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buckysouvenir · 12 days ago

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just a dress “Doesn’t matter what you wear,” Bucky murmurs. “I’d still fall for you.”

There are a few constants at Avengers Tower.

Tony’s ego. Steve’s early morning runs. Sam making playlists no one asked for. Bucky Barnes sitting across from you every morning at breakfast. Waiting, always waiting, with a second mug of coffee he’d never admit was specifically for you. And you showing up on time.

Which is why it makes sense that every morning at breakfast, Bucky Barnes is already sitting at the table, two mugs of coffee in front of him. One for him. One for you.

“You’re cutting it close today,” he says one morning, flipping the page of his book as you slide into your seat.

“It’s 9:01,” you reply, raising an eyebrow.

He grunts. “Still late.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it,” he mutters, but hands you the coffee like always.

It’s a ritual neither of you talks about too much. It started months ago. You’d show up late to breakfast, blaming your alarm or your book or that “one last video” at 2AM. Bucky would already be there, freshly brewed coffee in front of him… and a second one just happened to be sitting next to it.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence. But then Sam teased him about it. Loudly. And Bucky stopped denying it.

Now it feels like a fixed point in the universe. Just like how you always sit beside him during meetings. Just like how he always makes sure you get home safely from late-night gym sessions. Just like the way he glances over when you make a bad joke, just to smirk when you laugh at yourself.

You aren’t anything. Not really.

But you move around each other like planets stuck in orbit. Quietly, consistently, unspoken.

And everyone notices.

It’s a Thursday when Stark makes the announcement.

Tony Stark stands on the lounge coffee table in his socks and dress shirt, arms spread like a game show host.

“Formal gala next Saturday!” he declares. “Right here in the penthouse. Black tie. String quartet. Be sparkly, be charming, be fashionably unarmed.”

“Another one?” Sam groans.

“It’s an annual Stark tradition,” Tony replies. “You’ve survived worse. Plus, open bar.”

You blink.

You try to act normal. Cool. Unbothered. But something in your stomach flutters.

Fancy events aren’t exactly your comfort zone. You’re more a “cozy café and soft playlists” kind of person. The thought of gowns and heels and being watched makes your heart beat a little too fast.

You give a little nod, mostly to yourself. “Cool. Sounds fun.”

Across the room, Bucky looks at you from where he leans against the wall, arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything, just raises a brow like he’s already reading your mind.

You pretend not to notice. You’re getting very good at pretending.

The days leading up to the party pass in a blur of missions and meetings and movie nights on the couch. Somewhere in there, Nat and Wanda stage a coup.

“You’re not wearing something you already own,” Wanda declares. “This is not a ‘recycle your last wedding guest outfit’ situation.”

“I wasn’t going to-”

“Yes, you were,” Nat says, cutting you off. “We’re going shopping. You’re coming.”

“I have dresses.”

“Non-negotiable,” Wanda says sweetly, tugging you toward the elevator.

You open your mouth to argue but are immediately handed your jacket and pushed toward the elevator.

It’s a whirlwind. Nat is a force of nature, striding through boutiques like she owns every mannequin. Wanda flits between colors and fabrics like a kid in a candy store. You mostly follow, trying not to get overwhelmed.

Until you see it.

It’s tucked behind a rack, almost hidden. Deep sapphire blue. Long. Satin. High neckline. And when you pull it out, the back dips low. Dramatic, elegant and beautiful in a way you don’t usually let yourself wear.

You hold it up, hesitant.

Nat appears behind you. “Oh, that’s the one.”

You laugh. “No, it’s too much.”

“It’s perfect,” Wanda says. “And so are you.”

You blush. “I’ll try it on."

You do try it on. Alone. And when you turn toward the mirror, your breath catches. It fits like it’s been made for you. The satin clings and drapes in all the right places. Your hair, loose and natural, spills perfectly across your shoulders.

For a second, you see someone else in the reflection.

Someone effortless.

But then the light shifts, and the old doubt creeps in… quiet, uninvited. Not loud or cruel. Just a whisper.

The dress is beautiful. You’re just wearing it.

You step out of the fitting room slowly.

Still, when you step out, Nat and Wanda audibly gasp.

“That one,” Nat says. “No contest.”

You smile back, but your voice is soft. “Okay. Just in case I don’t chicken out.”

They don’t argue.

Back in the tower, nothing changed… on the surface.

You had breakfast with Bucky. Teased Sam during movie night. Trained with Steve and actually knocked him off his feet once, which became a three-day bragging right.

But in the back of your closet, behind your “safe” black dress… that sapphire gown waited.

And sometimes, when you were alone, you took it out and ran your fingers along the satin.

The week passed in fragments.

Mission briefings. Morning coffee. Shared elevator rides. Stark’s party was all anyone could talk about, mostly because Tony wouldn’t shut up about the custom glass champagne tower being shipped in from Paris. Steve had started practicing his waltz “just in case.” Sam was planning a pre-party playlist “for the vibe.”

But if someone looked closely, if they knew where to watch, there was something else underneath it all.

Something unspoken.

Something that looked a lot like almost.

You weren’t entirely sure when it had started, the slow unraveling of comfort into longing. Maybe it was the way Bucky always poured your coffee first without asking. Or how he lingered at the edge of rooms when you laughed too loud, eyes flicking toward you like it was a sound he didn’t want to miss. Or how his voice always softened when it was just the two of you, even if his words didn’t.

He was still Bucky. Still sharp-edged and dry-humored, still grumpy in the mornings and skeptical of movie nights. But with you… he was something else, too.

And with him… you let yourself be a little more, too.

You didn’t tell anyone about the flutter in your chest when he passed you a protein bar without looking, knowing exactly which kind you liked. Or the way your heart stalled when he leaned close during training, murmuring corrections just low enough for only you to hear.

“You’re dropping your left shoulder,” he said on Monday, fingers brushing your arm to correct your form. “You’ll get thrown off balance.”

You nodded, distracted not by the advice, but by the feel of his touch, light, careful, familiar.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

“Anytime,” he replied, already a few steps away.

He didn’t say much. Never did. But his presence lingered like a gravity field. Constant, quiet, and hard to pull away from.

On Tuesday, you walked into the lounge to find him asleep on the couch, book splayed open on his chest, the TV playing some old black-and-white movie.

You stood there for a moment, just watching. His features, usually guarded, were softer in sleep. Less worn down by memory. More like the man he let you see in glimpses.

You sat beside him without waking him, gently pulling the blanket over his shoulders.

He mumbled something. Your name, maybe.

You didn’t ask.

Wednesday, he found you in the kitchen at midnight, digging through the fridge.

“You always eat like this before missions?” he asked, leaning on the counter, arms crossed.

“I get hungry when I’m anxious,” you said, holding up a half-eaten leftover taco. “Don’t judge me.”

He smiled, actually smiled, and shook his head. “Not judging. Just wondering why you never share.”

You slid the other half toward him. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “This is awful.”

You laughed. “You’re welcome.”

By Thursday, the party talk has fully taken over the tower.

Tony hands out gold-foiled invitations (dramatic, unnecessary, very Stark). Wanda drags Sam to a tailor for a fitted tux.

And you… pretend you’re not thinking about it.

“Do you have something to wear?” Bucky asks over lunch.

“I’ve got dresses.”

“Multiple?”

“Yeah. I bought a new one with Nat and Wanda but I don't know if I'm gonna wear it.”

“Why?”

“It’s not really… me.”

“Then why did you buy it?”

“I liked it!”

“Then it is you.”

He gets you.

Saturday comes fast.

The tower transforms. All warm lights and string music, trays of champagne and crystal bowls of things no one can pronounce. Everyone looks like movie stars.

Wanda curls her hair into soft waves and wears a wine-colored dress that makes her look like royalty. Nat, of course, wears black. But somehow manages to make it look like it belongs in Vogue.

The guys are in suits. Steve somehow looks both uncomfortable and handsome. Sam gets complimented three times by the catering staff.

And you?

You’re upstairs. In the dress.

Frozen in place.

The clock ticks. Time passes.

And for the first time in months, you’re not there.

You can feel the nerves setting in.

It’s the dress.

It’s always the dress.

You keep pacing your room, staring at the mirror, biting your lip. The makeup is done. The heels are on. The earrings are clasped. But still, you hesitate. Looking at yourself feels like holding your breath.

The dress looks the same as it did in the store. A deep sapphire blue, smooth satin, the neckline high and elegant, the back open and dramatic. It clings to you in a way that should make you feel powerful. Beautiful.

But tonight… it just feels like it isn’t yours.

You’re not panicking. Not exactly.

It’s quieter than that. A slow, creeping sense of not belonging. Like the longer you stare at yourself, the more the magic unravels thread by thread. The dress is stunning. That isn’t the problem. The problem is how perfectly it fits.

Because sometimes, when something fits too perfectly, it feels like it’s shining a light on everything you wish it could hide.

You sigh and stand, adjusting whatever you think could be wrong with it.

Downstairs, Sam glances at the elevator again.

“Where’s Y/N?” he asks.

“Probably fixing her hair,” Wanda says, sipping a drink.

“She’s never late,” Steve adds.

“She’s not,” Nat agrees. “You want me to go check?”

Before anyone else can answer, Bucky stands up from the leather armchair near the bar.

“I’ll go,” he says, too fast. “She’s probably wearing heels. Better if I go.”

No one argues.

Not even Sam, who raises a brow but says nothing.

Bucky adjusts his suit jacket, smooths down his tie, and heads for the elevator, ignoring the flutter in his chest.

You brush your hands over the fabric. The material shimmers when you move. Your heels are black and slim, your earrings match. On paper, it all works.

So why can’t you walk out the door?

You glance at the clock. Nearly 40 minutes late.

Your stomach drops.

“Damn it.”

You move toward the chair, where your backup dress still waits. The black one. Safe. You’ll throw it on, pull your hair into a low slick bun, and no one will even-

Knock knock.

You freeze.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

“Y/N?”

Your heart jumps. Bucky.

You nearly trip over your own heels rushing to the door.

“Coming!” you call, trying to gather yourself. You crack the door open, just wide enough to peek out.

And then forget how to breathe.

Bucky stands in the hallway in a tailored black suit, no tie, collar open just enough to be unfair. His hair is slicked back slightly, but still soft. He looks like he’s walked out of a noir film. And he’s staring at you.

Staring.

His eyes drop, slowly… from your face, to the curve of your shoulders, to the way the blue satin hugs your waist and falls in a soft, perfect line. His lips part just slightly.

He blinks once.

“Wow.”

You flush immediately. “What- what are you doing here?”

He clears his throat. “You’re late.”

Your brow knits. “What?”

“You’re never late,” he says softly. “Sam, Nat, Steve… everyone noticed. They were worried. Natasha was about to come up, but I figured… heels. Safer if I came.”

“Oh.”

You glance at the clock again and wince. “I didn’t realize. I lost track of time. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, voice gentle.

You reach for the door. “You should go. I’m just going to change dresses. I’ll be down in five-”

His hand, cool metal, presses gently against the door.

“Wait.”

You pause.

“What do you mean, change?”

“I…” Your voice falters. “I don’t think this is the right dress.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow slightly. Not judging, just reading you.

“Why not?”

You look down at your hands. “It’s just too much. I thought it looked better in the store. It's fine.”

The words are barely a whisper.

Bucky is silent for a long moment.

Then he steps closer, just slightly, enough that the air between you shifts.

“Y/N.”

You look up.

“You’re already wearing the dress,” he says, his voice quiet but certain. “And you look…” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “You look incredible.”

You swallow hard. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it because I have to.”

He tilts his head, eyes warm. “You walk into that room tonight, no one’s gonna be able to look at anything but you.”

You blink. Your chest aches in that soft, quiet way that comes from being seen — really seen.

He lets the moment breathe between you, then offers you a small smile.

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”

And then he turns and walks away.

Just like that.

Leaving you breathless in the doorway.

Five minutes later, you’re still staring at your reflection. The dress hasn’t changed.

But maybe… you have.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and the room stills.

You step into the penthouse, the soft click of your heels echoing beneath the music. The lights are low and warm, spilling golden across the polished floors. Glass clinks, laughter hums, and in the middle of it all—Bucky looks up.

His heart stops.

You move slowly, a soft wave of deep sapphire satin sweeping around your legs as you walk. Hair swept to the side, silver glinting at your ears, that impossible dress catching the light with every step. But it isn’t the dress that stuns him.

It’s the way you hold yourself.

Quiet. Glowing. Real.

Everyone notices. Sam gives a low whistle. Nat smirks like she’s known this moment was coming. Even Steve, standing near the drinks, raises his brows in quiet approval.

But Bucky?

He doesn’t move.

He just watches you cross the room, like time has slowed and sound has faded and the only thing that matters is you.

You find him near the balcony doors, where the crowd is thinner, the music softer.

“Hey,” you say, voice light but a little breathless.

His gaze travels over you again, slower this time.

“You came,” he says, as if there had been any doubt.

You smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Took me a while.”

He offers his hand, not breaking eye contact. “Dance with me.”

Your breath catches.

The music shifts into something slower—something with strings and soft piano. You hesitate for a moment, then place your hand in his.

He pulls you gently toward the floor.

You fit together easily.

Your hand on his shoulder, his at your waist. The press of satin and silk. The low hum of music. And somewhere beneath it all, the quick, fluttering beat of your heart — mirrored in his.

Bucky doesn’t speak for a moment. He just sways with you, moving like the rest of the world has faded behind you both.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur.

He smirks, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m old.”

“I didn’t want to say it.”

He chuckles, low and quiet. “You almost didn’t come.”

You shrug, trying to play it off, but your voice betrays you. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“It is,” he says gently. “You are.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his. You don’t know what to say.

So you don’t say anything.

The dance ends, but neither of you let go.

The music shifts again. Someone laughs near the bar. A camera flashes. But here, in this small space between breaths, you stand close. Too close. Not enough.

“Wanna get some air?” Bucky asks softly.

You nod.

The balcony is quieter. Cooler. The city stretches out below you, lights twinkling like a second sky. You lean against the railing, your hands brushing the cold metal.

He slips off his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before you can protest.

“It’s not cold,” you say.

“You’re still getting the jacket.”

You smile, tugging it tighter around yourself. It smells like him — clean soap, something warm and familiar. The sleeves are too long.

“I feel like a kid playing dress-up.”

“You look like a goddess.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t.

You turn to face him, the night wind catching your hair, your cheeks flushed from dancing, from nerves, from him.

“I meant what I said,” Bucky tells you. “Downstairs.”

You bite your lip. “About the dress?”

“No,” he says. “About you.”

There’s a beat of silence, full and fragile.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it for a while now,” he admits, voice low. “You’re not just part of the team. You’re not just… around.”

You blink.

“You’re the best part of my day,” he says. “And that dress didn’t change that. It just made it harder to keep pretending I don’t want to hold you like this all the time.”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

And then?

You kiss him.

It’s soft, barely more than a press of lips. But it carries months of unspoken things. Warmth. Tension. Relief. All of it wrapped in satin and city lights and the sound of your heart racing like it finally has somewhere to go.

When you pull back, he’s already smiling.

“I should’ve worn this dress a long time ago,” you whisper.

He leans in again, forehead resting against yours.

“Doesn’t matter what you wear,” he murmurs. “I’d still fall for you.”

The tower feels different the next morning.

Maybe it’s the way the sun comes through the floor-to-ceiling windows in lazy gold streaks. Or maybe it’s just you.

You pad quietly into the kitchen, still wearing soft pajama pants and one of your oversized sweatshirts. Hair a little messy. No makeup. Bare feet against the tile. And yet, for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the need to shrink yourself.

You’re not glowing. You’re not dressed up.

You’re just you. And it feels… enough.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

You turn, startled, to find Bucky leaning against the counter, mug in hand, already dressed in his usual black T-shirt and jeans, the picture of quiet calm. His hair is a little rumpled. He looks unfairly good for someone who’s probably been up for hours.

“You’re up early,” you say, grabbing a mug of your own.

“Old man body clock,” he says with a smirk.

You roll your eyes and step closer. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”

“Since last night,” he replies, voice lower now, softer. “Wanted to see you again.”

And just like that, you melt.

He hands you the coffee. Your fingers brush. Neither of you pulls away.

The rest of the team trickles in slowly.

Wanda first, hair tied up and looking far too put-together for 9 a.m. She spots the two of you leaning together by the counter and arches a brow.

“Good morning,” she says, sing-song.

You sip your coffee like it’s not obvious. Bucky stays still beside you.

Then comes Sam, dramatically hungover. “If anyone mentions classical music or champagne, I swear I’ll jump off the roof.”

Steve follows, clean and annoyingly alert. “Nice party.”

Natasha, last, in her I don’t do mornings sunglasses, grabs toast and mumbles, “You two looked cozy on that balcony.”

You nearly choke on your coffee. “What?”

Nat doesn’t even look up. “Relax. We all saw it coming.”

You blink. “Saw what?”

“You and Barnes. I mean, please,” she says, waving her toast. “The tension has been driving everyone insane for months.”

Sam nods, dead serious. “I literally bet Steve ten bucks it would happen before the end of the year.”

“I won,” Steve says, smugly.

Bucky chuckles beside you. Quiet, amused.

He reaches down under the table and laces his fingers through yours.

And just like that, the noise fades. The teasing doesn’t matter. The looks don’t matter.

All you can focus on is the warm weight of his hand, the soft pressure of his thumb brushing the back of yours.

You turn to him, lips tugging up.

“You okay?” he asks gently.

You nod. “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I just… didn’t think it would feel this easy.”

Bucky smiles, small and sincere.

“It was never supposed to be hard,” he says.

You look at him then, really look, and something inside you softens.

For weeks, months, maybe, you’ve been carrying this quiet ache around like armor. The weight of feelings you didn’t know what to do with. The fear of hoping too much. Of reading into things that weren’t there. Of thinking you mattered more to him than you did.

But now, standing in the golden spill of morning light, fingers still twined with his under the table, you don’t feel foolish anymore.

You feel… known.

And that scares you more than anything.

“You’re always so calm about this stuff,” you murmur, eyes on your joined hands. “Like you already knew.”

“I didn’t know,” he says, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just hoped.”

You blink, surprised. “You?”

His smile turns a little crooked. “You think I spent all this time saving you the last cup of coffee every morning just because I’m a gentleman?”

“You don’t even like mornings.”

“Exactly,” he says. “That’s how serious this is.”

You laugh then, a soft, genuine sound that makes something in his chest ease.

“I guess I thought I’d have to be… different,” you say after a beat. “To be noticed. To matter. I’m not the loudest or the strongest. I’m not Nat. Or Wanda. I’m just-”

“You’re you,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “And that’s always been enough.”

You swallow hard, throat tightening around the words you don’t know how to say.

“I notice everything about you,” he adds, quieter now. “The way you wrinkle your nose when you’re reading something complicated. The way you hum off-key in the lab. The way you always walk out of the room last because you’re checking that everyone else is okay.”

You look up at him slowly.

“You think no one sees you,” he says. “But I do. I always have.”

Something unspoken passes between you. A slow, electric stillness.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates, eyes soft. “I didn’t want to risk losing what I already had with you.”

“And now?”

“Now I’d rather risk it than pretend anymore.”

You blink fast, like that might keep the emotion at bay. It doesn’t work.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leans in, forehead brushing yours for the briefest second, not quite a kiss, just… closeness.

“I’m in this,” he murmurs. “Whatever it looks like. However slow you need.”

You nod, the edges of your smile trembling.

“I’m in this too,” you whisper.

The kitchen fades away.

The clinking dishes, the sunlight, even the teasing voices echoing from down the hall. It all fades. There’s only the soft grip of his hand on yours and the quiet warmth building between you, solid and real.

And for the first time in a long time, you’re not wondering what comes next.

You’re just here.

With him.

A Tuesday Morning, Three Weeks Later

The tower is quiet.

Not silent, the way no home is ever truly silent, but the kind of soft hum that means the world is at peace for a little while.

The sun has barely risen, casting a warm gold light through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere down the hall, the elevator chimes. In the distance, the coffee machine gurgles to life.

And in the kitchen, you stand barefoot in one of Bucky’s sweatshirts, stirring cream into a mug with your eyes still half closed.

Behind you, footsteps.

You don’t need to turn around.

“You’re up early,” you say, voice husky with sleep.

“Technically,” Bucky replies, stepping up behind you and wrapping an arm loosely around your waist, “I haven’t slept yet.”

You lean back into his chest without hesitation.

“You brooding again?”

“Just watching the sky.”

“Romantic.”

He kisses your temple. “You bring it out of me.”

You snort and hand him his mug. “Don’t lie to me before caffeine.”

You move through the morning with the ease of something settled. Something earned.

He leans against the counter while you make toast. You sit cross-legged on a barstool while he recaps an old dream he can’t make sense of. You pass each other plates and comments and quiet smiles like it’s always been this way.

Like there was never a time you weren’t his favorite part of the morning.

At some point, Nat wanders in, squinting at the sunlight. She takes one look at the sweatshirt you’re wearing and smirks. “That’s not yours.”

You sip your coffee, unbothered. “It is now.”

Nat grabs an apple and mutters something about “finally” before disappearing again.

Bucky looks at you, eyes warm with amusement. “Subtle.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“No,” he agrees, stepping closer. “She’s not.”

You lean into him again, letting your forehead rest against his chest. He smells like coffee and clean soap and something that just feels like home.

“Did you think it’d feel like this?” you ask softly.

He considers it. “I hoped.”

You tilt your face up toward him. “Me too.”

His eyes drop to your lips, but he doesn’t move just yet.

“Hey,” he says gently, voice barely above a whisper. “You know what I see when I look at you now?”

“What?”

“Everything I ever thought I couldn’t have.”

You blink, chest tightening, not with fear, not with nerves, but with something whole. Something steady.

“You always had me,” you say.

“I know,” he whispers. “Took me a minute.”

You smile, eyes crinkling, and then he kisses you. Slow, soft, like he has all the time in the world.

Because he does.

Because you do.

Because after all the waiting and wondering and quiet hoping…

This is the part where everything begins.

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