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blv3rd · 4 days ago

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In The Woods ; B. Barnes

The truth is stranger than in all my dreams. Oh, the darkness got a hold on me.

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Ex-Avengers!F!Reader

Synopsis: He left you behind to keep you safe, but safety never stopped the heartbreak. Now, a year of grief, silence, and sleepless nights unravel the moment he shows up at your door with his new team—bruised, breathless, begging. You’re angry and he’s sorry, but the love is still there. It always has been.

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, y/n is mean & angry (for a bit), bucky is guilty, swearing, ft. thunderbolts, bleeding/injuries, sambucky break-up (mentions), yearning, not dating but a secret third thing, mentions of natasha & her death, y/n is “team sam”, mentions of tfatws (briefly), mentions of hell/religious imagery, violence/blood, SMUT, MDNI, kissing, oral (f), spit, p in v, creampie, unprotected sex (don’t), happy ending, no tb spoliers/ WC: 13.5

A/N: Bucky in Thunderbolts….mind goes brrr. Not helping the SamBucky divorce allegations but alas, anything for the story. Ignore any choppiness in the timeline or story, I wrote this with the worst migraine.

The forest was bleeding.

Not with colour—but silence. With snow falling slow and heavy, catching on branches and burning footprints as fast as they were made. The trees stood like sentinels, black-limed and reaching. Nothing but white, wood, and blood.

Bucky’s breath came ragged through the hush, fogging the air. His gloved hands were soaked red. Yelena was slung between him and Walker, unconscious but breathing, the warmth of her body slowly seeping through his coat.

They weren’t going to make it.

He should have known. He should have been prepared for it, but he hadn’t been.

“Bob,” Bucky called, voice tight, hoarse. “Stay close.”

Bob—still limping, still glassy-eyed from the explosion—nodded and trudged forward, boots crunching through the snow. He wasn’t built for this. Not yet. Not like this. Val had shoved him onto the field too soon, too eager.

Bucky had tried arguing, tried telling her that he was still fragile—a liability—but she hadn’t listened. And Bucky didn’t need more on his plate, but he’d take care of him. Or, at least, he’d try.

Ava phased in and out ahead, scanning, ghostlike. When she disappeared for a moment too long, Bucky felt the silence of the clearing, tenfold. She was trying to stay ahead of whatever might still be behind them.

But, Bucky could feel it. He could taste it.

They were done. Just miles of snow and trees and nowhere to go.

Yelena was bleeding out and Walker wasn’t any better, wobbling on his legs as he tried to stand up straight. They wouldn’t last long out here, certainly not while dragging each other.

“Shit,” he muttered, stopping long enough to fumble with the tablet in his pouch. His hands shook—exhaustion, adrenaline, guilt—never ending guilt, swimming in his veins. He tapped into the satellite overlay, breathing hard, as their current location pinged into view.

Grid 48-F.

The North woods. Nothing but a snow storm. Cold, empty—remote. No outposts for miles.

These weren’t woods happy campers visited. Untouched land, ridged and slanted, surrounded them. A perfect place for illegal activity but not so perfect to do the right thing.

But—there—just there—barely on the edge of the map.

A single black dot, beeping in and out existence, almost as if a trick of the light, like it wasn’t meant to be found.

His chest caved in around it.

The coordinates suddenly looked familiar, as did the landscape. He narrowed his eyes, held the tablet up, heart slowing down.

He knew these coordinates.

Bucky stared at it for a long, frozen second.

A place he hadn’t let himself think about in almost a year.

A place filled with half-buried memories—laughter over old vinyl records, the sound of boots on the porch, a sweet voice telling him to sit as he was cleaned up. Steam curling from a mug handed to him without a word.

Nights too quiet and long to pretend the tension wasn’t there. That the affection, curling around the wood and into the floorboards, wasn’t there. That the flicker of love, of want, wasn’t soaking into his skin.

Your eyes, warmer than firelight, watching him with a softness he’d never be able to find anywhere else.

He hadn’t been able to go back.

Not after deciding to leave you. Not after ignoring your calls when you got back from your mission. Not after telling himself it was for your safety—for your distance, from him and the darkness and chaos that seemed to follow him.

He’d convinced himself that cutting the cord meant saving you.

But now?

Now the cord was pulling him back, wrapped around his neck and tugged, and he couldn’t rip it off even if he tried.

“Bucky?” Bob’s voice small, nervous. He glanced at Bucky before focusing ahead, cold and wet.

Bucky looked up, snapped out of it. “We’re not going to the evac point,” he said, voice low yet carrying. “We won’t make it. We’d freeze before the rendezvous got here.”

“Then where?” Walker grunted. “We’re going to die out here.”

Bucky hesitated, eyes on the trees, on the white mist curling through the frozen pines.

Finally, he said, “There’s a cabin.” He paused, like it hurt to admit. “It’s not far.”

He didn’t say who it belonged to. He didn’t say it was the one place in the world he’d once felt safe and at peace. Didn’t say he hated every second of his life since they landed in this cold hell a few hours ago.

Instead, he just adjusted Yelena’s weight on his shoulder and started moving.

They reached the edge of the clearing an hour later.

The sky was bleeding to black now, dim with twilight, blue shadows sinking low between the snowdrifts. The cabin stood half-hidden beneath a thick layer of frost and pine, smoke curling softly from the chimney. Warm light flickered behind the frosted windows.

It felt like a punch to the gut.

Bucky paused at the treeline and held up a fist. The team crouched, quiet, bodies stiff from cold. He scanned the clearing, fingers twitching at his side. His mouth and eyes went dry.

He didn’t think you’d be here.

You hadn’t been the last time he checked. A year ago. After he stopped answering your messages. After he told himself staying away was the only way to protect you from the mess he was about to wade into with Val.

Just once, last year, in a moment of weakness, he looked for you. Actively searched for you. He just needed to know, just needed to make sure you were okay, safe. He couldn’t find you. Sometimes, he can still feel that raw panic, the way his heart had stopped breathing when he came up empty, the way he had fallen to his knees and clutched at his chest like someone had ripped his heart out of him.

The smoke was fresh. The path to the shed was shoveled. There were footprints.

His stomach dropped.

You were here.

He turned, eyes on the snow. “Stay put. I’ll clear it.” His voice was low.

“What if someone’s inside?” Ava asked, curious at Bucky’s shift in behaviour.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll handle it.”

He crossed the snow like a ghost.

Every step was agony. Every crunch of ice beneath his boots cracked open another memory.

The porch creaked under his weight.

His hand slid along the doorframe. He knew exactly where you kept the spare key, the trick to the lock. He’d fixed it once, after you kicked it shut too hard. He remembered the way you’d rolled your eyes and offered him a beer while he worked.

He didn’t want to break in.

He didn’t want to disrespect this place, the peace that surrounded it.

He didn’t want to hurt you again.

He just—

He just needed somewhere to hide.

His fingers curled around the doorknob, heart in his throat. You wouldn’t have been able to tell that he was once an assassin, once a killing machine.

And then—

Click.

“Don’t move.”

He froze, muscles stilling.

The cold metal of a rifle barrel touched the base of his skull. It was the first time it had in years. He forgot how hard it was, how chilling.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

The voice behind him was sharp, cold, measured—devoid of any emotion and warmth.

Your voice.

Bucky turned.

And there you were.

Wrapped in flannel and fury. Face hard as ice, sharp eyes, steady behind the sight of your rifle. Your finger on the trigger didn’t even shake. It was steady, pressing. He felt a sliver of fear, something foreign and familiar all at once.

He drank in the sight of you like he was breathing for the first time, like he had been drowning at the foot of an altar and hadn’t known peace, hadn’t known salvation until this moment.

Your hair was a little longer, circles under your eyes. New, faded scars on your face, under your eyebrow and lips. Same old boots.

Still exceptionally beautiful as the day he lost you.

The only thing different was your expression.

New.

You didn’t look surprised. Not the way he was. You weren’t drinking him in.

You looked furious, angry, murderous.

That, he decided, was the worst part.

“...Y/n,” he breathed, voice cracking.

You stared at him, eyes like knives. Finger pressing the trigger harder, like you were going to pull.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Barnes?”

The barrel of your rifle didn’t drop.

Even as the snow clung to his hair, melting down his jaw. Even as his expression cracked open into something half-empty, half-anxious.

Even as his lips parted like he might say something real, something soft, something that would make you pull the trigger.

You didn’t let yourself care, didn’t let yourself even entertain the thought of anything except the press of the barrel into his skin. You couldn’t—couldn’t even take a moment to comprehend that he was in front of you, alive.

“You’re trespassing,” you said, voice ice-edged and flat, and dangerous. “So either tell me who’s bleeding in the trees or I put one in your leg and call Sam.”

That hit him.

It hit him.

He flinched—subtle, almost imperceptible—but you caught it. Just like you used to catch every other shift in him. The way he’d crack a knuckle when he was anxious. The way his jaw would tighten when he was lying. The way he could never look you in the eyes when he said goodbye.

You clicked the safety off.

He didn’t even raise his hands.

“Yelena’s hurt. So is Walker,” he said, voice lower now. Rougher. Sandpaper. “Bob’s with us. We just needed a place to—”

“You think you can just show up here?”

It came out sharp. Too sharp. Quick, something prickling.

Something behind your ribs cracked open. A dam you didn’t even realize you were still holding back. You stepped forward, closer, gun still pressing against his forehead. Snow on your boots, fury in your chest, your heart pounding so loud it echoed in your ears.

He was still standing on your porch.

Your space.

A sacred, secret spot you had once shared with him, but no longer.

You were seething. How fucking dare he?

“I ought to shoot you, you know that? Put a bullet in your arm, maybe your shoulder.”

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said quickly, eyes on you, like it made it better. “I wouldn’t have—I wasn’t gonna stay. I just—”

“Just what, Bucky?” you snapped. “Thought you’d break in? Treat it like another asset to use up and leave behind? Like you did with me?”

He could feel his heart crack, his resolve, all the effort he’d put in himself to forget you, all came crashing down. He felt small, guilty.

He didn’t even think about his team, the ones watching him from the treeline, taking in this new version of him. They’d never seen him stand so still, so disarming.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed thickly.

His shoulders curled in just a little. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like it still hurt more than he expected.

Your hands shook, once. His eyes fell on them before lifting, piercing into yours. You lowered the rifle only because you didn’t trust yourself not to pull the trigger on accident.

And then—movement. A shuffle behind the trees.

Bucky turned his head slightly, called out, “Come on out.”

You watched as Bob stepped into view first, arms braced under John’s weight. Blood stained the sleeve of Walker’s coat, and his jaw was clenched with pain. Ava phased beside them a second later, hauling Yelena, unconscious and pale, her forehead slick with blood.

Your stomach turned. You swallowed the bile. You knew them, or, knew of them. Although you had removed yourself from society as best you could, you still kept in touch. Listening, watching.

They looked like shit, like they’d been through hell.

But you didn’t look at them, not really.

You looked at Bucky. Watched the way his lips turned down at the sight of them in concern.

It made you sick that part of you still cared.

That the sight of Yelena’s crumpled form made you shove the pain down into your gut. That instinct took over and you stepped aside, jerking your head toward the door.

“Inside. Now.”

Bucky didn’t move, not right away.

Maybe he was stunned, or trying to think of something to say.

But you didn’t wait. You turned your back on him—on all of them—and pushed the cabin door wide.

The warmth hit you like a slap, familiar and inviting yet surprising.

The fire was still crackling in the hearth. Your mug of half-finished tea sat forgotten on the windowsill. The cabin smelled like pine and old wood and the lilac cleaner you used on the floors just that morning.

It smelled like you.

And then they all stumbled in, dragging the snow and blood and silence behind him.

Ava pulled Yelena onto the couch. Bob dragged Walked across the carpet, propped him up somewhere. He hovered close, face pale, eyes wide. You moved fast—medical kit from the cabinet, extra blankets from the trunk, towels tossed in the sink.

Your movements were sharp, precise. Practiced and automatic.

You didn’t look at Bucky.

You didn’t need to.

You could feel him behind you, like a storm gathering behind your spine. Like a memory clawing up your throat.

Your voice was low when you finally broke the silence.

“This place isn’t a fucking outpost.”

“I know,” Bucky said quietly. Almost like he couldn’t believe you’d think he’d disrespect this place, one that had once been so kind to him.

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

You snorted. “There’s always a choice.”

His voice cracked, desperate. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Yeah?” You turned, eyes meeting his briefly, hard and angry. “You make a habit of not thinking and being an idiot?”

The silence after was thick enough to drown in.

And he felt it. Drowning, deeper and deeper.

“They’re good people.” It’s all he could say.

“Don’t care.” You did. You couldn’t help yourself, because they hadn’t done anything to wrong you—except Walker—but even then. Their past had no relevance to you. You’d take care of them. It was who you were.

“I just… I thought—”

“What, Bucky?” you snapped eyes narrowed, voice shaking. “What did you think would happen? That I’d open the door and thank you? That I’d be so grateful for the ghost of you showing up on my fucking doorstep that I’d forget everything else?”

He flinched again. Didn’t try to defend himself.

Good. He shouldn’t.

You stepped toward him, close enough that he could feel the heat of your fury.

“I waited, you know. After I got back. I waited. Every goddamn day. Thought you’d call. Thought you’d explain. But you didn’t. You just disappeared. Like none of it meant anything.”

Bucky’s eyes burned.

“It meant everything,” he said, voice low. Raw.

You shook your head. “Too late.”

He wanted to say something else—there was so much to say, so much to apologize for, but you moved away from him, left him standing near the kitchen. He felt something crack at the distance, which was funny, he mused painfully.

For a year, he spent thousands of miles away from you, but he hadn’t felt the distance—the loss—till now. Everything inside him was aching and his hands curled into fists as he watched you, eyes burning into your back.

You worked in silence.

Yelena’s breathing was shallow but steady, her wound cleaned and wrapped beneath layers of gauze and tape. She hadn’t woken yet, but the colour was beginning to return to her face. You tucked another blanket around her, brushing damp hair back from her forehead with a gentleness that surprised even you.

There was something about her, something so achingly familiar in the way she held herself, even unconscious. She had a scar, a small faded one right on her chin. Briefly, your mind flashed to Natasha, of a story she told you years and years ago about her sister and a stapler.

Bob hovered nearby like a kicked dog—wide eyes, oversized hoodie stained with someone else’s blood. His hands trembled as he offered a clean towel, his lip caught between his teeth.

You took it from him carefully, fingers brushing his.

“Thank you,” you murmured. Your voice dipped, just for him, something softer and inviting, like you knew who he was, what he had done, and decided he deserved kindness anyways.

His face lip up like a spark had caught in his chest and he smiled bashfully before he looked away.

Ava sat perched on the arm of a chair, arms crossed. Her eyes tracked every move you made, sharp but not hostile. Just watchful, trying to familiarize herself with you. You caught her eye and nodded at her. She nodded back. Quiet understanding passed, soldier to soldier.

Then you turned to Walker.

He was half-reclined on the floor near the fire, jacked peeled off, blood soaking the side of his shirt. Bob had done what he could—pressure, bandages—but the bleeding hadn’t fully stopped.

You knelt beside him, jaw locked. You didn’t speak at first, rage bubbling in your throat. Just the sight of him, of his battered face made you angry, made you remember the way things were, back when Walker was the biggest pain in your ass, before Bucky had left.

He winced when you pressed against the gauze.

“You know,” you said, voice low, steady, “I ought to let you bleed out. If it were up to me, you’d be lying in the snow somewhere, half-dead.”

He didn’t respond, just looked at you through gritted teeth.

You didn’t look away. You wondered if he was remembering it—the violence, the hatred. The man he was, and very well may be. Growth can’t be disguised under darker clothes and new management.

Resentment lingers—you’d know.

“You’re lucky I give more of a shit about him,” you added, nodding toward Bob. “And Yelena. That’s the only reason I haven’t thrown your ass back into the cold.”

Walker’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. I got that.”

You peeled back the soaked bandage with clinical detachment. You didn’t even bother to be gentle.

Across the room, Bucky flinched.

He was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, a storm in his eyes. He felt a flicker of something—regret, guilt—familiar, so fucking familiar, as he watched you. Your shoulders were rigid, tight with restraint.

You disliked John, you always had. Before, you had fought with him about his morals, about the way he held himself and the shield. Bucky had stood behind you, behind Sam. He had agreed.

There was something borderline repulsive about the scene in front of him, of you cleaning up John Walker as Bucky watched with mild concern and his friend—Sam—was nowhere to be found.

He wondered if you found it disgusting, who he had become and who he had decided to work alongside. He’d understand. He hated himself most days, too.

You handed Bob another towel.

“Keep pressure here,” you instructed, something softer in your voice as you addressed Bob. “Don’t let him bleed through it again.”

Bob nodded, instantly obedient.

You turned away.

Bucky followed you with his eyes like he couldn’t help it. Like he hadn’t been starved of you for too long. Like he had any right.

You moved past Ava, brushing her shoulder. “You hurt?”

She shook her head. “Just bruised.”

“Bathroom’s through the back,” you said. “Towels under the sink. You can clean up.”

She looked at you, eyes narrowing like she wasn’t sure how to read your tone. But she nodded once and stood, disappearing down the hallway.

And then—silence again.

Except for the fire. And Bob whispering something to Walker, Yelena’s slow, shallow breaths.

You turned, arms crossed, lips turned downwards.

And finally—finally—you looked at Bucky. You silently begged your heart not to give out.

He was bigger, healthier. Gaunter around the eyes. His hair was longer, curling at the ends, damp with snowmelt. His coat was torn. Knuckles scabbed over. Metal hand twitched like he wanted to reach for something—someone.

You didn’t let yourself soften—not at the look in his eyes, not at the way his entire body looked like it was a second away from giving out.

“You can take the cot,” you said, jerking your head toward the corner. “If you think you’ll sleep.”

It was a low-blow, something petty and mean, bringing attention to his trouble with sleeping, but it was all you had. Just these quips, the coldness in your voice. It was all you could throw at him, all you had since he had taken everything else—your trust, heart, and smile.

“I—” He cleared his throat, hoarse. “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, and came out too quickly, too quietly. It was too heavy, too weightless.

You scoffed, eyes shifting to the floor before meeting his. “Fuck off.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed again.

You turned your back to him.

It was past midnight when Yelena stirred.

You were sitting at her side, fresh gauze in your hands, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. It had been steady for hours—but now, her fingers twitched, lashes fluttered. Her body went still before she relaxed.

“Yelana?” you murmured, trying to keep your voice soft, safe.

She blinked slowly, disoriented, as her pupils adjusted to the low light of the fire. Her mouth moved, cracked lips forming words you couldn’t hear.

“Hey,” you leaned in. “You’re okay. You and your team are safe.”

Her gaze drifted, found your face. Her eyes drifted along your skin, taking in your features. Recognition flashed in them before they moved to the room behind you.

“...we made it?” she rasped, voice hoarse and dry.

You nodded, features softening a bit at the slight accent in her voice. It reminded you of Nat’s, the way it slipped out sometimes, because of certain words, when she felt safe.

“Bled all over my floor, but yeah.”

A small, broken laugh escaped her and she winced immediately, bringing a hand to her ribs.

“Try not to move,” you said gently. “You’ll ruin my fine patch job.”

She was quiet for a beat before she lifted her eyes, lips curled downwards. “You were her friend, weren’t you?”

You blinked in surprise, lips parting. You had heard about Yelena from Nat, near the end. During the blip, when she had decided that she had kept enough to herself, she told you about her little sister. You never thought you’d get to meet her.

“I was,” you swallowed. “We were good friends.”

“She told me about you,” Yelena said, quietly, like it was a secret. “Just once. Told me I could come to you for anything.”

Your heart tightened in your chest and you nodded, trying for a smile. “Yeah. You could—can.”

Something dark, a mixture of grief and anger bubbled in Yelena’s chest and you saw it, saw the way it pulled at her from her hair. It was familiar, a feeling you knew well. “She talked about you,” you offered, trying to pull her out of her own mind. “She loved you.”

“Yeah,” Yelena swallowed, “I know.”

You patted her shoulder gently before pushing yourself up. Her hand caught your wrist and you looked down, eyebrows raised.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

You crouched down. “Know what?”

“That you’re her.”

You frowned, tilting your head in question. “Her?”

Yelena’s eyes lingered on your face, tracing your scars and the bridge of your nose. “The one he never talks about.”

Your breath caught, and your eyes widened, just a bit, but enough. You said nothing.

“He’s in love with you, you know.” She winced as she tried to sit up. “He doesn’t know how not to be.” She paused, glancing at your trembling fingers. “It leaks out of him.”

Your jaw clenched and you looked away, heart falling to your stomach and fingers curled. She watched as you kept your eyes on the fire, hating how dry your throat had gotten.

“I’ll check on you in a bit,” you said finally, quietly. “Try to sleep.”

She didn’t protest, just smiled softly before shutting her eyes.

They were all asleep by two, or pretending. But it was quiet, tense, something weighed.

Walker was sprawled ungracefully on the rug, arm bandaged and elevated, snoring softly. Bob had curled up in the armchair, long limbs tucked close, face peaceful. Ava took the cot near the back wall, one leg bouncing softly until it stilled.

And Bucky—

Bucky sat in the kitchen, silent, staring into the dark like it held answers he hadn’t earned. It was too overwhelming—being here. There were memories, soft laughter and lingering touches that had crawled into the crevices of the wood, peeled the stains back until the entire cabin felt smaller, haunted. In the warmth of the kitchen, the wood groaning under his weight, he felt like he could have done it.

He could have stayed. Could have fought off Val for you, kept you out of the limelight.

He could have fought harder.

He should have fought harder.

He doesn’t know what that made him—a coward, maybe. Someone afraid. He had grown, gone to therapy and made friends, but the fear, the curling of unworthiness in his bones would never leave. He knew that.

He stared down at the table, eyes focusing on the swirls and edges of the wood. His herbal tea, the one you had forced them all to drink, was sitting cold in front of him. He was glad you hadn’t given him the one he used to drink—the exotic ones, ones he’d never heard of and couldn’t imagine. It would have felt like holy water in hell, something condemning and horrid, but sweet all the while.

You slipped on your boots and coat and eased the front door open, letting the cold bite at your face. The stars above were clear, silver on black. The trees whispered in the distance, inviting.

Bucky heard the door open and froze, stilled as he stared into the open space.

You sat on the porch steps and pulled the knife from your side pocket.

It was old now, worn. The handle smooth from your thumb, the constant rubbing and brushing.

You’d never stopped carrying it.

Sam had found it at a vintage store. “Some kind of weird sentimental symbolism,” he’d said, when he gave it to you. “Sharp. Pointed. Quiet. Soft around the edges. Like you.” Bucky had added your initials to the leather sheath in his own careful scrawl.

You used to carry it just to remember the two of them. When you were on long missions, when they had stumbled into some trouble far away—when it was quiet.

Now, you carried it because it was all you had left.

You pressed your thumb into the base of the blade, not enough to break skin, but just enough to feel something—to wake you up if this was a bad dream. It felt like one. It felt strange, like you could guess the ending but it changed every time you searched for it, when the flicker of want, of fear, grew larger.

The cabin behind you creaked softly, weight shifting and the wind howling.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

His footsteps were heavier now. Not loud, but familiar—measured, hesitant. A bit like when he first arrived here, years ago. The way he never pressed his full weight into the wood until he grew comfortable, until he was sure that the wood—that you—could support him.

He sat beside you.

Not too close, but closer than he had been in a year. The porch was old pine and groaned beneath his weight, like the cabin couldn’t help but mimic the sadness that dwelled in you—in the absence of him.

You stared at the trees, eyes fluttering shut briefly as the cold wind brushed against your skin. The moonlight was sharper now, illuminating you both perfectly, a silent spectacle for the Gods.

The knife gleamed in your palm like it could split you open. Something was tearing apart.

“It’s…colder than I remember,” Bucky said, after a long silence.

You said nothing.

A part of you wanted to lunge at him, plunge the knife into his heart and ask him if it hurts, if the pain measures to your own. You gripped the hilt of the knife tighter, looked at a tree where a gun was hidden.

He exhaled slowly, white breath curling in the air as his nose twitched. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He said it like it made it better, like he knew you were bleeding out and these words were all he could offer, little bandaids he kept on hand.

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharp and bitter. “You’ve mentioned that.”

He rubbed his hands together, flesh and metal and yet he hadn’t felt warmth in months, years—whenever he touched you last. A brush against your shoulder, knees bumping under the blanket.

“You shouldn’t’ve been.”

You turned sharply, eyes narrowed into slits. He almost moved back. “You think you get to decide where I go now?” Your hold on the knife tightened, slipped into place.

“No—”

“Because last I checked,” you interrupted, “you lost that right. When you ghosted me. When you walked away from Sam and into fucking politics. When instead of taking her down, you joined up with Val fucking Fontaine and turned into some New Avenger.”

You were seething, jaw clenched as the words came out like bullets. Your fingers twitched around the blade and you almost, almost, lifted it, just to see what he would do. You were angry, so fucking angry, and hurt, and worried, and—God—Why was he staring at you like that?

“I was trying to protect you,” Bucky said quietly, a whisper that floated into the wind.

“Don’t,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

He looked down, hair falling across his face as his fingers curled into fists.

“Do you know what it felt like?” You whispered, voice cracking, mentally blaming the cold. “Coming home after six months to find no one there? I saw Sam. He looked at me like I’d been buried alive. And then I had to ask about you and he just—he looked so tired. Like he didn’t have any energy left.”

Your grip on the knife loosened but his shoulders tensed, pinched together like he was trying to keep himself still.

“Sam was busy with the government and he had Joaquin and I…I had no one.” You inched forward, wanting him to see the look in your eyes. “I called you. Every day. Texted you, sent voice messages. I got nothing. Nothing, Buck. Not even a fuck-you.”

Bucky couldn’t breathe, he was sure he had stopped breathing the moment he sat down but now his chest hurt, his eyes stung and his fingers twitched. “I couldn’t,” he said, almost begging, his voice cracking.

“I couldn’t.”

You finally turned your full body toward him. If this conversation was finally happening, maybe for the last time ever, you wanted to be present for it. If he was truly going to rip your heart out of your chest, you wanted him to have a clear shot. “Why not?”

He met your eyes—red, bright blue, and so exhausted.

“Because Val knew about you.”

Your stomach twisted. The way he said it—haunted, like it was the worst thing in the world, like he’d never been more shaken.

“She knew everything. She had a file, your name. Where you trained, where you came from. She knew. And she told me…if I didn’t cooperate, if I didn’t step in line, she’d make you vanish.”

You stared at him, lips parting in surprise. The air thinned around you. It was less about what he said and more about the way he said it, the way he panted out the words, like they’d been taking so much space in his body.

“She said it like she was doing me a favour,” he whispered. “Like she was giving me an option. I knew what she was capable of. I’ve seen what her people do, Y/n.”

“So you left,” you breathed out. “Without a word.”

“It was the only way to keep her away from you,” he said, his eyes pleading. You had to understand—understand that he’d do anything to keep you safe. “I had to disappear from your life. I thought…if I stayed gone long enough, she’d think you didn’t matter.”

Your throat closed, anger bubbling into something colder—grief. “I did matter.”

“I know,” he said, eyes piercing into yours, pink lips pulled into a frown. “Christ, I know. Don’t you think I’ve thought about it every day? Don’t you think I regret it? I thought I was saving you. But I was just…just a fucking coward.”

Silence—the woods watched, trees listened.

The stars did not blink, just stayed still, offering as much comfort as they could.

You breathed in the fresh air, trying to get your blood circulating. Your pulse pounded in your chest and you wiped at your face, angry and so fucking sad. All you wanted was to live in your anger forever, to keep it at the surface and present, but here he was, hands trembling, telling you how far he had gone to keep you safe.

“I missed you,” you admitted, softly. “Every day. Even when I was angry.”

Bucky turned toward you, jaw clenched. His hand reached out before he dropped it. His eyes were wide and bright and sorry.

You looked down at the knife. “I came here, once. After you left. I thought maybe being here would help. That I could feel close to you.”

He swallowed hard, dug his nails into his palm.

“But it just…just made it worse. Every corner. Every stupid crevice. You’re in all of it.” You paused, a small smile, filled with everything but warmth. “Ended up staying. What does that say about me?”

He looked small, like he might shatter. Like the weight of your words was too much, like his superhuman strength was nothing against them.

“I wanted my best friend,” you said, voice small. It was easier to be like this—sad, fucking pathetic, and angry, with him. It always had been. “I needed you, Buck. And you weren’t there.”

“I wanted to be,” his words came tumbling out, hurried and harsh. “You think I didn’t want to break every fucking rule and come running the second I saw your name pop up on my screen? I wanted to call, to explain. But Val—she had eyes. I thought if I held out long enough, she’d lose interest.”

“She didn’t,” you mused. “She sent you here.”

Bucky looked startled, exhaled sharply, like he hadn’t considered it. This whole time—he thought it was a coincidence. His bad fucking luck. But it was Val—of course. That scared him, made him want to pick up his team and leave you, the sooner he left the further Val got to you.

“I shouldn’t’ve come.”

“No,” you said, softer, a bit surprised at your immediate answer. “But I’m glad you did.”

He looked at you, startled. His eyes, so blue, so bright, widened a fraction.

You wiped at your eyes again, trying to brush away the feelings that had bubbled out of your chest and out in the open, dancing across your skin.

“Because now you get to see what you left behind…and I—I get to see you. Alive.”

Bucky’s breath caught and his fingers shook. His shoulders dropped and a part of you, a small, horrible part of you relished in it. Briefly, but it pleased you.

“You’re my best friend,” he said, like a confession. Like it meant something else, something he thought about, something that burned bright and warm in his veins every night. “That’s the problem. I had to walk away.”

He said it with heat—desperation.

Please, he was saying, understand—I love you.

You looked at him then, fully, completely. And for the first time in nearly a year, your anger cracked, just a little—then crumbled, until it fell off you like rain. It was still there, soaking into your skin, but slid off.

“Then stop walking away,” you whispered, responding to the words he wasn’t saying but was leaking out of him. “If I’m your best friend,”—if you love me—“stay. Stop running.”

The words found a life of their own, stumbled out of your mouth before you could catch them, before you could measure their consequences—they fell along Bucky’s skin like snow, soft and beautiful and cold and unseen.

The moon above you was heavy and silver and listening—waiting, glowing, yearning.

The silence stretches on, hovers softly over the snow, a blanket over the cold.

You don’t say anything for a long time.

Not after you ask him to stay.

There’s just the knife in your hand and the throb in your chest and the goddamn moon staring down at you like she knows, like she understands—despite your embarrassment, the hole in your chest that was once filled with anger and pride and hurt. Now hollow, remnants of it all dried and crisp.

And then—

You laugh.

It’s not soft, not amused. It’s empty, something clipped.

“I can’t believe I just asked you to stay,” you admit, bitter and in disbelief. “I’m your best friend. Right. You care about me so much I had to grieve you.”

He flinches, chin tipping downwards.

You’re on your feet before you even realize it, pacing the porch like it’s the only way to stay upright. You had imagined having this conversation with him hundreds of times, all different. When you had come back and Sam told you he didn’t know where Bucky was, your entire life fell apart. Sometimes, on bad days, you can still feel the ache in your chest.

For a moment, a day, a week, a while, you had thought you had lost him. Until he turned up on your fucking television.

“I lit a candle for you in some tiny church in Madrid. Did you know that?” you spit. “I thought you were dead. Or worse—I thought you’d become someone I didn’t recognize.” Your eyes met his and they fell along his suit, the black, the A that had once meant so much to you.

“I’m not sure I recognize you now.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything—can’t. His heart is beating out of his chest and he’s blinking too fast. He never meant for this to happen—never wanted you to be in pain because of him.

“I hated you,” you whisper into the air. “But I never stopped—” You stopped, swallowed the words, the ache. “You don’t get to say that to me. Best friend? Please.”

“You always have been,” he said, quietly. “Even when I tried to forget you.”

You whirled on him, a flicker of anger raging in your eyes. “And what? I’m supposed to be grateful? Being your best fucking friend? Like it didn’t crush me? Like it’s enough?”

“No,” he responds, throat dry. “I don’t expect that.” He knows, he fucking knows.

“Then what do you want, Bucky? Forgiveness? Closure? You want to cry under the stars and say you’re sorry and pretend like that makes it better?” You can’t breathe, fingers trembling.

“No.”

“Then what?”

Bucky stood slowly, took a step forward—didn’t reach for you.

“I just wanted you to know,” his voice is so quiet, his breath warm and cheeks pink. “That I never stopped choosing you. Even when it looked like I didn’t.” He moved closer, needed you to see him, hear him.

“You have been, and always will be, my first choice. Even if it won’t lead me to you.”

You look away, shaking and eyes shining. “I didn’t—don't—want your protection. I wanted you.”

I always have, you didn’t say.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking and heart heavy. “I know that now.”

You wanted to hit him—to kiss him. You wanted to break every bone in your body until the pain matched the ache in your chest, just so it could feel real.

You pressed your palms to your eyes, feeling too much and pathetic and like the facade you had tried to bolt into place for months was slipping. “You let me think you didn’t care.”

“I thought it would make it easier.” He was close now, his body heat caressing yours, inviting and sorry.

“It didn’t.”

“I was trying to keep you safe.”

“I’m not made of glass,” you hissed. “I’m not something fragile. Stop acting like I am.”

“I know that,” he admits, voice gruff and shaking. “I know how strong you are. That’s never been the problem.”

“Then what is?” Why couldn’t he just say it—how many years had passed in this dance, in this slow waltz you both were determined to participate in.

Bucky looks at you and your heart skipped a breath. He heard it, almost smiled, but he was lost in your eyes, in the way they glowed and were on him.

“I don’t get to keep good things,” he says, words coming out like glass in his throat.

“I don’t get forever, Y/n. I don’t get safe. I don’t get to love something without watching it get taken from me.”

You stopped breathing, head tilting back as he moved closer, lips parted. His words collided into your chest, ripped through layers and layers of skin until they sat heavily on your bones, pried their way inside your heart.

“You think I was protecting you? I was protecting me.” His hands were fists at his side. “Because the second I saw her file, the second Val mentioned your name, all I could think about was you bleeding out somewhere—and it being my fault.”

His voice cracks—hard, raw. He’s looking at you like he’s never going to see you again, like he’s at the crossroads and at any moment, he’ll be dragged to hell. The way the damned look an angel, in yearning and mourning.

“I couldn’t lose you,” he whispered. “So I walked away.”

You shook your head, fingers uncurling and curling. “So you lived with a ghost.”

He nodded, solemn. “Better than your blood on my hands.”

“And what about me?” You snapped. “What about what I had to live with? You think it didn’t kill me, wondering why I wasn’t enough to stay for? Why Sam and I weren’t?”

His whole body tensed and his breathing hitched.

“I would’ve rather had you,” you said, words trembling. “Ruined. Broken. Afraid. I would’ve taken every messy fucking day, every stupid risk, every scar. I wanted you. I didn’t want safety.”

Bucky’s quiet for a long time.

His shoulders shake once—twice.

With stark apprehension, your eyes widened—- he’s crying.

Not softly, but like it’s wrenching out of him. Like the pain has been festering for years, decades, even. Like he’s refused to feel any emotion for so long that now, it’s tearing out of him.

You don’t move—can’t. You’ve never seen Bucky cry before—not when Steve left, not when his nightmares had him yelling in his sleep.

He didn’t ask for comfort.

You stood still.

“I kept thinking,” he said, through the tears, absolutely wrecked, “that maybe if I left early on, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

“Did it help?” You asked quietly, resisting the urge to rub his arm.

He shook his head. “I’ve never been more miserable.”

You’re both quiet again.

Just the wind now, the trees.

He sat back down, slowly, like the weight of it all is too much.

After a long, long beat—you sat too.

The knife is still in your hand.

You don’t touch him. He doesn’t try.

He just sits there, eyes red, face raw. A man undone.

And for the first time in a year, the silence between you is not empty.

It’s full—of pain, history, of the soft, slow pulse of something broken that still wants to live.

The silence stretched again—different, not bitter. Just tired.

The kind of quiet that lived after grief has passed itself, after all the screaming is done. What remained is ache, the king you can breathe through, if you sit still long enough.

You stared at the woods, the snow drifting off the trees. Your fingers curled tight around the knife.

“I kept it,” you said, suddenly. Filling the silence. “The knife.”

Bucky turned his head slightly, eyes falling on the metal in wonder.

You traced your thumb over the hilt. “You and Sam gave it to me after Belgium. Said I earned it, saved both your asses. A gift.”

“You did,” he murmured, licking his lips.

You almost smiled.

Instead, you nodded towards the woods. “I took it on this last mission.”

Bucky’s quiet for a beat, then, “What happened?”

You don’t answer right away—breath curling in the cold. “I don’t know if I want to tell you.”

His voice is gentle, understanding. “That’s okay.”

You shifted, momentarily uncomfortable, knife balanced on your knee.

“I was in Kaltag,” you said, finally. “Started as intel extraction. Easy, in and out. But it wasn’t. Not even close.”

Bucky hated how haunted you sounded, how winded, even after a year, you seemed to be. Like you weren’t sure if you had outrun the threat, or if it loomed behind you still.

You swallowed and ran your hand through your hair. “It went on for three months longer than it should’ve. I lost my whole team.”

You could feel him tense, the way the guilt inside and around him increased tenfold.

“I made it out,” you said softly, reminding him and yourself that you were okay. “But it was close.”

He turned slightly, not touching you, but near. Closer than before.

You tried to ignore how good it felt, how it immediately eased the tension in your own shoulders.

“When I got back to New York,” you continued, “I called you, first thing. I couldn’t think about anything else. Just—telling you I was alive.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenched

You wrapped your arms around your knees and rested your cheek against your arm, eyes on him. He looked so beautiful, so tortured as he sat there, listening to you.

“I left you a voicemail. Told you I missed you.”

“I listened to it,” he said, hoarsely, pained.

“I almost wish you hadn’t.”

He opened his mouth before shutting it. He couldn’t argue—not when your voicemails, your voice, kept him sane for so long. It was the only physical thing he had of you.

You pressed your lips together when the wound felt like cracking open again.

He pressed his hand to his mouth, exhaled hard. “I’m sorry.”

You nodded once, expecting it. Taking it better than you did earlier.

He glanced towards the cabin, peeking inside. You followed his gaze.

“Your team,” you started. “They’re good people.”

Bucky shook his head. “Not exactly.”

You shrugged, the ghost of a smile passing by your lips.

“Yeah. Maybe not good. But…they’re trying. I think.”

He nodded then. “Yeah. They are.”

There was something in his voice, something soft and vulnerable and uncomfortable. “You care about them.”

He paused, like he didn’t like how fast he might’ve answered. “I do.”

You traced the knife again. It felt a bit like your spine–rigid, cold, worn out. You glanced at him once, just to understand, to dig the pain in further. “Are you happy?” Your voice is soft, almost serene. “You said you were miserable but did you find something with them? Something you didn’t have before?”

Bucky looked at you, his whole body stiffening. There’s more beneath your words, he hears it. The sharp edge of grief, of doubt. He doesn’t answer immediately because the truth is—he doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought about himself, about his wants or his feelings in months.

You were braced for it—the soft, diplomatic lie. Bucky missed you, you knew that. He missed Sam too, even if he hadn’t said it. But you saw the way his eyes narrowed when one of them winced. It was a look you were more than familiar with—what you weren’t familiar with—was not being on the other end of it.

He clears his throat and looks up, his eyes twinkling under the starlight. “It’s not the same.”

You looked at him, wary. He sounded older, exhausted.

“It’s good. They’re good,” he said. “But it’s not the same. Not even close.” His throat was clogged with sadness, with nostalgia.

You turned away, tried to breathe. You hated how he could get you like this, all unraveled and messy. He was the only one who ever could.

Bucky waited. Then said, gently, “It’s okay.”

You shook your head, gripped the knife tighter. “No, it’s not.”

“It’s okay to ask me.”

You blinked, knife slipping slowly from your hand. You both had said so much tonight, opened the floor to feelings and anger and questions neither of you had ever thought you’d get to. It felt a bit like going in circles, like he couldn’t help but keep you safe and you couldn’t help but hate him for it over, and over again.

“To wonder,” he added. “You can ask. You always could.”

You gripped the knife tighter and your lips trembled, partly due to the cold and partly due to the weight of what you wanted to ask.

Were you ever going to come back? You wanted to ask, scream into the air. Did you find a new family?

Bucky breathed in deeply, closed his eyes. When he opened them, he turned his head to look at you. His eyes were bright, earnest. “I’ve only ever belonged to one place,” he said, softly. “One person.”

His words, wrapped in gentle warmth, brushed against your skin and you froze, stilled as your eyes widened a bit.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

Something quiet, a mixture of grief and love and sadness paints across his face and the corners of his lips quirk upwards momentarily, like he imagined this conversation, but not like this.

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

The knife dropped slightly in your lap. You wanted to believe him. Wanted to take his words and cradle them to your chest, coo at them.

But your heart was still wrapped in barbed wire, hands bloody as you tried to keep him at arm's length.

There’s a long, still beat.

“What about this mission?” You cleared your throat, tried to push the warmth away with your cold breath.

“What brought you here?”

Bucky exhaled and looked out over the snow. His jaw flexed and he ran a hand through his hair. It was longer, parted and freshly cut. He looked so good. You looked away.

“There was a compound,” he started. “Hidden in the mountains. Yelena had a lead. Val gave the green light, but the intel was wrong.”

He shook his head, looking years older and frustrated—jaw tight.

“It was a trap. A set-up. Ava nearly got blown apart. Yelena and Walker took shrapnel. Bob was doing well but then he panicked. We barely got out.”

You looked at him then, quietly stunned. He sounded like a proper leader, someone who cared. He sounded a bit like a Sergeant and a small—large—part of you almost winced in pain. You always knew he was a leader, despite following Steve everywhere. It was who he was, a man who took the lead, control, when he had too.

“And then you came here.”

His voice dipped, a little bashful. “Didn’t realize where I was at first. Not until I checked the coordinates again.”

“And when you did?”

His eyes were glasser now, glowing brightly, like your very own temptation. “I didn’t want to.”

“But you did.”

He nodded, solemn. “Because I knew it was the only place they’d be safe.”

You understood, in retrospect. He was right. You knew this terrain, and had heard whispers of the death that followed. It’s why you chose this place for solitude, not just anyone can survive in a place like this.

“I would’ve helped, you know.” You brought your knees to your chest. “Even if you weren’t there.”

He nodded, like it was obvious. “I know.” You’re a good person. The best he knows. But he was a coward and he was selfish and there was a part of him that would have done anything to see you, even if it meant shooting himself in the foot.

There’s a long pause—seems to welcome itself between every moment.

And then—his voice breaks a little, vulnerable.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t look at him. You can feel the fire melting. It’s all gone and now he’s smothering the burned ambers, making sure there isn’t anything left.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Bucky said, again, harder, wetter. “For all of it. For walking away. For staying away. For not calling. For letting you think—”

“Stop, Buck.”

He stopped, eyes wild and lips parted. You stared out at the snow, the rising light. You often stayed awake until sunrise, but you had barely done it with company.

“What’s done is done. And you can’t fix it.” You paused, pretended not to notice his full-body flinch. “Not with words, at least.”

“I know.” He sounded so defeated, like he was about to be dragged away and he was using his last breath on this, on apologizing, even if it didn’t mean anything to you.

You glanced down at your hands, brushed your thumb across the engraving. It was still warm, still smelled like him if you pretended long enough. “But,” you almost smiled, “thank you. For apologizing. It’s a start.”

Bucky released a short breath and his eyes gleamed. He nodded and slowly—so slowly—you let your shoulder brush his.

Just barely—enough. The first touch between you both in a year, something soft and passing, weightless, but so incredibly heavy.

His breath stuttered and he froze, almost as if his stillness could convince you to do it again.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

The sun began to rise, gold light spilling over the trees. It touched your porch, your boots, the blade of your knife. The world around you began to glow.

And for the first time in a long time, you both felt warm—not whole, but alive. Like there was meaning now, like maybe, just maybe—you could start again.

The morning came quietly.

Fog clung to the trees like ghosts reluctant to leave, coiled through the branches and rolling over the forest floor. It muffled the sounds of birds and leaves, wrapped the cabin in a kind of hush—a sacred, fragile peace. You didn’t sleep, just sat near the front window for most of the night, listened to the crackle of the dying fire, feeling Bucky’s presence behind you like static in the air.

When you finally stepped outside, the grass was slick with dew. Cold bit at your ankles through your boots. You made your usual perimeter check—like muscle memory, a prayer.

It wasn’t until you circled behind the old shed, half-hidden in undergrowth, that you noticed it. Something thin and taut stretched between two trees—nearly invisible unless the light caught it just right.

Infrared wire. Trip-triggered—directional.

Your heart stuttered. That wasn’t yours.

You crouched, studied it. It was recent—clean. Hadn’t been disturbed by animals. That meant one thing—someone had been here.

And not long ago.

You didn’t make a sound, just rose and moved, boots silent against the snow.You ducked back into the cabin and found the team already stirring.

Yelena sharpened a knife by the fireplace, Walker was rubbing sleep from his eyes, Ava said cross-legged with a datapad balanced on her knee. Bob was quietly eating dry granola and leaned over the arm of the chair he was sitting in, trying to get a closer look at whatever Ava was looking at.

And Bucky—

Bucky watched you before the door even closed.

You didn’t say anything at first, just met his eyes, that solemn blue set into all that worry and quiet guilt. The heat from the night before was still burning in those eyes, still warm and attentive.

You looked away and cleared your throat, shattering the comfortable silence that had built upon the slow fire.

“We’ve been compromised.”

They all stilled, exhaled quietly.

You stepped towards the table, pulled the map out, laid it flat. “Infrared tripwire. North perimeter, ten meters past the old woodpile. Wasn’t there yesterday.”

Yelena stood immediately, trying to hide the wince of pain. “Can you show me?” She wheezed a little.

You shook your head, held up a hand. “Not now. I already marked it. We need to assume they know you’re here.”

Bob cursed low under this breath as Walker rubbed his temples. “That’s just great.”

Ava’s voice was sharp, “How long do we have?”

“Not long enough,” you said, voice tight.

And that’s when Bucky moved. Just a step, but the whole room shifted with him. The air charged, the team straightened.

“I’ll handle it,” he said, voice calm, strong. Like there wasn’t a world, a situation, where he wouldn’t handle it.

You turned to him, sharply. “You’ll—Bucky, you think I can’t handle my own perimeter?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You crossed your arms. “Then what are you saying?” There was almost no heat behind your words—very little curtness, nothing like the day before. The team noticed, the way your shoulders weren’t as tense, the way Bucky slightly leaned towards you, like he couldn’t help it.

He looked at you, pain flickering through his expression. “I’m saying we brought this upon you—I did.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and dropped your arms.

“Oh, please.”

“We did,” he said, louder now, more insistentent. The moment he noticed that look in your eyes, like you were disturbed, he knew what had happened. His heart had stopped beating at the idea of drawing danger to you.

“You were off the radar and safe. And we dragged you back into this.”

“I took you in,” You reminded him. “You didn’t force me.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” he snapped, worried and furious with himself. “You should’ve been allowed to live without the past coming to your front door with guns and tripwires.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you hissed, low, stepping in close. “We talked about this. I’m not some fragile memory in your head. I’m right here. I chose to help. I knew the consequences.”

His voice dropped, low and softer, like he was pleading. “And I’m choosing not to let you get killed because of us.”

There it was.

The silence was sharp, crackling. Everyone else disappeared into background noise, blurred by the weight of what passed between you, the anger and softness of last night, the years in between.

Bucky knew—knew the likelihood of you actually dying was low, you were strong, so fucking strong and so intelligent and one of the best fighters he knew, but he couldn’t get the image of you—hurt, bleeding—out of his head.

“I know you think you have to fix everything,” you said, quiet, tired, understanding. “But not this.”

“This is the only thing I can fix,” he said, and his voice cracked. Like he had spent the few hours after your time on the porch just thinking, mulling over everything you had said, everything he hadn’t said. “Please, let me.”

The rest of the team had scattered quietly, trying their best to give you space. They shifted away, towards the fireplace and the wall, made themselves smaller, but watched carefully, nosey and interested.

They didn’t know much about Bucky. He had always been a private person, preferred to listen to their stories than share any of his own. But in the beginning, when it was all new, they could tell his heart wasn’t in it, that obligation and morality drove him.

His heart had always belonged to another, he had left it somewhere—ran without it.

Now, they had finally seen it—the woman that kept his heart, the one place his guard hadn’t been up, the way he let himself be small, let himself be, with no title. They weren’t even sure if he knew, if he knew that his heart lived here, existed in the palm of your hand, in the edges of the wood.

You stared at him, and maybe it was adrenaline, or just the years of knowing him—of knowing his heart even when he wouldn’t speak on it—but something in your chest broke. The softness in his eyes, replacing the usual hardness and fury. The way he had naturally moved closer to you, like you were the center of his gravity.

“Y/n,” he said then, softly. Your name felt holy on his tongue, something divine. Like he was standing at the top of some cathedral and the beauty overwhelmed him and all he could do was utter the name of his worship. It felt like a promise, something far deeper than the word itself.

“James,” you whispered back, just as softly—delicate. It slipped out, something instinctual. You watched his entire body tense before it relaxed, before the wrinkles near his eyes smoothed out and his eyes gleamed—just for a moment, but blinding.

He stared at you like you’d just torn open the sky. He hadn’t been called that in years, not by anyone else but you. It was his name, but it felt like yours, something you held onto.

But then the moment passed. The threat crept back in, like a shadow reasserting itself.

He shook his head, leaned back. This always happened, he always got lost in you, lost his mind as soon as he laid eyes on you. “We’re leaving.”

“What?” you said, breath catching, feeling like you had been pushed off a cliff.

“We’re going to pull the enemy off your trail. Lead them into the open. Finish it.”

“No,” you said, chest tight, feeling like a child and the blanket was being ripped off of you. “You need me.”

“I can’t ask you to do this.”

“You’re not asking,” you told him. “I’m telling you I can. I’ve fought beside you. I’ve bled beside you, you know I’m good for this.”

“I know,” he said, like it pained him. “God, I know. You’ve always been better than me at this. But let me do this. Let me protect something, just once, without destroying it.”

“Bucky—”

“I’m not leaving you,” he said, quickly, breathless, stepping closer. “Not forever. Just for this. Let me end it, and I swear—I’ll come back.”

Your throat closed, his cold, metal hand closing around your heart. You didn’t even know when he had reached in, when the barbed wire had fallen away. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. His breath was warm as it brushed your cheek. He sounded so sure, so confident. “And I am. I will come back.”

The firelight in his eyes wasn’t desperate, wasn’t afraid—it was resolute. “I can’t let you go again. I’m not strong enough.”

He was already pulling on his gear when you stepped in front of him again, heart in your throat.

“This isn’t fair,” you said. None of it felt fair—felt real. You had just gotten him back, just made peace with him, with the familiarity that gripped you by the jaw.

“I know,” he replied.

You looked into his eyes, in the way they drank you in. They shifted downwards, over his body, memorizing. Without thinking too hardly, you reached for his hand.

His fingers closed around yours instantly, like they’d been waiting—like he’d been falling and you had just reached out for him. His calluses scraped against your knuckles, grounding you. Heat flooded your body, almost tipped you over. His thumb brushed against your pulse point, pressed on it.

“I hate you,” you whispered, not a single hating bone in your body. You were sure the hatred, the anger was somewhere deep within your body, hiding and floating and real, but it wasn’t present, wasn’t pressing against your skin the way the fear, the love—the want—was.

“I know,” he said again, smiling just a little. “I don’t.”

You pulled him into a hug and you both breathed for the first time. He held on like he never wanted to let go, his arms instantly wrapped around you, hands pressing into your skin. The silence between you was fuller now—stitched together with hope, with fear, with the half-formed shape of something possible—real.

He pulled back, looked you in the eye. He looked younger, someone in love.

“I’ll come back,” he said again, and this time, it felt like a vow.

You let him go.

Stood there as he went, silent and still as snow fell. Let him hold your hand for a second longer than he should have. Let his eyes rest on you like they always had—gently, painfully, like it was the last time.

“Stay safe,” he said, smiling softly.

You watched as they disappeared into the mist and the trees with soft smiles and nods, into the fight that waited beyond the edge of safety.

He had promised. He’d whispered it in the hush between your porch and you, where things had often been left unsaid but then he said it.

“I’ll come back. You don’t have to let me in—but I’ll come back anyway.”

You stood on the porch until they were gone, arms wrapped around yourself, chilled to the bone.

You just stood there, empty and filled with hope—waiting.

And hoping he wouldn’t break this promise too.

It snowed again that morning.

This white lace drifted down from the treetops, quieting the woods like a lullaby. Two weeks had passed since he left. Since he stood at the tree line with his eyes locked to yours like it would be the last time.

You tried not to count the days. Tried to act like it didn’t matter—but the ache in your chest made a liar of you. It always did.

Each morning you opened your door just a little too fast. Each night you lit the fireplace and left the hall light on, telling yourself it was just for warmth, for visibility. But really, you didn’t want the place to feel so empty if—when—he came back.

Today, you wore one of his old shirts. Soft cotton and faint cologne still clinging to the collar. You hadn’t meant to put it on, not really, didn’t even know it was his at first, but when you touched the fabric, it felt like a memory.

And that’s when it happened.

Three slow, heavy knocks at the door.

You froze, heart in your throat. Then you rushed, stumbled barefoot through the living room, fingers fumbling with the handle. When the door creaked open, the cold hit you first—and then him.

Bucky.

He stood there, snow in his hair, lips split, knuckles scraped, breath heaving like he’d run through the forest without stopping. A duffle hung over one shoulder. His blue eyes were glassy, rimmed red with exhaustion and something else—something soft, searching.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he breathed out, quickly. “I had to make sure everything was finished. That you were safe.”

You said nothing, couldn’t speak. You just stared at him, wide-eyed, chest rising.

“I didn’t know if I’d make it back,” he continued, like he knew you were barely breathing and wanted to give you a second. “Didn’t know if you’d still want me here. And if you slam the door in my face, I’ll understand.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you stepped out onto the porch, into the snow. Shoved him hard in the chest—once, twice. And he took it, didn’t move or flinch, just let you. He looked at you like you were sunlight.

And then you grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him down and kissed him.

God, the kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire—heat and years of longing poured into it like you both had been holding your breath since the day you met. His hands dropped the bag, found your waist, warm and trembling and real. You opened your mouth to him and he groaned, low and guttural like he’d waited years for the taste of you.

He stumbled into the cabin with you in his arms, the door shutting behind him. Snow melted off his jacket onto the floor as he pressed you against the wall, mouths locked, hearts wild.

He kissed you like a promise, like he’s finally letting himself fall. His lips moved with yours in slow, lingering passes, breath hitching slightly when your fingers tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

“Bucky…” you whispered, breathless, as he pulled back just a little, just enough to look at you again.

“I’m right here,” he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not going anywhere.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier—but still gentle, like every kiss was him saying I’m here without needing the words.

“I love you,” he rasped out, pressing his lips firmly against yours. “I’m in love with you,” he whispered against your mouth, breathing like a man starved. “I’ve always been in love with you.” He sounded reverent, voice raw.

You pressed your forehead to his, blinking back tears, lips plump and breathless. “You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“I’m still so angry.”

He pressed a soft, hovering kiss to your jaw. “I’ll take all of it. Every piece of it.”

You swallowed hard, blinking away the tears. “I’m in love with you, you idiot.”

He smiled then, the softest, most brightest thing you’d ever seen. A man who had been lost in the woods, in the snow, who finally found his way home.

The fire cracked behind you, casting everything in gold and flickering shadows. He looked beautiful, something magical and unreal, like he had been crafted by the most expensive stained glass.

You looked up at him, slid your hand to the base of his throat. “What does this change?”

“Everything,” Bucky said, voice raw. “But it doesn’t have to change all at once. You don’t have to let me in tonight. You can hate me, scream. I’ll wait.”

You exhaled shakily, shifted closer. “I’ll be mad at you tomorrow.”

He nodded, like he expected worse, like he was so enamoured by you.

“But tonight—” You touched his jaw, traced the bruises like they were yours to soothe. “Tonight… I just want to feel you. Want to know you’re mine.”

His mouth opened like he might say something, but all that came out was a soft, wounded nose before he kissed you again. Slower, deeper. His tongue traced his devotion into his gums as he slid his trembling hands under your—his—shirt and when his palms found bare skin, he sighed against your lips.

“I’ve always been yours.”

You took his hand and led him down the familiar hallway, toward the bedroom. The fireplace crackled low in the other room. Moonlight spilled across your floorboards. A few candles flickered by your bedside, forgotten after another sleepless night—but now, they painted him in gold.

The door shut behind him and he watched you like he didn’t believe you were real. “Are you sure you want this?” He asked gently, eyes soft. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You nodded, looking up at him like he had always belonged here, in your room, desperate and panting and beautiful.

“Do you know how many nights I longed for you? Wanted your touch?”

He reached for you then, slow and gentle, like he was afraid that if he moved too fast, everything would fall apart. His lips found your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Kisses layered like apology, like worship.

“I’ll make up for lost time,” he murmured, unbuttoning your shorts with careful fingers. “I swear to you.”

When your shirt slipped off your shoulders, his breath caught.

He stepped forward, hands devout, fingertips grazing your skin like he was afraid to wake from a dream.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “You don’t know what it did to me—thinking I’d never get to touch you. Never get to love you.”

He touched you like you were something sacred, something so beautiful and otherworldly. He made you feel wanted, loved.

“You’re here now,” you whispered, lips lifting into a small smile. You watched as his breath hitched, as his fingers flexed and he almost fell into you.

He kissed you again, rough and deep and messy. Like every second he’d spent away had built this fire under his skin and only you could soothe it. His hand slid into your hair, pulled you closer. His lips moved to your jaw, your collarbone—and he moaned softly, like the taste of your skin was salvation.

You unzipped his jacket, whimpered as Bucky’s teeth grazed against your ear, the skin just below. You pulled at his shirt and with one hand, he pulled his henly off, reattaching his lips to your skin, kissing down your neck.

Your hands slid down his chest as you leaned into him, panting against the side of his head. His lips sucked and licked your skin, finding comfort in leaving marks on your skin.

You pulled away, needing to see him, to breathe him in. “I wanted to take care of you,” you whispered, reaching for the waistband of his pants. You kissed his neck, licked a bead of sweat.

“Wanted to—”

He caught your wrist gently, kissing your knuckles. You were glowing, something ethereal and his heart almost gave out. “Let me,” he said. “Please. Let me love you first.”

He sounded so pretty, so breathless. You melted, relishing in the way his gaze burned into you. Fell back onto the bed as he knelt between your thighs, spreading you open like something holy. His kisses trailed lower, burning a path down your body. Over your breasts, your stomach, down the soft skin of your hips.

He pressed hot, wet kisses all over your breasts, cupped one while he sucked on your nipple, tongue swirling. He whispered against your skin, his devotion, his cries of your beauty.

He sucked, licked and kissed the skin of your hips, just above your panty-line. Blew air onto the mark, kissed it once, twice, then grinned. Bucky looked up at you—eyes dark and tender—and his smile turned into something soft, something so devastating.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n.” He nudged your thighs apart even more, shifted you up on the mattress so he could lay down on his stomach comfortably. He kissed your inner thigh before brushing his nose against your cunt. You almost squeezed your legs shut when he sniffed, a moan escaping his lips.

“Can I taste you, pretty girl?” He asked, voice husky. When you nodded, slid your hand into his hair and pulled, desperation and heat dancing in your eyes, he pressed a kiss to your folds.

“Please, Buck,” you breathed out.

That was all he needed. He buried his mouth between your legs like he’d been born for this. Like nothing mattered more than making you feel it. He moaned into you, fingers gripping your thighs, pulling you closer, letting his tongue swirl and suck and worship until you were crying out his name, hips trembling under his hands.

You gasped when his tongue swirled around your cunt—broad, slow licks that made your knees shake. He moaned like it was his release, like your pleasure soothed something deep in him. He sucked your clit with such reverence, it made you sob.

“James—”

His arms wrapped around your thighs, grounding you. He pressed his nose against your clit, rubbed your slick all over his face as his tongue fucked you, curving just right.

“That’s it, baby,” he moaned into your pussy, the vibrations making your head spin. “Say my name.”

“So good,” you panted, grinding your hips against his face, pulling at his fair. His metal hand spread your folds and you almost screamed, the sudden cold mixed with the heat of his warm breath was too much.

He sucked and licked, tongue swirling around your clit. He felt your whole body tense, the way you tried closing your legs around him. He held your hips still, sucked harder. “Cum for me,” he whispered. “Want to taste you. Need to—fuck, baby, please.”

And when you did, when you shattered his tongue, cried out his name, he didn’t stop. He kissed you through it, breathed your name like a prayer as he sucked and swallowed your cum. He kissed your thighs and your belly, rested his cheek against your stomach like he could live there.

“That’s it. So sweet. So fuckin’ good for me,” he babbled, kissing your skin. “That’s my girl.”

He stripped, pulled his pants off and kicked off his boxers. His cock was hard, red, pre-cum dripping like it never had before.

When he finally climbed over you, lips swollen, pupils blown, you grabbed his face and kissed him hard. You could taste yourself on him and it made your head spin. You needed him, needed all of him.

“What do you need, baby?” He asked against your lips, sucked on your tongue.

“You,” you breathed out. “I want you. Please, Bucky—need you inside—”

He gripped his cock and slid it in between your folds, hissing in pain when your pussy fluttered around him. He met your gaze and smiled, something soft and wicked and angled his cock, sliding in, slow and thick, his mouth open as he groaned, long and low.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he groaned. “Fuck—so tight—”

He pulled out, slowly, moaned—loudly—forehead pressed to yours, his hand gripping your waist as he thrust in slowly, deep, claiming you like he meant it. He was so big, so thick and veiny. Heavy on top of you, metal arm braced beside your head.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he rasped. “Always dreamed of it being like this. Of being yours.”

“You are,” you whispered, seeing stars. “You’ve only ever been mine.”

He groaned against your throat and fucked you with everything he had, slow and worshipful, but every time your hips met, he whimpered like it was too much, like it wasn’t his cock sliding in and out of your sopping pussy. The candlelight danced across his skin, sweat glistening on his back as he hovered over you, panting against your mouth, begging softly with every thrust.

“Tell me I’m yours,” he begged, practically growling into your mouth.

“M-mine, James, fuck. You’re—mine.”

“That’s right,” he moaned. “I’m yours. And you’re mine. My perfect girl. My fuckin’ everything.”

Bucky’s obsessed with you, with your pussy, with the warmth of the cabin and being where he belongs, here, with you—loving you. His lips are all over you—biting, sucking, kissing your throat, your tits, your mouth. You look up at him and roll out your tongue, eyes glassy. His hips stuttered for a moment before he spat in your mouth, watched you swallowed with this groan that sounded like he’s in pain.

His cock dragged along your walls, bruised your cervix, making you sob. Your nails dragged across his back as his dog tags dangled in your face. “Fucking me so good,” you moaned, kissing his ear.

“You’re so good,” he panted. “Takin’ it so well, my sweet girl.”

He pulled out halfway, smiling briefly when you whined.

And then—he slammed back in, hips snapping hard, cock punching into your cunt so deep you scream.

“Please,” he whispered. “Let me make up for everything.”

“You already are,” you breathed, toes tingling and the coil in your chest tightening. “I love you, Buck.”

He kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, your tongues tangling, breath mixing, spit shining your lips. He was so deep, so thick inside you, and when he angled his hips just right, you cried out, clutching his back, nails digging in.

“Gonna come,” you gasped, drooling a bit, pussy gushing.

“Do it,” Bucky said, desperate. He kissed you again, licked the edge of your mouth. “Come for me, sweet girl. God, I need it.”

He pressed his chest harder against yours, fucked into you harder. Your breath stuttered as white flashed across your gaze and the coil in your chest unravelled and you cummed, body wracked with pleasure.

His name left your mouth like a prayer. You pulled him down, kissed his cheeks, his neck, held his face in your hands as you whispered the words he’d waited a lifetime to hear.

“Come inside me”

He stilled, shuddered. His eyes found yours, full of disbelief and adoration.

“Please,” you said, eyes almost rolling back. “I’ve only ever belonged to you.”

He surged forward, pressed his lips hard against yours as he cummed with a broken moan, hips rocking, cock pulsing inside you as he whispered your name over and over. He fucked his cum into you, collapsed into your arms, buried his face in your neck.

“I love you,” Bucky breathed out, pressing a soft kiss under your ear.

You hummed, ran your fingers through his hair, feeling full and content. “And I love you.”

Neither of you moved for a long time.

Eventually, he shifted, just enough to pull the blankets over you both. His body stayed half on top of yours, your arms around his waist, holding him tightly.

Outside, the snow fell silently.

Inside, wrapped in each other’s arms, you both had finally found home.

#tbr

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