#Bucharest Chapters

[undyingdecay]

bucharest blues — 01

pairing: james buchanan (bucky) barnes x reader cw: mentions of violence, mention of disability (a character is deaf), sort fresh out of hydra bucky (just before civil war took place), eventually smut (not in this chapter), eventually violence, eventually drug use. a/n: i had no plans to post this, but it was sitting in my drafts so why not. depending on how it does, i may continue it

this had to be hell.

hell brought to earth — but in a way so personal, so surgically precise in its cruelty, that you began to wonder if it was crafted just for you. the kind of punishment not doled out in fire and brimstone, but in endless gray skies and streets slick with yesterday’s rain. was this karma?

you leaned against the wooden pillar beside you. careful not to put too much weight against it, lest a splinter find its way beneath your skin. the old woman who owned this rickety shop-home hadn’t sanded the wood in, well, maybe ever. it was the kind of place time forgot, where nothing new arrived unless it came in the back of a dented white truck with a cartoon cow on its side, grinning ear to ear like it hadn’t seen the slaughterhouse yet.

bucharest in winter could be beautiful, you supposed. if you squinted past the cracked sidewalks and graffiti-tagged alleyways, past the old churches with their stone faces weathered by centuries of rain and sorrow. but to you, it was less a city and more a purgatory — a place where sound went to die and people faded into themselves.

silence ruled here. not the kind of quiet you get in the lull before a storm, or in a church pew. no, this was the heavy kind. the kind that settles in your bones. it made you wonder if maybe silence wasn’t just the absence of sound, but the presence of something else entirely. a lingering, oppressive weight.

the tourists were sparse this time of year, which made your so-called job harder. less people meant fewer pockets to pick, fewer naive foreigners to overcharge for “freshly-picked local goods.” in truth, you had no real idea where any of it came from. every morning like clockwork, the same tired truck would rumble to a stop in front of the shop. same driver, same clipboard, same cartoon cow. the old woman, too frail and half-deaf, would wave you out to scrawl a name you weren’t even sure belonged to either of you.

you didn’t know her real name. nobody ever told you. the locals called her the little deaf girl in that shop when they spoke of her past — if they spoke of her at all. she had been all you’d known for as long as you could remember. a silent, sharp-eyed woman who communicated with curt hand gestures and smacks to the back of your head when you failed to pick up the alphabet in sign. you still hadn’t learned.

the crates in front of you were an uneven arrangement of bruised apples, plums, glass jars of god-knows-what preserves, and dusty glass bottles whose labels had long since faded. the goods themselves weren’t important. the game was. find a mark. spot the outsider. reel them in.

you scanned the passing faces. a woman dragging a child by the wrist while haggling with a jeweler — too much trouble. two men in round sunglasses, despite the cloudy sky. you rolled your eyes. no. not them.

and then you saw him.

“hey!” you called, cupping your hands around your mouth as though it would somehow make the sound sharper, carry farther.

he turned before the word even left your lips. like the syllable itself was a trigger. his head snapped toward you in a way that made the hairs on your arms stand. a soldier’s reflex. or something worse.

the man was built like a warhorse — broad-shouldered, thick through the chest, with long hair that brushed his jaw and a few days’ stubble along his sharp jawline. dark jeans, a black henley that clung to him like it had been made for his frame. but it was the gloves that caught your eye.

black leather, even in the chill. not the kind worn for fashion, but for necessity. for hiding something. a glimmer of old movies flickered through your mind — soldiers in war-torn cities, secret agents slipping through crowded streets. you didn’t know it yet, but you were staring at a ghost. not the white-sheet kind. the kind with blood under their nails and a thousand-yard stare.

you realized you were still staring.

and he was staring back.

his gaze was sharp, not wide-eyed or startled, but measuring. as if he was calculating a hundred things about you in a single heartbeat — how fast you could run, how loud you could scream, how easily you could disappear. you swallowed hard, the taste of metal and old fear heavy on your tongue.

this was not a tourist.

this was not someone you could sell dusty jars of pickled cherries to.

but you damn sure could try.

the money never went to you. never had. not a single crumpled bill or faded leu note ever found its way into your pockets. it went to the old woman in the sagging chair by the window upstairs, who counted every coin like she was still trying to win a game she didn’t even remember the rules to. but for her, anything was worth it. a sale was a small victory against the world’s indifference.

so you moved.

sweaty palms against frayed fabric as you left the stand unattended, weaving through the thin stream of passersby. a few curious glances flicked your way — not at you, but at him. because even in a city that saw its share of ghosts, this one stood out.

when you stopped in front of him, the world felt quieter somehow. like the air thickened between you, sound getting stuck somewhere in the space that separated your two chests. you’d never been superstitious, but some part of you whispered that if you said the wrong thing here, if you made the wrong move, your bones might be found in some alley three weeks from now, gnawed on by stray dogs.

god, if he killed you… who’d tell the old lady?

you forced yourself to breathe.

“would you like to buy any of our goods?” you asked, words tumbling out with a roughness you hadn’t intended. you turned partway, gesturing toward the stand as though it was something worth being proud of. “pickled cherries. apricot preserves. apples… a little bruised but still good.��

his gaze didn’t follow your hand.

didn’t look at the stand.

didn’t even blink.

he just looked at you. that unreadable stare — the kind of eyes that didn’t live here. didn’t belong to these streets, this time, this decade. you saw it then. the ghost of old wars. of a man who might’ve once walked with steve rogers on cold european battlefields, heard the whistle of artillery shells overhead, smelt blood in the mud.

the gloves shifted against his palms. black leather flexing faintly. a twitch, maybe. you wondered if it was nerves or habit or something worse.

his jaw tensed. a flicker of hesitation.

then, a word — low, rough, american.

“no.”

simple. final. like a verdict.

but something in the way he said it wasn’t unkind. it wasn’t sharp, or angry, or cruel. it was tired. the kind of no someone gave the world when they’d long since stopped wanting anything from it.

and yet, he didn’t move. didn’t walk away.

people like him didn’t stay in plain sight for long. you didn’t know his name, didn’t know the sins sewn into his skin, but you knew that. he should’ve left already. slipped away like smoke between buildings. but here he was.

there was a long, heavy second where neither of you spoke. the world around you blurred at the edges. the hum of a distant car radio. a child laughing two streets over. somewhere, a dog barked.

he finally let out a slow, almost soundless breath through his nose.

“you shouldn’t yell like that,” he said quietly, voice hoarse, like it hadn’t been used much in a long, long while. his eyes flicked to the corners of the street, the rooftops, the windows where curtains shifted a fraction too quickly. he didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“not safe.”

and with that, he turned.

started to walk away.

something in your gut turned to ice. not because you feared him — though you probably should have — but because you knew what that was. that wasn’t a threat. that wasn’t some local tough trying to scare a street kid. that was a warning from someone who understood how ugly the world could get, someone who’d seen it firsthand and was still carrying its weight. you could see it in his shoulders. the way he walked like a man who never let his back face an open room.

but it was a damn shame you never cared much for warning signs.

especially not when you hadn’t made a single damn sale all day.

not when she was counting on you, sitting up there by the window like a ghost of her own, waiting for the clink of coins in the old glass jar.

so you moved. quick steps. your heartbeat in your throat, the cold air biting at your skin. you caught up to him before your better judgment had time to scream what the hell are you doing?

and you grabbed his wrist.

a mistake.

the world tilted in a blink — faster than your eyes could follow. one moment your fingers brushed cold leather, the next his grip was around your wrist like iron. not painful, but firm. enough to tell you, without a word, that if he wanted, your bones could shatter like glass.

his head turned. that same look.

“one fruit,” you blurted, desperate now, voice cracking a little. “just one. apples. dragon fruit. plums—”

that one word seemed to catch him.

his eyes flickered, a subtle shift you might’ve missed if you weren’t already watching for something — anything. not a wide-eyed recognition, not some dramatic gasp. just a flicker. a memory, maybe. some shadow of a time before metal arms and cold rooms with flickering lights. a memory of simpler things.

plums.

you latched onto it.

“they’re good,” you said, softer now, sensing the tightrope you were on. “we don’t get them often. imported. little soft, but… sweet.”

a beat passed.

the street moved around you. life went on, as if it didn’t realize it was holding its breath.

and slowly, his hand loosened from your wrist. he didn’t move away. didn’t say anything.

you took a chance. “you don’t have to eat it. just… take one.”

for her.

for you.

for whatever stupid, stubborn part of you didn’t want to go home empty-handed again.

another beat.

and then, wordlessly, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin — old leu, worn thin from years of handling — and pressed it into your palm. his gloves brushed your skin. cold as hell.

he nodded, once.

a barely-there thing.

and turned away again.

not a word.

not a look back.

karma had to be real.

you didn’t believe in much — not saints or fate or any of those old bedtime stories the village grandmothers told in crumbling dialects over cracked cups of tea. but standing here now, stomach gnawing itself hollow, knuckles whitening around the wicker handle of a half-empty basket, you were damn sure something in the universe was watching and having a good laugh at your expense.

because there he was.

again.

the man from yesterday.

the one you’d harassed for a coin.

the one with the winter-gray eyes and the leather gloves and the presence that clung to him like a shadow no amount of daylight could chase off.

and now he was standing directly in front of the meat counter.

you stared. couldn’t help it. couldn’t seem to look away. he stood there, broad shoulders squared, watching the butcher weigh a few cuts of something red and marbled with fat. his hair was tied back this time — a messy, too-long knot at the nape of his neck. a few loose strands brushed his stubble-darkened jaw, and for some stupid, irrational reason, it made your throat go dry.

of course.

because it wasn’t enough for him to be intimidating — no, the bastard had to be hot, too.

your grip on the basket tightened, the frayed handle digging into the crease of your fingers. you should’ve turned around, ducked down another aisle, abandoned the meat and the stew and any shred of dignity you had left. the old woman would understand, right? you could almost hear yourself explaining it to her later:

‘sorry, couldn’t get the beef because the super hot guy i harassed for spare change was standing in front of it, and i didn’t feel like getting murdered in the frozen foods section.’

yeah.

that’d go over real well.

but your eyes drifted to him again, and this time you noticed it — the way his shoulders seemed too stiff, how his gaze darted up toward the mirror bolted into the corner of the shop ceiling, scanning the handful of people wandering the aisles. he was watching, not shopping. every inch of him looked like it wanted to disappear through the wall.

you should’ve let him.

should’ve minded your own business, grabbed a loaf of bread and called it a night. but something — stubbornness maybe, or that same reckless streak that’d made you grab his wrist earlier — kept your feet rooted to the cracked tile.

and before you could talk yourself out of it, your voice cut the stale air.

“hey.”

quiet this time. not a yell, barely a murmur, but somehow his head still turned.

those pale eyes landed on you, and for half a second you wished you’d swallowed your tongue.

he didn’t say anything. just waited.

you coughed, shifting your basket higher on your hip. “you, uh… never took your plum.”

a flicker in his expression. not a smile, not even a smirk, but something — a twitch of his brow, a tightening around his mouth. like he wasn’t sure whether you were trying to be funny or just terminally stupid.

“i didn’t want one,” he said, voice low and rough. the kind of voice that sounded like it hadn’t been used much lately. like maybe words felt heavier for him than most.

you shrugged, pretending your stomach wasn’t a mess of nerves. “didn’t say you had to want it. it’s already paid for. be a shame to let it rot.”

his gaze didn’t soften. didn’t harden either. just lingered on you a second longer than you expected. the butcher behind the counter said something in romanian, something about prices rising again, but neither of you moved.

you forced a lopsided grin. “not poison, if that’s what you’re thinking. promise. i mean—” you gestured at yourself with your free hand, “if i wanted you dead, probably wouldn’t have chased you down for pocket change.”

that earned you a breath — not quite a laugh, but a huff of something close to it. his eyes flicked to the front of the shop, then back to you. always watching the exits.

“you follow everyone you harass,” he muttered, the barest ghost of dry humor in his tone, “or just me?”

you blinked. then grinned, a real one this time. “only the ones built like tanks.”

a pause.

then, against all odds, he let out a quiet exhale that might’ve passed for amusement if you weren’t sure he was incapable of it.

“show me,” he said.

and for a moment you thought you’d misheard. but he was already moving, tucking his wrapped package under one arm, cutting through the narrow aisle with that same silent, predatory grace. you scrambled after him, basket bumping against your leg.

outside, the air hit colder than before, sinking teeth into your skin. the sun had dipped lower, the streets thinning of people. you could hear a dog barking somewhere, a distant radio playing a scratchy folk song.

you led him back toward the stand, heart hammering, wondering what the hell you were even doing. when you reached it, you plucked the best-looking plum from the pile — a little soft, sure, but still a deep, glossy purple — and held it out like a peace offering.

he stopped in front of you, staring down at it. didn’t take it right away.

you rolled your eyes. “c’mon. it’s not gonna bite you.”

slowly, he reached out, leather glove brushing against your fingers as he took it. he turned it over in his hand once, studying it like it might reveal some hidden message.

“i don’t eat sweets,” he muttered.

“good thing it’s a fruit then,” you shot back.

and for the briefest second, something cracked through that impossible wall of his. a tiny, sardonic twitch at the corner of his mouth. gone almost before it appeared, but you caught it.

without a word, he reached into his pocket and dropped another coin into the old jar by the stall. you stared down at it.

“you didn’t have to—”

“keep it.”

and then, like smoke, like a ghost, he turned and vanished down the narrow street, leaving you standing there with a half-full basket, a fading grin, and a heart still racing like you’d just outrun the devil.

the plum pitifully soft in your palm.

karma, you thought again.

yeah, she had a hell of a sense of humor.

[frostyharbor]

warrior / diplomat - masterlist

F!READER/JOHN PRICE ■ EXPLICIT ■ IN-PROGRESS

SUMMARY:

You’re a junior diplomat at the American Embassy in Bucharest. Even as tensions with Russia threaten to boil over, by the very nature of your job, you’re more of the “ask questions first, shoot never” type. It’s too bad military men don’t really follow the same creed.

tags: canon-typical violence, minor character death, slow burn, angst, ideological differences, banter, original character(s), hurt/comfort, moral ambiguity, political intrigue, dubious ethics, politics, reconciliation, growth, complicated relationships, diplomacy, trauma, post-traumatic stress disorder - ptsd, grief/mourning, estrangement, second chances, permanent injury, hopeful ending note: this is rated as explicit (and we'll get there!), but the primary focus is on telling a story and character growth. reader: weight, height, body type and skin/hair/eye color are all ambiguous, and reader is referred to with feminine pronouns, titles, and nicknames.

CHAPTER LISTING: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

[fru1t4fr0gs]

You and Me - Chapter 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky have been hiding out in Bucharest for months. Unfortunately, it's due time for shit to hit the fan.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Violence, PTSD, Nightmares, Brief mention of past torture, Swearing, Trauma, Implied Sex, Just two damaged idiots in love, Bucky jumps off a roof with reader, Protective Bucky, Reader finally gets to start figuring out how the serum works, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: Chapter two is here! Time for the action to finally begin. From here on out the plot is going to follow the movies, with some canon divergence depending on where things feel like they should go. I'm still considering making the reader Tony Stark's kid for the drama of it all (we'll all pretend it makes sense with the timeline; reader is still a fully grown adult). No matter what, feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy!

-

ROMANIA - BUCHAREST

“So Luke and Leia are brother and sister?” Bucky asks, brow furrowed as he picks through the fruit cart beside you.

“Yeah. They’re twins.”

“Didn’t you say they kissed?”

You make a face. “Yeah. I think it was supposed to be like, a brother-sister kiss or something.”

He turns to you, raises an eyebrow. “Doll, I know a lot has changed since my time, but that’s not a thing.”

“You just have to watch the movies.” You say, picking up an apple and absentmindedly inspecting it for bruises. “It’s still weird, but I’m not doing any of it justice.”

“I like you describing them to me.”

You can’t help but smile at that, at the simpleness of the statement.

“Still, I don’t think you’ve seen an actual movie in literal decades. Me describing Star Wars shot for shot isn’t going to give you the same experience as watching it. But we don’t have a TV, and even then all the movies here are in Romanian.”

“Your Romanian is getting better.”

“I still can’t understand it half the time. And I definitely can’t speak it.” You lament, placing the apple back in the pile with a sigh that’s only a little dramatic. “What was it that one lady said my accent sounded like? Like I spoke with a mouthful of marbles?”

He smiles, open and affectionate, one arm wrapping around your waist to pull you into his side. “I can translate for you.” He says, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. The woman sitting behind the fruit stand smiles at the two of you, and you relax against Bucky a bit more as he speaks to her.

Neither of you are exactly…healed. But what you have is good. Very good. You stay up most nights talking about anything and everything, from your childhoods to which breakfast food you’ll stock up on the next day. You laugh and cry and lose track of time with each other more often than not, but it doesn’t matter. Neither of you have anywhere to be but with each other.

A few days after your first night together, he showed up on the roof with a bouquet of flowers. You laughed, called him old fashioned, and he kissed you so sweetly you felt like your heart might burst.

You still wake up screaming, memories of phantom needles being plunged into your skin and gloved hands holding you down against metal tables. But you always wake up to Bucky, keeping you from thrashing with strong arms and whispered words of comfort into your hair. And when he jolts upright in the middle of the night, shot out of a memory of a dark and horrible time and fighting back tears of his own, you’re there with him. You kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, and you remind him who he is. Sometimes you talk through those nightmares until the sun creeps in through the window and the world wakes up around you.

Sometimes you don’t talk, and simply comfort each other with hands and lips and whispered words that remind you both that you’re here. Hidden away with each other where the past can’t find you.

It’s not perfect. Nothing ever is. He still goes quiet sometimes, his eyes haunted as he shuts down and buries himself deep in a place where you feel like you can’t reach him. He’ll touch you like you’re too delicate. Like he can’t remember a time when his hands were anything more than weapons, and one wrong move might shatter you. He’ll look at you like he doesn’t think he deserves this. During those times it feels like there’s nothing you can say to pull him out of the darkness. You just have to wait, and continue to reassure him in any way that you can.

Sometimes you snap, when you’re overwhelmed by the constant feeling of movement around you. You get a little more used to your new abilities every day, but they make the world seem to move so much slower. You notice too much. You feel too much. You were hyperactive before, always moving and thinking and coming up with some new idea. Now, you feel like the serum has taken those qualities and put them on crack. Your lab used to be your outlet, but you don’t have that here and sometimes it makes you feel so pent up you want to explode. In those moments, when you’re frustrated and twitchy and unable to stop pacing, he wraps his arms around you and helps to silence the noise, reminding you to breathe. Centering you.

There’s an unspoken understanding between you. A comfort like you’ve never felt. Even the darkest moments are met with patience and understanding. And through it all, you find yourself wondering how your life could have ever been without him. It feels like he’s been woven into every part of your being since the day you came into this world. Like even before you knew him, he was somehow still there, entwined into your soul and waiting for you to find him.

It’s not perfect, but it’s better. Because it’s real.

But nothing gold can stay.

You’re listening to Bucky speak with the woman behind the fruit cart, trying to decipher as much Romanian as you can, when the fine hairs on your arms stand up and an odd sensation trickles down your spine. You’ve become used to your new abilities enough to know to look around, scan the area, and when you do you see the man at the nearby newspaper stand staring at the two of you.

Really staring.

“Bucky.” You say, voice low enough for only him to hear.

His arm tightens around you at your tone, his hold immediately switching from affectionate to protective.

His gaze follows yours, and while he notices the man at the newspaper stand, you notice the woman a bit further down the street. She’s holding a paper too, and she’s also staring.

“Two o’clock.” You murmur. His gaze moves to the woman.

“Four o’clock.” You add a moment later, and he follows your gaze to the man at the booth nearby.

And then you’re moving, pulling yourself from his arm right as you feel it begin to tighten more. You walk up to the newspaper stand, and by the time you reach it you can feel every nerve in your body humming with that new adrenaline-esque feeling. You offer the man behind the stand a practiced, casual smile as you look to the nearest paper, but his eyes never leave the man standing behind you.

You may not be well versed in Romanian, but you recognize the most important words on the page:

‘Winter Soldier’.

You barely manage to whisper a quiet curse before his arm is around you again, beginning to pull you back to the apartment. You’ve planned for this. The go bag is beneath the floorboards. The airport isn’t too far. Your mind is already racing through plans A through F, and while you know Bucky’s enhanced hearing can pick up on your jackrabbit heartbeat, you could swear you hear his beating at the same pace.

He reaches up as you walk, pulls your ballcap down a little lower so it hides your face, and it takes everything in you not to break into a sprint.

“Guess we’re watching Star Wars in Spanish, then.” You mutter, already feeling winded despite the even pace. He says nothing, but his arm tightens around you just a bit more.

-

When you get to the door, he freezes. He hasn’t let you go since the newspaper stand, nearly carrying you up the stairs once you made it to the building. His arm finally pulls away, and the thrumming in your veins immediately feels like it’s picked up ten-fold.

He raises a finger to his lips and signals for you to stay put. You open your mouth to argue, but his gloved palm covers it before you get a chance to speak. He looks at you with so much emotion in his blue eyes that it makes your stomach twist, and you can do nothing but nod behind his hand. Someone is in there, and he’s going in first.

He pulls his hand back, looking you over like it might be the last time he’ll ever get to before he pulls you closer and presses his lips to your forehead, your nose, and finally your lips in a lingering kiss that feels too much like an apology. Like it might be a goodbye. No way in hell you’re letting that happen. You silently shake your head, pulling him back and kissing him one more time before parting with a look that makes your intentions very clear: he gets one minute. You’re not going anywhere.

He hesitates, like he might just grab you and make a run for it, before he steels himself and steps inside, silent as a ghost. You press yourself back against the wall and try to listen to whatever the fuck is going on behind the door.

Steve. You hear Steve’s voice.

You almost want to offer HYDRA a silent thank you for your enhanced hearing as you listen to the conversation inside, but you don’t manage to hear nearly enough before your ears start ringing and your veins feel like they’re on fire. Something is coming. Something big. You have to move or you swear you’re going to explode-

“-but the people who did are coming, and they’re not planning on taking you alive.”

You don’t even remember entering the apartment, but suddenly you’re standing behind Bucky and Steve is staring at you like you’ve just crawled out of your own grave.

Silence. You’ve always hated silence on a good day, but right now you can feel the oncoming threat in your fingertips and there is absolutely no way you can handle it right now.

“You’re alive.” Steve says, softness and surprise lacing his words, and there is nothing comfortable or relaxed about the smile you offer him in return.

“Surprise.” You try, voice sounding strained to your own ears.

His gaze flies from you to Bucky, who is already moving to put himself between you and the other person in the room. You watch Steve closely, watch him shift from friend to soldier, and you can practically feel him decide to file all of this new information for later, when the threat is gone and the two of you are safe.

“We have to go. Now.” You say unnecessarily, the top of your head and the soles of your shoes burning as German Special Ops close in on either side.

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck.” Steve says.

Bucky takes off his glove. His voice sounds tired in a way you haven’t heard since you first found him here. “It always ends in a fight.”

You can hear Sam through Steve’s comms, but his words are useless. They’re coming. You can feel them.

“You pulled me from the river. Why?” Steve tries, sounding desperate now.

“I don’t know.” Bucky sounds numb.

Steve looks at you, and then at him. At the way he’s standing in front of you, keeping his body positioned between you and the entrance points like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Steve is looking for Bucky. For humanity. For proof that the Winter Soldier is gone and his best friend is the one standing before him. And in that moment, you know he sees it.

“Yes you do.”

And then, chaos.

The flash grenade gets knocked beneath Steve’s shield. The door busts open, and a flood of officers enters the apartment you’ve called home for so long. Bucky picks up the mattress you woke up together on just hours before, jumps in front of you and blocks a bullet before you even get the chance to move.

Punches fly, guns fire, and you freeze out of instinct. 

And then.

You feel someone behind you, and you move faster than you thought possible. A bullet hits the wall instead of the back of your head as you dodge without looking, reach one arm out to grab the pistol by the barrel, and yank it out of the man’s hand. Your foot comes out as if of its own accord, catching behind his and knocking him to the ground. You throw the pistol, and the butt of the gun collides square in the forehead with the officer behind Bucky.

Both men look at you. You stare back.

“Well that’s new.” You manage to say, just as shocked as them if not more. You haven’t exactly been getting into fights since the serum was forced on you. You didn’t know it did…well, this.

More officers bust into the room, and you stop thinking entirely.

Time slows down. You didn’t know you could move this fast. You predict every shot that comes your way with shocking precision, dodging and deflecting and disarming like you were born to do this. Somewhere in your peripheral, you see Bucky throw the go-bag out the window. Soon after that, he knocks the man currently attacking you in the back of the head, sending him to the ground, and pulls you with him onto the stairwell.

You think, afterwords, that if you didn’t have your new abilities, the amount of times he grabbed you and jumped down floors would have made you vomit. Point for superpowers.

You reach a lower floor, Steve still behind you, and begin moving down the hall with him without thinking. Maybe there’s another back stairwell to take. Maybe there’s a fire escape and you can-

“Sorry about this.” You hear, and you don’t have a moment to question what that means before Bucky picks you up and starts sprinting towards the window.

You’re not exactly bothered by heights, but this is definitely a time for lines to be drawn.

“Woah woah woah no no Buck don’t you fucking dare-!” You manage to get out in a breathless rush before you’re airborne.

The world drops. You drop.

And then you’re tumbling onto a roof, shielded from the impact by Bucky’s body. The wind is still knocked from you as you roll, and you have almost no time to recover as you’re pulled to your feet.

He looks you over, frantic, smoothing the hair from your face as he checks you for injuries. “Are you okay? You alright?” He asks, and you nod before giving him a look that suggests you’ll kill him later.

He grabs the bag, and you’re running again. For a moment, you wonder if that’s it. If maybe you’ve made it through the ambush and you’ll come out the other side in one piece.

And then you feel it again. The thrum of something coming. An inbound threat.

“Bucky, wait!” You grab for him, just one second too late, and then he’s knocked to the ground.

A man in what you can only describe in your adrenaline-fuled mind as a catsuit stands before you, and Bucky pushes you behind him again as he begins throwing punches.

You jump forward, determined to help, but Cat Guy’s reflexes are even faster than yours. He knocks you down before you manage to land a single blow and you roll across the roof, managing to shoot back to your feet just in time to see Bucky use a metal pole to block claws from digging into his face.

He looks over to you, and shouts one word.

“Go!”

Every part of you wants to stay. To help. But you know that every second you stay on this roof you’ll distract him. And one moment of distraction can lead to his death.

Fuck. Fuck.

You don’t have a choice. You’ll meet him at the rendezvous point. And he’ll get there. He has to.

You take off running, flinching at every sound of contact behind you, and almost make it to the edge of the roof before you’re airborne again.

You are getting really sick of being picked up like this.

“Holy shit.” Sam says, and the speed that he’s flying makes you really consider puking this time. “Cap’s right. You’re alive!”

Oh no. You’re gonna pass out. This is gonna be the part where you pass out. You’ve been thrown and flown and tossed around too much, and superpowers or not, your body can’t handle it.

“Surprise.” You say weakly, wondering if you’ll ever have a better answer to that statement, and then the world goes dark.

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

[bonkybuchananbarnes]

There She Goes (2)

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Bucky Barnes x AFAB!Reader

You're a bright superhero popstar, and he's a quiet, brooding ex-assassin who seeks redemption. The two of you are like sun and moon. When Bucky suddenly moves in with the Avengers, you stop at nothing, trying to become closer with him. What could possibly go wrong?

Au!Post Civil War where all the Avengers are alive. This story is a slow-burn romcom!

Title and story inspired by the song There She Goes by The La's

Series tags: sunshine x grumpy trope, strangers to friends to lovers, 2000s romcom vibes, crackfic, reader is a bold outgoing flirt and Bucky is a self reserved shy?man, fluff & crack fic, some angst, bucky is trying to heal and you try to help him, maybe future smut?

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

chapter summary: You try to get to know the new kid on the block and notice that he has Steve's little brown notebook.

chapter warnings: none. although has a bit of angst!

A/N: i have SOOOO many ideas for this fic i'm actually excited for once lol

also, sam wilson is sooooo best friend coded but one of these days i'm going to make him an x reader fic. he's so underrated and needs more love.

Word count: 2k-ish?

Bucky frowned as his spoon of cereal lingered midway from his bowl and his mouth. His eyes bore into your figure as he watched you plop down on the dining table and sat across him. The books and papers that you once held on to scattered throughout the kitchen table. The brooding man watched as one of your pens that escaped your pencil case roll into his cereal bowl with a small ‘clink’.

‘Good morning Bucky!’ you greeted cheerily. With your elbows propped up on the kitchen table, you set your face between your two palms as you stared at him with a cheery expression. 

Was the sun rising even higher this morning or did the room suddenly get unbearably bright?

His left eye twitched.

Ignoring your greeting, Bucky shovelled the spoon of cereal into his mouth and returned his focus back to his breakfast bowl.

The cold demeanor didn’t phase you at all. You were determined to become Bucky Barnes' friend. He was tall and handsome. You just had to add him to your collection of himbos, which currently consisted of Thor, Steve and Sam.

Maybe Bruce Banner too on a good day.

‘Did you sleep well on your first night here?’

A long pause before he answered. ‘Not really.’

‘Hm. How do you like the Tower?’

‘It’s okay.’

‘You’re lying. You used to live in this super ugly and run down apartment in Bucharest. Trust me sweet stuff, Stevie showed me photos. Don’t pretend that you don’t enjoy this insane upgrade.’ you huffed as you crossed your arms.

Bucky’s eyes flickered up and squinted at you when you called him sweet stuff. The nickname didn’t sit right with him.

‘Don’t you ever stop talking? God, you’re worse than Sam.’ he groaned.

‘Why thank you! Always wanted to one up him in something.’

The man stared at you incredulously, annoyed and slightly impressed that everything he did did not phase you at all.

You leaned in closer. ‘Wow, Sammy was right. You do have a staring problem. Not that I mind though. You’re very handsome and your blue eyes are stunning.’ you blurted out suddenly.

The super soldier flinched back. He knew that you were straight forward, but this was just crazy for him. It was too much for him to bear.

You blinked at his sudden action. Then a laugh escaped your stomach. 

‘Alright, I know you’re from the 40s and during that era women were still prissy little dames, but there’s now way you can’t be foreign to an idea of straightforward women!’ you said between your fits of laughter.

Bucky warily watched you laugh as he began to eat again. He needed to finish his bowl of cereal. He had to get to his therapy session with Dr. Raynor. Not that he wanted to go anyways, he had to because of his pardon. 

It was going to be a loooong day for him.

Once you calmed down from your laughing fit, your eyes made their way towards a small brown notebook resting next to Bucky’s bowl of Lucky Charms.

‘Hey, isn’t that Stevies? Why do you have it?’ you inquired, pointing to the book.

Bucky made a ‘hm?’ noise as his eyes followed to where you were pointing at.

You found that particular action of his cute.

‘He gave it to me. No longer has a use for it, scratched out all the things he did on the list.’ he answered.

Your mouth made an ‘o’ shape in response. But before he could blink, your hands snatched the book from his side.

‘Hey!’ he yelped as he hopelessly tried to snag the book back. 

‘Nice try Buckaroos, but they call me Sunshine for a reason!’ you gleefully said.

‘Don’t call me that.’

Ignoring his last sentence, you opened the notebook. The pages were slightly yellowed and crumpled on the edges, meaning it was well used. Your fingertips skimmed through the small pages until you landed on the list. Scanning down the written words, your eyes stopped at something you knew Sam brought up.

‘Ah, of course. The Troubleman by Marvin Gaye. Tsk tsk, Sammy, your taste could be better.’ you tutted, shaking your head at the same time. ‘Bucko, have you listened to the Troubleman yet?’

‘I like 40s music.’ he responded.

‘I get it, Bing Crosby is the goat. But let me do you one better; Stevie Wonder - Songs In The Key Of Life. You won’t regret it.’ 

Bucky regretted looking up at you. Your chest was puffed up like a bird trying to attract a mate. You looked really proud at your suggestion.

It was so stupid it almost made him laugh. Keyword; almost.

‘Sunshine, are you downplaying Marvin Gaye right now?’ Sam called out as he shuffled next to you. In his hands were two iced lattes, one which he gracefully slid over in front of you.

A small smirk danced on your lips as you dramatically clutched your chest, letting out the fakest gasp Bucky has ever heard. 

‘You wound me! Why would I ever downplay Marvin Gaye? He made Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, which is a brilliant song by the way.’ 

‘That song wasn’t even on the Troubleman album!’ Sam exasperated as he threw up his hands in the air in frustration. 

Bucky watched as you and Sam bickered about who the superior artist was; Stevie Wonder or Marvin Gaye. He wanted to slip away quietly and leave, but strangely he kept his place and sat through the whole debacle. 

Maybe it was because he secretly found the two of you amusing. But he would never admit that. 

‘Of course I would know better! I'm a singer after all!’ you scoffed, throwing a diva fit towards Sam.

Now that interested Bucky. 

‘You’re a singer?’ he piqued up slowly.

A sudden silence suddenly filled the dining area as you and Sam slowly turned away from each other and faced the super soldier. A bright smile replaced your scowl as Bucky’s sudden interest in your career made you ecstatic. 

‘Why yes I am! Do you want to see one of my music videos? Hold on, let me put on Spotify for you and show you my newest hit!’ you excitedly proposed to him. 

‘Hold on, run that back. Bucky, you're asking questions about people? Sweet Jesus this is an amazing development!’ Sam praised. 

James Barnes regretted opening his inquisitive mouth. 

‘Nevermind, forget what I said.’ he sighed. 

Bucky tried to get up from his chair and move somewhere else so he could eat his Lucky Charms in peace, but your flailing hands got in the way as you ran to his side (how did you get there so fast?)

‘Come on Buck! Don't leave yet! You asked if I sang, so I gotta show you that I do sing!’ you pleaded. 

‘Listen (Y/n), don't call me Buck. Only Steve can call me that. Also, I need to leave, I'm going to be late with my appointment with Dr. Raynor.’ 

His strong arm gently moved you out of his way as he quickly turned the corner to the bedroom area. The two of you simply watched as he disappeared down the hall.

You left a small sigh of defeat. So much for making an acquaintance.

Sam gave you a sympathetic look. ‘Listen Sunshine, I know you’re ecstatic about another hot man living here but you gotta give him some space. He's been through a lot.’

‘And you think I haven't?’ you snapped back. ‘Sam, it may look like fun and games but believe me, I know what it's like to be alone. And I don't want him to be alone.’ you quietly finished. Your fingers timidly grazed your left arm as a pathetic attempt to soothe yourself.

He softened his gaze with your confession. ‘Look at you, so empathetic and understanding. Is that why you were so adamant on befriending Thor as well?’ 

A teasing look suddenly appeared on your features, replacing the once sad smile that once danced on your face. ‘Nah Sammy, I was just hellbent on seeing his big blond beautiful self everyday.’

An aggressive eye roll and a playful smirk was all you got in response from Sam. ‘Anywho, I see you got your papers scattered again. Writing a new song?’

Your fingers lightly tapped against the cool marble dining table. ‘To be honest with you, it's getting harder these days to write a good authentic original piece of music.’ you sadly confessed. 

‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with sampling a few hooks here or there you know.’ Sam piqued. 

‘Oh?’ you said, raising your eyebrows. ‘So I supposed I can sample some Marvin Gaye?’ 

You were met by a light push of Sam's shoulders against yours as he gave you a painful smile. ‘Now you're pushing your luck Sunshine. I don't give you permission to tarnish his work.’

‘You wound me, and here I thought you were my best friend!’ you mourned mockingly.

A light laugh passed his lips, with you following after. 

—------------

God he hated public transit. Everything was too loud. New York subways has to be one of the levels of hell that he was taught as a young boy, because that's how he felt right now sitting in the rickety old subway car on the way to Dr. Raynor's.

Hell. He was in hell. Like he already wasn't living in hell for the past 70 years. 

His eyes met with the homeless man sitting across from him. The old scrawny dude stared back at him, unblinkingly with eyes that looked like they were popping out of their sockets. Bucky felt like there were holes being burned into his eyes.  

Maybe he did have a staring problem. 

A sigh left his lips. Breaking away from the homeless man’s burning gaze, Bucky hung his head low as he rummaged his metal fingers through his brown mop of hair. He just wanted to live in peace, after continuously fighting for almost a century without a break. Steve’s proposition for him to live at the Avengers tower didn’t exactly warrant the peace he wanted. But even if he didn’t want to admit it, he needed to stop pushing people away.

The rest of the ride was a blur and before he knew it, he found himself on that uncomfortable couch in the office room, facing the empty chair in front of it. Dr. Raynor was yet to arrive, so he sat in silence waiting for her.

The quiet tick of the moving clock was the only thing Bucky heard, until his super hearing picked up a song being played by the radio in the reception area. It was very faint, but he could hear it clear as day; it was your voice singing.

A fraction of an inch of his eyes widened as he carefully listened. Your singing voice was not what he expected. While he was introduced to your boisterous and outgoing talking voice, it contrasted to what he was hearing right now. A beautiful melody ripped through your throat as you sang with passion, with a catchy tune accompanying you.

He would hate to admit it, but it wasn’t terrible.

Actually, he really enjoyed it.

He zoned out as he listened through the whole song, not noticing that the therapist walked and took her place on the seat in front of him.

‘-es Barnes? Are you ready to start?’ Dr. Raynor started.

Bucky snapped it out. It was almost like your voice called to him like a siren singing to a sailor.

He warily looked up at Dr. Raynor and let out a tired smile. ‘Sorry doc, was out of it for a second.’ 

She shot him an incredulous look before she started the session.

…

A half hour painfully passed by. The therapy session came to a close.

Dr. Raynor sighed. ‘James, you need to stop pushing people away. You only contact Steve, and you don’t even answer Sam’s texts. That is so sad.’

The super soldier clenched his jaw but said nothing. She was right. Steve was right. He was given a chance of redemption, something he felt he didn’t deserve. There were people who wanted to reach out to him. Steve, Sam, some others.

And you.

‘Yeah.’ he croaked. 

The doctor closed her notebook and got up to leave. ‘I’ll see you next week Bucky.’

A small click of a door is all he heard.

Walking out of the room and into the reception area, he slowly made his way towards the exit before he paused, then reached out of the pen sitting at the counter of the check in desk. Pulling out the brown notebook from his breast pocket, he flipped his fleshed fingers to a fresh page and began to scribble something down.

(Y/n). Sunshine.

Stevie Wonder -  Songs In The Key Of Life.

As quickly as he wrote, Bucky shut the notebook and shoved it back into his breast pocket of his leather jacket and walked out, with a new song of yours faintly playing in the reception area once more.

He would have to ask about your favourite song in that album when he got back to the Tower.

[dullahandyke]

(an hour later) i vastly underestimated how long it would be take me to read that chapter but like fuck it we ball ‼️‼️ guy whose experience with surrealism is limited: wow this book is just like the first two episodes of i am in eskew i keep relistening to and then never getting any further than

okay whatever im gonna go finish a chapter of my book and then work on my essay some and then make dinner

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Who is This?: Chapter 2

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Y/N talks about how she met James Barnes and how she found herself in the modern world. Follow on from this fic.

"What the hell is going on?" Bucky nearly demanded, keeping his arms wrapped around his companion.

Sam raised his eyebrow. "I could ask you the same question, Barnes?" Sam looked at the young woman in Bucky's arms. "Who is this?"

Bucky looked down at her, Sam watched as a smile grew on his face. "This is Y/N. Y/N Barnes. My wife."

"I'm sorry, what was that? Wife? You two are married?" Sam asked, looking between Bucky and Y/N.

"Indeed we are, aren't we darling?"

Y/N looked at Bucky first with a smile then with dead eyes. "I'm still pissed with you," Sam couldn't place her accent. It was a strange combination of Brooklyn, southern and English.

"Babydoll," Bucky sighed, as his wife got up from the couch and walked to the kitchenette.

"No. Don't you babydoll, me. I had two officers with a telegram in their hand as they flat out told me you had fallen off a train in the Alps of all places, whilst you were on some stupid mission with Steve, they never went looking for you, they simply declared you were missing and you were most likely dead."

Bucky's face falls, realising how much she had missed him after he fell off the train. After he had escaped to Bucharest, his memories came back in flashes - her face had always been there front and centre. He never had the time to sit Steve down and ask him about the gorgeous girl in his memories. It had taken another trip to the Smithsonian Institution - and that's when he saw her further into the exhibition, her arms in both Bucky and Steve's as she looked up at him in awe. Bucky and Y/N were married on January 15, 1941 - four weeks after Bucky signed up.

He gets up also, leaving the blanket which once covered them in a ball on the couch. "Sweetheart," he said softly.

"They told me on our fucking anniversary as well!" The tears couldn't be held back as they started rolling down her cheeks.

"It may be late, but happy anniversary," Bucky says, which gets a watery sob out of Y/N - who returns the sentiment.

Sam walks around the couple and into the kitchenette. "How long have you two now been married then?"

They looked at each other. "If you don't count the time we were separated, three years."

"And if you do?" Sharon asks.

"Eighty-three."

"Seems like I owe you a lot of anniversary presents. And birthdays, and Christmas..." Bucky trails off. "Seeming like I'll always be in debt to you, doll."

She shakes her head, "I have you here now. That's the only present I need."

"So how did you two meet?" Sam asks.

August 3rd, 1922

It was the first day at Brooklyn Heights Elementary School. Winnifred Barnes held her eldest son's hand as she took him to school.

Little James Barnes was terrified, it would be his first full day away from his ma, he didn't know anyone and he had a strong feeling like he wanted to cry (his father George had firmly told him men don't cry).

The mother and son duo were stood in front of a little peg, which had his name stuck to it, he was in between someone called Steve and someone called Y/N (the little girl had already taken her coat off - which her mother was hanging up for her, as she dug through her backpack on the floor).

"Y/N what have I told you about sitting on the floor like that?" Y/N's mother said, cupping her hands underneath her armpits and sat her on her knees.

"I can't find my crayons, mama!" Y/N exclaimed, looking up at her mama.

James looked down into his backpack and saw the small pack of crayons his father had brought back home one night. "We can share mine," he tells the little girl on the floor, sitting down next to her.

She looked at him with a big smile. Even at four years old, he couldn't help but think she was the prettiest girl in the world.

"That's how you got your girl? Crayons when you were four?" Sam asks.

"No, I had always known she was beautiful, but it took me a long time to persuade her for a date."

Y/N looked at her husband with a singular raised eyebrow. "You went from girl to girl with no consideration of their feelings. I didn't want to be put on the same list."

"Not a chance, since we locked eyes on that cold floor in elementary school, I have always been yours."

January 15, 1940

"Please, doll," Bucky nearly begged, as Y/N made her way around the counter at the local diner where she currently works. "Just one date."

"No, James, you can't ask me just because you don't have a date for the night."

Bucky sighed, he loved how she was the only one (apart from his ma when he annoyed her) who still called him James. "But, doll."

"And what have I told you about calling me doll?"

"I could take you to Coney Island," which was shut down saying that was his and Steve's 'place to hang out without her'. Bucky denied it, saying that it wasn't right that he and Steve spent time together without her. "What about the movies?"

"The three of us have already seen everything at the movies right now."

Bucky looked at the ceiling, as he fiddled with his ice cream float. "You don't want to go to Coney Island, we've seen everything at the movies and you don't want to go to a diner..."

He heard someone make a passing comment that the river in that park upstate had frozen over and was perfect for. "Ice skating! That's it, I'll take you ice skating!"

Y/N looked over at him, "Will it shut you up?" He nodded. "Fine, you can take me ice skating."

Bucky let out a loud cheer. "I promise you, you won't regret it, babydoll."

Bucky leaned over pressed a kiss to her cheek and ran out of the diner - he missed Y/N rubbing her cheek with a growing smile on her face.

"You were smitten with me?"

"Since day one, babydoll."

They shared a kiss when the door was pushed open by someone who looked like he had a homemade costume Steve used to wear. "What the hell?"

"Alright, that's it. Your time is up. Tell me where Zemo is," someone came storming in, dressed like Steve, shield in one hand as he pointed at the other people in the room. Y/N looked from Bucky to Sam to Sharon and then back to Bucky.

"We know you're hiding him," his sidekick added, crossing his arms.

The Captain America wannabe ordered them to turn over Zemo, which Y/N countered with a comment about the Captain America wannabe running his mouth.

"How did I miss you?" He flirts.

Y/N raised her eyebrow at him, then looked up at Bucky (who whispered into her ear that they were trying to get the shield back). "Give me a second," She puts on a look on her face and makes her way over to the Captain America wannabe. "Oh my God, is that the shield?" She could see him preen at her words. "Can I have a look at it?"

Stupidly, he hands her the shield, Y/N looks it over, and then up at him. "Thanks," and makes her way back to Bucky.

"What are you doing with my shield?"

"I think you mean, my shield. Considering that it technically belongs to me."

Captain America wannabe looked at her confused, what the hell was she talking about? "Who even are you?"

"Who am I? He doesn't know, James!" Y/N looked up at Bucky.  "He doesn't know!" The couple laughed. "I'm Y/N, Steve's half-sister, and this muppet's wife."

"Wait, so how did you end up 80 years in the future?" Sam asks as the trio settles in for the night.

"Howard wanted to make another Super Soldier after the war after Steve had 'died'," she puts quotes around died, then turns her head to look at Bucky. "Yes, I know what happened to Howard and Maria," Bucky's face fell - she knew what he had done as the Winter Soldier(the war crimes he had committed had been plastered all over the news during his trial). 

Sam looked between Bucky and Y/N as he asked. "What happened? I presume you volunteered."

She nods her head. "I did. But, something went wrong. They gave me the serum, and I remember collapsing to the floor and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the year 2019, Steve's face over the top of mine, tears in his eyes, saying he was so happy to see me."

"Steve knew you were alive?" Bucky asked, looking at his wife in surprise. There were about two weeks between the Battle of Earth and Steve went back to the past. 

"I don't remember much from when I woke up, because I was falling in and out of sleep, for a long time." She says, looking up at the ceiling.

[crowsofdarkness]

Dorogaya: Chapter Nine

-gif not mine. credit to owner-

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Agent! Reader.

Content Warnings: language, 18 + implied smut, angst, fluff, kidnapping, violence.

Summary: It has been a few years since Bucky and Reader went into hiding. Just when they thought they were slowly building a life together, the past comes back with a vengeance.

Authors Note: This is the sequel to Soldat! You should read that series first. This takes place during Civil War. Tags are open if anyone is interested!

Tags: @globetrotter28 @sakuracyberhex @chinggay85-blog @bookofriverr @misatxox @that-blonde-girl @cats-chaotic-mind @wintrsoldrluvr @sebastians-love @pumpkin-babydoll @ordelixx @starfly-nicole @j23r23 @baw1066

Soldat Masterlist | Dorogaya Masterlist

My body lay defeated and crumbled as I watched the three men fight. Tony had every right to be upset; he found out that his parents were actually murdered. But what I didn’t agree with was the fight the three men were having. 

The serum that I was injected with all those years ago had helped me heal, physically, but it couldn’t do anything for me emotionally. Steve knew that Bucky, The Winter Soldier, was the one who had killed Stark’s parents and he kept it from everyone for years. 

Groaning, I pushed myself up to my knees watching in horror as Bucky and Steve continued to fight against Tony. How had everything gone to shit the past few days? Bucky and I were happy living in our home in Bucharest then it all fell through the cracks. Because of Baron Zemo who wanted revenge on the Avengers for what happened in Sokovia. 

This wasn't fair to us. We had a hell of a past, together and on our own, and I promised Bucky that we would be able to have a life that he deserved. He deserved to have a home with the white picket fence, a dog or two, and as many kids as he wanted with a wife that would love him till her last breath. 

I wanted to be that for him; give that to him. 

In that moment, watching Bucky give me a worried glance before squaring off with Tony once again, that I vowed would do whatever it took to make sure he got that life. 

Steve had taken a hard hit, kneeling a few feet away from me, and Bucky’s throat erupted with a yell. He punched Tony’s chest, gripping the thing that was keeping Tony alive with his metal arm. Bucky’s screams bounced off the cement wall, deep into the bones of my body. 

A scream of my own scratched its way from my throat when I saw and felt Tony blast off Bucky’s arm. 

“NO!” I yelled, raising to my feet. 

The fire shot from my fingers towards Tony, blasting him back towards the wall; hard. I knew his suit would protect him from the flames but that still didn’t stop me from firing a few more fireballs his way. 

Anger had taken over, my eyes glowing black. Anger from everything that happened to us in the span of two days. 

Steve was on me in a flash, his arms wrapping around my midsection to hold me back. He pressed his body against mine against the wall. 

“Y/N, control it. Don’t let it take you completely.” 

His voice was muffled, the cries of anger and death was all I could hear; Tony’s death. 

“Y/N!” 

Hands were gripping my face, forcing my eyes to look him in the eyes. The softness of his gloves and the familiarity of his touch was enough to bring me back. 

“Are you with me?” Steve questioned. 

I peaked over his shoulder to Bucky, who was kneeling, staring at me with a broken gaze. His arm was gone and he was feeling all different kinds of emotions. 

“Bucky,” I cried. 

Pushing Steve to the side, I slid in front of Bucky to hold up his falling body. 

“You alright, I’ve got you.” I cooed, gripping his face. 

“Y/N,” his lips trembled. 

I hushed him with a kiss. 

“He’s my friend,” Steve said with a defeated voice. 

He was in front of us, protecting us from Tony. I watched his sadness as Tony claimed that he was also Steve’s friend, knowing the pain that he was going through. He felt like he had lost everything and would do anything to get back a sliver of his past. 

Tony, however, was ready to attack Steve so without a second thought, I jumped on his back trying to rip off his mask. With a quick sweep over his shoulder, I landed hard on the ground and groaned at the new bruises forming on my back. 

“This isn’t your fight, Y/N.” Tony turned his attention towards me. 

“It became my fight when you tried to arrest Bucky,” I stood to my feet, fire spreading to the tips of my fingers. 

“I liked you better when you weren’t an experiment. You loved them so much that you turned yourself into one of them,” Tony seethed, pointing to Steve and Bucky. 

I cocked my head to the side. “You think I chose this?! That I wanted to be this freak?” 

My fire with his beam clashed, sparks falling around us. 

“I was on your side until I found out your boy toy killed my parents!” Tony yelled. 

I knew underneath his mask the scowl on his face matched his voice. 

“It wasn’t him!” I screamed.

He had dodged a fireball causing it to flame out behind him. 

“Alright, I’ve had enough of this,” Tony said before he picked me up, throwing me across the floor. 

Another slam and another groan, I could feel the blood pooling from the back of my head. Even with my super healing, that would hurt for a while. 

Steve was pissed at this point, slamming Tony to the ground, punch after punch landing to his face. He raised the shield above Tony’s head and even though I knew he wasn’t going to kill Tony, I watched in slight horror as he brought the shield down, into the metal heart of Tony; his suit shutting down. 

Bucky had crawled over towards me but no matter how much pain I was in, I knew he was hurting worse. I was too weak to carry him and Steve could tell so he was on the other side of Bucky, helping him up. 

“You don’t deserve that shield, my father made that shield!” Tony yelled behind us. 

The sound of vibranium clattering to the ground rang in my ears when Steve dropped it; a silent metaphor that he was done with this fight.

We all were.

Time had passed slowly as we sat on the jet, not knowing what our next step would be. We were all war criminals in the public eye, we all had warrants out for our arrest so we knew we couldn’t go back home. 

Bucky was laying on the med table, sleep finally taking over, and with everything he had been through I thought he deserved a few minutes of rest. Steve was standing in front of me, both of us not knowing what to say. The silence was all we had known. 

“What do we do now?” I finally asked, my watery eyes glancing over to Steve. “We can’t go home. We don't have a home.” 

His arms wrapped around me, pulling me into his chest. His soft words hushed my cries, hands drawing circles on my back. I felt his body hesitate before placing a soft kiss on my forehead. My body relaxed in his. 

“I may be able to help.”

We jumped to a fighting stance at the voice behind us; coming face to face with King T’challa.

[emilygrayce91]

Masterlist - From Bucharest

After the events of Captain America: Winter Soldier and Age of Ultron, Bec Fegan, a professor of political science with a special interest in the Sokovia Accords, takes a job at the University of Bucharest. Excited with the prospect of challenging current Romanian politics, she's set on making a name for herself in a new country with new colleagues. However, her ambitions are short lived when she comes across a mysterious stranger with a haunted past who saves her life, unknowingly triggering a series of events that would bring them both closer to having to choose between their missions and their hearts.

Trigger Warning - 18+ for Violence, Sexual Themes, Trauma, Torture, Drugs, Death, Language.

Chapter 1 - To Bucharest

Chapter 2 - Plum Situation

Chapter 3 - Don't Do Anything Stupid

Chapter 4 - Longing

Chapter 5 - Rusted

Chapter 6 - Seventeen

Chapter 7 - Daybreak

Chapter 8 - Furnace

Chapter 9 - Nine

Chapter 10 - Benign

Chapter 11 - Homecoming

Chapter 12 - One

Chapter 13 - Freight Car

Chapter 14 - Red Guardian

Chapter 15 - Nothing to Prove

Chapter 16 -107th

Chapter 17 - Bucky

Chapter 18 - Bec

Chapter 19 - Accords

Chapter 20 - Baron

Chapter 21 - Winter

Chapter 22 (Coming Soon)

Last Updated: May 5, 2025

Total Words: 28,143

Chapters Posted Weekly (Sometimes Daily)

Follow me on Wattpad and AO3!!!

Archive Of Our Own From Bucharest

Wattpad

[thedevilsoftruth]

Romania, I'll Be Back

Chapter One: I learned about myself today

B. Barnes x f! Reader

Sum: Bucky Barnes escaped Hydra and fled the country to Romania. He finds moving in and trying to adjust to his new life difficult until he meets a baker who asks him if he wants a free sample of her famous dish.

Warnings: set after the events of CAWS. panic attacks, anxiety, love at first sight?? Mentions of Hydra, slightly sad themes. 3rd person pov.

Tags: @homiesexual-or-homosexual ( I love the username, btw )

W/c: 2.5k

A/n: I would like to give a big thanks to @shockercoco for being my beta reader for this chapter. I've been thinking of writing this for a very, very, very long time, and to be able to say that it's something that's actually happening now makes me very happy. Please enjoy. I have a lot planned for this fic.

Entry 1,

I ran. Really far. I ran and ran, and I couldn't stop. My feet kept carrying me, and I didn't stop until I fled the country. I took buses, trains, anything, anywhere--I didn't care. I needed to get out of there.

And here I am. Safe. Finally, I hope.

It had been nonstop storming where I had been, but the skies here were clear today, so that's nice.

I found an apartment, finally.

I don't think I can rest my head fully after visiting that museum. But I needed to see it, and it's because I saw it that I learned about myself today. A few things, actually.

The museum said I was a sergeant during WWII? I don't feel like a sergeant. Sergeants are strong and good leaders. They have good hearts. I do not.

And Steve? I'm curious about him, really. I don't think we will ever meet again, and if we do, I think he'd be really upset with me. I think there are a lot of people out there who are upset with me. But that's okay. I'm not too happy with myself, either.

I went to that museum today to learn about Steve, but instead, I learned about myself. I guess that's good. I still don't even know who I am.

Anyway, I have a thumping headache, and my anxiety is through the roof. I think I'm going to go lay down, but I will be back.

-- James Buchanan Barnes.

...Or Bucky.

Bucharest, Romania 2016

It had been a day since Bucky had moved into his apartment. All of his "unpacking" was done on the same day he moved in, not that he had anything at all to unpack in the first place. His first thought when he had woken up that morning was that he needed new clothes. And gloves.

Gloves would be crucial for him if he didn't want to be given any funny looks with his metal arm out in public, or worse: be found by Hydra.

When he went out that evening, he had on a simple black button-down and dark blue denim jeans that might have been a bit too big on him. Sizing charts were something he wasn't expecting to look out for at the time he bought the jeans. He wore a baseball hat to hide his face and had on his backpack. The backpack was more of a home to him than his apartment.

The apartment was cheap and worn down, but the backpack carried everything he needed–Cash, a few weapons, the old dog tags he found a long time ago as the winter solider that he was somehow able to hide from hydra for the many years he had it. It also held his journal–the most important item.

The journal would act as a guide to him in case he somehow found himself losing his memories again. He was hoping he would fill it with more memories once they came back to him.

He didn't know where he was going. He wasn't familiar with the layout of the area he was living in, but he thought that if he had stayed near the apartment complex, he'd be able to find it again quickly. At this point in his life, his biggest fear was losing himself again and forgetting things.

As he crossed the street and walked down the sidewalk near a train station, he passed by beggars, buyers, musicians, and other pedestrians just trying to get to where they needed without bothering anyone.

It was the middle of the day, and as Bucky passed by people cooking things on the street, he realized he hadn't eaten all day. He couldn't remember the last time he ate something that wasn't liquidized. Maybe he had his last actual meal in the 40s? The day he fell off the train, he hoped. Every day before that, he also hoped.

Food places should have been easy to find, but it was hard for him to know what he really wanted. He didn't even know what kind of food he liked. He walked by at least three different restaurants until he came across a little stand selling a variety of produce items. Tomatoes, grapes, cabbage, bananas, you name it, and it was there.

He looked through the assortment with his backpack slung over his shoulder for easier access to his cash in case he actually did buy something.

He had his eyes on a certain fruit–They were little purple balls that were no bigger than his fist. He had noticed a few people around the stand with the fruit in their hands. They were golden inside, and they looked incredibly juicy. Bucky could feel his mouth watering at the idea of it.

" How much for 2 of these? " He asked the clerk, picking up two of the purple fruits from the bamboo basket they were settled in.

The clerk, short, chubby and older with streaks of silver running down his dark curled hair, gave him a quick glance.

" For the plums? " The clerk asked him, looking between the basket and Bucky.

Plums. So that's what they were called. Bucky nodded his head at the old man, unzipping the front pocket of his backpack.

" 30 ron. " The clerk told him, clicking a pen open in his shirt. Bucky rummaged through his bag and fished out 3 sets of 10 ron and gave them to the clerk. He was given a tiny white plastic bag for his fruit, and the second he was given them, he was rushing back to his apartment complex.

That was Bucky's first time purchasing plums in Romania, and from that day forward they would become his favorite fruit.

--

Bucky had a simple objective; go in, grab some plums--maybe some bread too, then get out.

But god no. He'd barely even been there for about a minute, and he was already overstimulated.

It was the first day of the town's local homemade goods market, and the event was going on for about two weeks. It was just a little thing they did; where small businesses came together to share what they sell for slightly cheaper prices. That was the synopsis of the paper he picked up and read on his way home the day before. The produce shop Bucky had bought his newfound favorite fruit day before was going to have a stand in the little market. Or so he thought.

He could not for the life of himself find the shop he was looking for. He walked and walked along the market in hurried repeating circles, looking up and down for the stand, but he just could not find it! Perhaps they weren't set up yet? Maybe the owner got sick?

He wondered anxiously about the infinite possibilities of what could have happened. He didn't see the shop open when he passed by where it was the day before on the street.

He wasn't leaving the damn place until he bought his stupid plums!!

As Bucky walked past the crowd in the street, he bumped into at least four people as he searched for the stand. He was just so annoyed and upset about the whole situation. Maybe he'd try again tomorrow?

Great. Tck. How freaking great.

His gloved hands gripped the white bag full of bread he was holding tighter, and he turned his heel to walk back to where he came in. As he made his way up to the front, he was getting more and more irritated by the second.

His chest felt heavy all of a sudden. a dark cloud of anxiety began circling above his head before it violently started pouring down conflicting emotions and memories that had nothing to do with each other. He didn't understand why he felt so panicked all of a sudden, but what he did understand was that all he wanted was to go home.

But right as he was about to leave, he heard a voice speaking to him as he held his head down and walked towards the exit.

It was a soft voice. A rather quiet one that didn't quite fit with the loudness and chaos of the rest of the market. Yet, it was a voice so beautiful and pleasing to his buzzing ears that it made him stop in his tracks immediately and turn his head to where he believed it was coming from.

" Would you like a free sample, sir? " The voice said. When he raised his head, he made the figure out to be a woman, standing in front of him with a red apron around her waist and a tray in her hands. It turned out that the voice matched the face.

She was beautiful, and that was the first thought he had when he laid his eyes on her. She was so tiny, it was like she could fit within the palm of his hand, and her smile was softest one he'd ever seen in his life.

He didn't know why, but he found himself frozen. Unmoving and still.

" These are my famous plum dumplings. " She told him, holding the little round battered dessert that was set in a tiny white paper cup.

His eyes flicked from her, to the desert, then back at her face. He was unsure whether or not he was allowed to take it. She noticed his hesitation, and she suddenly felt bad for putting him on the spot. He looked like he had places he needed to be, after all.

" Are you not interested? " She asked, her smile all of a sudden a frown that sent his mind into a panic.

He began stammering, shaking his head frantically. " No--I--sorry I--" He blinked, holding his hands out and waving them chaotically. He took a moment to gather himself together, his chest heaving up and down as his panicked mind searched for the next words to say and how he could frame them correctly.

" I would like one. " He told her, his eyes repeatedly flicking from her to the gravel on the concrete. He held out his shaking gloved hand nervously, and when she put the tiny pastry in his palm, he almost flinched like she was going to hurt him. He knew she wasn't a threat, but he might be one.

She looked at him with a growing smile as he picked up the round pastry from its holder. He was an interesting fella to her. She'd only known him for barely a minute, and he was already her most interesting customer that day–By far the most handsome, too.

As he bit into the pastry, she waited in anticipation to see his nervous frown turn into a delighted smile. And to her surprise, it did not take long for that to happen. The moment the tip of his tongue came into the soft, sugary, and crunchy taste of the dumpling, his eyes fluttered shut, and a pleased moan left his lips.

" It's good, isn't it? " She asked, tilting her head to the side while leaning into him a bit.

Bucky found himself smiling rather foolishly as he wiped the crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

" It is. " He responded almost robotically, his voice coming out scratchy and pitched from his lack of speaking during the day.

The cute baker didn't realize it, but her cheeks were glowing with a light tinge of pink. It looked good on her, and Bucky couldn't stop himself from catching her eye. It was the first time during their entire encounter when the eye contact didn't feel awkward.

" Sorry, " he chuckled, looking down at his feet once he realized he had been looking at her too long. " I don't get out of the house often. " He said, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand, his right holding the remaining half of his pastry.

" That's alright. " She told him. " But I hope to see you back again tomorrow or some time soon. " Now it was time for her gaze to fall on her feet, and for his gaze to fall on her face. He looked at her for as long as he could, trying to memorize every detail of her for the next time he would come back.

" Yeah, yeah." He whispered under his breath mindlessly. " Me too. "

She lifted her gaze, and their eyes met once more. She searched him, and he searched her. They didn't quite know what it was, but they felt drawn together somehow. The path that was set for the both of them differed drastically.

They were two strangers who met on a chain of very unlikely events that somehow got laid out in a very strange yet perfect way. It was almost like they should have never met in the beginning because their stories were so different, but like people always say, ' everything happens for a reason. '

For several moments, they stared at each other, unsure why they were staring but certain that it could mean something. That was until she had broken up the silence.

" I just realized I never got your name. " She told him, squinting her eyes at him, fiddling with her fingers rather anxiously.

Bucky stumbled over himself for a moment, her words breaking him out of his dazed trance. He suddenly became embarrassed by how long he had been staring at her.

" I--Its Bucky. " He told her, sheepishly averting his gaze from her. She nodded her head. Not only was he an interesting fella, but he had an interesting name. She gave him her own name, and once he had it, he was on his toes to zoom out of the place due to how fast his heart was beating. He could feel sweat beading at his forehead.

" So, mister Bucky, " She began in a rather cheesy sense, " See you sometime soon? Have a nice day. "

Her words were making him feel such strange things, things he was sure he hadn't felt at least since the 40s. He had no idea how to handle things, and he exhaled deeply to try and calm himself down.

He didn't look at her at all for the rest of the time he was there with her. If he looked at her, he was going to fall in love. And Bucky Barnes didn't know how to fall in love. At least not anymore.

" Yeah, yeah. " He muttered, pursing his lips and running his gloved hands down his thighs. " I'll be back. "

And just like that, he was off, speed walking as fast as he could to get out of there before something terrible happened.

As he walked back to his apartment, his mind kept racing and spiraling. He was dealing with the worst conflicting emotions he had ever had in his years. He couldn't go back. He just couldn't. Bucky knew that all good things come to an end, and whenever he would ever get the smallest bit of something good In his life, it would be snatched out of his hands before he could be able to savor it.

But even though he told himself that he wouldn’t go back the next day, when he woke up, he couldn't seem to get his feet to stop.

Maybe that was a good thing? no. It was the best thing he could have done because that one singular decision he made would change his entire life. He just didn't know it yet, and neither did you.

[mariacallous]

Romanians elected a centrist politician, Nicusor Dan as their president on Sunday, marking a significant political upset in a country where many had expected hard-right populist George Simion to win.

Liberal, pro-EU independent candidate Dan won around 53.6 per cent of vote, while his pro-Trump opponent Simion, leader of the far-right Alliance for the Union of Romanians (AUR), was on 46.4 per cent, according to the official count.

In the high-stakes polls, voter turnout reached 65 per cent, an increase of more than 11 percentage points compared to the first round, and the highest turnout since 1996.

“This is your victory, a victory of thousands of people who campaigned … and believed that Romania can change in the right direction,” former mathematician and civic activist Dan told thousands of his supporters celebrating his victory in the early hours of Monday morning in downtown Bucharest.

“Starting tomorrow, Romania enters a new chapter, and it needs each and every one of you,” he added.

He called for unity among all Romanians, including those who did not support him, saying that the country is “facing difficult times ahead”.

Dan, 55, who is currently mayor of Bucharest, acknowledged that the vote reflects a strong desire among Romanians for deep change.

“They want state institutions that function properly, a reduction in corruption, and a prosperous economic environment – a society that seeks dialogue, not hatred,” he said.

[fawniswriting]

♡ 𝐰𝐢𝐩 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 ♡

rules: in a new post, post the names of all the files in your wip folder regardless of how non descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet or tell us about it.

Thank you so much my lovely @artficlly for tagging me!!! This was so fun to do <3 I haven't made much progress with my wip these last couple of weeks bcs of how stressful my job has been getting lol but I'd love to talk more about some of these pieces if anyone is interested 🩷

faithfully yours — historical royal au series with knight!bucky and princess!reader. currently working on chapter 04 (almost done), chapter 05 (halfway done), and chapter 06 (just started)

the love policy — modern au series with ceo!reader and assistant!bucky

white picket fence — bucky x f!reader miniseries

apricity — bucky x stark!reader (reader is tony's adopted daughter). avengers tower fic with og avengers

beauty of bucharest — f!reader x cw!bucky (this one I've had in my wip for a loongggg time. I first started writing this in 2016-2017 after civil war came out, and it has been redrafted and rewritten numerous times over the years)

beauty of brooklyn — supposed to be the sequel for beauty of bucharest if there's a demand for it lol

do I know you? — bucky x f!reader. multiverse themes

in the spotlight — modern au actor!bucky x actress!reader

may I have this dance? — husband!bucky x wife!reader

table for two, please — bucky x gn!reader

unfortunately fortunate — college!au with athlete!bucky x gn!reader

untitled — 1940s bucky x celestial being reader

untitled — modern au (?) featuring fwb!bucky x f!reader

untitled — thunderbolts fic!!! bucky x f!reader featuring secret wife trope (aka one of my most favorite tropes everrr)

I need to learn how to start finishing my wip and stop coming up with new ideas before the last one is even done lmaooo

No pressure tags! @iamthatonefangirl @flowersforbucky and anyone else who would like to participate 💞

Line divider by @firefly-graphics

[eponastory]

Finding My Way Ch 1

That house on the lake is a memory. A good one, but he doesn't know if he can face it. Bucky doesn't even know how he remembers it, but he knows when he's standing in the streets of Bucharest, he sees proof that it's real. It stabs him in the heart like a million daggers when he sees the woman he left behind and he wants to reach out to her. To say her name, but he can't. He doesn't.

Years later he gets a letter telling him to meet at the Lake House in Michigan. Who he finds is a daughter looking for her mother after the Blip.

Takes place a few weeks after FATWS.

Pairings: Bucky x OFC (Lunesca Draven)

Rating: M (Some flashbacks will contain violent themes and sexual content in later chapters)

Word Count: 3k+

He still doesn’t know who he is or where he came from, but he knows he’s in the most peaceful place he can be. The sun sits low on the horizon just over the trees on the other side of the lake as he sits on the dock listening to nature. A slight breeze crossed over his skin, making his skin raise up because it’s getting cooler after a warm spring day of working in a garden. His hands still feel crusty from playing in the dirt, but that doesn’t matter. He can always jump in the lake if he wanted to clean off quicker.

She wouldn’t have that though. She’d want him in the shower before dinner, but he just wanted to spend time with what little thoughts he had in his head. It had been months. When he first came here, there was still a good ten inches of snow on the ground and a solid week of more snowfall. The great wilderness of the north, which he still didn’t know because he had asked not to know. If he knew, his training would make him go back and he didn’t want to go because he was remembering things here. With her. 

So he sits out on the dock every afternoon before the sun sets to savor the feelings. The warmth and the cool air as the spring day turns into a chilly night. Looking out over the water in the twilight made him feel things he didn’t know he could feel before. Beautiful memories that he knows could possibly be taken from him at any time. 

She gave him a notebook to write everything down in so that if he lost his way, he could just read it and remember. It worked for a while until he was able to retain and retrieve the memories fully. He has a name, but everything else is just fragments. In those fragments are nightmares. 

He hears her footsteps as she comes down the terrace steps to the dock. The wood creaks underneath the rubber of her old tennis shoes that she wears in the yard. He can already tell she’s carrying something in both hands because of the amount of time between footsteps. She comes to stand next to him, making him look up at her with his blue eyes. 

“One day, I’ll get you to smile.” She tells him with her green eyes sparkling in the twilight. She hands him a glass of fresh lemonade she made earlier that afternoon. “How was the sunset?” 

“Not bad.” He can’t really tell her anything other than that. Some days the sunsets were out of this world, while other days– they weren’t that great. “I give this one an eight out of ten.” He takes a long sip of the tart drink. 

She sits down next to him. “That’s pretty high on the scale.” There is a pause and she takes in a breath. “James, what you said to me earlier– about the nightmare–”

“Don’t worry about it, Lu. It was just a nightmare.” He puts the glass down on the dock next to him. “I- I didn’t mean to shove you off like that.” 

“You didn’t hurt my feelings or anything.” She grabs his right hand. “I get that you panicked and thought maybe I was just– too much.” Feeling her warm hand in his grounds him to reality and not that place in his head. He softens, bringing his metal hand to her face. 

“You aren’t too much.” Faded memories of a time long gone and a blurry face cross his mind. “Never too much.” He leans in to kiss her. 

Her lips are soft like the petals of the roses that grow near the back porch of her house. Pink like the sky before the sun rises. Her eyes are as green as the wings of a luna moth in the right light and her hair is as dark as the sky on a clear night. She is everything that is good in the world that forgot about him. 

The gut wrenching part of this? He’ll have to leave her eventually. 

He doesn’t want to leave her. James could stay with her forever and regain his life if there was a way, but there wasn’t. It was only a matter of time before they found him only to drag him back to the goddamn machine before sticking him in cryo. 

Pulling away, he looks in her eyes. He’s home. With her. Hardly any memories of his life before, but he knows maybe he might remember her first. It was only by chance that he ended up here in a ball of flames and aluminum that crashed into the frozen lake. A chance that she saw it and ran out onto the ice without a second thought. 

“Luna.” He whispers as he rests his forehead against hers. 

“I know you don’t know much about your past.” Luna kisses him on his cheek. “And I know that this is scary for you because it’s unexpected, but I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do.” 

He frowns. How does he explain? “It’s not that, Lu.” 

She puts both her hands on his cheeks. “Tell me what it is.” Her eyes search his. He can see them moving back and forth to try and find an answer. One that he wasn’t sure he was ready to give. 

“I saw the box.” He knew what it was when he saw the bright pink box in the trashcan before he took the trash out last night. The words ‘accurate’ and ‘test’ weren’t the only words he picked out on the box. 

Her hands fall to her lap and she stares at the water beneath their feet. “I– I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how.” 

“Are you?” James speaks after a moment. 

“Yeah.” She sniffs and tries to hide her tears. 

“I don’t know what to do with that.” He truly doesn’t. Not with HYDRA. Not with things as they are. He runs a hand over his face even though it’s been on his mind since he saw the box.

They should’ve been more careful, but he thought he was too messed up to worry about those things. He was wrong. He was so very wrong. Now there was a new complication in the mix that he doesn’t know if he can do anything about it. Another life to protect from his handlers who are probably looking for him. They probably already know where he is but are waiting for him to slip up. 

“I’m sorry.” A tremble in her voice alerts him to how scared she is. 

“Don’t be.” Reassurance, but also complete sadness. “This is on the both of us.” He reaches over and takes her hand in his flesh. He’s not completely lost. Not yet. “Whatever happens next, it’s not your fault.” 

Those words are true. Every one of them. 

He lays in bed that night with Luna in his arms, but he’s wide awake. James can’t sleep, not with this revelation soaring through his head at five-hundred miles per hour. What is he going to do? He doesn’t want to leave her. Every instinct he has is telling him to protect Luna; to make sure she stays as safe as possible. The only way he sees in front of him is to remove himself from the situation as much as possible. That means leaving her there. Alone. Pregnant and vulnerable. 

He has to though. 

It takes him a month to ruminate on it. A whole month and during that time he notices the swell on her abdomen. It’s barely there, but he sees it and he knows time is going to run out. She’s already thinking of names while he’s thinking of how to get out of there without leading his handlers to her. 

When Luna smiles at him as she’s working in her garden or making dinner, it hurts. He can’t smile back at her because he doesn’t know how to without it feeling hollow. She calls him ‘Grumpy’ with this sparkle in her eyes that makes him want to cling to her. However, even without his memories, he’s not sure what he feels most of the time. Sometimes he wants to hide away while other times he is touching her as much as he possibly can. 

He looks at her while she sleeps. It’s time. He knows it is because he’s seen the signs. The last time she went into town, he could feel eyes watching him while he was in the woods. He knows they are close. They would likely send the other assets after him first. The ones that could take him down if they work together and its the last thing he wants. 

He’s going back to that damned chair because he can’t stand the idea of Luna and his child being caught up in his life. He can’t handle the idea of the people who control him getting their hands on something so precious to him. So, this is how he is going to protect them. It hurts to see Luna sleeping serenely in the bed they shared for months. Its agony, but if he can remember her in the future, he’ll come back for her. He’ll try. 

James leans down to kiss her on the cheek one last time before he quietly slips out of the house. He walks for hours in one direction. He doesn’t follow any roads or paths as he walks through the forest. It isn’t until he starts moving uphill that he knows he’s being followed. They found him. 

A shadow steps out from behind a large tree. Another one behind him clicks the hammer of a pistol. Several more are around with different weapons and he feels like an animal that has been caught. He feels the sharp pain of a bolt going through his right shoulder, the head popping open to reveal a hook that keeps it from going back through his flesh. It’s between bone so ripping it out would make him useless. He feels another go through his calf and another in the other leg above the knee. They were trying to immobilize him. 

If they wanted that, they could’ve just said the goddamn words. But no, they wanted to make him suffer for going AWOL. 

Another bolt through his left side right above his hip bone has him going to his knees. James can’t get away and he doesn’t want to. Going with them was the only option and despite the pain he’s in, he keeps his mouth shut as he raises his hands in the air. He surrenders knowing he is going to be an empty shell and a man that knows only one thing. Comply. 

“You thought you could hide, Soldat.” His true handler walks through the people surrounding him and he knows what will happen next. “We should kill her.” 

“No!” They pull on the cables connected to him as he tries to move. “Don’t!” He grits his teeth in anger and– fear. “She knows nothing!” He didn’t tell her anything about where he came from. 

“You won’t remember her anyway, so she’ll live– for now.” Karpov pulls the book out from the inside of his jacket, opens it, and turns the pages until he lands on the right one. “Zhelaniye.” 

It’s all over. That sinking dread when the first word is said and he knows that the next time he wakes up, he’ll be somewhere else. He closes his eyes and doesn’t fight it as every word is said. It’s easier this way. He can forget about her and not live with the longing. 

Something doesn’t feel right. She’s dreaming about her little family then something dark takes over James as he’s holding their child in his arms. His eyes go cold and she wants to rip her child from his arms because he isn’t James anymore. He’s someone else because he’s squeezing their baby so tight that it starts screaming and then the sounds become muffled to the point she can’t hear them anymore. He’s hurting their baby. But it’s not him. It’s some monster that he was forced to be. 

Luna’s eyes fly open and James is there, standing over her cold and emotionless. She can see the blood pouring from his shoulder and right above his hip. What happened to him? Why was he not in bed with her. 

“James?” She looks at him in confusion before his hand is around her throat. “James!” She manages to get out as his hand squeezes tighter. “Stop!” And tighter. She can’t scream or yell at him. She can’t breathe. 

But, that doesn’t matter when her secret comes to life on its own to defend her. A pulse of white comes from her and he’s blown back into the wall, leaving her on the bed gasping for air. Luna knows she doesn’t have time to see if he’s okay, so she stumbles out of bed. All that mattered now was her baby, and only her baby. She knows it’s not him. She’s almost out of the door when a hand is on the back of her neck and she’s being lifted into the air. 

“James! Stop!” She cries out as she struggles to get out of his grasp. “Stop!” 

He doesn’t, so she uses her power again. This time pooling it in her hands and blasting it back at him. James’ grip loosens enough for her to drop to the wood floor and when she moves to her back, he’s on her again; his hands back around her throat. Instead of reaching for his hands to pry them off, she places hers on his temples and finds a way to get into his head. 

“James– stop– please–” She is running out of air. “Baby–” Somehow, there is a little flicker in his eyes that tells her the magic is working. 

His memories are scattered and in a dark place he can’t reach, but she can. If she tries hard enough she can reach something that can undo whatever has been done to him. She finds it. The memories of the two of them talking at sunset and the passion they shared together once he let her in. She poured her love into him and he drank it as though he was in a desert. 

His grip loosens again and she coughs out as he goes slack in his posture. He’s still not completely James, but there is some recognition in his eyes as he falls back to sit against the wall staring forward. She doesn’t say anything as she slowly gets up off the floor, coughing and wheezing as her lungs recover. Her throat and neck hurt badly from his attempt to end her life, but she knows it’s not him. She can forgive that, but she can’t forgive whoever did this to him. 

Luna stands, looking down at him with fear and heartbreak. She should’ve known this wasn’t going to last. Whatever they had was now wrapped up in the child she was carrying and she was afraid. 

She walks past him, to her room and starts packing a bag. She can’t stay here. Not anymore. Not when this home that had wonderful memories before was now tainted by this– thing that will haunt her forever. She stops, feeling his presence behind her and he’s standing there looking at her with blank eyes. 

“Lunesca.” Her name is barely a whisper from his lips. “Îmi pare rău” He tells her as he reaches out with his right hand. It’s covered in blood and she realizes there is blood on her neck when she reaches up to touch the bruises that are forming. 

Her lips tremble when she realizes he’s speaking her mother’s native language. Romania. She wants to go to her mother and that is exactly where she will go. She’ll be safe there. 

“Don’t touch me.” She says. “Don’t look for me.” Luna’s heart is breaking because she loves him, but she doesn’t understand who he really is and she made the mistake of letting him in. “You won’t find me.” 

“Fugi.” He says without a beat. “Merge. Mă vor face să te ucid” He pleads with his eyes and she understands. He wants her to run from him. 

And she does. She grabs everything she can before leaving her house and getting in her car. She drives all the way to Chicago before getting on a plane and leaving her lake house to fend for itself. She doesn’t think too much about what happened while she’s on the plane, only that it’s just her and her baby now. When she lands in Bucharest, her mother is there to greet her and as soon as they are in Targoviste, she breaks down in her mother’s arms. 

Life in Romania seems to go on and on while her pregnancy advances. Luna can’t help but to miss James as much as she does, but maybe he’s truly gone. All that she has of him grows inside her and it’s not long before she’s holding her little girl in her arms. 

Born with a head of dark hair and her father’s blue eyes, Mia is a light in the darkness. Mia who is very much a joy as she grows from infant to toddler, then to child. They move back to the states when she is seven; just a year after the attack on New York City and the formation of the Avengers. 

Luna still misses him though. Wherever he is. Whatever he is doing. She knows he’s out there, his memories are probably scattered to the four corners now. It doesn’t matter because it’s a love that was lost to something neither of them could control. It still hurts to think about and sometimes she wakes up in the night still feeling like his hands are wrapped around her throat. It’s not his fault. 

And she can’t help but think of him when she takes Mia to visit family in Romania for her tenth birthday. A trip to Bucharest for the festival has all of them excited and Mia is practically bouncing from one market stall to the other with excitement. 

“Mia! Slow down!” Luna laughs as she tries to keep up with her daughter. 

“Mom, look at these earrings!” She’s running her small fingers over the delicate gold beads that hang from stars. “They’re so pretty.” Mia’s wavy hair dances in the slight breeze as she smiles in awe of the handmade jewelry. 

“One pair.” Luna runs her hand over her daughter’s hair. “You have too many sets of earrings already.” 

“Okay, but do I get the silver ones or the gold ones?” Those blue eyes look up at her for the millionth time with question. 

“Alright, you’ve convinced me– you can get both.” She caves because she loves her daughter so much. She smiles as she digs into her purse to pay the vendor. Her Romanian is better than Mia’s. “Come on, let's go show Mamaie.” 

As they walk through the rest of the vendors, Luna can feel eyes on her, watching her from a distance with some kind of longing. She knows. She knows it’s him because she’ll never forget what his intense gaze feels like. Fear comes up from within and she feels the need to hide her daughter because he could be after her. Whoever was controlling him before could still want her gone. 

“Come on, baby. Lets get out of here.” She pushes her daughter through the market, picking up the pace because she knows he’s following. 

“Mom, stop, we're going too fast.” Her daughter wants to look through the vendors, but the panic rising up in her prevents her from slowing down. 

“Lunesca!” She sighs when her mother calls out her name and the feeling of eyes on her goes away. 

“Mama.” She smiles through her anxiety. “Acolo esti.” Luna feels relieved. But when her mother takes Mia away, the feeling is back. 

She looks around to see if there is any sign of him and there in the middle of the street is a man wearing a navy baseball cap and dressed as a civilian. His blue eyes stare at her with recognition and pain. It’s him. James. Not the emotionless man who attacked her in her own home when she was pregnant with their child. Their child who was currently conversing with her grandmother in broken Romanian. She can see James swallow before attempting to call out her name, but he stops. His eyes close and he walks away, disappearing into the crowd. 

That was the last time she saw him. At least the last time she saw him in person. 

Nearly a year later he's all over the news. 

“Former HYDRA assassin and Winter Soldier, James Buchanan Barnes is responsible for the death of Wakandan King T’Chaka.” 

She watches the TV from their apartment in Chicago as this is going on. All the way up until Steve Rogers goes missing along with Sam Wilson. The Avengers are broken apart now and the father of her child is once again running for his life. 

When does it end? 

When she is standing in the kitchen cooking dinner, she starts feeling strange. Like something very bad is happening. Mia is nearly thirteen and sitting at the island doing her homework when things start to change suddenly. She’s there watching her hands start to disintegrate into ash as she’s reaching for Mia and her daughter looking up at her with wide eyes. 

It’s a blink of an eye, but she is standing in the kitchen again in the same position she had been in, but Mia is nowhere to be found. Instead there is a couple standing in front of her with shocked faces as she materializes in front of them. 

She can’t find her daughter anywhere. MIa is nowhere to be found or heard from, but she knows it’s been five years and the only family that would take her in is in Romania. She goes home to find her daughter. 

“She left a couple years ago. Disappeared. In the night, Lunesca.” There was no way of knowing what happened, but Luna breaks down. For six months she looks for Mia and she won’t stop until she finds her. She won’t stop. 

[frostyharbor]

warrior / diplomat - chapter four

F!READER/JOHN PRICE ■ EXPLICIT ■ IN-PROGRESS

SUMMARY:

You're a junior diplomat at the American Embassy in Bucharest. Even as tensions with Russia threaten to boil over, by the very nature of your job, you're more of the "ask questions first, shoot never" type. It's too bad military men don't really follow the same creed. tags: slow-burn, canon typical violence, minor character death

CHAPTER FOUR, 6.5K

His voice is a low, amused rumble. At the sound, your hand twitches and your breath catches in your throat. The flame wavers between you—too close, too warm. You meet with your boss, talk about duty, and light a cigar. Meanwhile, Price is getting ideas.

PREVIOUS | NEXT

MASTERPOST

In Jack Surace’s office, the light is mercifully dim. His perch at the top of the hierarchy affords him the luxury of a rug—albeit a rather cheap one—that deadens sound and lamps that give off a soft yellow glow that’s easy on your eyes. The heavy drapes at his windows are closed, blocking out the glare of the afternoon light.

The man himself, looking distinctly worn down with a loose tie and shadowed eyes, sits in the middle of a desk besieged by paperwork and overflowing files. His laptop pings every few minutes with a new email notification, half the country and his contacts in Washington pressing in. He spares the screen a half-glance to check for anything pressing before looking back down at your printout.

The clock on the wall ticks loudly, a brisk counterpoint to the murmur of indistinct office chatter that bleeds through his closed door. The only other sound in the room is your own breathing.

You had handed over the physical printout of the Reddit comments the moment he had returned from Ukraine, shadowing him into his office and seating yourself on the other side of his desk impatiently while he flipped through the pages. Now and then, he lingers thoughtfully over a particularly hostile remark, but by the time he finishes, Jack looks more weary than galvanized.

He drops the papers to his desk.

“I see your concern,” he says now, pushing his glasses up to the top of his head so he can rub at his eyes. You can sense the “but” hanging there, but say nothing. Choose to pick at your nails instead, like you could scratch at some of the tension simmering under your skin.

This is the kind of silence that—in your experience—goes before a disappointment.

One of his hands falls heavily to the printout, fingers drumming thoughtfully on the black-and-white thumbnail of the video post. “Ironically, the post being removed may work in our favor. Difficult to spread dissent if you’ve got enemies working to take down your communications.”

“Only the communications that we know about.” You scoot to the edge of your seat, resting your elbows on his desk. “That isn’t going to stop the talk going on behind closed doors.”

“That talk was going to go on whether this happened or not.”

You bristle, feeling a stab of injustice. You had dug into the contents of the post with your superior’s orders in mind, had reported to him at first opportunity, and now he isn’t listening. “It was going to happen, yes, but this rumor will be enough to make it worse. They’ll spin the removal in their favor somehow, say that the Americans or NATO are suppressing dissent—"

Jack holds out a hand to forestall you, making a placating motion. “All possibilities, but not certainties. It helps to be informed, true, but we can’t jump at every shadow we see.”

“And what about the shadows everyone else sees?” You gesture pointedly to the printout. “That was sent to me by Public Diplomacy—God knows who else has seen it. What would the SRI think of foreign soldiers using an American embassy to infiltrate their cities?”

He’s silent, mulling over your words and flipping back slowly through the pages. “Reade hasn’t mentioned any problems with Romanian intelligence.”

You know of Lt. Col. Callum Reade’s reputation for having an excellent network of operations technicians and local informants. As far as Senior Defense Officials go, they could hardly have done better. “And what does he know about this?”

“Nothing, or I’m certain I’d have heard of it already.” Jack looks at you, and then over your shoulder to the door behind you. “I’d like to keep it that way. He’s aware of SAS presence here, certainly, but the less he—or anyone—knows, the better. We have enough fires to put out as it is without worrying about military ego.”

And isn’t that the truth.

Jack rubs one of his thin fingers under a comment you had highlighted. They’re next. “This alone isn’t enough to act, but it can help.” He hands it back across the desk, and you release your white-knuckled grip from the arm of the chair to take it. “Keep digging. Find everything that you can and get with your local contacts to see what they know.”

“I will.” Not entirely pleased with the outcome of the meeting but relieved that your concerns haven’t been dismissed entirely, you rise at the implied dismissal and are halfway to the door before you remember something else.

“One of them—the captain—was hurt that night.” You chew the inside of your cheek, out of your depth in this. “He requested that he…accompany me around the embassy while he recovers.”

Jack had been in the act of resettling his glasses on his nose, but he aborts the motion, tapping his chin with the frames thoughtfully instead. “Did he, now? And you agreed?”

You feel a wide chasm of wrong answers yawn in front of you, but you meet his eyes with a lifted chin and steady gaze. “I did. In the interest of keeping an eye out, of course.”

“Of course.” His words are assuring, but his eyes gleam in the low light, watching you with something that you can’t place. His answer, when it comes, arrives on the tail end of an uncomfortable silence. “Well, you’ll keep me updated?”

“Always, sir.”

You think he might have more to add, but his phone rings at that moment, breaking the tension and giving you an excuse to beat a tactical retreat.

The fluorescent lighting in the rest of the office blinds you when you make your escape, swinging the door shut quietly behind you and giving his receptionist a nod.

It isn’t until you’ve walked out the door and onto the lawn that you place his final expression, the realization hitting you like a freight train.

He had been suspicious.

----------

You’re still shaking off the lingering effects of your meeting with Jack when you round a corner and spot Price. 

He’s sitting at a picnic bench under a gnarled old tree that had been a lush green in the summer, but has since dropped its leaves. The bare branches clatter like bones overhead, but Price doesn’t look up from where he’s talking low into his cell phone. He’s not alone—Scarecrow is sprawled across from him, legs stretched under the table with his boots propped up next to Price’s thigh.

Two steaming paper cups rest on the worn wooden table in front of them, the scents of coffee and tea carried to you on the breeze. It’s oddly domestic.

Still, you consider turning around and pretending like you hadn’t seen them. You don’t know if you’ve got on the right face for whatever this conversation is going to entail. The frustration from the meeting still persists, gnawing insistently on your ribs and leaving you feeling distinctly raw. And, to be honest, you’re not sure where to begin with Price.

I picked you.

In spite of the cool air, you feel a flash of heat creep up your neck at the memory, and you fuss at your collar to hide the blush.

You’re an adult, but his simple declaration had left you confused and babbling like a teenager. You had gone home that evening and spent a restless night in bed, alternating between dissecting his comment and berating yourself for overthinking it—tossing and turning as you wondered at hidden meanings and ulterior motives. 

Because there has to be some covert reason for it, some calculation that you’ve missed—anything but the obvious.

It’s not that you think that you’re not worthy of the attention. Educated, competent, and self-reliant, you know you’re a catch. But you’re a catch for other people like you. Quiet, stable office workers whose greatest excitement of the day is a printer running out of ink or having to sit in on some forced team-building exercise.

Not for people like him, who have seen too much of the world and probably left a trail of wreckage in their wake.

It hadn’t helped either that, after your brief conversation on the lawn, Price had practically disappeared. You had cornered Ozone just yesterday morning, and the man had assuaged your worries with the promise that Price had been sleeping off the worst of his injuries.

“Our PCMs don’t really go for anything much stronger than Motrin,” he had laughed. “Apparently, they give out the good stuff here. Knocked him flat on his ass. Now, if you don’t mind…” he had yawned pointedly, like he had been up all night, and walked off in the direction of their barracks after giving you a fond pat on the head.

Faced now with the prospect of actually talking to the man you had inquired about, your courage would have failed had Scarecrow not looked up and hailed you with his friendly drawl.

“Hey, Miss Diplomat!”

Oh, you really are going to kill Price for that nickname one of these days. 

For now, you settle on a polite smile and a measured walk as you let yourself be drawn closer.

Your eyes flick over to where Price sits, still engaged in his conversation. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge you at all, really, but you think you see a little grin behind the beard. Scarecrow waves you over again impatiently, and, with his blessing, you close the remaining distance to perch on the bench beside him.

As you sit, Price stands, relocating himself and his phone call to a sunny patch of grass a few meters away. You track his retreat across the lawn, trying not to read rejection into his silence. One of those types of calls, I guess.

Scarecrow knocks his shoulder against yours in a friendly way. He smells like black coffee and the outdoors, and it brings to mind a quiet, foggy morning on a rural farmhouse porch. “Doin’ alright?”

“I’m alright,” you reply simply, propping your elbows on the picnic table and resting your chin inside your cupped hands. You try to look anywhere but Price, but his broad shoulders keep drawing your eye. “You?”

“Never better.” He takes a long gulp of his coffee, wiping his chin with the back of his hand when a drop spills from the corner of his mouth. You stare, more impressed at his ability to down a scalding drink than you are disgusted at his rusty manners.

He grins. “Sorry, Miss. Not used to proper ladies bein’ present.” He tips his head towards Price, raising his voice a little to be intentionally overheard. “Almost as rude as our mutual friend there.”

Step faltering slightly, Price turns his head enough to look at you both out of the corner of his eye. You only raise one unimpressed eyebrow while Scarecrow laughs at him over the flimsy rim of his cup, unbothered.

While Price keeps pacing over the same stretch of grass, you whack Scarecrow’s knee with your own. ���Anything interesting going on?”

Yawning, he shakes his head. “Naw. Just admin bullshit.” He traces a pattern across the grain of the table. You see a ring on his left hand—not a traditional wedding band, but one of those black silicone rings you’ve seen some of your coworkers wear around the gym.

He sees you looking and wriggles his ring finger obligingly. “Married almost ten years. Here.” He reaches into an inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a thin wallet. There’s no money or credit cards inside—just pictures. The first is of a stunningly beautiful woman who’s looking at the camera with a bright, friendly smile.

“My wife,” he explains, beaming down at the picture like she could see him. “Dated all through high school and got married right after she graduated college. She’s the smart one,” he adds proudly, setting the picture aside with no small amount of reverence. “Accountant. Everyone said the CPA exam was the hardest in the country, but she passed on her first go.”

For the next ten minutes, he flips through the remaining photos of his kids—two girls and one boy—and entertains you with stories of their antics and accomplishments. Most of them are told secondhand— My wife told me or I found out when I got back from deployment—and you feel a prickle of sadness on his account.

In your world, families separating wasn’t entirely uncommon, either. Some assignments in hostile nations were unaccompanied postings where family couldn’t go. Others stayed stateside voluntarily, unwilling to uproot their families to travel to the other side of the world.

But that was different. Drastic emergencies aside, a diplomat wasn’t going to suddenly find themselves in the middle of a firefight or a mission gone wrong. Your everyday job, in fact, isn’t so different from one you would do in an office anywhere in the world. 

Scarecrow lingers wistfully over a picture of the five of them. “She hates it, you know—when I go dark. But she gets it, too. Not everyone does.”

You’re not sure you do, either. Both of you looking down at the picture of his family, you privately think that if you had a loving spouse and three wonderful children, you wouldn’t be caught dead running headfirst into danger. Unable to help yourself, you pry a bit. “If it bothers her, why do you keep doing it?”

The question doesn’t appear to annoy him, and he answers easily, like he’s been asked before. “Most of the time, it’s just another job. People get this idea like we’re these 24/7 secret agents, but I sit around and write just as many reports as any civilian. This?” He waves vaguely to the embassy and the surrounding streets. “This is the outlier. Even here, I just walk around and talk to people. Observin’, mostly.”

His voice hardens as he continues. “But when things get bad—and they do—I’m ready.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you pick at a peeling piece of wood at the table’s edge. “But there are other guys without families who are ready, too.”

He grumbles, and you look up, startled—now you think you’ve offended him. “Why should I expect some other guy to take my place just ‘cause I’ve got a family and he doesn’t?” 

“I didn’t say anything about expect—”

But Scarecrow doesn’t let you finish, his tone sharper now. Challenging. “Let me ask you somethin’.” He’s looking at you now dead-on. “Why didn’t you leave the work to somebody else? They cleared half the civilians out of here weeks ago, and nobody would’ve batted an eye if you went with ‘em. Why stay?”

You hadn’t been expecting the tables to be turned on you, especially by someone as easygoing as Scarecrow. To say because Jack needed you sounded too self-important, and, besides, that hadn’t been the only reason, had it? 

“Because if Jack was going to stay,” you begin slowly, looking back up at Scarecrow, “I wanted to help him if I could. I couldn’t abandon my post here.”

“Well, then,” he says as he leans back, satisfied. “You should already know why I can’t abandon mine.”

He takes another sip of his coffee, and you look down at your hands, unsure of what to say. Across the lawn, you see Price finally lower the cell phone at last and tuck it into his pocket. 

You wonder what he would think of this. Would he agree? If he had a wife and kids, would he still be here? Obviously, or else he would’ve quit already , you mentally chide yourself.

But that line of thinking brings up another possibility you hadn’t considered.  Was he married? It hadn’t occurred to you to wonder until now. Would a man like him even have the luxury?

The idea sinks low in your gut like a heavy stone.

There’s no time to overthink it. Price sits down heavily across from both of you, awkwardly adjusting his sling with his left hand and rubbing the back of his neck where the strap must have bitten into it.

When his hand drops to his cup of tea, you chance a quick glance down to his ring finger. No ring. Even as the relief registers, you feel a hot wash of shame—what were you thinking, checking out his hand like that? He had made one comment to you and now you were checking to see if he was married ?

You’re a professional, for God’s sake. Pull it together.

Looking back up at his face, you think he looks both better and worse than when you saw him last. The haggard, half-dead pallor has been replaced by the flush of healing, but the bruising on his face has deepened into a dark, ugly purple. The side of his face that had been scratched was no longer an angry red, but had crusted over in patches of brown scabs.

He takes in your scrutiny patiently and without complaint, only making a face when he goes to take a sip of his tea. “Cold,” he sighs. The cup is set aside.

It’s quiet for a moment as you all look at each other. Price is considering you, head tipped to the side in that curious way of his. Scarecrow’s eyes dart between you both before he takes a deep breath, apparently coming to a decision.

“Well,” he says, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. “I’d better go see how Marlin is holdin’ up with Peasant. Pity we can’t all be on medical leave.”

“Piss off,” Price counters without any real heat. Denied his tea, he fusses with something in his coat pocket, pulling out a narrow case and a lighter with intent written all over his face.

Scarecrow grins as he stands. “He enjoys his vices, our Captain.” He squeezes your shoulder briefly when he passes behind you on his way out. “Don’t let him burn the place down, eh, Miss?” 

As he strolls off, Price retrieves a cigar from the box, pinning it between his sling and his body so he can cut the end. The lighter gives him a bit more trouble—it proves difficult to hold the cigar and keep the flame lit at the same time.

You watch him struggle for a moment, unsure of how to lead into the conversation and wishing that Scarecrow had stayed as a buffer. “You know, I don’t think this is a designated smoking area.”

“Tha’ so?” He almost fumbles both lighter and cigar, and you heave a sigh of resignation.

“Oh, for—here.” Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach out and pluck the lighter from his hand. While you’re shocked at your own boldness, you feel a smug moment of triumph when he relinquishes it with a surprised grunt. “At least don’t set your beard on fire.”

He grins as you flick the lighter and hold it out for him. “Ta, love.”

His voice is a low, amused rumble. At the sound, your hand twitches and your breath catches in your throat. The flame wavers between you—too close, too warm.

You recover quickly, steadying your hand as Price rolls the cigar between the fingers of his good hand, toasting the foot evenly over the lighter before lifting it to his mouth. The surrounding air is quickly filled with the sweet perfume of tobacco and spice.

It’s not an unpleasant aroma, but it’s not a familiar one, either, and you can already feel the smoke going to your head. You drop the lighter back to the table and try to shift upwind.

Price spies you leaning away and chuckles. “Don’t smoke?”

“No.” You sigh as you consider the last few weeks. “But I’ve been thinking about starting.”

He lowers the cigar for a moment, letting it rest between his index finger and thumb. “Workin’ for Surace got you that wired?”

At the moment, yes, but your loyalty to your boss wouldn’t ever allow you to admit it. “It’s not Jack,” you respond, glancing towards the fenceline. “It’s everything else that’s been going on. The riots, the bomb, people leaving…” The embassy being turned into a military base goes unsaid, but from the way Price’s eyebrows furrow, you think he hears what you don’t say.

He takes another pull, turning his head away slightly this time to exhale the smoke away from you. You watch it curl up into the air and disappear.  “Not exactly what you signed up for, is it?”

You remember the conversation you had had with Chrissy before she left—you had discussed something similar then with her. “No,” you admit. “Although I guess it was always a possibility.” 

For a moment, you both watch the comings and goings of other people in silence. The branches overhead rattle, and a single shrivelled leaf drifts down to the picnic table below. Price sweeps it away with a careless flick of his wrist. “Knowing that, what made you want to be a diplomat?”

“Travel, mostly.” You shrug. “Seemed like a good way to get out of the country without having to spend a fortune.”

“And that’s what you wanted?” His blue eyes were watchful as he tapped ash from the end of his cigar. “To get out of the States?”

You’re beginning to feel like an insect pierced on the end of a needle. The scrutiny makes you defensive. “Yes. Not in the sense that I was running, but yes.”

Price smiles, either in spite of your raised hackles or because of them. “Never said you were running.”

You fold your arms tighter into yourself, looking for a different topic that would relieve you of that probing gaze. “What made you want to join the army?”

He seems to give the question serious thought, gallantly overlooking the obvious change in subject. “Joined up when I was sixteen. Infantry seemed like the only option back then.” He looks down at the table, eyes following the same designs in the wood grain that Scarecrow had traced earlier with his hand. “Didn’t have much else goin’ for me in those days.”

You try to picture a teenage version of Price standing small in a recruitment office as a last resort. It’s hard for you to imagine. Barring his bout of frustration days prior—which you’re willing to concede as an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, given his fall—he seems the type of man to always be in control.

He doesn’t elaborate on what his home life must have been like to push him into the infantry at sixteen . You don’t press the subject, feeling instinctively that it’s a sore issue. “Did it help?” You ask instead. “Joining?”

“It gave me purpose. A regimen to follow.” Price shifts in his seat. “I was a kid with no direction, and suddenly I was bein’ told how to dress, where to go, what to do. Structure like that, it teaches you how to carry yourself, ‘least until you can find your own way.”

The silver and gray threaded through his beard catches the afternoon light, and you think that he’s been finding his own way for a long time. Sixteen , you think again, and give him a curious once-over. He has to be at least in his late thirties, possibly even early forties. That would give him at least twenty years in uniform. A career’s worth of deployments and bonds forged.

Several lifetimes, for someone in his line of work.

Echoes of your conversation with Scarecrow come back to you as you reflect on Price’s words. “And after you…found your way? Why stay?”

Price worries the tip of his cigar between his teeth for a moment before answering, expression distant. “Stayed at first because it felt daft to walk away from the only consistent thing in my life.” 

Smoke slips from his mouth as he exhales slowly. His eyes find yours through the haze, cutting and keen. “Then, I made it through selection. After tha’, I stayed because I was good at it.”

He makes the claim so simply, without a hint of boasting. It should sound arrogant but, coming from Price, it doesn’t. What his tone lacks in ego, it makes up for in conviction. The kind that’s built up over years of difficult jobs and tangled decisions.

And you don’t doubt that he is good at it. You don’t think operators make it to his age without some sort of preternatural skill protecting them from all the dangers that should have hollowed them out.

They either get reassigned, retire, or…

Your hands, clenched on the table in front of you, tremble a little at the thought. He tracks the movement, and you think his eyes linger on your left hand for just a second too long, keen to his attention because of your own wandering gaze.

You avoid his eyes. You’re also aware of the other side of that skill, the cold reality of war and conflict that’s too often overshadowed by Hollywood films of glory and honor. That Price could sit here in front of you at all means that other men hadn’t gone home. Even as badly as he’s injured now, it means nothing in the end—because he had lived to see another day, injured or not. 

The other man…you think of the video you had seen, the blurry figure being packed away into the back of the SUV. Dead…or worse .

Another quiet spell falls between you both, interrupted only by the sound of distant traffic and embassy staff crossing the lawn. 

The conversation had gone in a different direction from what you had initially anticipated. Price had been more honest in his answers than you had thought he would be, and his sincere responses make you regret your earlier caginess. Taking a deep breath, you try again.

“I didn’t want to leave the States because I was running from anything,” you assert firmly. “And I can’t really say I didn’t have anything going for me, either. I had a good job that I could have stayed in. But it was so…” you reach for a word, trying to remember how it had felt to wake up every weekday morning only to stare at the same emails day in and day out, “…mundane. Not bad, but not great, either.”

Purgatory, your mind supplies helpfully, but it would feel a bit too melodramatic to say so.

A pair of birds twitter overhead, and you look up, watching them flit through the branches. “Sometimes, this job is like that. But there are more exciting days, too, more things that break up the monotony. The politics of a country change every day, so there’s always something new to read about and write up.”

You bite your tongue before you can say more than you already have. Changing politics and reporting social climates—the topic is spiraling closer to the Reddit post. Thus far, the subject has been left unaddressed, and you’re set on keeping it that way.

But Price is only nodding slowly, like he can relate to the idea of breaking out of an unrewarding desk job. “What was it like, trying to get in?”

Was that how men like him, who had been through the most rigorous selection process on the globe, measured the worth of a career field? “Not as difficult as your application process, I’m sure,” you say dryly. “How selective they are varies year to year according to need. Honestly, I think I got lucky.” You let out a grim little laugh, more to yourself than him. “They had been struggling to fill the candidate pool for years after what happened in Sakhra.”

Across from you, Price almost drops his cigar.

You’ve got a hand half-reached out already on instinct to steady him, but pull it back at the last second. “You alright?”

He recovers himself quickly, looking annoyed with his own slip. “Not used to holdin’ things with my left hand.”

Though you’re sympathetic, discussing the injury can only lead to questions about how it occurred. You only nod tightly and return back to the conversation. “Even I wasn’t too keen on joining after that.” You look down at your hands again, feeling a bit naive. “But I told myself it probably wouldn’t ever happen to me.”

Price sets his cigar down on the corner of the table, letting the burning end hang over the edge. “You weren’t completely wrong,” he reassures you, not unkindly. “Odds of anythin’ like that happenin’ to anyone is low.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, but your stomach twists. Odds are always low, right up until they aren’t.

On the other side of the iron fence, a local man walks by with his two young children and a thick file tucked under his arm, headed towards the waiting area for the visa applicants. One of the children, a young boy, waves at you. The gesture makes you smile, and you wave back.

But the memory of the besieged embassy dampens your mood. “It was terrible, what happened to all those people.”

There’s no immediate response, and you look around to Price. He’s watching the boy and his father also, but with a faraway look like he’s seeing something else. The shifting branches overhead cast moving shadows over his eyes, and, turned away from you like he is, his full expression is unclear.

You wait, but Price’s silence lingers.

Maybe it had been a mistake to bring up Sakhra. You drum your fingers nervously on the edge of the bench. It wasn’t something that you or anyone else spoke about much—bringing it up in an embassy felt like bad luck, or perhaps a little too much like tempting fate. But no one usually reacted poorly to it.

“Price?” You ask, voice soft. He looks back at you and the distance is gone, replaced with his usual air of calm impenetrability. 

The man picks up the cigar and returns to his smoking. “John,” he says.

You blink, half-looking around. Price takes in your reaction with a smirk. “ I’m John,” he clarifies. “If you’re gonna light my cigars for me, might as well call me by my name.”

His tone is light-hearted, but you’ve taken enough notes behind the negotiating table to know when a barrier has been lowered. You bite your lip, feeling near-whiplash from the change in subject. 

Something nudges against your calf. You glance under the table and see he’s stretched his legs out, one of his calves brushing gently against the inside of yours. He doesn’t make any move to pull away and, after thinking for a moment, neither do you.

“Alright.” Your voice cracks on the word, mouth dry and tongue feeling too big for your mouth. But you only clear your throat and straighten your spine. “Alright, John .”

He presses his leg against yours a bit more firmly.

Across the compound, someone slams a door a bit too loudly entering one of the buildings. Neither of you flinches away from the other, but the birds overhead take off, disappearing over the wall and into the city beyond.

----------

He parts ways with you at the door to your building.

Though you bid a polite farewell, there’s still a shaken look to your expression, and you look back over your shoulder at him before the door can swing shut fully behind you.

It isn’t your fault. John had never thought in a hundred years you would bring up the embassy in Urzikstan, not at that moment, but he should have seen it coming. The boy and his father passing had just been another unfortunate stroke of bad luck.

“How about you, Captain? Are you gonna let them die?”

He remembers being on the wrong side of the bulletproof glass, the woman begging for help, and Gaz’s wounded expression as they had both walked straight past an execution. Gaz had been younger then, softer, brimming with just fury. He had still clung to his morals then, much the way that you still do now.

Discarding the cigar and winding his way back to the barracks, John is still thinking of you when he enters his quarters and closes the door behind him.

He shrugs off the sling and tosses it on his pillow, sinking into his desk chair with a groan. His wrist has been itching something fierce, and he reaches for a pen from the desk to scratch carefully at the skin under the brace.

The room itself is nothing special. With vinyl flooring and no windows, he thinks it had been an IT closet before he had commandeered the space, and his occupation hasn’t done it any favors. A thin cot is shoved up against one wall with his desk on the opposite side, a folding card table and four chairs rounding out the ragtag ensemble.

The desk at least is more organized than it had been since he had arrived. Perks of medical leave, he thinks as he rearranges one of the neat stacks of finished paperwork.

And not the only perk. John tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting his mind wander back through a haze of cigar smoke and rustling branches. A little lighter flame held in a shaking hand and the warmth of your leg pressed along his.

His musings are cut short by a vibration from his coat pocket. John pulls out his phone and, seeing the caller ID, answers immediately.

“Laswell.”

“John. Got a minute?”

What she’s really asking is if it’s safe to talk. He leans back in his chair, glancing at the closed door. “For you, Kate? Always.”

“Charming.”

He smiles. “Tell your wife to watch out.”

That gets him a wry laugh. “I’m sure she’ll feel very threatened. Listen, we’ve followed some of the leads we got from Mihalache.”

His wrist throbs at the mention of the name, and John grits his teeth, privately wishing the man could take another trip down a fire escape. Knowing the CIA’s methods of dealing with terrorists, Mihalache would probably welcome it by now. “‘M listening.”

There’s a pause as Kate shuffles through a file. “There’s an event that keeps coming up in our digging—the International Gala. Some big thing for the diplomats and dignitaries in the city that always happens before Christmas.” 

He glances at his desk calendar, lifting the top page to count the weeks remaining. Less than two months. “Where?”

“Let me verify. The venue changes every year.” He sits, the gears in his mind already turning. Kate comes back to the phone. “It’s at the Corinthia this year.”

John lets out a low whistle. “Nice place.” He had seen the exterior during one of their many ventures into the city. The grand old architecture and wrought-iron balconies had looked distinctly out of any reasonable person’s price range. 

“I’ll say. You’ve seen the Palace of the Parliament? Romanian government doesn’t really do subtlety. Anyway, with those leads, we’re still working on what the RNF has planned.” John shifts the phone between his ear and shoulder, awkwardly beginning to tap out notes on his laptop with his left hand.

Kate continues. “For any external threats, it’ll be easy to put our guys on the streets, but what we need is someone inside. We’ve got intel that puts members of the AUR in the pockets of the Nationalist Front. Could be our chance to identify who’s backing them from the inside.”

“Thought the AUR was pro-NATO.”

“Not all of them, apparently. We’re putting together a dossier on the party members with ultranationalist ties. I’ll send it over to you when we’ve gathered what we can—after that it’s just a matter of narrowing down which ones will be there.”

He types clumsily, annoyed at the drag of it. “And gettin’ into the event? Doing the usual ‘security detail’?”

“It won’t be that easy. These people all know each other, John. You won’t be able to get in or out without someone noticing.” Kate sighs. “And security doesn’t exactly get close enough to rub shoulders with the country club set.”

He’s got an idea half-formed by the time Kate finishes speaking. The picture is so clear in his mind that John can already see you in the middle of an opulent ballroom in a sweeping black gown, chandelier lights reflecting in your wide eyes like diamonds. “Who exactly gets an invitation to this thing?”

“All of the ambassadors in the city, for sure. Usually their deputy chief of mission as well, and possibly some staff if the space permits. Spouses, too. We’d have to get a copy of the guest list to know for sure.” Kate, always a quick study, can already guess that he’s got something in the works. “What are you thinking?”

John hesitates. The lads might know of you, but Kate doesn’t, and John isn’t going to out you just yet—not until he knows for sure that he has an in. The CIA’s radar can be a dangerous place to be. “Give me more time to think it through.”

She grumbles a bit but leaves him to it, and after exchanging a few additional details, she hangs up. John tosses the phone to the desk, bringing his hand up to cover his face.

Becoming entangled with a civilian is already a bad idea, and one he hadn’t intended on letting get out of hand. A bit of casual flirting here, some banter there—not exactly a compromising situation.

But then he had gotten hurt and had seen the opportunity to keep you close. The light exchange you both had had days prior had been harmless enough. But conversations like the one today are dangerous. He had been too open, too honest, and had let himself be caught off guard. 

That you can even surprise him at all is intriguing in itself, though he knows you had stumbled onto the topic of Sakhra without knowing of his own involvement there. He couldn’t allow that discussion to continue. It would lead to too many questions, too many connections made. If he had been involved there, what are his motives now, at this embassy?

He shrugs, rationalizing his own decision to the empty room. It doesn’t matter what his motives are. He has a job to do, and sometimes difficult choices need to be made. You would understand.

No, you wouldn’t , a small voice in his head protests. Hidden behind a sharp tongue and a wall of independence, there’s a softness that you try not to let anyone see. He thinks of your tentative glances and reluctant smiles, your pity for innocent people killed in conflict. Your loyalty to Surace. Your stubborn hold on your principles, even as you sink into questions you don’t want the answers to. 

You haven’t yet been asked to get your hands dirty for the greater good.

John rubs the back of his neck wearily, feeling a faint guilt war with what he knew had to be done. But if you were going to play this game, you were going to have to learn sometime.

----------

notes

SRI - Romanian Intelligence Service (though the acronym comes from the Romanian name for it - Serviciul Român de Informații) PCM - Primary Care Manager (a military doctor, basically) Motrin - Brand-name Ibuprofin, used in the military to cure everything from mild to severe injury CPA - Certified Public Accountant. The exam, I've heard, is something of a horror show. AUR - Alliance for the Union of Romania, a newly-founded, far-right political party that allegedly promotes, among other things, fascist and pro-Russian beliefs

I first thought of this story due to a weird intersection of niche interests - foreign affairs and CoD - and started writing it to play with opposing viewpoints. The point isn't to promote either side, so when the narrator/military characters talk about their motivations, please don't interpret that as endorsement or justification.

Any ties between members of the AUR and ultranationalists/terrorist groups are purely fictional and invented for the purposes of this story.

Thanks for reading and sticking it out through this (very) dialogue-heavy chapter!

taglist

@enfppuff

[fru1t4fr0gs]

You and Me - Chapter 5

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Plans begin to come together. After a car ride filled with a whole lot of bickering, you and Bucky share a tender moment as you prepare for the oncoming fight.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Trauma, Implied Sex, Bickering, Sam and Steve are very Big Brother in this chapter (especially Sam), Brief mention of Reader being Tony Stark's kid (reader is still a fully grown adult, we are in charge here so we make the timelines work), Please let me know if I forgot anything

Author’s Note: This chapter is a bit of a quick one, but I had a lot of fun writing the dialogue and exploring some relationship dynamics. It was also due time for Bucky and reader to have a sweet moment. They've had a rough few days. As always, feedback is super appreciated. I'm so grateful to the people who have reached out to tell me you're enjoying the fic! You guys are the best! Enjoy!

-

“Just out of curiosity, do you always go the exact speed limit when you drive? Aren’t we supposed to be on the run?”

Steve looks at you in the rearview mirror, raising a single eyebrow. “Being on the run means not drawing attention to ourselves.”

“And being on a time crunch means getting to where we’re going faster than this. Find the happy medium, Cap. Push it to five-over.”

“I forgot how grumpy you are when you’re tired.” Sam says, earning himself a glare. “Have you slept since you fainted in Bucharest?”

“I didn’t faint. My body reacted to being lifted a hundred feet in the air at the speed of a fucking jet. I passed out.”

“Sure, you ‘passed out’ in my arms like a total badass.”

“No fighting in the car.” Steve interjects, and you can’t tell if he’s joking or if his ‘I Will Turn This Stolen Getaway Vehicle Around’ tone is genuine.

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

“Language.”

Your eyes could not possibly roll back farther in your head. “When I hotwired the grandma car, I wasn’t expecting you to drive and act like an actual grandma.”

You turn to Bucky, irritated and looking for backup in your verbal battle. He’s just looking at you, and you can tell from the barely perceptible crinkle in his eyes that he’s trying to hide a smile. You’ve seen that look before, countless times back in Romania. He might be the only person in the world to find your crankiness endearing.

“Are we there yet?” You ask a few moments later, half to push buttons and half because you really do feel like you’ve been in this car for more hours than you can count.

“Seriously?” Sam asks, actually turning in his seat to give you an incredulous look.

“What?”

“Five more minutes.” Steve says, and it almost sounds like he’s fighting off a sigh of annoyance. Poor Grandma.

The five minutes feel like twenty, but eventually you’re pulling into a spot beneath an overpass. Sharon gets out of the car in front of you, and Steve goes to meet her, leaving you, Sam, and Bucky alone to watch their interaction through the window.

“Can you move your seat up?” Bucky asks, tone dry, and you look to the small amount of room Sam has given him.

“No.”

“Dude.” You say, incredulous and annoyed. Sam turns to you again, giving you the ‘I don’t approve of this and therefore I’m going to be an ass’ look you’ve become accustomed to over the last few days.

Neither of the men say anything, and you roll your eyes as you begin to silently switch seats with Bucky. The small old car creaks a little. The scene must look ridiculous, one large man trying to help finagle you over his lap as your head lightly bumps the ceiling, while another pointedly refuses to turn around. After a few moments, Bucky is sitting on the other side where Steve has left you considerably more room, his long legs no longer squished in by Sam’s seat.

Sam says nothing. He still does not move his seat up.

The three of you watch as Sharon opens her trunk, and from your angle you can see Steve’s shield, Sam’s wings, and some shiny trinkets that you hope against hope might belong to you.

And then they kiss, and your eyebrows shoot up.

“How long has that been going on?” You ask, and Sam laughs.

“A few months. ‘Bout time he finally made a move.”

Steve looks back at the three of you. Sam and Bucky smile. You waggle your eyebrows. He rolls his eyes and transfers the equipment into the trunk of your tiny getaway car.

And then you’re off.

-

On the way to the airport, a few more minutes of bickering leads to Bucky finally wrapping an arm around you and pulling you into his side.

“Go to sleep, doll.” He murmurs into the top of your head, like he’s done so many times before when you would be wide awake in the apartment in Bucharest, scribbling out plans and blueprints for machines you’d never be able to build without your lab or equipment because you just didn’t know what else to do with yourself.

You’re tempted to argue, but he’s right. You’re not going to be much help if you’re falling asleep standing up.

So you give in, wishing your serum had given you the ability to stay awake for days on end like Steve and Bucky’s had. His shoulder is warm and comfortable against your cheek, and his fingers trace gentle, soothing patterns against your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It doesn’t take long for you to drift off.

When you wake, it’s to Bucky pressing another kiss to the top of your head, his arm still locked comfortably around you like it hasn’t moved an inch since you closed your eyes.. Your nerves are already beginning to hum with the sense of something coming, but drowsiness and Bucky’s presence are enough to tamp down the twitchiness for now.

“What would you say?” He asks, quietly. You can feel his smile against your hair. “Time to kick some ass?”

Your muscles creak as you sit up, blinking the sleep from your eyes.

“Was I asleep for five minutes or ten years?”

“About two hours.”

“Good enough.” You stretch, looking towards the van parked beside you, and slide out of the car. Clint and Wanda’s eyes fall on you immediately, and you offer them an awkward little wave. Your heart constricts as Wanda hugs you, quickly followed by Clint. You really did miss them. You didn’t have much of a family growing up, but you suppose it took dying to remind you of how much the one you found matters to you.

Tearful hellos to old friends and new introductions to a man who can, from what you’ve gathered, turn very small, ensue. The alarm goes off, and you brace yourself for what’s coming before Bucky needs to translate what they’re saying over the intercom. Stark is coming. Fast.

“Suit up.” Steve says.

Time to kick some ass.

-

“Is it supposed to feel this heavy?” You ask, rotating your shoulders again and shifting a bit on your feet.

Bucky huffs a soft laugh, strapping another knife to the holster at your arm. “You’ve got light weapons. You’re just not fighting in civilian clothes this time. You’ve got to get used to the weight.”

He crouches down, and starts strapping another holster to your thigh.

“You know, the more weapons you attach to me the slower I’m probably gonna be able to move.”

“The more weapons I attach to you,” Bucky says, tightening the holster, “the safer you’ll be. Like I said, they’re light.”

“We have very different definitions of light, Buck.” You say, as he slides a knife into the holster and starts strapping another one to your other leg. “I don’t have super strength. Also, I think I can set up these weapons myself. I feel like you’re about to tie my shoes for me.”

“Do you want me to tie your shoes for you?”

“Very funny.”

He smiles, and you see a hint of mischief in his expression before his hands slide up to the backs of your thighs and he suddenly and smoothly tugs you down into his lap.

You bite back a squeak of surprise, arms flying up to steady you by wrapping around his neck. You can feel his smile widen against the shell of your ear. “You look good in tactical gear.” He murmurs, voice suddenly much lower than it was a moment ago. Much more suggestive.

You laugh, instinctively tilting your head to the side and granting him more access to your neck. Every touch of his lips to your skin sends a spark through you, and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to the feeling.

“I was about to say the same thing to you.” You say, unable to keep the smile from your face as your fingers trace lightly over the leather. “But you know we definitely don’t have time for this.”

He makes an exaggeratedly tortured noise, nipping at the juncture between your neck and shoulder. “They can wait.”

You’re almost tempted to agree, hand moving up to run through his soft hair. He hums in approval, pulling you even closer. For a moment, you try to push down the persistent feeling of something coming. The prickling in your fingertips that’s warning you to prepare for the inbound threat.

But it’s too strong. You have minutes, maybe, until Stark and the rest of them reach the airport and shit hits the fan. “They can’t wait.” You say, defeated.

He sighs, but nods in understanding and pulls back from your neck, climbing to his feet and easily pulling you to yours alongside him.

“Later.” He says simply, lowly, the singular word holding a promise that makes you shiver. He leans down to press a gentle, craving kiss to your lips, and you suppress the urge to say fuck it and make him un-suit up right then and there.

“Later.” You agree, moving towards the door, but his hand darts out and catches around your arm before you can reach it, and he pulls you back.

“Hey, wait.” He says, turning you to face him. He looks you over in that assessing way he has, gaze feeling like a featherlight touch against your skin. “Are you okay? I know this is…” he pauses, and you see his expression cloud with guilt. “I don’t want you to sacrifice everything. Not for me.”

You shake your head, unable to hide your surprise. “I don’t agree with the Accords, at all. And you know better than anyone that we have to stop the other supersoldiers. My relationship with Stark aside, he’s wrong in this. I can’t sit there and pretend otherwise just because it would be easier to.”

He nods, relieved, and looks ready to make his way towards the door. He doesn’t make it two steps before you speak again, the words spilling past your lips before you even think about them.

“But I would still do it.”

He pauses. Looks at you again with those burning blue eyes.

You speak clearly, your words completely honest. “Even if it weren’t for anything else. Even if it was all just to protect you. I would still do it. I wouldn’t even think twice.”

He stands very still, like it takes him a moment to process what you just said. And then suddenly, like he remembers how to move, he pulls you into his arms. He holds you tightly. Reverently. Like you’re the most wonderful and precious thing to ever exist in this fucked up world.

“I love you.” He says it like an exhale. Like a sigh of relief. And it’s the first time either of you have ever said it out loud, but it’s not a surprise. You already knew you loved him. Hell, you think you might have loved him since the first time he laughed on that roof in Bucharest, on that cold night what feels like decades ago.

“I love you, too.” You say into his shoulder, and he holds you even tighter.

For a moment, you two just stand there, trying to hold onto the moment, before you feel his hands begin to drift gently over your body.

“Bucky?”

“Mhm?”

“Are you checking my weapons again?”

He pauses. “I might be.”

You pull back, smile, and kiss him.

“Lets go kick some ass.”

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Taglist: @vicmc624, @saucysasha2035, @iyskgd

[thetorturedbuckydepartment]

chapter two: the arrival

pairing: Bucky barnes x plus-sized!SHIElD!reader

masterlist

summary: being a SHIELD agent, you have a knack for analysing people, particularly when it comes to attraction. you have everyone figured out, sorted away into the boxes you've created. But there's one man you can never seem to figure out, the very bane of your existence -- Bucky Barnes. On the field, he is a saint, helping you dodge bullets and taking knife wounds in your name. Around the building? Public menace number one, always poised to insult or to spar with you.

After being sent on a 6-month-long torture-cum-vacation with the very man, could all this change? Could you finally figure out what has been bubbling beneath the surface for years between the two of you, the juggernaut that you know you cannot stop?

warnings:  language, heavy mentions of sex, brief and non-specific mentions of Bucky’s past

word count: 2.9k

taglist: @cjand10 @mcira

PREVIOUS PART

A/N: so excited for you guys to read! sorry ive been MIA recently -- the first half of august will be extremely stressful for me as I have my drivers theory test on the 10th, then I find out if I get into uni on the 15th, hopefully all goes well but you never know!! so for that reason, I haven't been able to write much since posting the first chapter, so updates might be every 2 weeks or so! im so sorry </3, but as always, please let me know how you're finding the story!!!!

The wedding band offers you a strange comfort as you twist it around and around your fingers, staring out of the window of the private jet. It’s a simple golden band, with your initials and Bucky’s engraved onto the inner edge. You hate it, but are too ashamed to vocalise it. It was less than a week ago that you were sobbing on the floor about pretending to be married, and now the wedding band, his initials rubbing against your skin on the inside of it gives you solace?

Bucky notices, because of course he does. He moves to sit directly in front of you, and you turn to him. Officially, the two of you are on the clock now, and so you keep your face impassive, instead of scowling or staring angrily at him. He leans back in his seat, shoving his hands into the dark leather jacket you’re all too familiar with, slouching. He’s wearing jeans the same colour as his eyes, and a red henley that’s just peeking through the top of the jacket. Average, suburban white guy, with a bit of New York flair. 

“You’ve been avoiding me all week.” He states simply, like it’s the most abhorrent fact he’s ever had the displeasure of narrating. You nod, trying your best to not let a snarky remark sneak past your lips, currently coloured in a sheer red. 

“I don’t want to get sick of you too soon. It’s the longest we’ve ever been on any mission. You remember Bucharest, right? How we were almost at each other’s throats in two weeks, and because of us poor Sam spent a week in the medbay? I don’t want that to happen again.” He glances down at the memory, as if humiliated by the outcome of that mission. You know you are — you still check Sam’s hands to see if he’s still healing. You assume he’s done with talking to you and turn to stare back out the window, admiring the green fields and fluffy clouds.

“I understand. But that means we haven’t talked about anything. Like our cover story, how I proposed. Or how affectionate we’re going to be with each other.” 

“Well, you’re still going as James Barnes, aren’t you?” Realistically, you should’ve said The Winter Soldier. That’s what you mean, and he knows that. But you can’t bring yourself to say it, to remind him of everything he’s trying to escape from. It seemed to be an unspoken boundary between the two of you, that you’ll never throw that title in his face, especially when you’ve seen the way he retracts from society and begins to shake in his seat at those three words, regardless of who uses them. His past, before you knew him, you decide to leave untouched. You couldn’t live with yourself if you belittled him and shamed him for things that happened to him, things that he was never in control of.

You’ve read the case files. You know the atrocities. You can’t do that to him. Even if he chose to cross that line, you can’t wound him in such a way, especially not for petty revenge. You want to annoy him, yes, but you don’t want him to truly ache irrevocably because of you. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to do that to him.

“Yes. And you’re still going as you?” You nod, gears turning in your head.

“We can say we met in Wakanda, and we were friends for 5 years. You were hopelessly in love with me the whole time, obviously. But I only started seeing you as more than a friend after… we went to a friend’s wedding together, and I didn’t have a partner so I dragged you along with me. When they exchanged their wedding vows, I realised that what you and I had was special, and that you’re ridiculously handsome. And the rest is history.” You shrug, hating that you’ll have to admit to his stupid, pretty face that he has a stupid pretty face.

“How’d you come up with that? You don’t really seem the romance type…”

You think for a moment, reabsorbing the insult that you almost fire at him. Is he implying that you’re a slut, again?

“Just because I’ve never been serious about anyone before, doesn’t mean I’m a heartless monster, James. I’ve read books, and seen TV shows. I prefer romance, to remind myself that somehow, sometimes, men can be at least decent.” Your eyes bore into his then, silently expressing your anger. “And I’d really appreciate it if half of your insults toward me aren’t slutshaming. Keep it to yourself.” You can’t help it.

His eyebrows furrow, and somehow he looks even sexier. God, you hate how your sexual attraction toward him peaks when he’s civil with you. “What? I’ve never…”

“Yes you have, don’t lie. Almost every other sentence you say to me, you mention me sleeping around. Now, I don’t give a fuck what you think, but it’s beginning to get annoying. You wanna get your marks up? Find some new material.”

“Butterscotch, no. That’s—That’s not what I mean. You’re the only person I’m ever around who’s had so much sex, but it’s not a bad thing. Definitely not a bad thing. It just genuinely seems to me that whenever I see you, you’re always planning to hook up with someone. That’s why. I’m not shaming you for having sex, do whatever the fuck you want. I’m sorry if I made it seem otherwise, or if that’s why you hate me.” You’re constantly shifting between staring out the window, and at him, but when he apologises you can’t help but give yourself whiplash, wondering if he’s joking.

A million more questions circle your mind, and your anger flares up before you can stop it. You stand up, walking over to where he sits. He watches your face, as you grip the armrests and lean down so you’re uncomfortably close to him. He gets flustered so quickly, it’s another one of your favourite weaknesses of his to exploit. “You think that’s why I hate you? I hate you, because you’re an arrogant, self-centred bitch, who’s only ever treated me like shit.” In truth, he’s only arrogant and self-centred when it comes to you. To everyone else, he’s as sweet and humble as they come, and that’s what bothers you the most. 

That he’s chosen to have some personal vendetta against you from the very first night he met you, when you tried to be kind. You greeted him, smiled at him, bought him a vinyl player and limited edition vinyls from the 40s in mint condition for his fucking birthday, and all he ever was, was cruel to you. He scowled, he turned away from you. He all but threw your thoughtful gift across the room and fled from the birthday party.

That was your breaking point, when you decided that he’s not worth it. At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. He was fresh out of Wakanda at the time, and you thought that maybe he was just having trouble reintegrating into society, what with the hell he’d been through. But then, you noticed the way he spoke to Nat with a wide smile on his face, how he loved to laugh with the other agents, and you noticed it was just you that he was still closed-off and horrid to. That’s when you began to be cruel, began to insult him and scowl right back, mirroring his expressions 

You’d never done it before then, but it felt so natural, so deserved. And then it had become second nature, as easy as blinking, or finding someone new to sleep with. It’s even more embarrassing to admit that you’d found yourself, for the first time, having strong and true romantic feelings for someone, and then he shut you down like that. How could you not? With a face like that, and an unwavering passion in those cobalt eyes, how could you not form some semblance of attachment? 

You briefly remember the way you’d acted around him, like a giggling schoolgirl who’s just dipped her toes into the dating world. How naive you had been, how foolish. It all just makes you grimace now, fuelling the flames of your hatred all that much more.

He searches your eyes, trying to dig beneath all the malice. As if you’d let him. He must know that to poke the bear is futile at this stage, because he decides to change the topic.

“And what about me proposing? How long have we been married? Where did we go on our honeymoon?” Your faces are so close…if he were half a decent person you wouldn’t leave any room for him to even breathe at this current second.

“Don’t tell me I’m gonna carry all the braincells on this mission, Barnes.” You retreat back to your seat, slumping over yourself, trying to ignore all of the bitter memories that have just been dragged to the forefront of your mind. 

A brief silence descends over the two of you, and you swivel your attention once again to the landscape outside, buckling your seatbelt as the flight attendant announces that you’re about to land.

“One day, I asked you over to my apartment, on our three year anniversary. December 22nd. I cooked you your favourite meal, chicken biryani with that raita that you like, and red velvet cake for dessert. It was a candlelit dinner in my tiny apartment, with a red tablecloth the same colour as your dress. After the dinner I asked you to marry me, reciting stanzas and stanzas of prose about how beautiful and amazing you are, and how in love with you I am. Then, we made love until dawn, obviously.” 

A smile graces your face at his last words, at how innocent he appears when he refers to having sex as making love. The sentiment is sweet.

His seeming innocence catches you off guard at times — he’s been amongst all the agents and Avengers for eight years now, as opposed to your 13. The agents are always throwing themselves at him, especially those not into women, at all. You’ve often assumed he hooks up with most of them, seeing as Steve’s often recounted stories of what a charmer he was back in the 40s. And when he’s nice, you doubt anyone could resist him.

So why does he seem so new and inexperienced to most things? Another mystery you can’t be asked to solve.

“God, you’re just dying to have sex with me, aren’t you?” You tease, letting your grin  mould into something a little more sadistic, indicating that the thick, putrid air of a few minutes ago has passed.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, the story pretty much requires it.”

You nod in mockery. “Uh huh, of course. You pervert, we’re not going to tell anyone that. The idea of premarital sex will probably give half the kids in those suburbs a heart attack.” His eyes rake up and down your figure, and you give him your most salacious grin. You usually reserve it for men across the bar, when you catch them checking you out. It’s reserved for inviting them over for casual conversation and bathroom sex.

On Bucky? It flusters him to hell and back when he’s on the receiving end of it. Just like it is right now, as he tries desperately to hide the blush that’s spreading quickly across his cheeks. He swallows, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob against his throat in an almost predatory manner.

It’s in moments like these you’ve often thought about hate sex. Specifically with Bucky, about what it would be like to pull on his hair, to boss him around like you usually enjoy to. Would he listen to you? Or would he bark orders of his own at you, gripping at every inch of you desperately? But you’re scared, because he’s the first person to ever make you want to pursue them romantically, and you’re scared all the hate will melt away with every gentle yet scorching touch, leaving you vulnerable.

You hate being vulnerable.

“We’ve only been married a month, and we went to Spain for our honeymoon. We just got back two weeks ago to finish packing.” He completes, and it seems simple enough. You notice how his voice shakes ever so slightly, still influenced by the way you look at him, and the way he refuses to make eye contact. 

“Sounds good. We’ll stick with that then.” You offer, not bothering to look at him twice as you leave the jet and step into the family sedan that Bucky’ll be driving.

You sigh as you sink into the passenger seat in a car that smells too clean, staring out the window as if bored. You wonder if either of you will be able to not kill the other in these six months.

In your mind, you either fuck or fight it out. There’s no other way you’re emerging. 

You wonder which option he’d choose, studying him as he settles in beside you, so close that you can smell his cologne. He’s taken off his leather jacket and shoved it to the backseat, exposing his arms and—his left arm is no longer metal.

He catches you staring — he’s always looking for an excuse to stare at you. “Fury handed it to me after the initial briefing. It fits over my arm like a second skin, so it looks normal. I’m supposed to be trying to get back that normal life, remember? Fury said it’ll help disillusion and distance me from The Winter Soldier in these civilian’s minds.” Somehow, it sends a pang through your heart, still, at the way he’s trying to not lose his shit and start crying at even the thought that they’ll still see him as an empty weapon, a vessel for unimaginable evil. You soften.

“Here, let me drive — you just learned what a car was, like, six months ago. Plus it’s manual. I know Steve only let you learn automatic. Come on, stop being a bitch and switch with me.” You’re goading him, holding out your hand for the keys as he blindly stares at the console, trying to process how you know that fact about him. 

Steve and you are close, best friends even. That’s why. He turns off the engine and does as he’s told, mind probably currently too occupied with awful memories to register you’re being soft with him.

As you settle into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors as he stares down into his lap. “Besides, when you walk in there unarmed and without a murderous look on your face, they’ll know, James. It’s been years.” Your tone is too gentle, too gentle considering your history. But you can’t help yourself, and you let your hand gently touch his arm even though he won’t feel it. He looks up, and you see his eyes brimming with tears.

“But what if it doesn’t work? What if they see right through me?” His voice is so small, unlike any tone he’s ever taken with you.

“It will. It will work, they won’t see right through you. If they know who you are, you know they followed your trial, your rehab in Wakanda. They know you were pardoned. And they’ll know when you treat all the kids with respect, because you’re good with them. When you help the seniors cross the road, when you help the sexy neighbour with her groceries. They’ll know, because you’re good. You have a good heart, and you treat almost everyone you know with nothing but love and affection. Just because I’m not on the receiving end of it, doesn’t mean I can’t see that. Trust your gut, James. It’ll all be fine. And if I can pull off being in love with you, they’ll definitely see it too. I’ll sing your praises to everyone in town, I’ll do everything to convince them if I have to. Because that’s the only way our cover will work. This is official business, James. This isn’t you and me around the Tower, or sparring in the gym. Just trust me here, okay?” You don’t know why you’re sympathetic, you don’t know why you care. You don’t know why you’re saying all of these things like you’re falling in love with him, all you know if that he’s falling apart and you have to try and stop it.

You have to try and be there for him, gripping his hand between both of yours, trying to offer a physical reminder that he’s in the car with you, not back in that horrid lab or in the sterile courtroom as some bald, red-faced lawyer tries to write him off as the most heinous cretin to disgrace this planet. You look at him and he looks at you and the tension is almost palpable, like you could cut it with a knife. You have no idea what’s happening to you.

“Okay.” He says quietly, his thumb stroking the side of your hands. Sam beeps the horn behind you, him and Steve posing as the movers and carriers you and James have hired. 

It startles you out of the moment, reminding you of your rapid heart, beating so fervently against the jail of your ribs that you feel it in your fingertips. You turn to the road ahead, signalling to the PARKER PACKERS AND MOVERS truck towing behind you. You swallow, hopefully taking any softness for Bucky along with it.

It’s going to be a long six months.

NEXT PART

[mcrdvcks]

wip's folder

⏾ - oneshot ☁︎ - series ✶ - not much written/only idea ۶ৎ - request ♪ - on back burner

completed/waiting for upload:

my boy only breaks my favorite toys ⏾ - matt murdock x reader: After Midland Circle, Matt is determined never to let anyone close again—especially you. Despite his constant attempts to push you away, you can’t help being drawn into his dangerous world. But when your involvement nearly costs you your life, Matt is forced to confront the feelings he’s desperately tried to bury.

two sugars ⏾ - bucky barnes x reader: As the Avengers team medic it's your job to take care of everyone. So why does Bucky feel like he gets special treatment? Surely a medic wouldn't know the exact way he likes his tea.

in progress:

i love you, in every life ☁︎♪ - weapon x and scientist reader

bound by starlight ☁︎♪ - anakin skywalker/darth vader x senator!reader: You, a senator for the Republic, and Anakin were married during the Clone Wars. But, in trying to save you from dying in childbirth he turned into Darth Vader. Your children were sent away for protection, leaving you alone to work with the Rebellion in secret—no one can know that you're alive. But when you come face to face with Leia and Luke after the destruction of the Death Star, you're afraid the secret of their heritage is will reveal itself. Especially after Vader finds out you're alive and will stop at nothing to get what he wants. You. i got a little writer's block, but so far there are 8 chapters!

ours ⏾♪ - joel miller x reader/no outbreak au: As a grad student at University of Texas, guys your age aren't known for being the brightest. After giving up on dating, a flat tire changes everything.

be my, be my baby ⏾☁︎ - bucky barnes x reader: Now that the team knows you and Bucky are married, they learn very quickly about your strange marriage. part 2 to electric touch

somewhere only we know ⏾☁︎ - bucky barnes x reader: As Howard's younger sister, you are often in the shadows. You prefer it that way; you prefer the quiet and not being recognized. Until one day when you meet a Sergeant who can't seem to ignore you. fix-it for the first avenger - aka bucky and steve live

treacherous ⏾۶ৎ - bucky barnes x reader: You haven't seen Bucky for almost 2 months, you've been away on a mission for the UN. Bucky is miserable, the team has only known him for 2 weeks but can tell that something on his phone makes him smile.

dandelion ⏾ - bucky barnes x reader: You moved to Bucharest for a fresh start when you meet Bucky, your neighbor in 4B.

long story short ⏾ - bucky barnes x reader: You are the congresswoman for the 12th congressional district of New York. Bucky Barnes was just sworn in as the congressman for the 8th district. You think he's underqualified and clueless, but he wants to prove you wrong.

timeless ☁︎ - bucky barnes x reader: You, Bucky, and Steve are childhood friends who grew up together in Brooklyn. When the war starts, and the three of you start to do your part in the army, circumstances tear you all apart - Bucky falling off the train, Steve going down in the plane, and you alone for the first time in your life. But, when an organization takes an interest in your DNA, you find yourself more lost than before. Because you aren't you anymore. an idea spanning from captain america: the first avenger and onwards. fix-it for civil war mutant!widow!reader

bad reviews ⏾✶♪ - benjamin poindexter x reader: You live across the street from Dex, and he's taken a liking to watching you from his window.

morally grey, god complex, successful ⏾☁︎ - matt murdock x reader: parts 5, 6, & 7 to my oneshot series

false god ⏾♪ - matt murdock x reader: You adopt a dog who forms an attachment to your neighbor Matt.

bad for business ⏾✶♪ - matt murdock x reader: You’ve been in love with Matt for years, but he always kept you at arm’s length. When you start pulling away, he panics—realizing he may have pushed the only person who truly saw both sides of him too far.

something in the way ☁︎♪ - matt murdock x reader: You're a former Black Widow who has started a new life in New York City—as a social worker. When you learn that some of the kids in the system have been treated unfairly by the police, you take matters into your own hands. But Daredevil doesn't agree with your methods.

labyrinth ⏾♪ - matt murdock x reader: You are a single mom who has moved away from your ex-fiance with your blind son Henry. When your neighbor and Henry form a connection, you find safety in Matt as well.

high infidelity ⏾♪ - matt murdock x reader: Elektra’s return threatens everything between you and Matt.

but daddy i love him ☁︎♪ - logan howlett x reader: Logan is hired as a bodyguard for you, a mafia boss's daughter. Except, you are nothing like the other mafia princesses he's looked after.

dangerous woman ☁︎♪ - logan howlett x reader: You're a former assassin now working as a mercenary alongside your friend Wade and occasionally Logan. After a solo mission goes wrong, you discover that someone is not only trying to ruin your reputation but also out to kill you. i promise i'm working on it! this is like the worst writer's block i've had - with this series in particular

couldn't make it any harder ⏾♪ - logan howlett x reader: You and Logan agree to be friends with benefits. The most important rule? Don't fall in love. Except Logan has never been too good at following rules.

so high school ⏾♪ - logan howlett x reader: When Logan, the star footballer player, needs help with math in order to not be kicked off the team, he turns to you, the shy, quiet 'forgotten' one.

look up at the stars ⏾✶۶ৎ♪ - logan howlett x reader: Logan isn't one for crushes, but somehow he ended up here, having a crush on you, the most oblivious person there is.

crystal clear ⏾♪ - anthony bridgerton x reader: You came to London to visit your dying grandfather from America. Him and your father wanted you here for one reason: to marry.

9 logan howlett requests ⏾✶۶ৎ♪ - untitled

important note: just because there are works in progress, does not mean that they will actually be finished/uploaded. this is more for me to know what i have in the works and for you to have an idea as well.