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sweeterthan13 · 26 days ago

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ok so i didn’t read this immediately bc i fell asleep on the bus ride home but wow. like i need a moment after this. like wtf. i loved the slow burn and hated that logan came out alive.

but “He looks like summer if summer had a soft spot for you.” WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT OMGGGGG😩😩😩😩 my favorite line out of this beautiful piece of work for sure!!!!!!!!

Not the Time I Meant to Call You

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You burned the past to be free of it. And now it tries to burn you back. That is the moment you finally find the courage to reach out to the one person you know will pull you from the fire.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: emotional abuse; harassment by an ex partner; gaslighting (implied, not Bucky); house fire (graphic); fire; smoke inhalation; near-death experience; panic; anxiety; medical trauma; hospital scene; toxic relationship themes; protective!Bucky; Bucky being a hero, what is new

Author’s Note: Here is the second part to All up in Flames. Please proceed with caution guys, and read the warnings because this does get angsty. There are heavy themes around fire and if you are sensitive to such content, then either stay away or read with care. I did try my best to research fire protocols and safety measures, but please remember that this is a work of fiction. I cannot guarantee the accuracy of all procedures, and it shouldn’t be taken as advice on how to act in a real fire situation! I hope you enjoy ♡

Part one

Masterlist

You are trying very hard not to cry over a dog in a bee costume.

Which is, you think, an admirable effort considering the week you’ve had.

The dog park is noisy in that specific, unfiltered way that only wide-open space filled with too many small, yappy creatures can be. It smells of dirt and treats and city wind, and the sun is too bright for your eyes, but not your skin, and your shoes are already flecked with grass strains you don’t remember collecting.

Natasha is somewhere to your left, throwing a tennis ball for her aunt’s golden retriever named General as though she’s got something to prove. Said it would be good for you to get out. “Fresh air,” she said. “Can’t spiral with a golden retriever licking your knee.”

You hadn’t really put up much of a fight.

It’s hard to argue when your phone keeps lighting up like a faulty traffic signal - missed calls, text messages, voicemails. All those numbers are burning a slow hole into your palm. He probably calls you with the number of his fiancé. It makes you sick.

You haven’t responded.

You keep not responding.

But you’ve listened to his voicemails. And you hated yourself for it. Hated that he talked to you as though you were an old coat he forgot at someone’s house and now suddenly he wants it back.

He’s not yelling but it’s the persistence that wears you down. The little messages that slip through every block, every new setting. The way a new number appearing on your phone feels like a match being struck against your spine.

Because no matter how many times you say it, there is still a part of you that can’t shake what you did. Of how it felt to stand in front of Nolan’s pile of leftover possessions and set a match to it, watch it burn to ash.

You did it to reclaim something.

To breathe again.

But sometimes - at night, when the messages come through in batches - you wonder what would happen if he found out. What he would do if he knew. If he suspected.

You didn’t exactly want to come to the dog park. You didn’t want to smile at strangers or pretend to be charmed by dogs in hats or feel the edge of sunlight on your collarbone and think that you should be okay by now.

You sit on the nearest bench and press your knuckles to your brow, trying not to let your eyes dart to every man-shaped figure near the gate. Trying not to scan for shadows you’ve already erased from your life. The world smells of bark and breath and baking cement.

The sky looks as though it forgot how to commit. It’s the color of chewed-up erasers and the backs of old receipts - washed out, waiting. The kind of weather that sticks to your skin, heavy and indecisive, as though maybe it wants to rain but forgot the script.

Natasha is squatting by General, adjusting the harness. She glances up at you and squints.

“You good?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then try to smile like that’s not a contradiction.

“Do you want to throw it for him?” she asks, tossing the half-slobbering tennis ball in the air and catching it with the same hand.

You grimace. “Yeah, no, thanks.”

Then she holds out the leash to you. You shake your head. General has already been dragging you around the perimeter like a four-legged drill sergeant with a sudden vendetta against squirrels. It worked for ten minutes, but you don’t feel like doing that again. And he seems rather busy trying very hard to dig a hole to China.

You wince at the mud he is digging up that very effectively lands in his fur. “Your aunt’s gonna kill you.”

Natasha snorts beside you, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at the scene. General has abandoned the hole and now starts making a very aggressive effort to roll in a mud puddle with all the glee of a war criminal.

You smile, the corner of your mouth hitching up. “Tell her he got in a fight with a skunk. She’ll probably be proud,” you hum.

“She will,” Natasha agrees. “She’ll say it builds character.” Leaning back, she tosses a stick lazily in General’s direction. He ignores it with majestic disdain.

“He hates fetch,” she says amused. “Prefers war crimes.”

You laugh, small but genuine. Let the sound carry.

The air around you moves gently. Laughter and dog tags and barks swirling in the breeze like falling leaves. You take a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Easy, buddy- hey, hey, gentle. That’s not a chew toy, come on.”

Your head snaps up before you can think twice.

Because that voice has become quite familiar. Too familiar. Warm. A little raspy here and there.

Of course, it’s him.

Bucky Barnes, in jeans and a dark blue shirt that already has dog hair colonizing every inch of fabric. Shoulders broad, biceps hugged, and a red and white bandana tied loosely around his neck as though he is one picnic away from being someone’s Americana-themed daydream. He is holding a leash - attached to what looks like a pit mix with an underbite, large paws, and a tail that helicopter-spins every time it sees movement. Though he’s got eyes that say I’ve seen some stuff.

The dog lunges forward. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Natasha sees him exactly two seconds after you do. “Well, now look who we got here,” she drawls under her breath, eyebrow lifting with slow, luxurious smugness. “That’s some coincidence. This is getting interesting.”

“Don’t,” you warn her in a whisper, but you can’t help the staring or the weird thing your stomach is doing.

“Don’t what?” Her tone is all innocent sugar and no subtlety whatsoever.

“You breathed suggestively.”

“I’m just admiring the view.”

You are too.

Because he hasn’t seen you yet. He crouches down now, trying to coax the dog - who apparently answers to Tank - into something that resembles good behavior. But it’s hard to ignore the way he moves. So you don’t. Your gaze is fixed on that careful control. That firm patience. His hands, steady. His voice, low and kind and laced with humor.

Your chest does a thing you don’t have the energy to think about.

You can’t hear what he says to the dog, but you can somehow feel it. It thrums through you like a vibration. He seems to try not to scare the animal, as though he knows what it’s like to be too much and too afraid at the same time.

He still doesn’t see you, too focused on the dog.

But the dog is not focused on him.

It’s like he feels you staring.

And then he stares back. With a gaze so intense, it’s as though he sees you made of bacon and belly rubs and destiny.

Something uneasy churns in your chest

The pit mix wiggles in one fluid motion and the leash slips through Bucky’s fingers.

The dog barrels forward.

Your stomach drops.

Time slows. A low rumble of a bark and then a series of joyful, guttural grunts as this four-legged cannonball launches itself toward you as though he was born for this moment.

“Oh sh-” Bucky’s voice is sharp behind him. “Tank! No!”

But the dog is already bolting across the park as though he is auditioning for the canine Olympics with the manic, cheerful energy of a toddler on espresso.

You squeak as the dog leaps onto the bench, all 50-something pounds of him squirming onto your lap, tongue out and very interested in licking every inch of your face.

His tail is wagging enthusiastically and he is lapping at you with the aggressive determination of someone trying to polish a window with their tongue.

“Tank!” Bucky’s voice is harsh and loud, a thunderstorm. “No! Get down! Off, come on- off!”

But you’re laughing, choking on fur, getting pressed into the back of the bench as paws dig into your thighs and the dog noses at your cheek as though he is looking for peanut butter behind your ear.

“Tank! Off!”

Bucky’s voice again, slightly panting now as he finally catches up, grabbing the harness and yanking the dog back with all the frustrated dignity of someone who just lost a game they didn’t agree to play.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes breathlessly, tugging Tank back gently but firmly. “He’s usually- he’s not- God, I’m so sorry. He’s still in training.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve and squint up at him.

And that’s when he sees you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts slightly as though he meant to say something but forgot what it was. There is surprise. Then there is softness. Something melting into the lines of his face. Something that settles behind his eyes like sunshine finding a window.

“Oh- it’s- you’re- hey,” he stammers out.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, hey.”

Bucky looks a little stunned. A little horrified. A little amazed. “I’m so sorry. Again. He’s-” He takes a look at the dog, then back to you. “He’s never done that to anyone before.”

Tank lets out a single, satisfied woof.

You glance at him, then back at Bucky. “It’s alright, really.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Still, I- shit. I’m sorry. I swear he’s not dangerous, he just- he wants to play.” Bucky shoots a sheepish look at you, then at an amused Natasha who stands there with her arms crossed, then back at you. “You okay? He didn’t- he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You try to catch a breath but fail. “No, he didn’t, don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Bucky huffs out a relieved breath, tightening his grip on Tank. He looks at you, and the light in his eyes warms. They are blue and just the tiniest bit wide. The corner of his mouth tips up, crooked and cautious.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, a little quieter.

You still can’t quite breathe right. “Yeah. You too.”

Tank flops down in the grass before you, bopping his nose at your shoe as though he doesn’t trust you not to vanish.

You shake your head fondly. “So… what’s his story?”

Bucky’s grin softens further. “He’s a rescue. Firehouse took him in after a hoarding case a couple towns over. He was half-feral when we got him. Wouldn’t let anyone near him. First week, he lived under a desk and growled at shadows.”

You look down at the dog with sympathy.

Bucky crouches beside the bench now, fingers remaining curled around the harness, his eyebrows raised halfway to the sky. “He’s seriously never done this before. I mean- not unless you’re holding a bacon. Are you holding bacon?”

“Not that I know of,” you respond amused.

Natasha stands there smirking, watching you with twinkling eyes. “Well well well. Look who’s the animal whisperer.”

Rolling your eyes, you swat at your red-headed friend, keeping your movements slow enough not to startle the dog. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky nods toward Natasha. “I’m not saying she’s right, but he definitely seems to like you.”

“He’s got taste,” Natasha adds slyly.

“That, he does.” Bucky’s gaze is fixed on Tank.

Natasha is smirking.

You grow warm.

General is trotting up now. He pauses beside Tank, regal as a lion, then lets out one polite bark and proceeds to sniff him, nose twitching with delicate judgment.

Tank wiggles and sneezes in his face.

Bucky reaches out to pet General softly. “And who are you, buddy, huh?”

“That’s General,” Natasha answers.

Bucky looks up, eyebrows raised. “General?”

“Short for General Mayhem,” she states. “Named by my six-year-old cousin. He thought it sounded cool and dangerous.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

“You see this?” Natasha murmurs, gesturing with her chin toward General, whose tail is twitching low and tight like a predator preparing to pounce. “That’s him flirting.”

You narrow your eyes. “He looks like he wants to murder him.”

“That’s how he shows affection,” your best friend says proudly. “It’s a family trait.”

General takes off then, running in a loose, chaotic arc, tongue lolling sideways, ears flapping like banners.

Tank tries to tear after him, but Bucky’s grip is strong and he doesn’t break loose.

“Uh-uh, buddy. You’re staying here,” he warns, not at all looking like this show of strength is making him sweat. Tank keeps trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s hold, but he keeps him close. His eyes drift up to yours through the curtain of wind-tousled hair. “We’ve been working on manners, but… well, you see how that’s going.”

“Oh, I think you’re managing just fine,” you answer with a grin.

Bucky chuckles softly, looking at you again. Not quickly. Not nervously. Just softly. Intently.

Natasha returnes, dragging General back to your corner of the park with all the resistance of someone trying to reel in a dump truck.

The golden retriever immediately starts sniffing out Tank again.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands back up, brushing nonexistent dirt from his jeans, keeping a strong hold on Tank’s leash.

“So,” Bucky says, to Natasha now. “General, huh? He yours?”

“God, no. He’s my aunt’s. Russian aunt. Scary lady. She thinks dogs should have jobs. He’s trained in four languages and only listens when it’s convenient for him.”

“Almost sounds like this one,” Bucky deadpans. Then nods at the pit mix who’s now lying upside down and chewing on a clump of dandelions like a misunderstood poet. “The guys at the station called him Tank because he crashes through every room like he’s made of steel.”

You smile, looking at the lopsided dog.

“Do you think this is a permanent situation for you guys?”

“No one claimed him,” Bucky says, voice dipping quietly into something gentler. “And now he’s kind of latched on. Just needs to socialize a little more. Get some good training. But might be a permanent situation, yeah.”

“Like a firehouse mascot?” you grin.

He shrugs, but there is a gleam in his eyes as he looks down at you. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tank bumps his nose into your knee again, and you scratch behind his ears.

“He really does like you,” Bucky says softly, eyes on the way you touch the dog.

You hum. “He seems to have been through some shit. But I’m sure he’s in good care now. And I’m sure he’ll behave at some point.” You keep your eyes on the dog. But you feel Bucky’s gaze on you. And it makes your stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way.

General has now adopted a low, slow stalk, tail wagging in dangerous arcs as he inches toward Tank.

“This is going to end in blood,” Natasha sighs, as she tightens the leash again.

But Bucky is still glancing at you. At the softness in your face, the way your knees are pulled up onto the bench now as though you’re bracing for something that won’t come.

“Hey. Where’s your other friend?” he asks, casually.

“Wanda?” you blink. “Oh, she’s- she’s working today. Double shift.”

Bucky hums.

And you stare at him for more than a second.

He’s asking about your people. Not out of obligation or politeness. Out of interest. Because he wants to know. Because he’s listening.

Natasha coughs. Loudly. On purpose.

You both turn.

General has one paw on Tank’s head now, and Tank is lying down in full surrender, tongue out, tail thumping the grass.

“Best friends,” Natasha declares.

You laugh. Bucky laughs.

The sun shines a little warmer.

****

It starts with the ceiling.

Your apartment’s ceiling, specifically - the one you stared at for forty-eight minutes this morning with your phone buzzing once. Then twice. Then three times, like a persistent tap against an already bruised part of your brain. A new number lighting up your screen again, and again, and again, and you know it’s just a synonym for his name.

You still didn’t answer. But he continues calling. Texting. He even sent you screenshots of your favorite songs as though that somehow meant something. And each time you don’t answer, it’s like dragging your tired soul uphill barefoot, hands full of the weight you swore you already let go.

So you leave.

You don’t brush your hair. You don’t put on makeup. You shove your feet into the first shoes you can find, a worn canvas tote over your shoulder, keys in hand before you’ve even fully convinced yourself where you’re going.

Just out.

Just away.

Just somewhere with people and produce and sunshine and the kind of air that doesn’t taste like memories gone sour.

You’ve left your phone on the kitchen table - face down, volume off.

You told Wanda and Natasha you were going out for fruit. They told you to get oranges, or honey, or a distraction. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t have to.

They knew you needed to be alone sometimes, even if they tried their best to distract you.

So now you’re here, walking through the open sprawl of the farmers market with your arms crossed and your face tilted toward the sun, trying to remember what it felt like to want anything at all. The breeze is soft. Smells of ripe tomatoes, lemon soap, kettle corn.

Wooden booths spill over with plums and figs and jars of pickled things. The scent of sourdough and espresso. A toddler is losing his absolute mind over a balloon shaped like a strawberry.

It feels manageable. Which is something. It feels like air, and you take it in.

You’re not looking for anything.

You’re not looking for anyone.

The sky is a soft blue silk someone forgot to iron. A child is screaming somewhere nearby. The wind is polite. It tucks your hair behind your ear as though it’s trying to be helpful. Some other kid is singing off-key to their dog.

You’re just wandering, shoes soft on gravel, following the color and chatter through the stalls.

You let yourself pretend to be a person who likes to browse.

Grapes that are glistening. Bundles of basil so fragrant they make your head spin. Jars of jam in flavors you never heard of - things like honey plum and lavender peach.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite fire hazard.”

You freeze.

An actual freeze, standing there with your hand mid-reach toward a bunch of thyme, and your pulse doing something inadvisable.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

In jeans and a navy hoodie, hood down, sleeves pushed up. His hair is a little longer than you remember, tied back in a short knot, and he’s smiling that slow, surprised way that makes you feel like the morning has turned inside out.

He looks like summer if summer had a soft spot for you.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he’s trying not to smile too big.

Your heart decides to practice gymnastics. Your voice, mercifully, cooperates.

“I could say the same,” you reply, trying for breezy and landing somewhere near breathless.

He nods, eyes sweeping briefly over you - not as though he’s checking you out, but he’s checking. Taking you in. Your oversized sweater. The circles under your eyes. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach the corners today.

“You doing okay?” he asks gently, without preamble. His voice doesn’t push. Just opens a space.

You hesitate.

Then shrug, something brittle in your chest. “I needed some air.”

He nods, as though he perfectly understands. As though he really does. “Bad week?” His voice is low.

You want to lie. Say no, say you’re just craving figs or something ridiculous and poetic.

But instead, you nod. “Yeah,” you get out, and it sounds a little heavy even in your own ears. “Something like that.”

You don’t tell him about the missed calls or the way your stomach knots every time you walk past your front door. You don’t say the name of the guy who made your life feel like walking on thin ice barefoot, always waiting for the crack.

But you don’t have to.

Bucky doesn’t press. Just watches you as though he is memorizing the lines of your face for any small shift in weather.

“Glad you’re out,” he remarks after a second, voice deep and sincere. “It’s a nice morning.”

“Could use more sunshine,” you answer, because there’s nothing else in your mind that could fit.

He grins. “Hey, I’m trying.”

You snort, just a little, and the tension in your chest cracks open enough to let in the scent of rosemary and warm bread.

“Is this your usual Saturday routine?” you inquire, fiddling with a frayed thread on your sleeve. “Or do you just stalk open-air markets for fire safety offenders?”

“I only stalk interesting ones,” he responds easily, still granting you that soft smile.

There is a moment of quiet between you, and you’re both standing a little too close for strangers but not close enough for anything else.

The crowd swirls around you both. People bargaining over radishes, someone dropping a jar of honey with a crack - simple weekend chatter in the background.

“How’s Tank?” you ask, genuinely interested.

Bucky’s mouth softens. “He’s good. Still a little weird around other dogs. Still doesn’t understand the concept of stairs. But he’s getting there.”

You grin before you mean to.

“That’s a relief.”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah. He even got clingy. Always has to follow someone around.” He exhales a huffed breath, it’s a little bashful. There is a glint in his eyes now - teasing, maybe. Admiring, definitely. “He’s a good judge of character.”

Your stomach somersaults. Something loose and ridiculous and hopeful starts threading your insides together.

“He was sweet,” you tell him, remembering the weight of the pit mix in your lap, the wet, slobbery affection, the surprise of Bucky’s voice when he recognized you. “Even if he nearly took me out.”

“You held your own,” Bucky states confidently, the glint in his eyes brighter now.

You giggle quietly, glancing down, fingers fumbling with the strap of your bag.

A breeze blows past and flirts with your hair. Somewhere, a vendor calls out that strawberries are two for five.

Bucky shifts his weight. His fingers brush the handle of his bag but don’t fidget. There is a gentleness to him. A patience that could break your heart.

He is careful.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you again,” he begins with a clear of his throat, voice quiet.

Your eyes snap up.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not here, I mean. Just… eventually. Didn’t think it’d be here, but- hey, I’m not complaining.”

You laugh softly, heart stammering.

“I didn’t think I’d see you either,” you admit. “I, uh. I wasn’t sure…”

Bucky’s smile fades just a touch - not in disappointment, but in that careful way people get when they’re making room for your story.

“I get it,” he says, genuine. “Truly. No pressure. At all.”

There is a small pause in him. A recalibration. You can feel it, the way you can feel a shift in the wind before it touches your skin.

“Hey, listen,” he says again, still quiet. “You don’t… I mean, I don’t want to assume anything. Or be too much. Or too forward. I just-” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “If you ever need anything. Like if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or simply vent about something. I’d be around.”

His hand dips into his back pocket, pulls out a work wallet. He retrieves a card - simple, clean, name and number, folded corners as tough it’s lived a little - and holds it out.

But he doesn’t push it toward you. He just offers. Gentle.

There is something in your chest that twists painfully.

“I don’t wanna make anything weird. Or come off like I’m… pushing,” he goes on, tentative. Talking a little faster. “Only if you want. No pressure. Just- figured I’d offer. I hoped I’d meet you again, and I just didn’t wanna, uh- yeah, you know.”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. Suddenly bashful.

Your heart is near your throat. You reach for the card slowly. As though he might pull it away again if you’re too fast.

“Thanks,” you tell him. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He shifts again. Nervous, maybe. Or just respectful. As though he knows this isn’t easy for you. As though he doesn’t want to pile anything else on top of what’s already there.

Then he tilts his head, opening his mouth, seemingly believing he has to explain himself some more. “Maybe you’ll need some smoke detector advice someday. Or fire extinguisher refills. Emotional support waffles.”

“Waffles?” You want to smile. So wide.

“Yeah. I make good ones. Ask Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, right.” He winces apologetically, and it’s the most endearing thing. “He’s that tall blond guy. Rogers. Known each other since childhood.”

You smile. Nearly fondly. “Well then I will have to take your word for it.”

He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Your chest aches. Not in a painful way. But in a maybe-there’s-still-good-guys-on-this-planet kind of way.

You look up at him.

His smile is something quiet and relieved.

He looks away first.

“I should-uh,” he gestures toward the other end of the market. “I promised the firehouse I’d bring back peaches. They get weirdly emotional about it.”

You laugh, and it feels real. Not just muscle memory.

“I’ll let you go then,” you say sweetly.

He starts to walk away with a wave. Then stops.

Turns back just slightly. “Don’t feel like you have to call, okay?”

You nod. Your throat closes. “Okay.”

“But if you do,” he adds. “I’ll be around.”

And then he waves goodbye with a last glance over his shoulder, walking off with his hands in his pockets, steps unhurried.

You watch him disappear behind a stall selling fresh bread.

Your fingers curl around the card in your hand.

And you don’t feel like crying.

Not today.

Not right now.

Because the air smells sweet. The sky is clear. And somewhere, maybe, something good is beginning.

Something that makes you feel warm without a fire burning.

****

Bad decisions oftentimes start with a maybe.

Maybe you should just hear what he wants.

Maybe if you talk to him one more time, he’ll stop.

Maybe closure is a real thing and not just a word people throw around like confetti.

You hadn’t meant to actually talk to him again.

Hadn’t meant to let his relentless calls get to you.

But it rang at the same time your thumb was hovering above a different name, a different number - the one Bucky gave you. Simple black type on a white card still tucked into your phone case. You didn’t even mean to look at it. But you had. For the third time today. For maybe the hundredth time since he gave it to you last week.

You thought about texting. Something harmless. Something funny. Something soft. But your thumb froze. And that was when his number lit up your screen again.

You saw it and thought of mold. Of wet towels left in gym bags. Or old perfume evaporating off a scarf you forgot to burn.

But your thumb twitched.

Your thumb tapped accept.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

You hated how familiar his voice still sounded. Like a song you used to love before you listened closely to the lyrics and found out they were garbage. The same casual tone, the same too-easy drawl like nothing had ever really gone wrong. Like the last six months didn’t happen.

He wanted to talk. That’s what he said. Just a talk. Said he still had some of your things. Things you never asked back for, because what could they possibly be? And what could you possibly want them for now?

But you said yes.

You don’t know why.

You tell yourself you can relish in telling him that you burned his stuff.

You tell yourself it is bravery, even if it is shaped like something else.

You wear jeans and an old hoodie and steady your pulse. You leave your phone in your back pocket and your self-worth tucked under your collarbone.

He opens the door the way he always has. A little too wide. A little too confident. A smile with too many teeth.

It’s an ugly apartment. You forgot how ugly it was. Not physically, though the couch still sags like a dying animal and the curtains are the color of depression.

It’s ugly in the way it smells of memories.

He talks too much. Laughs too loud. Does that thing with his tongue against his teeth as though he is chewing on a punchline.

“Still got that painting your mom made,” he says, smirking as he rifles through a box that looks suspiciously like it hasn’t been touched since you left. “Not exactly my style, y’know, but whatever. Thought you’d come crawling for it.”

You blink slowly. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His voice twists sharp. A rusted hinge creaking closed.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. You shouldn’t have come. You knew you shouldn’t have come. But you did. As though your body still thought it owed him something.

“I didn’t ask for anything back because I didn’t want anything back,” you express, finally. Your voice is low, but firm. “I didn’t want to be here again. I didn’t want to see you again.”

He turns. There is something brittle in his posture. Something ready to snap.

“So why are you here then? Huh? Thought I’d say sorry?” His eyes shine in disbelief. “Right. That’s rich.”

“No,” you shoot back. Blood rises in your ears. Your fists tighten, small knots of nerves and shame. You remember the exact sound his voice makes when it drops low and mean, and you hate it. “I thought you wanted to return my stuff.”

“Oh, that?” He tosses a shirt into a cardboard box. Shrugs. “You want this one? Think it still smells like you.”

You don’t answer. You should leave. You should leave right now. But your feet don’t move, as though they are listening for the next note in a song that never ends right.

“And where is my stuff then, huh?” His gaze is penetrating. Demanding. “Doesn’t fucking look like you brought it with you. So why would I give back your shit?”

You flinch. Not visibly. You hope not visibly.

Regret, like a scent, lives in the drywall. In the leather couch that’s seen too much. In the one dead plant that still lays in its pot as though it could relearn to grow.

You’re standing with your arms crossed tight across your chest, as though if you hold yourself hard enough, you won’t fall through the floor.

You’re already angry at yourself. Already chewing on the bitter little pill of what the hell did you think would happen.

“Huh?” he goes on, voice harsher. But he doesn’t come closer. “Where's my shit?”

“I burned it,” you blurt out all at once, taking a step back.

His face cracks.

“What?”

“I burned your things,” you repeat, voice a little more hesitant. But still somehow firm. “I didn’t want them anymore.”

There is silence that feels like the inhale before a slap.

Then he laughs. Not a laugh, really. Something worse. A sound without humor. A shape without softness. It’s sharp and mean and wrong.

“You’re insane.” His voice is crackling ice underfoot.

“Maybe.”

He starts pacing. Cursing. Muttering things under his breath that make old bruises bleed again.

And then he goes over to your pile.

Your sweater. A half-read book. A toothbrush. Pencils.

You think maybe he is going to shove it at you. Demand you take it and get out. You would be fine with that.

But that’s not what he does.

He pulls out a lighter.

One of those fancy electric ones with a plasma arc.

He clicks it on. A hiss. A flame.

You take a sharp breath.

“Nolan!” you warn.

“Why not?” he says, voice dangerously calm now. “We’re doing fire now, right? I’ll play.”

He stops and grabs something - your old notebook. The one with the red leather cover and pages full of dreams you hadn’t wanted to remember. He lights the corner.

“Omg, Nolan, stop!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

The paper shrivels into black lace, turning inward, hissing as though it lives. He drops it on top of the clothes.

A single thread of smoke trails toward the ceiling in a lazy, indecisive curl. You watch it the way someone might watch an ink stain bloom on a shirt - unsettled.

Nolan is still talking.

Still pacing in that way he does when he’s on edge - half fury, half performance, all nerves masquerading as ego. His words have gone jagged, slurring with heat. Every sentence heavier than the last. Weighted with resentment.

“You think you can just burn my shit down?” he snaps, and you wonder if he even hears himself. If he understands how strange it sounds, how cracked. He’s got that look in his eye again - the one that once made you flinch and now just makes you tired.

“Put it out,” you order harshly, gesturing to the fire.

But it’s already licking up the fabric. It eats with the mouth of a beast. The knit sweater you left behind many months ago has been reduced to cinders on one side.

You lunge forward, grabbing a throw blanket, trying to smother the small flames, but they are growing. You forgot how fast fire moves.

“Help me!” you yell, panicking.

But Nolan just stands there, stunned.

The flame consumes the carton and now starts crawling across the cheap rug. It touches a plastic bin and the bin sags, sighs, melts.

Nolan hesitates.

His face splits between pride and dread, one eye twitching with the effort of pretending he is still in control. His thumb hovers over the lighter still. As if he might be able to rewind the fire back into silence.

You start swatting the air with an old pillow off the couch. It does nothing. Just pushes the smoke around.

The fire is bigger now.

Hungrier.

The smoke thickens. Begins to bloom from the rug, unfurling across the floor like a snake looking for ankles.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” you snap.

But he’s frozen. Staring at it. Staring at you.

“Why aren’t you?” he yells back.

You try to remember what Bucky said.

You try to hold onto it - his voice in that fire safety class. You try to remember the sequence of things, the order of calm: Assess. Alert. Act. Breathe.

But there is no calm now.

Just fire.

You’re shaking, and your palms are slick and useless, and your heart is pounding like a wild creature.

“Do you have an extinguisher?” you shout, coughing, turning to Nolan, whose face is lit with flickering orange. He stares at the curtain swallowing itself in flames as though he doesn’t understand it. As though the fire is the problem - not his temper, not the lighter still warm in his hand.

“No!” he yells. “Why would I have a-?”

“Then why the fuck did you set something on fire in your living room?” You can’t believe this is happening. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hit him and disappear.

But all you do is spin in a frantic circle, looking for something, anything to smother the fire. The old blanket you tried already is a scorched mess on the floor. A sweatshirt is melting in the corner. His apartment is a graveyard of clutter and bad choices.

You fall to your knees, eyes stinging, stomach trembling with too many fears and not enough oxygen. You drag your sweater sleeve over your nose and crawl toward the base of the door. You remember you should cover the gap beneath the door. The towel trick. You remember the warning signs. You remember him.

But this isn’t a stovetop mishap. This isn’t a pan left on too long or an overzealous toaster. This is rage. This is Nolan. This is intentional.

You spot a pillow, hurl it under the doorframe, press it into the crack with your knees.

“If it’s too big to handle,” Bucky had said, “you get out. You call us. You don’t be a hero.”

You feel your chest begin to shrink. Your lungs pull taut. The room smells of plastic and anger and something chemical that doesn’t belong in air. You cough, hard, and stumble back. Your eyes sting.

The fire reaches the curtains.

They go up as though they’ve been waiting. Flames shoot vertical, dancing fast, bright and hot. Orange tongues curl in laughter. Smoke darkens and the room is a storm cloud. Your breath hiccups.

Nolan finally moves. He grabs a towel. Swings it at the fire but it doesn’t do anything.

He spins, eyes wild now, and shouts at you. “You started this!”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

The doorknob is already red. Glowing. It starts hissing when your fingers get close.

Nolan rushes over and tries to touch it. His palm jerks back. He swears. Drops a ragged, “shit- okay, okay,” and starts moving toward the windows.

But it’s too late.

The windows won’t open. The smoke eats the oxygen and you swear the walls are closing in.

You are coughing terribly. Thick gray smoke creeps up your nose, your throat, your eyes. You can’t see.

Stumbling backward, you hit the coffee table with your knees.

You don’t remember unlocking your phone.

Your lungs are fighting for a breath they can’t find, and your eyes are stinging so bad they’re practically sewn shut, and everything is wrong. You cough. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Cough.

The smoke is everywhere. In your eyes. In your mouth. In your throat.

A sour, chemical fog that coats your insides, turning every breath into something punishing. Your fingers are slick with sweat. Your vision a wash of heat and blur. You can barely see the glowing screen.

You don’t even remember pressing his name. Maybe your thumb moved on its own. Maybe your body made the decision for you, the way it sometimes does in the worst moments - when logic is buried beneath fear and your lungs are screaming and your heartbeat is running through your ears like a siren. You don’t remember.

But you must have pressed it.

Because the line connects.

“Barnes.”

His voice.

God. It’s his voice.

Of course, it is. You fucking called him.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. Try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a broken cough - violent and dry and helpless. The sound of your panic gurgling out of your chest.

Then silence on the line.

“Y/n?”

You gasp. Wheeze. Cough - wracked, your body bending with the force of it. Your phone drops to the floor, chest convulsing, the sound of flames rising behind you, and it feels as though they already are inside you.

Then his voice again. Sharp. Cataloguing.

He snaps into action. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

There is already movement in the background. His boots against concrete. Radio static flaring, fast instructions in the background.

“Fire,” is all you can croak out.

“Fuck. Okay. Okay. It’s okay- Can you talk? Just try, alright? Need you to say something, Y/n. Need you to tell me where you are!”

You’ve never heard his voice like that. It isn’t low and easy, isn’t the gentle sort of teasing he used in all your meetings before. It isn’t calm. It isn’t composed. It isn’t clipped and professional.

It’s shaking.

You sink to the floor and press your phone to your ear. As though it might pull you out of this nightmare and into him.

You cough again. A ragged, awful sound. “Bucky,”you croak, finally, and it tears out of you like a scream you didn’t have the air for.

The sound he makes isn’t a word. It explodes out of him like something breaking. You hear gear shifting, footsteps quick, boots slamming against the floor, the loud slam of an emergency cabinet opening.

“Where are you?” he snaps. “Tell me where you are. Talk to me. You just gotta tell me where-”

“Can’t- breathe,” you rasp, coughing again, and trembling so hard the phone almost slips.

“Okay.” His voice is trembling too. Rough. “That’s okay. You’re doing great. Just- fuck- just hang on. I need to know where, sweetheart, please. Tell me where.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Force your brain to focus. Nolan is somewhere behind you but the smoke has made him a ghost. The fire’s hiss is louder than Bucky’s voice now. Louder than your thoughts.

Nolan shouts his address out, coughing, pacing.

Bucky’s voice cuts back. Loud. Sharp. “I need confirmation. Hey- sweetheart- are you there? Is that where you are?”

You swallow. “Y-yeah. That’s it. Third floor. I- he- he lit something and it caught- Bucky it spread. We can’t get out.”

Behind you, Nolan coughs violently. “You don’t have to tell him everything-”

“I’m trying to get help!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me, you’re the one who-”

Tears sting in your smoke-smeared eyes. “Get down, Nolan! Crawl!”

“And what are you now, huh? You think-”

“Hey- hey!” Bucky’s voice is harsh. Urgent. “Okay. Listen to me. Cover your mouth with something - whatever you’ve got. You’re gonna stay low. Both of you. Crawl to the farthest wall from the door if you haven’t already. Do you see smoke coming through it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, coughing into your elbow. The fabric of your sweater is damp from sweat, and it stinks of fear.

“Can you block the bottom with something - towels, jacket, anything.”

“I tried. It’s still coming through. I- Bucky, I tried to put it out, like you said, I-”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice cracking slightly, dry and gentle. “I know, sweetheart. I know you tried. I’m proud of you. You did so fucking good calling me, okay? You hear me?”

“I can’t see anything,” you whisper. “It’s all smoke.”

Your hands tremble as you crawl. Nolan’s coughing has grown louder and more uneven, as though his lungs are learning how to fall apart.

“We’re coming. I’m on the truck. Just stay with me. Stay low. Try to find a corner or something near the window if you can. Don’t touch the doorknob again.”He’s obviously trying to hide the raw edge in his voice, but you hear it nonetheless.

“It’s hot.” Your voice is an ash-covered whisper.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t try to touch it again, alright? Don’t touch anything. Don’t open anything. You’re staying right where you are. You did the right thing, sweetheart. You did everything right.” He talks as though it’s a prayer. A lullaby spoken with desperation.

There’s a flurry of noise behind him. Muffled radio calls, the wailing of sirens into the wind, yelling voices.

You can picture him - knuckles white, leg bouncing, one hand pressed to his ear as if willing the sound of you to stay close.

“You’re not alone,” he emphasizes, voice thick. A rough, frantic rasp like a match scraped too many times. “We’re coming for you, sweetheart. I swear to God. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I was stupid,” you choke. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve told him to go to hell.”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts you fast, voice sharp with emotion. “You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that. You’re not responsible for someone else losing control, you hear me?”

You nod, eyes burning now with something more than smoke.

“I just wanted to be done.”

“You will be,” he promises, his voice a storm swallowing itself. “You’re gonna walk out of there, and that chapter’s gonna stay behind. You’ll never have to see him again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Bucky,” you sob, barely holding on.

And his voice breaks when he says your name back. Not just once.

“I got you. You’re doing so well. You’re doing perfect, Y/n. I’m so proud of you. Just a little longer. We’re almost here. You just gotta hang on for me, yeah? Just try to breathe. Let me hear you breathe.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you.

Another panicked call of your name.

“I’m here.” Your voice turned into smoke itself.

You can hear the fire truck now. A distant roar. Like a cavalry arriving on a battlefield that’s already gone to ruin.

You can hear his frantic breathing.

“Bucky, I’m scared,” you whimper.

“I know, doll. I know.” His voice is soft now, too soft, as though maybe he is crouched in the back of the truck, hunched over the phone with his head in his hand. He talks as if he could speak you safe again. “But you’re not alone, okay? And you’re doing so well. We’ll get you two out. I just need your voice, alright? Don’t hang up. I’m almost there.”

You don’t register the exact moment you drop your phone, only that you keep hearing Bucky’s voice before it slips from your hand.

“Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart- stay with me-”

The door is glowing. Glowing as though it wants to become the sun. Glowing like warning and goodbye all at once.

You taste the fire. Breathe it. Feel it coat your throat like ash-painted molasses.

Bucky’s urgent and desperate voice is only registering as a blurred cloud engulfing you.

There is a thunderous sound. A crack. A groan. Wood screaming as it splits. Metal breaking open.

Then comes light.

Blinding and orange and rolling with smoke.

A change in the air - slight and sharp and sudden.

The hot room breathes.

A gust of wind stabs inward, dragging smoke toward the shattered pane as though it’s trying to pull the panic out by its throat.

And then shouts.

Boots.

The room collapses around your vision. You are sagged against the floor. Head lulling.

People crash through the smoke. No, not just people. It’s him. Bucky. In full gear. Mask sealed to his face. Shoulders wide, body big, so big, bulked in turnout gear and panic.

You almost don’t believe it.

For a second, you think he might be something your brain cooked up to calm you down. A mirage with a radio. A hallucination in navy.

But then he says your name. Yells it. Muffled through the voice amplifier in his mask, but desperate.

You open your mouth. Try to say his name back.

But he is already lunging, crashing toward you like a storm. Suddenly he kneels. And suddenly-er you are airborne. Up. Scooped into his arms, pressed into his chest.

You feel the sound of his heartbeat before you hear it - thudding against your side, frantic, furious.

You want to tell him you’re okay, that you’re sorry, that you meant to call him under different circumstances, that you didn’t mean to worry him.

But all you can do is let your body go limp in his hold.

His jacket smells of sweat and smoke and something cleaner underneath - some sterile tang of extinguisher foam and ash and whatever this moment is turning into.

You press your forehead into the curve of his neck, where the helmet meets the collar of his gear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart-” he keeps saying it, over and over, like a chant.

His voice is strained now. Hoarse. Desperate. Shaky. Strangled through a throat that’s trying not to break open in front of everyone. He lifts you higher against his chest and sprints, shouting orders as he crashes through the hallway.

“Clear a path!”

“Make room! Get oxygen ready!”

“She’s fading! Move!”

He holds you as though you already caught the fire. He holds you like absolution.

You drift in and out, eyes fluttering as Bucky runs through smoke-filled corridors and splintered doorways and the skeleton of someone else’s anger turned to flame.

But you still feel the shift in his arms. The way he squeezes you when you cough. How his gloved hands cup the back of your head, shielding you from debris. How he leans his body to block falling soot as he barrels toward the stairwell two at a time, breathing hard, mumbling things you can’t hear.

Or maybe they’re not for you. Maybe they’re for himself.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare go quiet on me. Hang on. Stay with me. Come on.”

Your hands curl weakly into the strap across his chest.

He bursts through the front of the building, and the world opens up - wild and wide and full of oxygen.

The roar of the crowd. The red-and-white flash of emergency lights bouncing off soot-covered brick.

Someone tries to take you from him - another firefighter, older, calm - but Bucky growls under his breath and shifts you closer, ducking his head like a shield.

“I’ve got her,” he grunts, thick and hoarse. Shaking. “I’ve got her.”

They don’t argue.

His boots only then screech to a halt when he arrives at the ambulance door and two EMTs step forward with a stretcher and an oxygen mask in hand.

He lays you down gently, so gently, as though you are made of porcelain and poems. He pulls the mask off his face and immediately goes back to touching you. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb streaking soot from your cheek. The other wrapped around your wrist, searching for your pulse.

“She’s got smoke inhalation,” Bucky barks. His voice is too loud. Too full. His hair sticks to his forehead. His cheeks are streaked with sweat and worry. “She’s conscious, but barely. I need- can I-”

One of the medics puts a hand on his shoulder, while the other cares for you. “We’ve got her. You did good, Cap.”

But when you’re wheeled into the ambulance, he steps in with you. Without a word. The medics don’t say anything. Perhaps because of his expression.

You feel his eyes on you.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” he says, low. Gutted. “I got you out.”

Your eyes find his. Somehow. You can barely keep them open. Can barely feel the oxygen mask over your face. Can barely feel his hands on you.

His breath shudders. And for a second you think he might cry.

But he just swallows, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, stay with me. You gotta stay with me.”

You try.

You really do.

But this moment does not seem to want to hold you in its arms the same way Bucky just did.

It wants to let you go.

It does.

****

Hospitals always smell like endings.

Even in the quiet, even with the windows open and the soft beep of a heart monitor keeping tempo with your breath. There’s something sterile and final about the place. A hush that doesn’t belong to any one person.

You wake slowly. Float up from the bottom of a deep, smoky ocean, lungs burning even in memory.

The world is all soft edges and clean white. The blanket draped over your legs is tucked in too neatly.

Sunlight filters through fog. Like a dream dragging its feet on the way out.

Everything aches in soft, unfamiliar places. Behind your eyes. In your throat. In your chest, where the air settles heavy, too new.

You blink against the brightness, throat sore and mouth dry, vision hazy.

He falls into your line of vision in an instant.

Sitting beside you in the room’s single chair, pulled as close to your bedside as it could go, knees wide, elbows on them. Head bowed as though he is praying or thinking or maybe both. His fingers are steepled against his mouth as though he’s been holding his breath for hours.

The gear is gone, but the exhaustion is not. He’s in a dark hoodie and sweatpants now, his hair damp, pushed back as if he ran both hands through it and forgot to fix it after.

He looks big here. Too big for the tiny chair. Too solid of all this silence. His foot is bouncing. His hands are clasped. His face is half-hidden behind a knuckle.

But he is here.

He is truly here.

You manage to whisper his name.

Your voice is hoarse and frail and hardly audible. But his head still snaps up.

And oh. The relief on his face could bring down buildings.

He is up in an instant, the chair scraping back, but he stops at the edge of your bed as though he is not sure if he can touch you. His hand hovers gently on the bed rail.

His eyes are red-rimmed. You don’t know if it comes from crying or from staying awake. There are soft bruises under them. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“Hey,” he breathes.

Your throat scrapes when you try to answer. A dry, ragged rasp. “Hey. Bucky, I-”

“Easy.” His voice softens even more. He is cooing. “Don’t try to talk too much, alright? Take it slow.”

You try to clear your throat and immediately regret it. He’s already got a cup of water in his hand, straw tucked between your lips before you can blink. You drink, slow and small sips, until the burn dulls a little.

He catches a drop of water with his thumb when it leaks over the side of your mouth.

You try to smile. It trembles at the corners. But you need to keep talking. Keep explaining. The words just fall out, messy and cracked and full of everything you feel.

“I didn’t mean for this to be when I called you.”

He stiffens, only a little. Not because he’s upset - because he’s listening too hard. Because every syllable you manage seems like something he wants to tuck into his jacket and guard with his whole life.

Pushing out a breath, you keep going. “I wanted to call you. I almost did. Before. So many times.” Your voice breaks on the tail end of it, dry and uncertain. “But I got scared. And then Nolan- he just kept calling, and I thought maybe if I just talked to him once-”

“Hey,” Bucky eases tenderly. He leans in, hand ghosting close to yours. Not quite touching yet, as though he’s afraid to ask your skin for too much. “You don’t have to explain everything right now. I told you, there’s no pressure. I wanted you to take your time.”

“No, I-” you protest, emotional. “I’m sorry, I- God, I’m so stupid, I-”

“Hey, no. Don’t.” His voice interjects you so gently you almost cry from it. “You called. That’s what matters. You called me when it counted.” He glances at your hand and touches it lightly. You let him.

You swallow. “But I-”

He shakes his head kindly. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “I don’t care when it happened. I just care that you did. That you’re here. That I got to you in time.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “And I swear-” he pauses, runs a hand down his jaw, seemingly trying to put himself back together. “I swear, I’ve never run so fast in my damn life.”

You lace your fingers with his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful. Asking you if this is okay. You squeeze once.

He is leaning over you, staring as though you just handed him something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.

“And next time you need someone, please don’t wait. Doesn’t have to be fire-level urgent, okay? Doesn’t have to be about him. If you need help picking fruit at the farmers market, or Wanda’s making you do one of those weird tea cleanses again, or you’re just lonely at 2 am - you call me.”

You smile. Or try to.

His smile is smaller. Sadder.

“I’m here, alright?” Bucky adds after a moment, voice rough but certain. “You’re not alone.” He takes a deep breath. There is something new in his voice now. A gentle grit. “But I’m not here to rush you. I’m not here to push. I like you. You probably already figured that out. But I want this to be whatever you need. At your pace. No pressure. No expectations. I just want you safe. I want you to breathe easy again. I want to be someone you know you can lean on. Nothing more than that, not unless you want it.”

Your breath hiccups. Your eyes sting.

He nods toward the IV in your arm. “Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you back to okay.”

You blink. Your throat is tight.

Silence, again. Soft and clean and full of feeling.

You look at him for a long time, studying the scruff on his jaw, the fine line between his brows, the way his eyes search your face as if he is still making sure you woke up.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He exhales a long breath. Blinks hard. Rubs the heel of his palm over his mouth.

“I like you, too.”

You hear his breath catch.

You say it softer. Slower. More certain. “I want you to know that. I really like you.”

His eyes are whole. With something warm and breaking wide open. You wonder if he even realizes he is holding your hand tighter now.

And you look at him as though maybe your heart’s been trying to find his this whole time.

His thumb brushes over your skin so lightly, you almost don’t feel it. But you do. Of course, you do. It sends tiny shivers running through your body. Lets your skin prickle.

“He’s not gonna come near you again,” Bucky states quietly, a little bit firm. “You don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

And you still. Your eyes go wide a tiny fraction. Because how could you have forgotten?

“Nolan.”

Something tightens behind Bucky’s eyes. Something that does not flinch but does not smile either.

You say his name again, slower this time, unsure why your lungs feel colder now. “Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Bucky affirms, but there is a jagged note to the words. “Got some burns on his hand and inhaled a lot of smoke, but nothing that won’t heal.”

He doesn’t say don’t worry but you hear it.

He also doesn’t say he deserved worse, but you hear that too.

You study Bucky’s face - how his jaw ticks, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. His posture has changed, too. Not tense exactly, but watchful. Guarded. As though he is sitting on something stretched too tight between staying soft for you and not punching a wall with his fist.

“He…” Bucky exhales and rubs a hand through his hair as though it might soothe the fire out of his voice. “He asked about you.”

That surprises you. Your lips part, but you don’t know what question you’re asking yet.

“He wanted to know if you were okay.” Bucky pauses. Looks away, just for a second, as though he is chewing on something bitter. “Said he didn’t mean for it to go that far. That he was just mad. That it was a mistake.”

The words hang in the air like smoke without a source.

You stare at the blanket pulled up to your ribs. You don’t know what you’re feeling. Grief, maybe. Not for Nolan. For the version of yourself that still picks up when he calls.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Heavily. You don’t know why. Maybe just for existing in this mess. For dragging Bucky into it. For not seeing it all coming sooner.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” Bucky grounds out, and this time his voice is sharper. A crackle of heat under the words. “He doesn’t get to hurt you and then feel bad about it after the fact. He could’ve killed you.”

You stare at him.

And he softens.

A little. A blink. A breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking down at his boots. “I didn’t mean to snap. Just-” He rubs the back of his neck. His face twists into something pained. “I rushed into that apartment and saw you on the floor and-” His voice breaks a little and comes back shaky. “It was like time stopped. Didn’t even see anything else. Just you.”

Silence swells again, full of unsaid things and tight lungs and hearts pounding.

You squeeze his hand gently.

And then the door clicks open.

Wanda peeks in first, her hair a frizzed halo, cheeks blotchy, eyes wide and wet. Natasha follows behind, chin set, jaw tight. She looks composed, but you know she isn’t.

“You’re awake,” Wanda sighs, already by your side, reaching for your other hand. “God, I’m gonna cry again-”

“You look like hell,” Natasha deadpans. But she is smiling. Just barely.

You smile back. It takes effort. But it’s true.

Bucky keeps watching you as though he is afraid to blink. As though he doesn’t want to miss a second more of you breathing.

And even though your chest still hurts and your throat stings and you feel as though your world just burned down another time, there is something brightening in your heart.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Wanda chastises weakly, adjusting your blanket, and giving you the gentlest kiss on your forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”

And you feel that crater inside you - the one the smoke didn’t touch. The one carved out by fear. By how close it all had been.

“I didn’t mean-”

“We know, dummy,” Natasha cuts in gently, and it’s not an accusation. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause. You just breathe slowly. Staring at the ceiling.

“God, I swear,” Wanda mutters, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against your wrist. “If I ever see that bastard again…”

Natasha snorts, her voice tilting toward something sly. “I’m sure your personal guardian here will take care of him. Should’ve seen him when the paramedics mentioned Nolan.”

Bucky, beside you, goes very still.

You feel his hand twitch against yours. He’s still holding it. Hadn’t let go.

He hasn’t said anything since the girls came in.

Now he looks like stone. His gaze flicks away.

You can feel the tension building in his chest - his breath shallower, his jaw clenched. His thumb presses slightly harder against your palm, as though the thought of your ex walking around freely is the worst thing he’s ever had to picture.

“No worries, guys,” you say and even the thought of his name is foul in your mind. “I’m done with him.”

You lift your eyes to Bucky. It’s not even intentional. You just have to look at him. Maybe you need him to hear it clearly. Need to make sure he heard it.

His eyes find yours. Dark and blue and lit up with something rougher than hope. Something hotter than worry.

His mouth tilts into something relieved. And you think, maybe, even a little bashful. As though he didn’t expect to be included in this part. As though it is hitting him slowly, that he is not a stranger in your orbit anymore.

And something in him seems to let go - not all at once. But in pieces. Like melting ice, cracking and softening and spilling into warmer water.

He nods. Small. Doesn’t seem able to speak.

But his hand in yours says everything.

Wanda and Natasha both go quiet. Watching him. Watching you. Watching this. This thing happening between you.

Outside the window, the sun climbs a little higher into the sky.

And he keeps looking.

Keeps absorbing.

Keeps memorizing.

Just like you.

“Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary.”

- Gerard Way

Part One

#one of my favorites #i’m obsessed.#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #firefighter!bucky #firefighter!au #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #analureads

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sweeterthan13 · 26 days ago

Text

WHAT DO TOU MEAN P2 WAS POSTED TODAY I LOVE MY LIFEEEEEEE IM READING IT IMMEDIATELY

All up in Flames

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You just want your toxic ex-boyfriend’s things to stop haunting your apartment. So you let your friends lit the match. But then the sirens come, and with them Bucky Barnes, who puts out more than just the flames.

Word Count: 9.4k

Warning: destruction of personal property; toxic relationship themes (not Bucky); mentions of an ex-partner; anxiety symptoms; fire; consequences of own actions; reader’s ex is an oc; mentions of ghosting and manipulation; Wanda, Natasha and the Reader are roommates

Author’s Note: I'm not sure how this started, but I felt a strong urge to indulge my unexpected obsession with Bucky as a firefighter. This is ever so slightly inspired by a scene from the series friends. There is an, although fluffy, but also really angsty second part coming up to this in the next few days. The writing part is complete, but I still need to finish some editing. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you think. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part two

Masterlist

You are not okay.

You are so far from okay that if you sent a postcard to okay it would get lost in transit, eaten by a dog, and then set on fire.

Which sounds stupid. But that’s about the luck you are blessed with.

The sun is setting and it might be doing you a favor with that. Spilling soft gold across the city skyline, painting your apartment’s tiny rooftop garden in a glow so warm and gentle it almost feels like forgiveness.

But you’re not in the mood for forgiveness.

You are in the mood for revenge. The emotional, irrational, wonderfully dramatic kind. The kind that smells of smoke and fury and the remnants of a man who once claimed to love you but couldn’t even spell commitment if it came with a free fantasy football draft.

Nolan Aspey. Even his name is a rotting corpse in your mind.

You’re sitting on an old beanbag chair shaped like a strawberry. It squelches when you move. You suspect it might be leaking. You don’t care. Your body is wrapped in a bathrobe that isn’t yours. It’s Natasha’s. It’s also silk, red, and wildly inappropriate for rooftop lounging in May. Still, she insisted. Said heartbreak demands drama.

To your right is Wanda, perched on a rusted garden chair stolen from the community center’s Zumba class. She’s nursing a glass of something suspiciously green and swirling it as though it’s a portion, legs crossed, eyes twinkling with mischief. Her nails are black and so is her soul. You love her for it.

To your left is Natasha, preparing your small setup. She’s wearing aviator sunglasses even though the sun is barely hanging onto the sky, and you’re sure she’s doing it for the aesthetic.

You stare at the setup. There is a bottle of wine - half full, or half empty, depending on whether you’re crying or screaming at any given moment - and a Bluetooth speaker playing a playlist titled Sad Bitch Anthems Vol. 1

You don’t feel like a bitch, though. You feel more like 73% pathetic and 27% rage.

Because in front of you, next to the trash can Natasha is placing - on a cracked terracotta platter that used to house a very unfortunate basil plant - is the pile.

Your ex-boyfriend’s stuff. A pile of heartbreak. The skeletal remains of your relationship.

One hoodie that still holds traces of his cologne - a scent that haunts your dreams and also your laundry hamper. Four concert tickets from that indie band he dragged you to. Two dozen Polaroids of smiles that now feel counterfeit. A necklace he gave you from a kiosk in the mall and claimed was real moonstone but it was plastic, who would have guessed. A series of agonizingly handwritten love letters he sent you after ghosting you for a week. A book you lent him that he never returned, except now it’s water-damaged and somehow sticky. You don’t want to ask why. And a mug that says Boss Man.

You’ve always hated that mug.

You stare at the pile and the pile stares back.

“Okay,” Natasha starts, stretching the word out and flicking open a Zippo lighter with a casually pleasing look. “Let’s set this bitch ablaze.”

“I don’t know,” you hesitate, like a woman who knows this is a terrible idea and is about to do this anyway. “Is this even legal?”

“Is heartbreak legal?” Wanda asks dramatically, putting on oven mitts and holding a fire extinguisher as though it’s a designer clutch. “Is betrayal legal? Is gaslighting-”

“We get it,” you cut in quickly. “He sucked.”

“Oh he did more than suck,” Natasha exclaims, crouching beside the metal trash bin. “He emotionally vaporized you.”

“And that’s why we’re liberating his soul,” Wanda nods solemnly, her Sokovian accent making everything sound like a funeral dirge or a hex. “With fire.”

“Alright, you freaks,” you chuckle a little weakly, something tugging at your chest. “I just- I feel like we should say something,” you continue, voice low. As though you’re standing over a grave.

Wanda lifts an eyebrow. “An eulogy?”

Natasha, already about to strike the match, snorts. “A spell, more like.”

You ignore them. Or try to.

You reach down, pick up the hoodie. Hold it in your hands as though it still is something important to you. You hate that. And it’s ridiculous because he once wore this while spilling bean dip all over your white couch and didn’t even apologize.

Still, you hesitate.

“I mean,” you go on, voice small, “is this crazy? Like, should I be processing this more healthily?”

Natasha tosses the match into the bowl with all the ceremony of a seasoned arsonist. “This is healthy,” she says lowly. “You’re purging. This is emotional detox.”

Wanda nods. “Also, we brought marshmallows.”

You stare.

She lifts a grocery bag. “In case the fire gets big enough.”

You want to protest. To say something sensible. Something like, this surely is illegal, or this is definitely going to attract attention, or rooftop gardens are not structurally designed for bonfires. But instead, you sigh. Pick up one of the letters. Hold it above the flames that are just beginning to flicker.

“I hope he can feel this from wherever he’s ghosting people now.”

The paper catches as though it was waiting for this moment. As though it has always wanted to be free of the nonsense inked into it.

Wanda claps softly. “To ashes.”

“To cleansing,” Natasha adds, sipping her wine while watching you in satisfaction.

You pick up the mug next. Look at it one last time, the painted letters mocking you with their ceramic certainty. Then you chuck it into the trash can. The sound it makes - crack, splinter, dead - is gratifying in a way therapy can’t afford to be.

Your therapist would say this is unhealthy.

Your landlord would say this is grounds for eviction.

Your heart says burn all of it to ashes.

You sit back. Watch as the fire grows bolder, licking up the fabric of his old hoodie. The smoke rises in ribbons, curling around the string lights above and the half-dead succulents in your rooftop sanctuary.

The flames kill fabric, memories, and lies. For a few seconds, it’s cathartic.

You feel free, weirdly, relaxing in your seat. Powerful. Slightly unhinged.

Wanda lets out a feral scream and throws in a pair of his socks.

Natasha sips wine straight from the bottle, smirking.

You’re laughing. Or crying. Or both.

Then there is a crackle.

A pop.

“Is it supposed to make that sound?” Wanda asks, a little too casually.

Natasha shades her eyes with her hand. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you repeat. There’s dread in your voice. A sweet, rising note of oh no I didn’t sign up for actual consequences.

“The candle wax spilled,” Natasha states, calm.

“Why was there wax?” you ask, less calm.

“I thought it would smell nice. Vanilla coconut. Seasonal.”

Wanda leans forward. “Um.”

The fire gets bigger.

It gets way bigger.

The flames lap - ever so enthusiastically - at the rim of the metal bin and start talking to the wind and now the wind is flirting back and suddenly this has escalated into something biblical.

“Uh,” you let out.

“Don’t panic,” Wanda says, panicking.

“I am panicking,” you shout, slapping at a spark that just landed on your blanket as though it’s a bug from hell.

Natasha grabs the fire extinguisher from Wanda after she only fumbles around with the handle.

Wanda holds out her wine as though it might help.

You just stare at the roaring column of flame that used to be your dignity and think you should have just blocked Nolan like a normal person.

“Should I call someone?”

“I mean,” Natasha says, still somewhat calm, brushing ash from her robe, “probably-”

Wanda does it for you.

You hear her muttering into her phone, giving your apartment number like it’s a confession while fanning the smoke with a pizza box.

And you sit there with that sinking, desperate feeling that comes only from realizing you made a terrible life choice, and you’re about to pay for it in paperwork and possibly a visit from the landlord.

The air is full of smoke and regret and singed hoodie.

At least his cologne no longer stings in your nose.

You fan the flames uselessly with a throw pillow and silently pray the neighbors of you three are too busy binge-watching reality TV to notice that the building might be on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

All you wanted was to burn some memories. Some manipulative words. A tiny, hoodie-shaped piece that saw you cry on two separate birthdays. The hoodie that watched you fall asleep restlessly on couches that weren’t yours. The hoodie he left behind as though it meant nothing, as though you meant nothing.

So now you are holding a pillow with shaking hands and a mouthful of second guesses, standing over a metal bin on your rooftop, trying not to make eye contact with the fire as it gets uglier.

And Natasha doesn’t seem to know how to use a fire extinguisher either, bits of foam leaving it, like tiny sprinkles.

You try to help with your blanket. The one with the flowers on it.

They start faintly.

The sirens.

Growing louder.

Like judgment. Or fate. Or the consequences of impulsively burning your romantic history without a permit.

That sound, loud and authoritative and promising rescue, bounces off the buildings and down alleyways like a soundtrack written just for your mental breakdown.

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm starts wailing as though even it can’t handle the drama.

You hear the brakes of the fire truck before you see it. Hear the way they hiss and groan against the street as though the truck is just as tired of cleaning up after emotionally unstable civilians as you are of being one.

You lean over the ledge of the roof, peering down like Rapunzel mid-crisis, and there it is.

Big. Red. Serious.

Three firemen step out. Their silhouettes are backlit by flashing lights. You feel, absurdly, as though you’re in a heist film. Or a rom-com. Or a public service announcement.

One of them is talking into a radio.

One of them is already unloading equipment.

And one of them is looking up.

At you.

He squints. Cocks his head slightly. Takes you in.

A moment later, they’re clomping up the stairs, boots loud against the old steel.

The door to the rooftop bursts open.

You are trying very hard to look like someone who has not created a situation requiring professional intervention. But you know it’s not working.

You expect seriousness. Gruffness and unamused men, middle-aged with a mustache and a strong opinion on smoke detectors.

But the men walking onto your rooftop are none of that.

There is a blond one. Tall. Built like the world’s most polite oak tree.

Another one is smiling. Smirking. Radiating fun uncle energy despite the full turnout gear.

And the last one. He’s tall and broad and also wears the full gear - helmet tucked under one arm, soot-smudged gloves on the other - and still, he manages to look as though he walked off the set of a calendar shoot titled America’s Hottest Emergency. He’s the one who looked up at you from below.

“Evening, ladies,” he says, voice low and a little raspy, as though he chews gravel for breakfast but politely wipes his mouth after.

His eyes are blue. Clear. Kind.

His gear fits him as though it was pressed in heaven.

He’s calm. Collected. He glances once at the smoking bin, then at Natasha holding a fire extinguisher as though it might double as a weapon, then back at you.

“This the source?”

His voice is deep and even and somehow gentle. He gestures toward the bin, that’s now doing its best impersonation of a forge. The fire’s down to a few stubborn flames now, black smoke rising into the sky.

“Yes,” you answer, after what is definitely too long a pause.

His name tag says Barnes.

His uniform is clean and neat and slightly smudged at the knees. His hands are gloved. His expression is unreadable.

“We take it from here,” says the blond with the tag Rogers, already moving toward the bin.

“We’ve got a call about open flame, potential spread. You ladies okay?” Barnes speaks up again.

You open your mouth.

Wanda opens her mouth.

Natasha gets there first.

“It was controlled.”

He raises an eyebrow. Glances at the still-smoldering hoodie, the wine, the melted candle that now looks as though it’s auditioning for a horror movie.

“It was semi-controlled,” she clarifies.

Barnes exchanges a glance with his colleague, the one dousing the final embers. The patch on his jacket says Wilson.

“Uh-huh,” he simply lets out, though there is a hint of amusement in his tone. He doesn’t laugh. But his eyes sparkle as though he wants to.

You want the ground to open up and swallow you. You want to disappear, evaporate into smoke like the hoodie, the letters, the relationship, your pride.

You clear your throat.

Barnes already turns back to you. And oh. Oh.

His intense gaze is doing things to you.

And it doesn’t help that your face probably is covered in soot and existential shame.

“Just out of curiosity,” Bucky says slowly, a small tug at the corner of his mouth. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

Natasha folds her arms.

“Therapy,” she responds, as though it’s obvious. “We were doing therapy.”

“With fire?” Wilson chimes in, skeptical and mildly delighted.

“Had a rough night,” Wanda offers suddenly. “Her ex. Real piece of work.”

You inhale sharply. “Wanda,” you warn, wobbling with the effort to appear dignified while wearing fuzzy socks and an aggressively red bathrobe that’s slowly coming untied.

“No, he was,” she insists. “He lied. Manipulated her. Ghosted her after a year of dating. Said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, for commitment, and whatnot, and then got engaged. Two weeks later. To someone who doesn’t even like dogs.”

You see Barnes wince.

“Damn,” Wilson lets out.

You close your eyes for a moment.

The rooftop is very still, save for the hiss of water on ashes.

Barnes doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at you. Measures you.

“That’s rough.” His voice comes low. Even. However, there is more to it.

You nod once. You’re not sure what else to say.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. He looks as though he wants to say something else. Something a little softer. But the blond speaks up.

“Next time you feel like getting rid of things,” he says, voice sympathetic, but firm, “might want to try a donation bin.”

Natasha smirks. “Not as satisfying.”

Roger’s lips twitch. Just barley. “Well, if you’re going to keep burning stuff, maybe give us a heads-up next time.”

You just want to be swallowed by something. The earth maybe while we’re at it.

Bucky’s eyes are soft. Subtle. Like watching an iron door swing open just a crack.

“Did it help, though?” he asks, seeming sincere.

You blink.

You certainly didn’t expect a question like that. You might have expected teasing. Or mockery. Not gentleness. Understanding. As though he stood where you are. As though maybe he tried to burn his past too.

You nod, a little shyly. “A little.”

The fire has now been extinguished. Wilson and Rogers share a few words, poking the ashes with a metal rod.

And Bucky still looks at you as though you are not ridiculous. As though you are not ash-streaked and emotionally unstable.

Then he clears his throat. Smiles a slow, crooked, criminally charming smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you want to confess things. Dreams. Secrets. Your social security number.

“Well,” he starts smoothly. “Fire’s out. No citation this time, but maybe go easy on the candle sacrifices.”

You feel something in your chest flutter. Or combust. Honestly, hard to tell at this point.

You want to thank him. You want to say something easy. But you are still a hot, melted candle of a person yourself.

So instead, you nod. “Okay,” you promise, voice rather small.

He tips an imaginary hat. Then turns back to his team. Taps his helmet once against his leg and gives the others a low command you can’t hear.

The moment is over. Clean-up begins. The fire is out. The chaos is settling.

But for some reason, your heart is still making noise.

****

Time doesn’t tiptoe.

It lumbers, loud and unbalanced, dragging itself across your days with all the grace of a wounded elephant.

But still, it moves. And you start to feel like yourself again. Piece by piece.

You sweep the ash out of your ribcage. You remember what it feels like to listen to music without flinching. To laugh and mean it. To make pasta at two in the morning just because you want to. To exist without waiting for the next disappointment.

It’s enough for you to walk barefoot again without stepping on invisible landmines disguised as memory - his coffee mug, his toothbrush, his phone charger, his smell stuck to your pillowcase like grief with a cologne subscription.

But all of that is gone now. Burned.

Literally.

Charcoal in a rooftop bin. Ashes scattered to the wind like bad omens. The hoodie’s gone. Melted into memory. Along with the notes, the tickets, the Polaroid of the two of you at that Halloween party where he said he loved you for the first time with sugar on his lips and a lie in his mouth.

You’re better now.

And on a Thursday, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells of Wanda’s lemon detergent and safety, your head in Wanda’s lap, legs draped over Natasha’s thighs, all of you filled with late breakfast and post-shower hair and the warm, sleepy glow of late morning.

Wanda is ranting about her dream journal. She always tries to analyze her dreams for some reason.

“But I was a tree, Y/n,” she’s saying, balancing a mug on your shoulder. “An emotional tree. I cried leaves.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “That’s tracks.”

You hum amused. “You’ve always been sympathizing with nature, Wan.”

Wanda points her spoon at you as though it’s a wand. “You get it. Nature is screaming and I hear her.”

A worn novel lay on your shins on Natasha’s lap, cracked open. But she’s been on the same page for twenty minutes. You think she’s listening more than she lets on.

The apartment smells of roasted bread. The sun is slanting in through the windows just right - those lazy golden stripes that make even your chipped coffee table look cinematic.

“Do you think he knows?” you voice after a silent moment.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Knows what?”

“That I burned his stuff?”

Wanda hums, carding her fingers through your hair. “Don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter if he knows. The universe knows. That’s enough.”

You glance at the windows. You wonder if the hoodie screamed when it caught fire. You hope it did.

“Honestly,” you say around a handful of cereal, voice lighter, “burning that stuff was the healthiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Natasha smirks. “Aside from therapy.”

“Obviously.”

“And cutting your bangs.”

“That was a journey.”

Wanda lifts her mug. “To combustion and personal growth.”

You clink your cereal box against her cup. “Amen.”

There were, of course, consequences. A polite but stern letter from the landlord. An eye-roll of a fine from the city. For future ceremonial burnings, please contact the fire department in advance, it read.

But it was worth it.

Every last spark.

There’s a comfort here, in the clutter, in the way time is moving again. Not fast, not smooth, but forward. You’ve started reading books again. You’ve stopped stalking his Instagram. Well, mostly.

“You seem about a few steps away from writing a memoir called How to Set Men on Fire (and Still Make It to Brunch)” Natasha muses.

“I’d buy that,” Wanda immediately chimes in.

You snort.

Outside, someone yells at their dog. A siren shrieks in the far-off distance like an unfinished thought. Your apartment smells of burnt toast and coffee grounds, and it’s home.

You’re okay.

Almost.

And then the fire alarm goes off.

It screams. A wailing, shrieking, banshee of a sound, as though the building is having a panic attack and wants you to join in. Lights flash. The walls vibrate. Your soul tries to exit your body.

Wanda’s spoon hovers in the air.

Natasha glances at the ceiling with an unimpressed look.

You feel your pulse do a little skip. Not in a full panic. But a creeping suspicion unfurls behind your ribs.

Natasha is already standing, moving, with the efficiency of a woman who’s never been surprised in her life.

“Is this us?” Wanda asks, voice high and uncertain. She looks around your shared apartment. “Did we- was it the oven?”

You bolt upright. “Nothing’s in the oven.”

“Well then who-”

“I swear I didn’t light anything.” You raise your hands.

“Well, I didn’t either,” Wanda insists.

“Doesn’t smell like us,” Natasha says, sniffing the air like a human smoke detector.

But none of that matters because the building has made a decision and that decision is everyone out now.

You’re still sitting. You’re in pajamas. You all are. And not the cute kind either. The kind that suggests you’ve been crying into a tub of ice cream while watching documentaries about whales. The kind with ducks on the pants and a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big and maybe has a mustard stain from Tuesday.

You hear doors opening. Feet on stairs. Someone is yelling about their cat.

Natasha grabs her phone and keys. “Let’s go before it turns into the Hunger Games.”

You move. Slowly.

You’ve made your peace with fire, sure - but only the kind you start on purpose. Symbolic. Controlled. Supervised by emotionally repressed firefighters with sharp jaws and suspicious amounts of upper body strength.

But this is unexpected.

This is the kind of thing that sends a hot flood of unease down your spine, because what if the universe is laughing at you again? What if you are, yet again, being punished for trying to let go?

You follow Wanda and Natasha out the door.

The hallway is bright with flashing lights - red, urgent. The sound is louder out here. So loud it makes your teeth vibrate. You can’t tell if it’s coming from your floor or somewhere above, but there’s a smell this time. Faint, sharp, ugly. Plastic and heat and something bitter curling in the air.

There’s a river of bathrobes and sweatpants and panicked neighbors. The stairwell smells like old takeout and anxiety. A toddler is crying. Someone’s dog is barking. A woman herds two cats into a carrier with shaking hands.

Mr. Feldman from 3B is arguing with someone on speakerphone about whether he unplugged the coffee maker, and you think the fire alarm might actually be the least chaotic sound happening right now.

“Was this us?” you repeat Wanda’s question, a little unsure, as you file down the stairs like middle-class refugees.

“No,” Natasha mutters coolly. “But I’m still blaming you.”

You clutch the railing and follow, ducking your head, trying not to make eye contact with any of your neighbors as your duck-printed pajama pants flap dramatically behind you.

You shouldn’t care. No one looks good during evacuation. And Wanda and Natasha look the same.

And yet. Your heart is doing something strange again.

It isn’t panic. It is expectation.

Your chest knows something your brain refuses to name.

At the bottom of the stairwell, someone holds the door open and you all spill into the daylight. The whole building is out now, buzzing like bees, people muttering and shielding their eyes.

You breathe in. Sharp. Cool. You try to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.

Smoke - real and thick - drifts from one of the kitchen windows on the fourth floor.

The crowd shifts around you - barefoot neighbors, a couple wrapped in matching bathrobes, one guy in boxers and cowboy boots holding a microwave. Someone brought their goldfish out in a bowl.

You stand near the hedges with Natasha on one side, arms crossed, and Wanda on the other, biting a fingernail and muttering something about how she definitely turned off the stove.

And then - like something out of a fever dream or a scene you didn’t realize you were still starring in - you hear it.

The sirens.

Louder this time. Close.

You freeze.

Wanda gives you a side-eye.

Natasha is already smirking. Already watching the street like a woman with a secret.

There’s a rumble. A hiss. The low growl of something inevitable.

And there it is.

The truck.

Big. Glossy red. Familiar. Like a mouth ready to swallow your dignity whole. Lights flash, the crew leaps down, gear gleams in the late morning light.

Fife firefighters fan out with mechanical movements. Their boots hit the pavement.

And one of them is Barnes.

He swings out of the cab with the ease of someone who does this for a living, the kind of grace that comes from muscle memory and a thousand repetitions.

Helmet under one arm. Radio clipped to his shoulder. That same uniform hugging his frame beautifully, as though even his clothes know how lucky they are.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s too busy scanning the building, hollering orders. Wilson and Rogers follow behind, already moving. You watch them as though this is a movie.

Barnes is all lines and velocity. His body moves as though he doesn’t need to think, as though instinct lives in his spine. The heavy jacket makes his shoulders look even broader, the suspenders visible where the coat parts, and everything about him suggests competence with a capital C. He’s not just handsome, he’s horrifyingly capable.

Your mouth is dry.

His eyes sweep the crowd.

And then he sees you.

He stops. Only for a second. His face changes.

You wish you had the words to explain it, to bottle it, to pin it down like a butterfly under glass. It’s not surprise exactly.

It’s something softer. Smaller. Recognition.

His eyes travel down your frame like a soft inventory. Not lewd, not invasive. Just checking to make sure you’re still whole.

Your whole body wants to shrink into itself like an accordion. You are in duck pajama pants. You have mascara from yesterday smeared beneath one eye and your socks don’t match and you have nothing to use as a shield against judgment.

Barnes doesn’t say anything as he walks past your cluster, but his gaze brushes yours again. A flicker. Like a note passed under the table. You feel it in your spine.

And then he’s gone, slipping into the building.

The door swings closed behind him.

And your whole body forgets what it was doing.

The tall blond and another man whose name tag you’re not able to make out follow him, shouting something into the radio as they rush through the front doors. Wilson stays near the truck, communicating with a woman in a blazer. Another circles the building’s exterior, already unraveling the hose in a way that feels choreographed.

Wanda exhales beside you. “Okay but why do I feel like I need to sit down.”

Natasha keeps smirking. “Girl’s not even on fire and he still looked like he wanted to carry her out bridal style.”

You don’t answer. You pretend not to hear them. You’re too busy trying to teach your lungs how to work.

A woman nearby is having a loud conversation with her parrot in a travel cage. An older man keeps pointing at the sky and saying something about chemtrails.

Across the street, a woman with curlers in her hair cradles a barking Pomeranian. A man in flannel pajama bottoms is life-streaming on Instagram, offering uninformed commentary like, “Yeah, looks like they’re going in hot. You seen that one dude? That’s the captain. I think. Or maybe the lieutenant? I don’t know, he’s got the vibe.”

But you are watching the front door.

Five minutes pass. Maybe ten. It feels like too long. You chew the inside of your cheek until it tastes of metal.

Then the door opens again.

Barnes steps out first.

He’s holding a cat.

A full-grown orange tabby against his chest. It meows furiously but stays nestled against his jacket, one paw resting just under his collarbone.

The crowd parts for him as though he is Moses with a fireproof jacket.

“Oh would you look at that,” Wanda whispers delighted. “A true hero.”

You inhale through your nose. It doesn’t help.

You continue watching how he walks across the street and hands the cat to a sobbing teenage girl who is engulfed in a comforter and clutching the fabric with trembling hands. He squats in front of her. Saying something. Something soft, gentle, reassuring. And she laughs through her tears. You watch her nod. You watch her wipe her face with her sleeve.

You want to ask what he said.

You want to ask a thousand things.

But mostly, you want to stand still in this feeling a little longer.

It’s something shaped like interest, tilted toward longing, balanced on the lip of something you never expected to feel just yet.

“Just smoke from a toaster,” one of the other firefighters calls out. His name tag says Torres. “No damage. False alarm.”

The neighbors sigh. Groan. Someone claps.

You still can’t look away from him.

He stands again. And then there’s another glance.

His posture is relaxed now. The light hits the silver of his belt buckle and makes your eyes squint. A breeze picks up and he runs a hand through his hair.

God, he looks human in a way that makes you forget you’re made of skin and not glass.

People are filing back into the building, muttering about smoke detectors and building codes, their faces pulled into various expressions of relief, annoyance, and boredom.

You’re still on the curb.

The sirens have stopped. The smoke has thinned.

And then suddenly, Barnes turns. Starts walking. Straight toward you.

Your pulse is pounding as though the building is about to fall.

You pull your sleeves over your hands because it’s all you can do with them.

You’re staring at a crack in the pavement. One that branches like lightning across the sidewalk. One you’ve never noticed before, though you must have stepped over it a hundred times. It looks like something trying to split open, as though even the concrete is tired of pretending.

You look up and he’s already halfway to you.

He is walking as though he means to. Not rushing, but not wandering, either.

He’s got his jacket slung over one shoulder this time, sloppily, as though he forgot it mattered. The suspenders are still visible, stretched over a plain navy shirt that shouldn’t be as flattering as it is. His gloves are tucked in the crook of his elbow. The radio clipped to his belt is crackling with static and shorthand codes, but he doesn’t reach for it. A smudge of soot streaks his jaw like a shadow of what he just walked through.

His boots are heavy, but his steps aren’t. His eyes are on you.

He walks like someone who isn’t thinking too hard about where he’s going but definitely knows where he wants to stop.

You blink twice. Your heartbeat forgets what tempo it’s supposed to be playing.

Natasha says nothing, but you feel her lean imperceptibly to the side, just out of the line. Wanda pretends to scroll on her phone, though the screen is black and upside down.

There is still the faint scent of smoke in the air. But his scent cuts through it - soap, metal, something warm and masculine that probably shouldn’t make your knees wobble, but does.

You consider digging a hole in the sidewalk and folding yourself into it like a collapsible chair.

But you don’t. You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

And then he’s there. Right there.

Boots planted on pavement. A hair’s breadth too close for casual, a hair’s breadth too far for intentional.

You look up at him.

He looks down at you.

“Well,” he starts, rough voice, but you see a twitch of amusement in his mouth that seeps warmly into his tone, “this isn’t gonna turn into a habit, is it?”

Your pulse makes poor decisions. You forget every single word you’ve ever learned in any language, including your native one.

A corner of his mouth quirks up further. “Because if it is, I’m gonna start thinking you just like havin’ us over.”

You find scratches of your voice somewhere in your throat. “Wasn’t us this time, gladly,” you say, a bashful and breathless laugh fleeing your lips. You turn to Natasha and Wanda for a moment but it seems they expect you to lead this conversation.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, tilting his head. “Had me worried for a second. Fire call, same building. Whole lotta commotion. Coulda been you tryin’ to burn something again.” His tone holds a teasing edge. His eyes are glinting.

You cringe. “Right. Sorry about that, again.”

A smile breaks fully across his face - slowly, as if it’s deciding whether it’s allowed to exist. It changes his whole face. Brightens him, somehow. As though there is a light inside his chest and someone just flipped the switch.

“Ah, no worries. S’ what we’re here for,” he rumbles, amused but soft.

He’s still smiling. Still watching you with that calm, unreadable focus that makes you feel as if you’re standing under a magnifying glass, but not in a cruel way.

“Name’s Bucky, by the way,” he says, like a gift.

You stare. “Sorry, what?”

He smiles wider. “My name. Bucky. Captain Barnes, technically, but Bucky’s fine. You know, in case you decide to burn anything again and want a direct line.”

Your mouth parts.

“Oh,” is all that comes out. Brilliantly. Eloquently. Like a poet in the throes of emotional ruin.

Bucky chuckles softly, a little small. Then scratches the back of his neck.

“I, uh-” he starts, then stops. Then shifts his weight a little. “I didn’t get your name last time.”

You study the smudge on his ridiculously handsome face. The square of his jaw. The lashes too long for fairness. The scar, faint and silvery, placed just under his left eye like a comma he forgot to erase.

You tell him your name.

His smile deepens when he hears it. Grows softer. He repeats it once, quietly, as though he is trying it out. You wish he wouldn’t do that. You wish he’d do it again.

“Well,” he notes, glancing down at the pavement, then back at you. “Nice to meet you officially. Under slightly less dramatic circumstances.”

You smile. “Slightly.”

There is a beat. A quiet one. His eyes flicker down your frame and back up - quick, respectful, but curious. You swear he clocks the fact that your hands are shaking a little.

He rebalances, a ripple passing down his spine to his heels. “You okay, though? Really?”

You nod, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. “Yeah, we’re okay. It’s a relief that it was only a false alarm. And it wasn’t us.”

You gesture lamely at the girls. Wanda waves with exactly one finger. Natasha stands there with the corner of her mouth tugged up smugly. She barely nods.

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you.

It’s not overt. Not predatory or invasive. But it’s not nothing, either. Just direct.

He nods slowly. As though your answer passed inspection.

“You girls all live together?”

You nod again, teeth catching the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. All three of us. Since last spring.”

He hums. Doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t look at Natasha. Doesn’t look at Wanda.

Just you.

“Good,” he says finally. “That’s good. You’ve got backup.”

You smile, tentatively. “They’re alright.”

“Sure are,” Natasha deadpans.

Wanda throws a heart at you with her hands.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle a little at the edges. You want to bottle that look. Hide it in your drawer. Peek at it when the day is quiet and you forget what warmth feels like.

A pause.

You think maybe that’s it. Maybe he’ll tip his head, excuse himself, go back to his team. That would make sense. That would be the responsible, professional thing to do.

Instead, he points to your pants. “Nice ducks, by the way.”

You stare at him. You absolutely, completely stare.

Natasha makes a pretty unattractive snorting sound behind you.

Wanda is suddenly very interested in retying her shoelaces.

“Thanks,” you manage. “They’re vintage.” You hope you sound less embarrassed than you feel.

He lets out a rumbling laugh.

Then the tall blond calls his name. Rogers. Sharp. Quick. Business.

Bucky turns, lifts a hand in acknowledgment. “Duty calls.”

He takes a step backward, but his eyes stay on yours a second too long.

And then he winks. It’s absurd. It’s illegal. It’s completely unnecessary.

“It was nice seeing you again.”

Then he walks back to the truck. Climbs in.

The engine roars. The lights flash once more for good measure. The truck eases into the street, and he is gone.

But you don’t move.

You just stand there, blinking into the smoke-tinged sunlight, your names still hanging between you.

You roll his name around in your head like a stone you’re not ready to skip.

Wanda steps up beside you, peering after the truck. She sighs like a Victorian ghost. “I love that you didn’t blink that entire time.”

“I blinked,” you grumble.

“You didn’t,” Natasha confirms flatly.

You inhale deeply.

Wanda grins. “So, what are we going to burn next.”

You exhale. Laugh, light and shocked and a little bit lost.

And you don’t answer.

But you’ve never wanted to set something on fire so badly, just to see if he’d come back.

****

You don’t want to go.

Not even a little. Not even at all.

You say it with your whole chest, with your arms crossed and your face stuffed into the corner of the couch cushion.

Wanda is painting her toenails on the coffee table. “Come one. It’ll be fun.”

Natasha doesn’t look up from her phone. “It’s good for team bonding.”

“Team bonding?” you squeak. “What are we, a softball league?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m just saying. If there’s ever another toaster incident, I’d rather not die because you were emotionally incapacitated by a bread product.”

You groan into the pillow.

Wanda and Natasha signed you up for a fire safety class.

And you’re terrified.

Because it’s been weeks since you saw him last. Weeks since the smoke, and the heat, and the stupid lingering eye contact. Since he said your name as though he meant to keep it in his mouth for a while.

And you know - because your spine told you before your brain caught up - you know Bucky Barnes is going to be there.

You know this because Wanda knows things, and Natasha forces things into being.

And yes, okay, you miss him. You do. You hate that you do. You met the guy two times and still, your heart folds a little at the sound of diesel engines, you started keeping your hair brushed and your lips soft just in case the universe decides to toss him back into your orbit.

But seeing him again would surely feel like touching a sunburn.

You don’t want to burn.

You don’t want to heal, either.

You want to stay in this in-between where you get to miss him quietly without having to do anything about it.

So naturally, you end up in a folding chair in the local fire station’s multi-purpose room at 6:59 pm on a Wednesday.

There is a faint scent of metal and ash in the air. The kind that stays on walls no matter how many layers of institutional paint try to hide it. The overhead fluorescents are buzzing as though they are irritated by your presence. A series of old community flyers hang crookedly by the entrance. One says Stop, Drop, and Roll Your Way Into Preparedness! with a cartoon Dalmatian smiling as if it has secrets.

And although you would rather perish than admit it to your best friends, you came prepared.

You’ve been preparing for this moment the way some people prepare for court trials or emotionally complex family dinners.

You know the difference between a Class A and Class B fire.

You know the ideal temperature range from smoke detectors to function.

You know that a grease fire should never be doused with water and that lots of people don’t find this fact to be obvious.

You even practiced saying pull, aim, squeeze, sweep in a tone of detached casual interest while brushing your teeth last night.

Because you thought maybe if he sees you as competent, as calm, as someone who doesn’t panic around fire or men with broad shoulders, then maybe he’d-

You don’t finish the thought.

Because it’s dangerous.

Because although you didn’t agree to go here, you technically didn’t say no, which Natasha argued was basically a signed contract in this household and Wanda only hummed from the kitchen while printing out the registration forms.

Because your stomach flipped when Wanda said his name earlier. Because it flips every time. It still flips now.

Because you think about him too much. And you know you shouldn’t.

You’ve been doing well. Truly, objectively, almost scientifically well. You burned the things of your ex. You deleted his number. You ignored the last two texts, even when they got mean. You ignored phone calls from anonymous numbers because you knew he had his ways of reaching you. You told yourself it was done.

But it was Wanda who said it last night, curled into your couch with her knees tucked under your blanket and sympathy as well as concern in her eyes.

“He’s going to keep trying, you know. That kind of man always does. The trick is to stop listening before he gets loud enough to convince you you’re still his.”

You didn’t say anything then.

But now, sitting here, hands tucked under your thighs, ankles crossed awkwardly, the words feel like something still echoing inside your chest.

You’re trying not to sweat through your light sweater, trying not to pull at your sleeves as though you are twelve again and back in gym class, trying very hard not to imagine what it’s going to feel like when he walks in.

Bucky.

God, even his name feels like a bruise you keep poking on purpose.

“Just relax,” Wanda eases from beside you, all calm and legs crossed and sipping her chamomile tea in a travel mug she smuggled in as though it’s not against the rules. “It’s just a class.”

“And not just any,” Natasha adds sultry, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder with the kind of confidence you’re not able to possess at the moment. “It’s fire safety. You’ll learn to stop, drop, and roll, and make eye contact with your future husband.”

You turn to look at her. “I hate you.”

She nods. “But in a sexy, grateful way.”

You sigh. Cross your arms. Chew on the edge of your thumbnail and silently negotiate with god.

And then he walks in.

You feel him before you see him. Like gravity shifting. Like a magnetic field drawing your molecules to the surface of your skin.

Bucky Barnes steps through the doorway in a dark navy station polo, sleeves hugging his biceps with zero regard for your emotional stability. His uniform is not the big, intimidating, soot-stained kind with suspenders and the heavy boots and the sense that something is burning. This is the community outreach uniform. His dark hair is swept back but a little tousled, as though maybe he was in a rush. There is a clipboard under one arm, a radio attached to his belt, and he looks like competence in human form.

You exhale as though you’ve been underwater.

The entire class - about twelve people in total - turn to look at him as though they’ve never seen a firefighter before in their lives. There are a few women in yoga pants, a very enthusiastic grandpa, one teenager who looks as though he was dragged here as punishment, and a few genuinely interested looking men.

He doesn’t see you right away. He’s scanning the front row, muttering something to one of the other firefighters - Danvers, her name tag reads, a straight-standing, no-nonsense woman with a kind smile. She looks as though she could carry a refrigerator up a mountain, and you sink further into your chair.

Wanda leans into your space. “I can basically hear your ovaries-”

“Shut up,” you grit out, feeling as though you might melt into the fabric of the chair beneath you.

Bucky scans the room, nods a polite greeting.

And then he sees you.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

It’s not dramatic. Not some cinematic double-take.

It’s worse. It’s soft.

His eyes catch yours and he smiles. Just a small curve of the lips. But it’s tender. Not performative. Not polite.

Your heart cartwheels straight out of the window.

You try to smile back but you’re pretty sure what happens on your face is chaotic.

Wanda makes a sound into your ear that can only be described as a squeal disguised as a cough. Natasha looks far too smug.

Bucky turns back to the room as though nothing happened. As though he hasn’t just detonated something in your bloodstream.

But he does stand a little straighter. Taller. Composed.

Then he claps his hands once, enough to bring the room to attention. As though he didn’t already have all eyes on him.

“Alright, folks,” he begins, voice even and low and warm enough to steep tea in. “Thanks for showing up. I’m Bucky, this is Carol. We’re going to run through some fire safety basics tonight. Shouldn’t take too long. Might even be fun.”

He grins now, looking around, landing just short of you this time.

You are a molecule. You are made of panic and possibility.

“But,” he speaks up, adjusting the clipboard. His voice is still doing that low rumble thing, like warm honey poured over rock. “Before I start throwing a bunch of information at you, I wanna know where everyone’s at. What you know, what you don’t, if anyone’s set anything on fire recently - accident or otherwise.”

His gaze snaps to you for just a second.

Your face bursts into flames.

Natasha and Wanda both lean in sideways and you shut them both up with a glare.

Bucky paces slowly across the room as he talks, like someone stretching his legs, taking his time. He gestures toward the group with a nod.

“Let’s start simple,” he continues. “Say your smoke alarm goes off in the middle of the night. What’s the first thing you do?”

Silence.

A few people shift in their seats. One woman raises her hand. “Grab my purse?”

“Put on pants?” remarks one of the guys.

Bucky smiles. “Valid. But not ideal.”

You raise your hand, heart thudding. Bucky raises an eyebrow, facing you fully and nodding at you.

“Check the door for heat before opening it,” you say, voice clearer than expected. “Use the back of your hand. If it’s hot, find an alternate escape route. It not, open it slowly and stay low.”

Bucky grins. It’s real and blinding. Pulling up slowly, tugging at the corners of his mouth as though he forgot how good it feels to smile that way. A glint sparks in his eyes.

“Exactly,” he confirms, nodding. “Textbook.”

You smile back shyly before you can stop yourself.

Natasha exhales beside you as though she is watching a soap opera. “She’s showing off.”

“I’m so proud,” Wanda whispers, misty-eyed.

You ignore them both.

Bucky keeps going, asking questions you mostly end up answering.

And he keeps watching you. Keeps studying you. And every time he does, something tightens behind your ribs.

A woman behind you mutters something about you being a teacher’s pet, but you don’t care. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re trying to show him you learned from your mistakes.

And his eyes - blue and gentle and a little too amused - sparkle when you catch him glancing again. He ducks his chin once, as if to say you got me, and moves on to demonstrate how to deploy a fire extinguisher.

When he picks one up with two fingers as though it’s a soda can, several women gasp delighted.

Your skin prickles.

Natasha takes a slow sip of her coffee and watches you as though she is analyzing battlefield tactics.

When Bucky explains PASS - Pull, Aim, Squeeze, Sweep - you mouth the words along with him without meaning to.

He notices. You know he does.

There’s this almost smirk on his face.

And you can see the softness in his expression.

He talks through the basics - smoke alarms, evacuation plans, kitchen hazards. There are visuals. Charts. A slideshow. Wanda takes notes. Natasha twirls her pen like a knife.

You try to pay attention.

But your eyes keep drifting.

To him.

To the way he gestures with his hands. The way his fingers touch the edge of the table when he leans forward. The way he makes everyone laugh when he admits he once set off a fire alarm in the station trying to microwave a burrito on one of his first days.

He glances up when you laugh.

Your hands are fiddling with the fabric of your trousers. Your nerves are a concert hall. Every thought sounds loud inside your skull.

And when you think your heart might climb fully out of your throat, he turns back to the class. “Alright,” he announces, “now that we’ve scared you enough with PowerPoint, we’re gonna break into small groups and run a few practice drills. Let’s get into the fun part.”

A few people chuckle. One woman near the front giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder as though she’s about to audition for a shampoo commercial.

You look down at your shoes.

Wanda leans in. “Can you believe how hard she’s trying? That’s actually pathetic.”

“Shh.”

“She’s wearing heels. To a fire safety class. Who does she think she is?”

“Wanda-”

“I bet she-”

“Ladies,” Natasha interrupts, lazily observant. “We’re moving.”

You watch the people file out of the room to move to the next one.

And you want to die. Or melt. Or somehow escape through the vents like a cartoon ghost.

But you have no other choice than to get up.

Prepared. Composed. A little bit on fire.

And the first thing you notice is how warm the training hall is. Not uncomfortable, but undeniably warm, as though the air has been steeped in sunshine and engine oil and the memory of things burning. The industrial lights make a low sound above, a metallic echo rolling across the tall ceiling. The whole place smells faintly of rubber, extinguishing foam, and steel that’s been handled too many times.

The practice area is marked by orange cones and taped grids on the floor.

Bucky steps into the middle of it with a kind of slow-motion certainty that makes the floor feel as though it’s tilting gently toward him.

You watch the veins on his exposed forearms, mapping them like routes to forgotten cities.

He and Carol Danvers start with group demos. Together, they run through the basics again. People are listening, nodding, pretending they aren’t mostly watching him.

You are watching him too.

But you’re also pretending not to. A lifelong skill, fine-tuned by heartbreak.

“Now let’s try hands-on,” Bucky decides, setting down the extinguisher and glancing around. “We’ll split into smaller groups. Carol and I will come around and help out. Just don’t point the thing at your friends.”

Laughter, light and scattered.

People start pairing off. A trio of women - dressed as though they expected a photoshop - flutter toward Bucky with hopeful eyes and strategically slouched shoulders.

“Oh my god, I don’t get this at all,” one of them breathes.

The others are leaning slightly forward. “Me neither.”

Bucky doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t glance over at them. “Danvers, you good taking that group?”

Carol nods. “My pleasure.”

And Bucky walks away without another word.

Straight toward you.

Your hands are clammy.

He stops in front of your group.

“So,” he starts, eyes moving around you three before landing back on you and then on the prop extinguisher in Natasha’s hand. “Who wants to go first?”

Wanda elbows you so hard your soul might have been knocked out.

You step forward.

He hands you a fresh extinguisher, this one heavier than expected, and you try not to look as though it surprises you. He steps closer, one arm already reaching out to steady it when your grip fumbles. His hand brushes over yours. Warm. Firm. He doesn’t move away immediately.

He’s watching you. Smiling, slow, a little crooked.

“Just like that,” he mutters gently.

You are a marshmallow in a microwave.

“Okay,” he says gently, letting go slowly - painfully slowly. “Now I’m gonna walk you through it, all right?”

You nod. Words are impossible. Language is a memory. You’re not sure your legs exist anymore.

“P.A.S.S,” he says. “Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. Easy.”

You repeat the words in your head another time.

Behind you, someone clears their throat - loudly. It’s the shampoo commercial woman. You glance back and see her smiling up at Bucky as though she’s already sewn his name into a couple of throw pillows.

“Could you maybe show me next?” she asks, eyelashes fluttering like a wind turbine.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change.

“Carol?” he calls over his shoulder.

Carol looks up from her own demo station across the room. “Yeah?”

“Got one more for you.”

The woman visibly wilts.

Carol grins and waves her over.

Bucky turns back to you without missing a beat.

And maybe it’s your imagination but he’s standing just a little closer now.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod. Your grip tightens around the handle.

“Okay. First, pull the pin - here.” His hand finds yours again, fingers brushing over yours as he guides them toward the small metal piece near the top. It’s gentle. Confident. His breath is warm near your cheek, and you wonder if he always smells this good or if you’re hallucinating.

“Good. Now aim,” he instructs, voice lower now, not for any reason you can define. “Low, at the base of the fire. Like this.”

His arm brushes against yours as he shifts the nozzle, touching the outside of your elbow, guiding your arm as though you are made of delicate machinery.

“Then squeeze. Controlled, firm pressure.” His voice is deep. Soothing. Lulling.

He glances at you.

You do your best not to break out into a sweat.

Foam spurts out in a satisfying arc toward the mock flame target. He grins.

“Perfect,” he praises, and your breath stalls. “Last one, is sweep. Just like that.”

And he guides your hands - both of them - side to side, mimicking the motion.

You finish the drill. Exhale. Your hands tremble slightly, not from nerves. From the startling thrill of his proximity.

He steps back. You miss the warmth immediately.

“Nicely done,” he comments, and his voice is soft. Almost proud. “You did great. Handled it like a pro.”

You look away, flustered. Your fingers are tingling.

Wanda is making a face behind him as though she’s at a wedding. Natasha just raises one eyebrow.

“Thanks,” you say, and it comes out rather quiet.

Something churns in his face. A kind of satisfaction takes place.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but Carol calls from the front. “Barnes, we’re starting the fire blanket demo.”

He sighs.

And steps back.

“Alright, well,” he says, winking. Winking. “Don’t run off.”

As if you could.

As if your legs weren’t still made of goo and your brain wasn’t currently rebooting.

He walks away, and you feel every step like a loss.

You hadn’t thought you could feel like this again.

Not after him. Not after everything.

But here you are.

And Bucky Barnes just taught you how to put out a fire.

Still, your heart goes all up in flames.

“I am made for fire, for breaking and bending and healing in all the places that used to ache.”

- Nikita Gill

Part Two

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sweeterthan13 · 26 days ago

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i had to pause reading this to squeal because i was starting to think i was in flames. this was so well written and funny and heartwarming (😜) all at the same time. can’t wait for p2!!!!!!!!!!!