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buckyseternaldoll · 17 days ago

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Hello i hope you’re having a good dayyy!

May i request something? It’s a fluff one here’s the background:

Congressman bucky x citizen reader(female) wherein at a random time and place bucky was just walking and he saw her and he got really attracted to her and he wanted to ask for her number but he’s shy and careful at the surroundings because he’s a congressman but he really wanted for them to talk and ask her out.

Thank you so much!

Hii lovely anon! I actually had a really great day today—hope yours has been just as fun! 💖 My thumb’s been aching a bit, but I was so excited to get this request (fluff is probably the genre I’ve written the least), so I’ve been glued to my little phone for… honestly, who even knows how many hours now. I might’ve strayed a little from the exact vision you had in mind, but I really hope you still enjoy it! 🥰💜 thank you for the request!

like saying yes to home

Summary: Congressman Barnes didn’t mean to fall for the girl with a flower in her hand and her heart tucked gently into quiet moments—but it happened. And when fate kept pulling you together, he decided he didn’t want to leave it to fate anymore. He just wanted you.

Disclaimer: fluff, modern au, slow-burn romance, congressman!bucky, soft courting, mutual pining, first kiss, domestic romance, respectful king behavior, emotional softness, tender confession

Word count: 6.3k

The session had gone long. Longer than necessary, if you asked Bucky.

Hours of debates, procedural motions, and dry policy chatter had left him sitting stiff in his seat, nodding politely while his mind wandered far, far from Capitol Hill. He wasn’t disinterested—he cared, deeply—but even the most urgent discussions felt suffocating when stacked back-to-back with no breath in between. He needed to move. To feel something other than recycled air and recycled arguments.

So he slipped away after the final handshake, tie loosened just a touch—though truth be told, it barely helped the tension cinched beneath his ribs. His grey suit still sat neatly on his frame, shoulders squared from habit, but his pace was far from political. No aides, no press trailing behind. No destination. Just… walking.

It was spring. Not warm, not cold—just right. The breeze was gentle, coaxing life into cherry blossoms, their petals occasionally tumbling onto the path like quiet applause. A little girl’s laugh rang out from somewhere in the nearby park, joined by the high-pitched chatter of toddlers chasing each other between benches. It was a perfect, normal day.

And for once, Bucky wasn’t trying to be anything. Not a soldier. Not a Congressman. Not a symbol. He was just a man trying to remember how to breathe.

He turned a corner near the edge of the park and that’s when he saw you.

Not in a cinematic, slow-motion haze. There were no rays of light beaming from heaven. No music swelling in his ears. Just… you.

You stepped out from a flower stall nestled against the fence, soft colors blooming in baskets all around you. And in your hand—a single purple alstroemeria, wrapped neatly with a pink ribbon, like a secret tucked into your palm.

You weren’t glowing. You weren’t trying to be noticed. But Bucky did.

You walked toward a quiet bench just a few steps from the stall. Sat with a softness that made the moment feel intentional, even though it was just part of your day. You smoothed your pale blue floral dress beneath you, your dark blue cardigan slipping off one shoulder for a second before you gently tugged it back into place.

From your bag, you pulled out a book—paperback, a little worn at the edges. And then you were gone.

Not physically. You were still there, perfectly in view. But you had disappeared into that novel completely. Your fingers toyed absently with the ribbon around your flower as your eyes scanned the page. You smiled—not wide, just that quiet, content kind of smile that felt real. Like the world around you didn’t need to be impressed to be enjoyed. Like you were simply… existing.

You mouthed something. A line from the page, maybe. Whispered it like it was meant to be savored. Then a sudden scrunch of your nose as your lips twitched into a grin—something funny, he figured. You shifted slightly on the bench, crossing your legs, cardigan bunched at the elbows, flower still gently resting across your lap.

And Bucky?

He stopped walking.

Dead in his tracks.

His first thought was ridiculous: She’s so… slow.

Not in a bad way. Not in a careless way. But slow like the kind of stillness you choose to create. You weren’t in a rush. You weren’t checking your phone. You weren’t looking around or scanning for attention. In a world that moved like it was late for everything, you were the only thing still.

It grounded him.

That quiet, deliberate joy—holding a single flower like it was enough. Whispering lines like they were spells. Looking like you had all the time in the world.

And maybe, just maybe, Bucky started wishing he had all the time in the world too—if it meant he could borrow just a moment of yours.

He didn’t realize he was smiling.

It just sort of crept onto his face—slow and uninvited, but too honest to stop. A curl of his lips, a softening of his eyes, like something inside him had unclenched without asking for permission.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not really. Not without aides, not without a plan. But somehow, standing there with cherry blossom petals drifting past his shoes and the distant giggles of children echoing from the park, Bucky felt more himself than he had in weeks.

And the reason for it… was sitting on a bench with a paperback and a flower in her lap.

He should’ve walked away. He meant to walk away. But the longer he stayed rooted there, the more impossible it felt to leave.

His fingers twitched at his side.

He’d walked into battlefields with less hesitation than this. Stepped off helicarriers and straight into chaos, boots first, heart steady. But right now? Looking at you, so gentle and serene and real?

This felt like a mission he wasn’t trained for.

He adjusted his tie back into place—not too tight, not too stiff. Just right. Like it might matter. Like you might notice. He wiped his palm down the side of his jacket, then muttered under his breath, “Alright, Barnes. Don’t tell her you’re 110 years old. Don’t bring up committee reform. Just say hello.”

He took a small breath. Took one step forward.

And then you stood up.

He froze.

You tucked the book back into your bag, held the single alstroemeria a little closer to your chest, and began walking. Not hurried. Not in a rush. Just done for the day. A quiet exit.

His heart deflated just slightly. Like watching a balloon slip from someone’s fingers.

He hadn’t even gotten a word out.

But instead of turning away, he found himself still standing there, eyes fixed on the bench you’d left behind. Like the imprint of your presence lingered in the air, stitched into the breeze.

He checked the time—old habits from war and work.

…He blinked.

He’d been there for nearly an hour.

An hour.

But it didn’t feel like that. Not at all. If someone had asked, he would’ve guessed ten, fifteen minutes—tops. But the sun had shifted. Shadows had moved. And he was still standing there like some old ghost who didn’t know where to go next.

And yet… he felt more alive than he had all week.

—

He left soon after that. Not in a hurry, but with a new kind of ache under his ribs.

He didn’t know your name. Didn’t know if you came here often. But he knew one thing:

He’d come back tomorrow.

Same time. Same place.

And this time?

He’d say hello.

—

The next day, Bucky showed up a little earlier.

He told himself he wasn’t expecting anything. That maybe yesterday had been a one-time thing. But the truth curled quietly in his chest: he’d hoped. Hoped to see you again, sitting on that bench with your book and your soft cardigan and a flower in your lap like a little secret.

But the bench was empty.

He stayed, hands in his pockets, pacing slowly in a small circle near the flower stall. He glanced up every time footsteps approached. Waited. Waited.

Fifteen minutes passed.

His heart gave a slow, sinking tug.

You miss the hint, you miss the chance, he thought to himself.

He let out a breath, nodded once to the empty bench—as if it owed him something—and turned toward the nearest coffee shop down the block. If nothing else, maybe caffeine would soothe the dull ache of disappointment wedged between his ribs.

The bell above the café door chimed softly as he stepped in, adjusting his sleeves, mind already somewhere else.

But then—

There you were.

Tucked into a quiet corner near the window, half-hidden behind a hanging pothos plant, sat you. Your back to most of the café, your body curled gently over the same book from yesterday. A new flower in your hand today—a white rose this time, pressed between your fingers like something fragile and precious. Your dress was soft pink, flowing gently past your knees, paired with a cropped beige cardigan that fell just over the curve of your waist, modest and easy, delicate like the petals you held.

Bucky stopped walking.

She’s here.

You didn’t miss your chance, you just didn’t know where to look.

He stood frozen for half a moment, then shook himself and moved toward the counter.

One black coffee. No sugar. Just enough bitterness to remind him he was still standing on solid ground.

Cup in hand, he hovered by your table, nerves suddenly tightening in his stomach like he was about to defuse a bomb with trembling fingers.

You didn’t notice him.

You were too deep inside that book, lashes fluttering slightly as your eyes darted across the page. The white rose lay beside your cup, untouched but cradled like it mattered. He didn’t want to interrupt—but also, he really, really did.

So he did the next best thing.

He cleared his throat.

You didn’t flinch.

He watched you for another breath. Your fingers slid down the spine of the book absently, and he could see it—see the story unfolding in your head. Your lips moved softly, silently repeating words like they were meant just for you.

God, you were beautiful.

So he gathered himself. Moved his hand slowly, purposefully, and gave your table a light knock—just enough so his hand entered your peripheral view.

Your eyes flicked up.

And for a moment, he forgot how to breathe again.

He smiled—gentle and genuine and a little unsure.

“Miss…? Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You blinked, startled for just a second, and then—recognition sparked. Your gaze shifted slightly, and your lips parted.

Of course you knew him.

Congressman Barnes. Everyone did.

But instead of going stiff or startled, you smiled. You closed your book without rushing, sat up just a little straighter, and reached out your hand.

“Hi,” you said, voice warm. “I thought I recognized you.”

Bucky let out a quiet breath of relief and shook your hand carefully, as if you were made of paper and kindness.

“I’m not a creep,” he blurted suddenly, cheeks flushing. “Promise. I—I just saw you yesterday. At the park. I didn’t get a chance to say anything then. And I wasn’t following you, I swear, I just—this café’s close and—uh…”

You tilted your head, amused, waiting.

He smiled sheepishly. “I just wanted to know what you were reading.”

It wasn’t what he meant to say.

He’d meant to ask if he could sit. Maybe ask your name. Maybe, maybe even your number.

But instead, he said, what book is that? Like it would explain everything. Like that was the reason he had a quiet ache in his chest and a coffee cup shaking slightly in his hand.

You glanced down at the cover, then back at him, expression softening.

“It’s The Secret Garden.” You smiled. “It’s one of my comfort books.”

He nodded, gripping the coffee tighter. “Good choice. It, uh… suits you.”

You raised a brow, playful. “Because I look like I like gardens?”

“No,” he said, smiling. “Because you made the whole place feel a little more peaceful.”

You were just about to ask if he wanted to sit when his phone buzzed.

He hesitated—just enough for you to catch the flicker in his expression. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he pulled it from his pocket, eyes darting over the screen. Not the screen of a politician catching a news alert. No, this was something else.

A name. A code. A world hidden behind his suited, buttoned-up exterior.

He glanced at you and gave the kindest apology his eyes could hold.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, lowering the phone but not silencing it yet. “I need to take this.”

You nodded politely, already half-expecting it. People like him didn’t just get to sit at cafés and read books with strangers.

But before he stood, he asked, “Do you come here often? Or nearby?”

Your lips curled.

“Maybe,” you said, casually swirling your spoon through your drink. “If we’re tied by fate’s string or whatever it’s called, we’ll meet again. Right?”

You delivered it with a playful raise of your brow—like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Bucky stared at you for a second too long, then huffed a quiet laugh and nodded. “I like a challenge.”

He stood, lingering just a moment more before gently excusing himself.

And you could feel it—his gaze staying on you even as he walked toward the door. A pause in his step. A reluctant glance over his shoulder. A silent wish he could stay.

You took a sip of your drink and chuckled under your breath.

“Cute old man.”

—

You didn’t run into him for almost a week.

Life swept in—work, errands, missed alarms, rain. A thousand little things that kept you busy. And Bucky? He’d been swallowed by back-to-back appearances, an urgent Avengers debrief, and a mountain of paperwork that didn’t care how many times he checked the bench near the flower stall.

But today… you finally carved out time for yourself again.

The air was kind. Spring edging closer toward summer warmth. Your book was tucked under your arm, and a soft cardigan rested on your shoulders. You strolled past the familiar row of flower crates, prepared to pick out something soft—maybe lavender or a white lily—when your steps slowed.

Someone was already at the bench.

He looked different this time.

No suit. No polished shoes or pressed collars. Just black jeans, a soft grey henley layered under a black hoodie, and a ball cap shadowing his eyes. He could’ve passed for any other man in the park.

But you knew.

It was in the shape of his shoulders, the curve of his mouth as he spotted you. The way he stood with just enough stiffness—like he didn’t quite know how to be casual, but tried anyway.

And in his hands? A bouquet.

Not too big. Not store-perfect. But clearly chosen with care.

Shades of purple, soft pinks, and white blooms nestled together, each one gentle and deliberate.

He took a step forward.

“Hi, sugar,” he said, voice softer than it was in the café. It slipped out easy—gentle, warm—but it wasn’t just charm. He still didn’t know your name, and somehow, sugar felt right. Something sweet, for someone who lingered in his thoughts all week.

“Thought I might see you here. So…”

He extended the flowers toward you.

Your heart gave a soft thud, completely unprepared.

He rubbed the back of his neck, almost shy. “I know it’s kinda… outdated. But where I come from, you brought flowers when you wanted to see a girl again.”

He glanced at the bouquet, then back at you, eyes a little more vulnerable now. “You seemed like you liked ‘em, and I… wanted to do it right. Properly. Not just bump into you with coffee in hand again.”

You took the bouquet slowly, fingers brushing against his, and smiled.

He exhaled—relieved, like your smile was the answer to a question he’d been too afraid to ask aloud.

“I was hoping,” he added, “maybe this time… I could actually get to know you.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Then sit down, Congressman.”

He smiled—wide and honest—and obeyed.

—

You both sat on the bench a little too close, and a little too comfortably for two people who were supposed to be strangers. The bouquet lay gently on your lap now, its colors catching the afternoon sun, while your book sat forgotten beside you.

Conversation bloomed with surprising ease.

You talked about favorite books—his were older, yours more current, but you both shared the same appreciation for quiet characters and found family themes. He told you about some diplomatic mess he had to sit through the day before, and you told him about the time you fell into a wedding cake when you were three.

He laughed. Really laughed. The kind of laugh that crinkled his eyes and made him lean forward, one hand pressed to his chest.

But still… you never gave him your name.

And Bucky noticed.

Somewhere near the end of your second hour on the bench, as the breeze turned cooler and your coffees had long gone cold, he gave you a look. One of those quiet, searching glances full of intent.

“So,” he said, drawing the word out, “are you ever gonna tell me your name, or are we just gonna keep going with sugar and hey you forever?”

You smiled, mischievous. “Mmm… maybe next time.”

He blinked. “Next time?”

“If fate decides to push us together again,” you said with a shrug, standing up and gathering your things. “I’ll think about it.”

His brows lifted. His grin followed.

“Well aren’t you just a cheeky little menace,” he murmured, standing as well.

You laughed. “Takes one to know one.”

He shook his head, gaze fond. “Alright then. You win this round.”

“Round?”

He gave you a look, smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Darling, this feels like a best-of-seven.”

—

You hadn’t expected to see him again the next day.

You’d barely managed to shove your way out of the sandwich shop during the lunch rush, too focused on texting your order pickup code to notice anyone in front of you—until you collided with someone solid.

Hard.

Your forehead bumped directly into the broad chest of a man who didn’t budge an inch.

“Oh my god—! I am so—”

And then the scent hit you.

Cedar. Sandalwood. Clean, worn-in warmth.

Oh.

You looked up.

He was already smiling.

“Well, well,” Bucky murmured, voice low and amused. “Seems like we were destined to meet today, yeah… sugar?”

You groaned into your palms as your cheeks went hot. “I swear I wasn’t stalking you—”

“I believe you,” he chuckled. “You don’t walk like a trained agent. You walk like a woman on a sandwich mission.”

His aides started to approach, worried, but Bucky held up a hand.

“I’m alright. I know her.”

They paused. Looked at you. Looked at him. Nodded slowly. Then faded into the crowd, murmuring something about reconvening in 15.

Bucky turned back to you, that same look from yesterday softening his eyes.

“Got time to eat with a friend?”

You tilted your head. “Are we friends now?”

“Well, I brought you flowers yesterday,” he said, brushing his fingers against the back of his neck. “That feels friend-worthy. Maybe first date-worthy, but I’ll settle for friend if you need slow pacing.”

You laughed, heart thudding. “I’m starving, so yeah. You’re lucky.”

—

You ended up at a quieter café two blocks down.

Seated at a small table by the window, you pulled out your sandwich while Bucky sipped something black and bitter. His posture was relaxed now, more hoodie than Henley energy, and it suited him.

He looked at you over the rim of his cup.

“So,” he said, “am I finally worthy of knowing your name?”

You grinned, wiping your fingers gently on a napkin.

“You know what?” You leaned forward slightly. “Yeah. I think you’ve earned it.”

And then you told him. Simply, clearly.

He said it back slowly. Testing the syllables on his tongue.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “It suits you.”

You rolled your eyes lightly. “Smooth.”

“Not trying to be,” he replied. “Just honest.”

Then his smile shifted—something a little playful, a little teasing.

“But I might still call you sugar, if that’s alright. Kinda got attached.”

You snorted. “Do I get a nickname for you, then?”

“Most people call me Congressman Barnes.”

You raised an unimpressed brow.

He grinned. “But for you, I guess I’ll answer to anything—long as you keep looking at me like that.”

You sipped your drink slowly, pretending to think. “Hmm. ‘Cute old man’ has a nice ring to it.”

He feigned offense, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “Ouch.”

You shrugged, smirking. “If the perfectly tailored suit fits…”

He laughed, the sound warm and fond. “You’re gonna be trouble, aren’t you?”

You leaned back, content. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to find out.”

He smiled at that—really smiled, like he already knew he would. His gaze drifted to the window, then back to you. Still soft. Still locked in.

“Sugar suits you,” he said again, gentler this time. “You’re sweet. Quiet kind, not flashy. Like the kind of sweetness that sticks with you for a while.”

Your breath caught, just a little.

And maybe you didn’t say anything right away—but you didn’t look away, either.

—

You finished your sandwiches slower than necessary, savoring the warmth of a quiet afternoon spent with someone who made your heart feel like a tuned violin string—softly humming but stretched just enough to vibrate with anticipation.

As you stood from the café table, Bucky hovered a little before gently offering:

“Where’re you headed?”

“My office’s two blocks up,” you smiled, tossing your cup into the bin. “Tech support floor. Nothing fancy.”

He walked with you, steps aligned, occasionally brushing shoulders when your paths narrowed.

It was a short walk, but Bucky seemed to stretch it, slowing slightly at corners, letting conversations breathe.

When you reached the front of your building, he stopped with both hands in his pockets, shoulders squared, jaw a little tighter than before.

“I, uh…” He hesitated. “Would it be alright if I saw you again sometime?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but he shook his head with a soft, crooked smile.

“No more talks about fate, sugar. Just… say yes or no.”

You tilted your head, lips curving. “So no more mystic string theory?”

“Not unless you tie it around my wrist and drag me somewhere.”

You laughed—light, warm—and nodded slowly. “Alright then. If 4:00 p.m. this Saturday’s good for you… meet me at the park.”

“The spot?” he asked, raising a brow.

“The spot,” you confirmed. “You know it.”

Then you turned, walking backward a step or two just to give him one last parting grin.

“Don’t be late, Congressman.”

And with that, you disappeared through the glass doors of your office building—leaving Bucky staring at the spot where you stood, heart racing like he’d just gotten confirmation of a classified mission.

—

He cleared his schedule that very night.

Every event. Every meeting. Every potential appearance.

That Saturday was non-negotiable.

He was on a new kind of mission now—one that came with no debriefing, no team… just hope.

—

You arrived ten minutes early, heart ticking faster than you cared to admit.

The bench was still there, dappled in sunlight and half-shadow, a light breeze playing with the edge of your pale yellow dress. Tiny daisy prints fluttered over the fabric like confetti. Your hair was tied up in a high ponytail, loose strands catching sunlight as they swayed.

And sitting there, already waiting for you, was him.

Bucky looked up from his phone—and paused.

His lips parted slightly. And then, almost as if it were instinct, he stood up slowly.

The bouquet in his hands was beautiful this time—more confident. Bolder. Daisies. Pink peonies. Sprigs of lavender. A single tulip tucked in the middle like a secret. The colors were warm and balanced, much like him.

His clothes were more casual today—fitted blue jeans, a slate grey shirt clinging gently to his frame, and a slightly darker hoodie layered over. His hair was a little shorter, clean at the nape. His stubble trimmed. Still rugged, still Bucky—but undeniably trying.

And then he saw your neckline.

The delicate sweep of your collarbones. The graceful slope of your throat. His eyes flicked down instinctively, then immediately darted away as he cleared his throat and fidgeted with the bouquet.

“Hi,” he said, softer now. “You look… stunning.”

You smiled and walked toward him. “You’re early.”

“Didn’t want to risk you saying I was late and ghosting you.”

You laughed and accepted the bouquet.

“These are beautiful,” you said, gently brushing your nose against the flowers. “You’re getting good at this.”

“Well, figured I should step it up,” he murmured. “Especially if I’m about to ask for something even better.”

You looked up, curious.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. Then hesitated.

“I’d, uh… really like to have your number. So I can actually find you without hoping the universe throws you at my chest again.”

You stared for a beat—just long enough for his nerves to kick in—before gently taking his phone.

You tapped in your number, added your name, then returned it.

“I was wondering how long you’d wait before asking.”

He huffed a laugh, thumb brushing the side of the screen like your number might disappear if he looked away.

“Was trying to be a gentleman.”

“You are.”

His eyes found yours again. A little brighter. A little steadier.

“Thanks for giving me a chance, sugar.”

You shrugged, stepping closer to the bench.

“I like giving good men reasons to come back.”

—

You both sat on the bench for a while, the bouquet resting gently beside you. The soft rustling of trees overhead filled the quiet spaces between words. It was peaceful—not the kind that begged to be filled, but the kind that let you breathe a little easier.

Bucky talked about Brooklyn in spring. About how lilacs used to grow wild in the alley behind his childhood building. You shared your own childhood memory of trying to grow sunflowers in a paper cup and sobbing when they drooped.

He laughed, hand resting near yours on the bench—not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth between you.

The conversation shifted like a slow current—books, hobbies, the comfort of routine, the quiet ache of loneliness in busy lives.

You were already smiling before you realized your question had slipped out.

“So… when are you going to ask me out?”

It hung in the air between you, fragile and unfiltered.

Your smile faltered. “I mean—sorry. That was kind of blunt. I didn’t mean to rush you or—”

Bucky blinked at you, a little stunned—but not in a bad way. His lips parted, then curled into the softest chuckle.

He looked down, shook his head slightly, and smiled at his shoes like you’d just said the most beautiful thing in the world.

“I’m not laughing at you, sugar,” he said gently, glancing back up. “I just… I was thinking about it. But I didn’t want to move too fast.”

You blinked. “Really?”

He nodded, slowly turning toward you more fully. “Yeah. I didn’t want to just… dive in without knowing if we’re on the same page. If we want the same things. You’re not someone I wanna rush through. I wanted to earn it, y’know?”

Your cheeks burned.

“I didn’t mean to pressure you—”

“I know you didn’t.”

His hand lifted—hesitating only for a moment—and then softly cupped your cheek.

It was the first time he touched you.

Warm palm, steady fingers, thumb brushing just barely under your cheekbone. You leaned into it instinctively. Gently.

His voice dropped low. “And I’m really glad you said something. That kind of honesty? That’s rare.”

You swallowed, heart rattling against your ribs.

“I just wanted to know,” you said, quieter now, “if you were thinking about it too.”

“I am,” he said, thumb still brushing your cheek, gaze warm and grounded. “Every day since the flower stall.”

You couldn’t speak. But you didn’t need to.

His hand lingered for a second longer before he pulled it away, careful and slow, as if it meant something. It did.

You sat together a little longer, talking about nothing and everything. But eventually, it was time to part again—he had calls, and you had errands—but something in you felt different.

More tethered.

You walked away with the bouquet in your hands, and your name still echoing in his low, rough voice like a song you wanted to play on repeat.

—

That night, your phone lit up.

[Unknown Number]

Are we still pretending fate doesn’t exist, or should I just accept that I’m cursed to fall for every girl holding a flower?

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

It was the white rose, huh? Dead giveaway.

Bucky:

Nah. It was the cardigan. I’m weak for buttons.

…and your voice.

And your smile.

I’m gonna stop now.

No, don’t. Keep going.

And somehow, you did.

Back and forth. Cheeky, funny, real.

By midnight, the texts had turned into a voice call—his voice raspier now, lower, relaxed.

“You sound so calm at night.”

“I feel calm when I talk to you.”

At 1:13 a.m., he asked, quietly:

“Would it be okay if I FaceTimed you? Just for a minute. I kinda wanna see you.”

You agreed, suddenly shy—fixing your hair as if it mattered, as if he wouldn’t melt at the sight of you no matter what.

When the screen lit up and his face appeared, hair messy from running his hands through it, tank top loose on his shoulders, eyes sleepy but bright—

He smiled.

“There you are, sugar.”

You talked until your eyes got heavy and your voice slowed.

And when the call ended, and you finally sank back into your pillow with your phone still warm in your hand…

You felt it.

That quiet warmth blooming beneath your skin.

Love—not sudden, not overwhelming. But soft. Real. Certain.

The kind of love that made you believe the flowers were never a coincidence.

—

It had become a reflex.

Every time his phone buzzed, his heart jumped—not in dread, but with anticipation. It wasn’t the staff, or a reminder about some policy hearing. It was you.

A photo of a flower you passed on your way to work. A sleepy voice note at midnight whispering his name with a laugh tucked into it. A blurry picture of your tea, captioned, “Looks like mud but tastes like heaven.”

Bucky was supposed to be reviewing foreign affairs memos. But instead, he was replaying your voice on loop.

It had been weeks since that afternoon at the park. Since that first late-night call turned into something of a ritual. Now it was habit. Pattern. Comfort.

You were comfort.

And he knew—really knew—that this wasn’t just infatuation. This wasn’t passing curiosity.

He wanted you.

And he was ready to show you.

—

He’d invited you to dinner.

Not a fancy dinner downtown with other senators lurking nearby. Not an awkward reservation at a restaurant that cost more than it should.

No. He wanted you in his space. His real space.

So he cleaned every inch of his apartment—polished, swept, wiped until his reflection blinked back at him from the hardwood floors. Then he called Mel and Ava. Ava showed up with color swatches. Mel picked out the arrangement of pink asters, lilac stems, and baby’s breath to scatter around the dining room. Yelena? She took one look at him, snorted, and said,

“You’re on your own, Bucky. I don’t participate in soppy love stories unless there’s fire or someone bleeds.”

Which, honestly, was her version of supportive.

The food was simple but cooked with care. Sirloin steak—medium rare. Creamy mushroom sauce with a kick, just the way you liked it, thanks to that one dinner text where you said you liked “just enough spice to make your tongue flirt back.”

And the dress.

God, the dress.

He’d found it online after losing hours to scrolling. It wasn’t revealing. That’s not what he wanted. It was you. It was soft pale purple, modest in design—long-sleeved with fluttery cuffs, a gentle flow that skimmed rather than clung. The skirt brushed the ankles, light enough to catch in a breeze. Tiny embroidered details near the collarbone hinted at spring florals. It was sweet. Comfortable. Undeniably romantic.

He’d sent it to you with a note that read:

Thought this looked like something you’d wear in a dream I might have.

And now, as he straightened the cutlery for the third time and checked his watch again for no reason, he could feel his pulse drum in his ears.

Then—a soft knock.

He inhaled, smoothed a hand through his freshly trimmed hair, and opened the door.

There you were.

Wearing the dress. Soft makeup. That same quiet glow he first noticed by the flower stall. And when you looked up at him and smiled—Bucky thought, this is it.

“This looks better on you than I even imagined,” he said, voice thick.

You chuckled, cheeks warming. “That’s high praise coming from the man who mailed me a dress box.”

“Can’t let fate do all the work,” he murmured. “Come in.”

—

Dinner was sweet.

You teased him about how perfect the steak was. He teased you back for humming when you liked the food. The conversation was easy—punctuated by glances that lingered a second too long and your fingers grazing his wrist as you reached for your drink.

And then, after you’d helped clear the dishes despite his very dramatic protests, you both found yourselves standing in the middle of his living room. Lights dimmed. Flowers still perfuming the air.

Bucky looked at you—and stopped pretending this wasn’t a turning point.

He stepped closer, slow and measured. One hand brushing your elbow to draw your attention fully. The other hesitated mid-air.

“Can I?”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat, and he held your hand.

His palm was warm. Slightly callused. His grip was soft. Careful. Like he’d memorized how to hold a fragile thing.

“I need to say something,” he murmured. “And I want to say it right.”

You stood still, gaze steady, heartbeat climbing.

“I wasn’t sure how this would go at first. Didn’t even know if I’d ever see you again. But now?” His thumb brushed lightly along your knuckles. “I don’t go a day without thinking about you. Without wanting to hear your voice. Without hoping I get to keep knowing you a little deeper than yesterday.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“I don’t wanna rush it. I won’t. But I also can’t keep pretending I don’t already know how I feel.”

He looked at you fully now—blue eyes steady and burning quiet.

“I’m falling for you. Not like a stumble. Like a choice. Every day, I’m choosing to fall. And I’m hoping… really hoping… that you’ll let me do it with you.”

Your lips parted—but you couldn’t speak yet. His words wrapped around you like silk. Warm, trembling silk.

He smiled gently.

“Don’t say anything if you’re not ready. Just… know that I mean it. Every word.”

But you were ready.

And you squeezed his hand back.

—

You didn’t mean to tear up—but it happened. Not all at once, not in a dramatic gasp, but in a slow swell behind your ribs. Like warmth had finally broken through the walls around your heart, and now it didn’t know where else to go but up.

Bucky had just confessed to falling for you—not rushed, not dramatic. Just real. Just right.

And somehow… saying yes to him felt like saying yes to home.

It was easy. Too easy.

Because he never once asked you to be different.

He never made fun of the way you dressed—never asked why you always wore soft, modest layers or teased you about your high-necked cardigans. He didn’t roll his eyes when you brought your own tea bags to cafés. He didn’t ask for selfies or chase moments for show. He didn’t ask for nudes. Never hinted at it. Never expected anything except you.

And you didn’t feel small with him.

You felt like every quiet, lovely part of you was safe.

So you whispered the only answer your heart had already been singing:

“Yes.”

You barely got it out before he wrapped his arms around you.

Not a tentative hug. Not a nervous lean-in. But a full, grounding, I choose you kind of hug.

Your cheek rested against his chest as his hands slid up your back, firm and warm, one of them gently cupping the base of your head like he needed to keep you there—to know you were real.

You melted into him. Fully. Let yourself fall into the scent of clean laundry, faint cedarwood, and home. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek—steady, strong.

And you stayed like that. Breathing each other in. Holding, not for safety, but for the simple joy of being held.

When he slowly pulled back, his arms lingered around your waist, palm warm through the fabric of your dress. He leaned back just enough to look at you—really look at you.

His blue eyes weren’t hungry. Weren’t possessive. They were just… full.

Full of love. Full of care. Full of wonder, like he still couldn’t believe he got to have this moment with you.

And then—

His gaze dropped. To your lips.

Not fast. Not intense. Just a flicker. A gentle ache held in restraint.

His voice was soft. Honest.

“Can I kiss you?”

Your answer was barely a breath. “Yes.”

And then—his lips met yours.

Tender. Patient. Full of the kind of care that made your chest ache.

His kiss wasn’t demanding. It didn’t steal. It gave.

It tasted like warmth. Like late-night calls and quiet parks and daisy prints and a man who had waited a long time to feel something this good.

When he finally pulled away—barely, just a whisper of space—you were both smiling.

His forehead rested gently against yours. And he murmured:

“I think I’m gonna be annoyingly in love with you.”

You laughed, chest fluttering.

“Good. I was starting to worry I’d be annoyingly in love alone.”

He smiled—cheeky, flushed, and maybe just a little smug now.

“Not a chance, sugar.”

—

💖 And in that moment—cheeks flushed, lips tingling, hearts pressed gently together—you knew: this wasn’t just love.

This was softness choosing softness. This was everything you’d been quietly hoping for.

And it had a name. And arms. And the softest smile that only belonged to you. 🕊️

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fluff #mcu!bucky fic #mcu!bucky #slow-burn romance #congressman!bucky #congressman bucky fic #requested fic by elle #tysm for the request! 💜#જ⁀➴ by elle

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buckyseternaldoll · 10 days ago

Text

What We Never Said

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You weren’t lovers. Not really friends either. Just two people who found something sacred in the silence between them—until he left.

Disclaimer: Emotional angst, mutual pining, this story stretches between multiple MCU timeline, canon-divergent, past suicidal ideation (non-graphic), unresolved tension, heartbreak, self-worth struggles, soft reunion, slow-burn emotional resolution, gentle romance, happy ending

Word Count: 5.3k

Author's Note: Based on this ask by @currentfacination 💜 I hope I managed to meet your expectation!

You hadn’t planned on surviving that night.

The city had been beautiful—lights like fireflies, air thick with the earthy scent of warm dust and distant spices. It was supposed to be a vacation, a distraction, a last-ditch effort to salvage whatever was left between you and the man who’d already made you feel small for months. He brought you to a city neighboring Wakanda—borderline tourism, he’d called it. A break from reality.

But by midnight, he was gone.

He left you in the middle of a dark, unfamiliar street with nothing but your passport and a half-broken phone. No money. No directions. Just a sneer and the cold slam of a car door. “Figure it out,” he said before driving off. “Maybe you’ll finally learn not to depend on anyone.”

You walked. Then ran. Then wandered until your feet ached and the cold crept through your skin like something alive. You hadn’t cried. Not until your legs gave out somewhere in the shadows of an unlit hill, and the weight of it all dragged you to your knees.

You remembered the rocks beneath your palms. The sharpness. The way the moonlight trembled over the trees.

You remembered the exact thought that struck you before you stood by the edge of that cliff:

No one is coming. No one ever comes.

But someone did.

Wakandan guards had spotted you—unknown, injured, emotionally unwell—and escorted you inside their borders with quiet, efficient urgency. You barely understood what was happening. You only remembered the soft hum of their aircraft, the cool press of water to your lips, the way they never asked you to explain anything until you could breathe again.

And then, there was Shuri.

She didn’t pry. She just sat beside you. Her presence—sharp and warm and quietly reassuring—was the first human comfort you’d felt in weeks. You told her everything in fragments: the manipulation, the loneliness, the cruelty of someone who had held your heart like it was disposable.

And she listened. God, she listened.

It wasn’t long before she asked you to stay. Just until you got back on your feet.

She gave you a quiet room in the science compound that overlooked the golden plains. She gave you time. You often spent the mornings watching the clouds curl above the mountains, a cup of sweet-spiced Wakandan tea in hand. The silence wasn’t so frightening anymore. Not with her.

You slowly helped in small ways—observing lab work, organizing inventory, even translating diplomatic notes from time to time. You weren’t a genius, not like her, but you were steady. Present. Trying.

When you laughed again for the first time, Shuri smiled and told you it suited you.

—

Then came him.

Bucky Barnes was a ghost when they brought him in. Tense shoulders, eyes like winter steel, breath always held too long—like he hadn’t decided whether he deserved to exhale.

You didn’t meet him at first. Shuri warned you that he didn’t trust easily. He didn’t want healers. He didn’t want psychologists. The few they sent in, he shut out. Too polished, too clinical. “They speak like they’re rehearsing something,” he’d said. “Like I’m just another case file.”

Still, Shuri saw something in both of you. And when she quietly suggested he try speaking to you instead, you nearly declined. What if he didn’t want that either?

Your first conversation was barely more than a shared silence. He sat at the edge of the outdoor bench beneath the acacia trees, arms crossed tight, left leg bouncing restlessly. You handed him tea and didn’t speak. He glanced at it, then at you.

You shrugged. “You don’t have to talk. I’m not going to fix you.”

He studied you with those guarded, worn-out eyes for a beat too long. Then took the cup.

It became a ritual. You met in that same spot every few days—sometimes talking, sometimes not. You never asked about the arm. He never asked about the scar on your wrist. But the understanding between you grew in the cracks of quiet.

He found out about your past when you told him—calmly, without drama. Just facts. Just history.

“I was ready to end it. I thought no one would notice.”

“They did,” he said. “That matters.”

When he told you about Hydra, about how pieces of him still didn’t feel like his, your heart didn’t recoil. You reached out and touched his shoulder—softly. He flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“You’re not what they made you,” you whispered. “And I’m not what he broke.”

He didn’t say anything. But he stayed.

—

Weeks bled into months.

He taught you how to spot storm clouds in his mood before they hit. You showed him how to stretch pasta by hand, how to make the perfect cup of tea that you liked. He let you see his laugh—rare and surprised, like it shocked even him.

You told him once that being around him didn’t feel like healing.

“It feels like… remembering how to feel safe.”

He blinked hard. Then nodded.

“Same.”

—

Then you planned to leave.

Not out of spite. Not to run.

You had healed—slowly, honestly—and Shuri encouraged you to return to the world you’d left behind. To rebuild something for yourself. You didn’t want to go far. But you also didn’t want to stay frozen in place.

You hesitated when you told Bucky. He was sitting on the windowsill in the corridor, metal hand gripping his knee. You could tell he already knew.

“I’m not leaving you behind,” you said quietly.

He met your gaze. “I know.”

“Come with me, then.”

He didn’t answer right away. But a week later, when your flight was confirmed and your bags were packed, he asked you if you’d want a roommate.

You tried not to smile too hard.

—

You agreed, of course. In your defense, it sounded like a great offer—logical even. You’d gotten used to having him around. His quiet presence, the subtle glances, the unexpected humor that crept in when his guard dropped. Living together might just add a little more spark, a little more comfort. Something to hold onto.

He flew to the U.S. with you, barely carrying more than a single bag and a book he didn’t read on the plane. The apartment you picked wasn’t fancy, but it was enough—a two-bedroom walk-up tucked in the outskirts of New York, where traffic didn’t echo and no one asked too many questions. Quiet. Livable. A little empty at first.

But over time, you made it feel like a home.

A rug here. Plants that almost died but didn’t. Candles you forgot to blow out more than once. You painted the living room together on a weekend afternoon, your playlist humming low from a Bluetooth speaker while paint splattered your forearms. He didn’t complain about your color choices, not even once. In fact, he helped mix the tones with care—sage green and soft grey.

You’d said the green reminded you of yourself—growing, healing. The grey was him, steady and familiar.

“We’re like an old couple,” you joked as you dipped the brush into the tray again.

“Minus the cute banters,” he replied without missing a beat.

You’d both laughed at that, but it stuck with you.

Living together was easy in ways you didn’t expect. You weren’t lovers. You weren’t just friends. But the line between those two kept blurring, kept tugging you closer to something unnamed.

He noticed when you weren’t okay—like the nights when your head stayed low too long or your eyes didn’t quite focus.

“Chamomile?” he’d offer, already steeping the tea. Always with honey.

And when he wasn’t okay—when his nightmares clawed him awake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, chest heaving—you didn’t hesitate. You climbed into his bed without a word, pulled him into your arms, and rubbed slow circles into his back until his breathing evened out.

You never talked about those nights in the morning. But he always looked at you like he wanted to.

You started to feel things.

Maybe you had for a while.

You clung to the connection between you like it was sacred, like it was too precious to name out loud. It wasn’t love. Not officially. But some days, it felt like it—quiet, soft, blooming in the spaces where neither of you dared to speak.

Sometimes, it showed.

Like during movie nights—when your fingers brushed his as you both reached for the popcorn bucket at the same time. He didn’t pull away. In fact, he held your hand. Gently. Just for a second too long, like maybe he meant to.

Or the morning you woke up from a panic attack, chest tight and lungs refusing to work. He’d pulled you against him in one movement, holding you so close, so steady, you almost cried. He didn’t let go, not even after you calmed. And when you fell back asleep in his arms, he stayed awake until sunrise—just to make sure you didn’t fall apart again.

There were moments.

Almosts.

And they confused you.

Blurred the lines between what-if and reality.

You were starting to wonder if maybe—just maybe—he felt it too.

—

Everything changed the day Steve died.

Bucky stopped being Bucky. It was like watching someone slowly slip beneath the surface—there, but unreachable. His movements dulled, his eyes emptied out, and whatever light used to live behind them dimmed to something barely breathing. He didn’t cry. Didn’t shout. He didn’t say much at all.

He just… stopped.

Stopped texting Sam back. Stopped answering when you called his name from the kitchen. He didn’t touch the food you made—just moved it around his plate until you eventually cleared it away in silence. The routines you’d built, the soft rhythm of your life together—it all unraveled.

Even Mr. Lim noticed. The old man at the corner store mentioned it with a frown when you came by alone one day to buy tangerines.

“Haven’t seen your quiet soldier lately.”

You forced a smile. “He’s just been… tired.”

Still, tired didn’t cover it.

He was hollow.

The nightmares got worse—violent, guttural, shaking him down to the core. You’d wake to the sound of him gasping for air, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, clutching at his chest like he couldn’t bear being alive in his own skin.

Still, you stayed.

You held his hand through every night he thrashed against invisible ghosts. You whispered through his silence, even when he barely looked at you. You made black coffee—bitter just the way he liked it, and left it by his door. You sat on the edge of the couch, brushing your fingertips lightly over his metal arm—not asking for anything. Just letting him know you were still here.

“He loved you, Bucky,” you told him one night. Your voice was soft. Careful. “Steve believed in you. Always.”

He didn’t look at you at first. Just stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on something you couldn’t see.

And then, finally, he spoke—quietly, brokenly:

“How do I keep living… when the only person from my past who saw me as more than a weapon is gone?”

“The only one who believed in me. Who never gave up on me—not once.”

You swallowed hard. That should’ve been a comfort to hear, but the way he said it—it hit different. Like a farewell. Like you had never even been part of the equation.

Your heart splintered.

Still, you managed to whisper, “You have me…”

He turned to look at you then—really looked. But it wasn’t the gaze you knew. His eyes were flat, empty, like he didn’t know what he was seeing.

“Maybe you’re next,” he said quietly. “You’ll leave me too. Die before I do. Or worse—realize I’m not worth your time and walk away like everyone else.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t say it like a plea. He said it like a certainty.

But behind his eyes, the truth twisted deep. You could feel it, even if he didn’t speak it aloud:

Can’t stop the voices in my mind.

Didn’t mean to hurt you, but I do it anyway.

You closed the space between you and him, placing a hand on his arm—flesh, not metal. Grounding. Present.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, steady and low. “Not now. Not when it hurts. Not ever.”

He didn’t move.

“You’re not alone in this,” you added. “Even if you push, I’ll keep pulling. I’ll be here, Bucky. With you. Not without.”

Still, silence.

But you stayed there beside him, even when he didn’t answer. Even when it felt like your words sank into nothing.

You stayed.

Because love isn’t just about being heard.

Sometimes, it’s about being there—unshaken, unmovable—when the person you love forgets they’re worth staying for.

—

The morning air felt wrong.

You woke up slowly at first—sunlight leaking between the blinds, warming the room in pale gold. The usual hush of early morning lingered in the space, but something about it… felt off. Too still. Too empty.

No kettle whistling from the kitchen. No soft thud of his boots by the door. No sound of him flipping through pages of the same damn newspaper he barely read.

Just silence.

Heavy. Final.

You sat up, your chest tight with something you couldn’t name yet. And then you moved—fast. Rushing across the hall to his room, barefoot against cool wood floors. You knocked once. Twice.

No answer.

You turned the knob.

The door swung open with a soft creak, and your heart dropped.

His room was empty.

Not messy. Not abandoned.

Just… cleared out.

The bed was stripped. The closet hangers bare. No duffel bag. No boots. No sketchbook left behind. Not even the little photo you knew he kept tucked between the pages of that worn paperback—gone.

You walked through the house like a ghost—checking the kitchen, the bathroom, even the tiny balcony where he used to stand at night, pretending not to smoke. Every drawer, every quiet corner whispered the same truth:

Bucky was gone.

No note. No explanation. No goodbye.

You called him immediately, fingers trembling as you held the phone to your ear. It rang. And rang. Until the line broke into voicemail.

“It’s me. Bucky. Leave something.”

You called again. And again. Voicemail.

You sent a text. Then another. Dozens. You begged, you pleaded, you asked why—but none of them delivered anything back. No read receipt. No dots. No closure.

You tried emailing.

Nothing.

You reached out to Shuri, desperately, hoping maybe he’d gone back to Wakanda. But her reply came back almost immediately.

“I haven’t heard from him either. I’m so sorry. Please take care of yourself.”

But the question hung there, unanswered: how?

How could you take care of yourself when every part of you felt like it had been ripped out in the middle of the night?

You sat on the couch—the one you picked out together, the one where he used to fall asleep during movie nights—and tried to breathe. But all you could do was sit there, phone in hand, silence screaming louder than grief ever could.

You spiraled. Of course you did.

Because you thought it mattered. What you had with him. The quiet mornings. The comfort. The way he used to watch you laugh like it was something rare.

You thought he was healing—not alone, but with you.

You thought you were walking side by side, not carrying him on your own.

And you started wondering if any of it had ever been real. If the soft things he’d said—like how he liked when you scrunched your nose because it made you look like a bunny—were just… words. Passing thoughts. Distractions from the war in his head.

Was any of it real?

Or were you just a temporary balm? Something warm to cling to while he held himself together?

You wanted to believe in the quiet touches, the lingering glances, the way he always made your tea just right—but now, all of it felt like a dream you’d woken up from far too late.

And you?

You felt hollow.

Like he’d taken something when he left. A huge, unspoken, unfillable part of you. A part you didn’t even know was his until it was already gone.

And now, you sat in the place you once called home—surrounded by the ghost of him—and wondered how you were supposed to go on living like nothing had happened.

—

He’d thrown the phone out on the second day.

Not because he was angry. Not because he wanted to forget. But because every time the screen lit up, he thought it might be you. And he couldn’t bear the weight of knowing it probably was.

He stayed off the grid after that. Remote towns. No names. No noise. A worn-out truck and a room above a hardware store with flickering lights and walls thin enough to hear the wind whistling through the seams.

It was better this way.

Or at least that’s what he told himself.

You need someone your age, he repeated.

Someone who smiles easy. Someone who’s not haunted every time the sun goes down. Someone who’s not made of fragments stitched together by other people’s regrets.

Someone whole.

Not a man rebuilt from blood and steel and frostbite. Not someone who still hears screams in German when he closes his eyes.

Not him.

He sat alone most nights, back pressed against a cold wall, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was loud—louder than gunfire, louder than any war. It carried your voice in it. Your laugh. The soft way you used to call him—

“Bucks Bunny,”

—with your nose all scrunched up, that ridiculous smile stretched across your face like you had no idea how deeply he loved you in that exact moment.

He’d smile back when he saw it in his head. But when he blinked, it was gone. Just bare walls and a crooked chair in the corner of a room that didn’t even have a clock.

He tried to imagine you happy. Moving on. Living somewhere bright. Somewhere warm. He liked the idea of you wearing light colors, surrounded by people who didn’t look at you like you were about to unravel.

But then the doubt crept in.

What if you hadn’t moved on?

What if you were still hurting? Still waiting?

What if walking away hadn’t saved you—just shattered you, the same way he’d shattered everything else he ever touched?

And that’s what gutted him the most.

Because he knew what you gave. What you sacrificed to stay with him. And he walked away anyway.

“I tried to let it go,” he whispered, voice hoarse from hours without speaking.

“But it’s eating me alive.”

He reached for the notebook tucked in his duffel, the one he barely wrote in anymore. Not since the lists stopped. Not since he stopped believing he was capable of making amends that actually mattered.

Inside it—tucked between two pages worn soft from touching—was the photo.

Shuri had taken it back in Wakanda. You were laughing at something he said, head tilted toward him like you couldn’t be anywhere else. His arm was slung behind you, relaxed. He hadn’t even known he was smiling until he saw the picture.

Now, the edges were frayed. The center had a faint crease, like he’d folded it too many times, taken it out too often just to look. It still smelled faintly of that herbal compound you used to keep in your room.

He brushed his thumb over your face in the photo.

“I’m sorry,” he said under his breath, barely audible.

“God, I’m so sorry.”

The picture didn’t answer. Of course it didn’t.

And neither did you.

—

Florence, 2025

You hadn’t meant to fall in love with the city.

It was just supposed to be work. A preservation site conference, assigned last-minute when your manager realized you hadn’t taken a single vacation in over two years—not even for sick days. He’d practically shoved the ticket into your hand and told you to rest, to go and “experience life under the excuse of networking.”

You’d laughed then. And now, walking through the soft burn of golden hour near Piazza della Signoria, you realized maybe he was right.

The square was still alive with tourists and locals blending into the buzz of early evening. Artists sketched under awnings, performers strummed soft chords on the edge of the fountains, and sunlight spilled across stone like something sacred.

Your conference had ended that afternoon, and you were scheduled to fly back in the morning. So you wandered. Took your time. Let yourself exist without urgency.

Then you saw him.

Or at least, the shape of him.

Across the plaza—taller now, more broad at the shoulders, darker in his clothes. His hair was a little shorter, salt and peppered. He moved slower, more grounded. But it was him. The weight of his presence was unmistakable, like your soul knew it before your eyes did.

You froze mid-step.

He hadn’t seen you yet. Or so you thought.

Until he turned.

His eyes met yours—and suddenly, the world narrowed.

For one heartbeat, you couldn’t breathe.

And then he moved.

“Hey—hey!”

He was already walking toward you, fast, almost a jog.

“Is that really—? God, it’s you!”

Your name fell from his mouth like it had never left his lips. Like it belonged to him, like it was sacred.

You barely managed to speak.

“Bucky…”

When he reached you, he stopped short, just an arm’s length away. His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. For a moment, he just looked at you—eyes darting across your face like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Then he smiled. Soft and warm and unguarded.

“You look better,” he said, voice low. “Glowier.”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly bashful.

“I mean—you look… good. Really good.”

You smiled, heart hammering. “So do you.”

“Yeah?” he said, almost like he didn’t believe it. “Guess Florence is kind to broken people.”

There was a silence then. Not cold. Not tense. Just full—full of things you never got to say. Regret. Hope. Familiarity.

Time.

“So…” he asked quietly, “how long are you in town?”

You glanced down at your feet. “I leave tomorrow morning.”

His face flickered—something unreadable shifting in his expression. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

You watched as he brought it to his ear.

“Sam,” he said, turning slightly away but still within reach. “Yeah. I’m gonna stay behind a couple days. Something’s come up.”

A pause.

“No, I’m fine. Just—something I need to sort out.”

He ended the call, slid the phone back into his jacket, and looked at you.

No excuses. No overexplanations.

Just truth.

“I want to talk. If you’ll let me.”

You nodded, the corner of your mouth tugging upward, your throat thick with something almost too much to bear.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Me too.”

And maybe—just maybe—fate had finally decided it was time.

—

The café was tucked away on a narrow side street, shaded by creeping vines and half-silent bells ringing from the nearby cathedral tower. It was small—only four tables inside—but the kind of quiet that felt earned. Safe. Bucky gestured for you to take the corner seat near the window while he went to order.

You sat slowly, your fingers brushing over the grain of the worn wood table as you tried to keep your heart from racing. He still moved with that soft confidence, like his body had been trained for chaos, but now preferred gentleness.

When he returned, he carried a small tray—two steaming drinks and a plate of rustic pastries, flaky and golden, nothing too fancy.

He stood at the edge of the table for a moment, tray in hand, and hesitated.

You watched as his eyes flicked between the two cups—tea and black coffee—before he slowly picked up the coffee and hovered, uncertain.

It was such a small thing. But it felt important somehow.

“I… actually drink black coffee now,” you blurted, voice a little too fast, a little too soft.

Then you stopped yourself, realizing how it sounded.

Like you hadn’t just changed your drink.

Like you’d been holding on to a piece of him all this time, sipping memory in silence.

Bucky chuckled. Something tender shifted in his expression as he placed the coffee in front of you and sat down, curling his fingers around the tea.

“Funny enough,” he murmured, “I can only drink this tea now.”

Your heart squeezed.

Because somehow, without trying, you had become part of each other’s quiet routines—even after all the distance, even after all the years.

You sipped. So did he. And the silence between you wasn’t cold—it was charged. A humming space where every word felt too fragile, too sacred, to break first.

You fiddled with your fingers beneath the table, looking for courage, then finally let your voice cut the stillness.

“You look better too.”

“Shorter hair. Softer stubble.”

“Did you… meet someone? Someone who helped you heal?”

He didn’t even flinch.

He just chuckled, low and warm.

“Never met one.”

“No one’s ever been good enough to replace you.”

The air thickened with the weight of it.

He looked at you then, fully—like he was memorizing you all over again.

“I’ve carried the guilt for years,” he admitted quietly. “For leaving. For not staying. I thought it was what you needed. That I was protecting you.”

He looked down at his cup for a moment, then exhaled slowly.

“But even now—after everything—I still don’t think I know how to stay.”

“Not because I don’t want to. But because… I never learned how. Not with what I lost. Not with all the years that were stolen.”

You could feel the truth in every word.

“I went looking for you,” he continued. “Months after I left. The old place was gone. Demolished. No trace. I called Sam. Shuri. No one knew where you’d gone.”

“It felt like I’d become the ghost… but this time, you disappeared.”

You swallowed hard, chest tightening.

“So I told myself you moved on. That maybe that was good. Maybe I had finally done something right by letting you go.”

He paused, just long enough for the sadness to settle between you.

“But I never loved anyone else.”

“I couldn’t. It’s always been you.”

His hand moved slowly toward his coat pocket. He pulled out a familiar object—his old notebook, but more worn than you remembered. The leather was faded, the spine loose. He flipped carefully to a page halfway through and removed something tucked between the fold.

A photo.

The one Shuri had taken in Wakanda.

You, laughing—eyes closed, head tilted toward him. His arm behind you. His mouth caught in a rare smile. You’d barely even remembered the camera. He hadn’t smiled like that for anyone else.

You blinked at the photo, throat thick.

It was creased. The corners torn and softened. The ink slightly faded. You could tell he’d held it too many times. Folded it. Unfolded it. Looked at it again. And again. And again.

“You still keep this?” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes never leaving yours.

“Every night. I… couldn’t let it go.”

And there it was—the proof you’d both needed.

That no matter how far the silence stretched, no matter how lost you became to each other—

You were never forgotten.

—

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, side by side in that tiny café tucked in the heart of Florence. The drinks had cooled. The pastries sat mostly untouched. The sun had begun to dip, casting golden light through the stained glass window beside you, catching the soft curve of Bucky’s jaw, the way his eyes looked just a little too full.

He was still holding the photo.

Still tracing his thumb over the image of you, years younger, smiling without knowing he was looking.

You finally broke the quiet.

“You know… I could never really erase you.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours. You could see the weight in them—hope, guilt, something fragile he didn’t know how to name.

“When you left, it felt like you took this huge piece of me with you,” you continued, voice low. “I didn’t know how to move forward for a while. I felt hollow. Angry. But…”

You paused, steadying your breath.

“I kept thinking about how you made it through everything. Hydra. The pain. The guilt. You kept going, even when you didn’t think you deserved to. Even when you were alone.”

You looked down, then back up at him, and there was something shining in your expression now—something soft and clear.

“So I followed you, in a way. I took it day by day. I learned how to live again. Not because it stopped hurting, but because I remembered you kept trying.”

Your hand drifted over your chest, almost absentmindedly.

“But I never forgot you. Not the way you held me. Not your voice. Not your arms around me when I needed them most. I could still feel you.”

He looked at you like you’d just split the sky in half.

You smiled, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as you leaned forward just slightly, scrunching your nose.

“Bucks Bunny,” you said playfully, tenderly—his name softened by time and love.

The sound cracked something open in him.

You held out your hand, palm up, between you on the table.

“Maybe we can stop running away this time?”

“Let’s start making amends with each other.”

He stared at your hand for a long second, lips parted like he was trying to hold back emotion. Then—without hesitation—he reached across and took it.

His fingers were warm. Calloused. Familiar. He wrapped them gently around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then he smiled. Fully. Finally.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Let’s.”

***

[EPILOGUE]

It was night now. The city had quieted into a gentle hush, the kind that only old places seemed to carry—ancient stone still holding the warmth of the sun, lanterns flickering on cobbled streets, casting long shadows between the alleys.

You hadn’t meant to stay out this late.

But after the café, neither of you wanted to say goodbye. So you walked. Nowhere specific. Past bridges and gardens, through quiet squares and narrow streets with laundry still hanging from windows. You filled each other in on life, on little things—jobs, books, memories, movies missed and people changed.

It felt like no time had passed.

But the streets were nearly empty now, shutters drawn, windows glowing faintly with the hush of bedtime.

When you reached your hotel, Bucky lingered behind you in the hallway, hands in his pockets, eyes warm beneath the soft golden light. You didn’t speak as you slid the keycard into the lock. The door clicked open.

And as soon as it shut behind you—

He pulled you in.

His hand cupped the back of your neck, the other curled gently around your waist as he pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was soft and reverent, but hungry with years of restraint finally unraveling.

“Had been holding on for too long, baby,” he murmured against your mouth, voice husky.

“I’ve been dreaming about this.”

You deepened the kiss, fingers fisting in the collar of his jacket, and he groaned softly at the contact. There was no desperation—only love. The kind that settles into your bones. The kind that doesn’t ask anymore. That knows.

This was the end of yearning.

The end of waiting.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath came uneven, but his voice was steady.

“I love you,” he said softly. “So much. Too much.”

“I think even the other versions of me in alternate universes would probably love the other versions of you, too.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your eyes bright.

“Are you sure though?”

He smiled, thumb brushing your cheek as he leaned in again.

“Very sure.”

***

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes angst #requested fic by elle #tysm for the request! 💜#જ⁀➴ by elle #mcu!bucky angst #mcu!bucky fic #mcu!bucky #mutual pining #emotional hurt/comfort

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