilting your head toward the sky. You compose yourself and turn around just in time to see Clark dodging all the people and nearly tripping and falling over in the process of trying to reach you. He exhales in relief when he sees you’ve stopped to wait for him.

“Hey,” he breathes, pushing his glasses up onto his nose as he skids to a stop in front of you. “Are you-- Did you see my messages last night?”

You chuckle without meaning to, and his eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, Clark, I saw them.”

All around you, people move on the sidewalk, heading home, parting for the two of you when you wish they’d carry you away like a riptide.

“Can we-- Sorry,” he steps out of the way of someone else, moving closer to you in the process. “Can we try again? Tonight?”

It’s tempting, you admit, to agree and go somewhere with him right now. Because he’s right in front of you. Because you know he’d make it if you two go right now, together.

But you know it’s not where he really wants to be.

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s okay. We don’t have to.”

He frowns, adjusting the strap on his bag. “But I want to.”

Do you? You want to ask, but you don’t. Instead, you give him a sad smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clark. Have a good night.”

Just like that, you disappear into the crowd, and even with all his might, Clark can’t seem to find you.

+++

Things go back to normal. Kind of. Mostly. Sort of.

Clark keeps bringing “apology coffee” as he calls it, and if it weren’t for the jet fuel they try to say is coffee at Daily Planet, then you might tell him to stop. But you don’t. You accept each cup with a smile, and dodge all of his questions expertly.

He still comes in late, and he still blames it on Superman. The two of you have a standing hang out at a museum in the city every month, but this time you cancel before he can. It feels cruel, doing it when you have no real reason to, but you can’t bring yourself to leave your apartment and hang out with him when your feelings are so obviously unrequited.

He does another interview with Superman. You try not to turn your nose up at it.

It’s awkward, this new air about your friendship with Clark. It’s tense. You can tell he wants to ask you about it, to ask about another raincheck maybe, but he never does. You don’t know what you’d say if he did.

It comes to a head when you cancel on yet another standing hang out the two of you have, using feeling sick as an excuse this time, and Clark just won’t let it go.

Can I bring you some soup? Tissues?

I’m fine, you tell him. Just need to sleep, that’s all.

He texts something else, but you don’t reply. You lay on the couch in front of your TV and shovel pretzels into your mouth in between sips of coffee -- that you definitely shouldn’t be drinking this late, but you don’t care.

You’re jolted from your stupor when you hear knocking on your door. Knocking that you know, unmistakably, is Clark.

You debate faking sleep until he goes away. But you can’t quite bring yourself to do it.

So, you wrap a blanket around your shoulders and answer your door.

“Clark?” you croak. It’s a weak -- and honestly awful -- attempt to fake being ill, but it’s all you’ve got. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought soup,” he says innocently, holding up the takeaway containers. “Your favorite, from the place down the street. And some, ah, bread, tissues, pain medicine, cough syrup-- You didn’t answer, so I went a little crazy at the store,” he says with a sheepish smile, holding up the grocery bag that is nearly bursting with cold remedies. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, but I’m just,” you clear your throat, half from your act and half from emotion clawing at your windpipe from him being so sweet, “watching TV and dozing.”

“I won’t stay long,” he promises. “Just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Clark.”

He narrows his eyes in what you hope is a playful manner. “I don’t believe you.”

You let him inside with a sigh, retreating to the couch. He can probably tell you aren’t really sick, and he’s probably just being nice by not calling you out on it.

You hear the rustling in the kitchen as he puts things away and then as he pours a glass of water that you think is for himself, until he sets it down in front of you. He sits in the chair beside your couch, clasping his hands together and looking at the floor instead of you.

“You’re not really sick, are you?”

His voice is timid, and a bit hurt. Like he’s upset you’re lying to him and he can’t figure out why you’re doing it, but he sort of has an idea.

“What gave me away?” you chuckle bitterly. “My brilliant acting?”

“You never drink coffee when you’re sick,” he says seriously, nodding to your cup. “It’s how I know when you’re not feeling good.”

You blink. You hadn’t expected that answer, let alone the fact that he would notice something like that. “Oh.”

“What’s going on?” he asks desperately, finally looking up at you, and why are his eyes glassy? “I miss my best friend. We used to talk every day, but ever since that dinner--”

“That you stood me up for,” you remind him, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them and, as a result, having a bit more heat behind them than you want them to.

“I know, but I--” He wrings his hands, the words getting caught in his throat. “I’m sorry, I-- It was Superman! He was fighting, and it was everywhere--”

“Oh my God, Clark, it’s always Superman,” you laugh, not necessarily at him, but maybe you are. It’s cruel, but it hurts, the way he keeps dragging this out. “It’s always Superman destroyed the train or Superman--”

“Because he is! He’s keeping the city safe, but sometimes that means he’s--”

“Clark, stop it,” you turn your entire body toward him, giving him a look. “I know.”

He freezes, stutters, starts. He pushes his glasses up on his nose, his blue eyes wide behind the lenses. “You know?”

You nod. “You don’t need to keep lying to me. I’ll keep your secret. I just wish you had told me first, you know?”

He chuckles awkwardly, shaking his head. “I just-- I wasn’t sure how you’d react, and--”

“I don’t care that you’re dating him, Clark,” you interject, a small smile creeping onto your lips. “It’s cute, actually.”

He blinks, opens his mouth, shuts it again. Opens it. “Wait.” He tilts his head, smiles a little. “You-- What?”

“Come on, it’s obvious!” you start to grin from the sheer absurdity of it. “You’re always getting interviews with him when he won’t do an interview with literally anyone else! And you’re always talking about him, always defending his actions and defending him when Jimmy makes a joke about him! You don’t need to be ashamed of it, I mean, I know the two of you probably can’t be public about your relationship, obviously, but--”

Clark says your name, tries to get a word in, tries to tell you to stop and that you’ve got it all wrong, but you keep going. “Seriously, it’s fine. You don’t need to hide it, not from me at least.”

“Right. Um.” He shakes his head, laughs. “I should-- I’m gonna go.”

“Go,” you shoo him away. “I’m fine, seriously. Go spend time with your hot superhero boyfriend.”

Clark’s cheeks go pink at that, which is basically all the confirmation you need, and you giggle after him, feeling much lighter now that the truth is finally out in the open.

Once Clark leaves, you finish your coffee and search your freezer for some more ice cream. Thankfully, you have a little bit left -- you sort of stocked up on it when The Incident happened -- and you head out onto the fire escape to enjoy the night air.

“Well, hello there,” you reach down and pet Lou’s head. He rarely sleeps on your fire escape, but today is one of those days.

He’s not all that interested in the space once you’re sharing it with him, though, so you watch him scurry away to your neighbor’s fire escape and you roll your eyes after him. Typical.

It’s strange, being on the other side of it now. Sure, it still stings a little, but come on, you can’t compete with Superman. And Clark seems happy. As his friend, you should want nothing more than to see him happy.

And you do. You do want that. Even if it’s a little sad that he can’t be that happy with you. But you’re sure the sting of it will go away in time, as will the crush you have on him.

You’re enjoying the sunset and your ice cream, still laughing to yourself in slight disbelief about Clark and Superman when the latter flies in front of you.

Your spoon clatters onto the metal stairs, scaring Lou and yourself shitless. Superman, however, floats in front of you, unfazed.

“Um,” you come up empty in the words department. You have no clue what to say to your friend’s boyfriend who is also a metahuman who you also, up until about half an hour ago, felt ridiculously jealous of. “Hi?”

“Hello,” Superman replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He gestures to the empty space beside you. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Oh! Not at all.” You stand up and step to the side, and Superman takes up every bit of the free space. “Look, if this is about you and Clark--”

Superman laughs, the sound light and airy coming from such a large man. “It’s not about me and Clark-- Well, I guess it kind of is.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise!” You hold up your right hand as if you’re swearing before a court, your left hand still holding onto the now-melting ice cream. “Actually, should we go inside? Should we be, you know,” you lower your voice, “talking about your relationship out in the open?”

He chuckles again. “Sure, let’s go inside, if that’s okay with you?”

If that’s okay with you. Of course it’s fine, even if a bit weird, and where is Clark? If he went and told Superman that you know about them, why didn’t he just come back with him?

“Sorry for the mess,” you call out as you head through the living room into the kitchen to put the ice cream away. “I wasn’t feeling well,” you grimace, the lie just sounding stupid now, but you’ve said it, so.

You shut the freezer and spin around to find Superman standing in your kitchen, and on the counter next to him are…Clark’s glasses?

You roll your eyes, muttering, “Did he seriously leave these here?” But you swear you saw him leave with them on. “Wait. Is he here?”

“He is,” Superman replies, picking up the glasses and opening them. He laughs, almost only to himself, before working the frames onto the bridge of his nose.

“What are you--?” You blink and narrow your eyes, watching Superman’s face become…Clark’s? That makes no sense. Those are Clark’s glasses, and this is Superman standing in front of you. Two completely different people. “Wait, but--”

“I’m not dating Superman,” Clark, or Superman, says with an amused smile. “I am Superman.”

“But you--” You shake your head, still reeling from the fact that Clark’s face is on Superman’s body. “But you said--”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me without the suit,” Clark explains, dragging the glasses off his nose and setting them down. “You seemed pretty convinced that I was dating him.”

“What else was I supposed to think?” you cry. “You stood me up and blamed it on him!”

Clark-- Superman’s face twists up in genuine remorse. “I know, I’m sorry, and I wanted to make it up to you, but you just kept getting further and further away, until I didn’t even know if you wanted to be my friend anymore.”

“Of course I want to be your friend, Clark, I just,” you shake your head, a bout of dizziness coming over you. You rub your forehead with your fingertips. “Sorry, I don’t--”

“Shoot, no, I’m sorry, here, let’s get you to the couch.”

You have no clue what he’s sorry for, but you let him help you over to the couch all the same. The dizziness passes and you look up at him, at the bright red and blue of his suit, and the fact that he looks like Clark but doesn’t at the same time.

“I don’t usually take them off and on so much around people,” he explains. “They’re these glasses that Four made for me, so I could still have a normal life. They make my face look a little different.”

You nod slowly, because sure, yeah, makes sense, why not?

“I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he says, cramming himself into the same chair he was in before, but somehow, now it looks like he doesn’t quite fit. “I thought I was keeping you safe by not telling you, but then I saw how sad you were, and--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t ever wanna be the reason you’re crying, or frowning, or anything like that. I wasn’t thinking.”

You stare at him, at your best friend, at Superman sitting before you with such an obvious ache in his chest over you being sad, and you can’t help but smile.

“Come here,” you tell him, patting the open space next to you on the couch.

Timidly, he stands and walks over to join you, just narrowly avoiding knocking over the coffee table.

“Sorry,” he whispers, plopping down beside you with a giddy, albeit sheepish, smile.

You throw your arms around his neck, clinging to him, taking a deep breath into his neck. He smells the same as Clark, but slightly different. It’s the suit, you think, but regardless, he smells good. Familiar. Safe.

“I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?” he asks, his arms finally tightening their hesitant hold on you when you don’t let go.

You snicker into his hair, pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling back to look at him. “I was never mad at you, Clark. It’s impossible for me to be. I was just…sad. I thought we were finally going somewhere, finally getting over ourselves and going on a date, so when that didn’t happen, I just…” You shrug, realizing now that just because he’s told you the truth about who he is doesn’t necessarily mean the two of you are going to date.

He frowns again, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says again, fingertips grazing your own frown lines and furrowed brows. “I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur, peeling yourself off of him with a little smile that can’t figure out if it wants to be sad or not. “I can’t imagine that you’ve told anyone else.”

“Ma and Pa know,” he says. Then, with a grimace, he adds, “And…Lois.”

“Lois?” you lean away from him. “Lois knows?”

“Only because she figured it out and confronted me one day after work!” he rushes to explain. “She had connected the same dots as you did, except,” he pauses to laugh, “instead of assuming I was dating him, she figured we were the same person. But I told her she couldn’t tell anyone, no matter what.”

You understand that. It’s his secret to share after all, but still. She didn’t even try to defend him once when you told her that he stood you up. She seemed so angry with him on your behalf that you assumed it was for that reason alone.

“If it helps,” Clark lets out a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his neck, “she threatened me quite a lot when I told her I hadn’t told you yet.”

That causes you to bark out a laugh. “Why?”

“Because she knows I like you. A lot. It’s embarrassing, honestly, or she tells me it is,” he smiles. “Apparently I uh, looked like a kicked puppy when you wouldn’t talk to me that day.”

You giggle at that, having had the exact same thought. “Yeah, you did.”

“Well,” he breathes, like he’s psyching himself up. “Can I have that raincheck now?”

You hum, trying and failing to tuck the stray curl on his forehead back with the rest of his hair. When it falls back down defiantly, you smile. “Depends. Can we work around your saving-the-world schedule?”

“We can,” he says with a firm nod. “I can be flexible. Can I ask another question?”

You lean your arm onto the back of the couch, your palm cradling your head. “Sure.”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. “Or should we wait until after our date?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

“Thank goodness,” he breathes, leaning forward, one arm snaking around your waist. “Me either. But if you had wanted to, obviously I would’ve, I just wanted to ask first--”

“Clark,” you laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Just kiss me.”

He grins then, and you pull him in despite it, both of you a giggling mess through the first kiss that has been months in the making. After so long of dancing around one another -- in more ways than one, you come to realize -- you’re finally holding his face gently, finally kissing him slow and sweet like honey, and his arms are snaking around you, pulling you into him, almost into his lap entirely.

#LOVE #clark kent recs #superman recs #favorites: clark kent

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